Chapter 12

PHILIP. -- THE SAME.

PHILIP [aside]. If to find my death I come, Why precipitate my doom? But so patient who could be As to not desire to see What impends, how dark its gloom?

LUIS. Then, what pledge may I demand Of your faith?

POLONIA. This hand.

PHILIP. Not so, How to hinder it I shall know; More of this I must withstand.

POLONIA. Woe is me!

PHILIP. Wilt give thy hand to this outcast of the wave? And, oh thou, to whom pride gave The presumption to aspire To a sun's celestial fire, Knowing that thou wert my slave, Why thus dare to come between Me and mine?

LUIS. Because I dare Be what now I am, nor care More to be what I have been. It is true that I was seen Once your slave: for who, indeed, Can the fickle wheel control? But in nobleness of soul The best blood of all your breed I can equal, nay, exceed.

PHILIP. Exceed ME? Vile homicide! Wretch . . . .

LUIS. In having thus replied You have made a slight mistake.

PHILIP. No.

LUIS. If such you did not make, You've done worse.

PHILIP. Say, what?

LUIS. You've lied!

PHILIP. Villain! traitor [Strikes him in the face.

POLONIA. Oh, ye skies!

LUIS. For so many injuries Why not instant vengeance take, When volcanic fires awake In my breast, and hell-flames rise? [They draw their swords.

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