SCENE III.

_A Balcony, overlooking the Garden._

_HERMIONE and BLANCH._

HERMIONE. I am sad, Blanch.

BLANCH. I would, lady, you were in your little toilet-chamber at Venice. You were not sad there once. Why stay you in this unlucky house? I do conceive, that I shall have no more heart soon than hath your goose-quill, nor life within me than a dried puff-ball. When go you to Venice, lady?

HERMIONE. Never!

BLANCH. Oh, sweet mistress; and must we die in this dismal city? My very countenance hath changed its fashion, forsooth; being smoke-dried and tarnished, like your two years' hung stock-fish. I do fear me that I shall pine with home-longings; and the sight of yon garlick-faced knave, Stephano, for ever at my heels, turns me sick when he gets within stride of me. But you jest, lady.

HERMIONE. Blanch, thou hast been kinder to me than my fate hath answered for; and I give thee good counsel when I tell thee to return to Venice. Stay not with me; for soon the high, the proud-spirited Hermione will----I shall soon lay me in the quiet grave--and thou wilt grieve to see me sink--so young--so _early_ to my doom. I look fresh, mayhap, and blooming, and they call me happy; but I am withered--here!

BLANCH. Oh, lady, you will break my heart! (_Weeps._) I will not go! If they bear you to the grave, I will follow you there to weep, and to quiet myself beside you.

HERMIONE. Thou art kind, Blanch. I would thou hadst a happier mistress, thou wouldest, peradventure, be happy too.

BLANCH. What frets you so keenly? I would compass sea and land to fetch you a morsel of comfort. Do tell me, lady. They say sorrow hath companionship, and loves its like.

HERMIONE. Ask it not, girl: I would not tell it to the winds, lest they should babble it again; I would not whisper it to mine own heart, lest each pulse should echo it back to mine ear; I dare not think on 't, lest my very thoughts should create a corporeal voice to utter it withal. Other sorrows have companionship, but mine hath none!

_Enter Servant._

SERVANT. The strange gipsy woman your ladyship gave an alms to yesterday waits without, asking to see you. I would have put her away, but she looked on me, and I shuddered as I approached her.

HERMIONE. Bid her come in.

BLANCH. How it would delight me to have my fortune cast; but--my fate answers to your own!

_Enter ZORAYDA._

HERMIONE. Why this silence?--Thy message.

ZORAYDA. Askest thou?--Thanks!--What marvel? they speak not With unembodied tongue!

HERMIONE. Thou comest, then, But on a thankless errand; I dispense With empty words.

ZORAYDA. Why then I go unaudienced. I would not vex thee, lady;--thou art strung By unseen anguish, e'en to the topmost pitch Thy nature bears. One other strain, it breaks!

HERMIONE. What knowest thou?

ZORAYDA. That other comes!

HERMIONE. Too soon, I wot, these heart-strings break not. How, beldame? Thy prying eyes gather some secret. Hence With the silly maids thou tamperest, and anon The mistress' ear greets her own confidence; But not on me impose thy mummeries: None other breast than mine yet holds its trust.

ZORAYDA. What proof requirest thou, ere faith admit My proffer'd testimony?

HERMIONE. Proof! What thou, weak fool--the crazed and worn-out plaything Of thy too credulous fancies--cannot give. Reveal my thoughts!

ZORAYDA. But if disclosed, there now Be other ears to listen, lady.

HERMIONE. Blanch, Awhile thou may'st withdraw.

BLANCH. How fierce her eye scowls! I marvel that her brows should escape a singeing.--I would not leave you, gentle mistress, until----

ZORAYDA. Begone!---- [_HERMIONE smiles, and motions BLANCH to depart. Exit BLANCH._

HERMIONE. Now to thy task.

ZORAYDA. What bearest thou, with such o'er-vigilant watch, In that fair bosom?

HERMIONE. Marry, my heart; what more?

ZORAYDA. 'Tis then but late return'd: the truant once Had left its home--what served thee in its place, Knowest thou yet, gentle dame?

HERMIONE. I note thy craft: Thou busiest me with questions, hoping thus To catch unheeded words for thine advantage-- I answer nothing.

ZORAYDA. None I crave, fair maiden. An empty billet is but poor exchange For the heart's losing!

HERMIONE. How--a billet! Where?

ZORAYDA. In that bright bosom, lady. Search it well-- And yet a thing of nought: 'tis but a form, An every-day express of custom'd greeting, But as a precious relic thou dost wear it; And 'tis to thee a coveted possession Of more esteem than the sun-ripen'd gems Golconda bears!

HERMIONE. Is this my unveil'd thought? Not thus I'm fool'd. Perchance thy cunning eye, For ever on the watch, hath spied this billet. 'Tis here. What more knowest thou?

ZORAYDA. Reserve thy scorn, 'Twill soon give place----Hark! [_Distant music._ Ah! start not thus.--Why that frail shudder? Yon guest within the chamber of thine ear Ere this hath had sweet audience. But come, My pretty spirit, hither speed, and frame Thine uncorporeal organ to the sound Of bodily voice.--[_Music approaches._]--Hark, lady!--ever knew Your ear aforetime yon wild melody?

SONG. Lady, list to me, Thy gentle spirit I'll be; The fire is my garment, the flood is my bed, And I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.

Lady, list to me; To the mountain top I flee, There I watch the first wave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright; With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height, And the morn's radiant canopy.

HERMIONE. Mysterious being, say from whence that voice! But once--and on such feverish perception, The sound did strike, I thought some air-form'd vision, Some fantasy, hot from the teeming brain, Imposed unreal conceptions on mine ear, To which sense held no cognizance. Say where, Thou awful visitor!

ZORAYDA. 'Twas on the terrace, when the charmed moon Hung o'er the trembling stream. And thinkest thou Spirits have not such utterance?--Oft unseen, Upon the viewless air, strange visions float, And voices people the unfetter'd blast, Vouchsafed not save to those who reverence And bow to their high bidding. Now--they speak!

HERMIONE. And to what import?

ZORAYDA. Thus the mystic chant.

When the proud eagle Sighs to the dove, And his dark wing spreads o'er her While fluttering with love:

That eagle's bright crest, And that dove's timid eye, Are quench'd in the storm That rolls recklessly by!

That storm the proud eagle Hath swept from his nest: But where is the dove Shelter'd once in his breast?

She clings to his plume, But in death they shall sever; The eagle and dove They have perish'd for ever!

HERMIONE. The eagle?--Mantua's crest!--But who the dove?

ZORAYDA. Tempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue If thou break silence! The spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing Shapes not its voice to aught articulate That human utterance owns. Again--speak not-- 'Twas thus he sang:

A sprite in the moon-beam, A mote in the sun, I dive in the smooth stream, Through the curl'd flame I run.

I see o'er proud Mantua The beacon's red light; As the taper 'tis quench'd In the chill blast of night!

I see from the turret A maiden's dim form, And her white robe waves high On the wing of the storm!

I hear a loud shriek, With the wail of the dead; And that spirit from thence To its Giver hath fled!

Some dire event breaks from the womb of time: To thee the spirit speaks. Hermione, If yet three days on this forbidden air Thou breathest, Mantua and her lord May dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past. I heed not further question. Well I know The winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood To soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not, Madly ye rush to your undoing; then, Fair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn; The loud lament, the chill and desolate wail Of thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing, Unpitied, the dun pall of heaven! Follow me not---- Once more I meet thee:--if too soon, beware! Thine hours are number'd. [_Exit._

HERMIONE. Three days!--Where shall I fly?--To what lone spot Can I escape? Has this wide earth no room?-- Measureless woe!--too vast for mortal limit!-- Yon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft Hath here some secret consequence to which These bodings tend--cheat! Nay, thou didst affix Fearful credentials to thy testimony; They wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze Which scans the soul, may the unvisited depths Of mind reveal, its untold subtilties Unto the eye disclosing. But three days! Yet once--one sad farewell! [_Exit._