Chapter 19
A WOOD, AT WHOSE EXTREMITY IS PAUL'S CABIN.
POLONIA flying wounded, and LUIS with a naked dagger in his hand.
POLONIA. Oh, hold thy bloody hand! Though love be dead, let Christian faith command. My honour take; but, oh, my poor life spare, That suppliant at thy feet pours out its humble prayer.
LUIS. Hapless Polonia, since creation's hour Beauty has ever one unvarying dower, It brings misfortune with it, it is this Makes beauty rarely live long time with bliss. I, who less pity feel Than any headsman who e'er held death's steel, May by thy death procure My life, since with it I will go secure. If thee I bring where fortune's hand may guide me I bring the witness of my woes beside me, By whom they may pursue me, Track me, discover me, in fact, undo me If here I leave thee living, I leave thee angry, vengeful, unforgiving; Leave thee, in fact, to be One enemy more (and what an enemy!); Thus equally I grieve thee, Thus evil do whether I take or leave thee; And so 'tis better thus, That I a wretch, cruel and infamous, False, impious, fierce, abandoned, wicked, banned By God and man, should slay thee by my hand, Since buried here, Within the rustic entrails dark and drear Of this rude realm of stone, My worst misfortune shall remain unknown. My fury, too, shall gain A novel kind of vengeance when thou'rt slain, Remaining satisfied That Philip, too, by the same stroke has died, If in thy heart he lived; and then mine ire Will need no victim more except thy sire. Through thee first came My first disgrace, the cause of all my shame, And so the first of all On thee my vengeful strokes shall furious fall.
POLONIA. Ah me! my fate pursuing, I have but only worked my own undoing, Like to the worm that by its subtle art Spins its own grave. Hast thou a human heart?
LUIS. I am a demon. So to prove it, die. Thus --
POLONIA. God of Patrick, listen to my cry!
[He stabs her several times, and she falls within.
LUIS. She fell on flowers, there sowing Both lives and horrors in her blood outflowing. Thus now with greater ease I can escape, and carry o'er the seas, In many a gem and chain, Treasure enough to make me rich in Spain, Until so changed by time, Disguised by wandering in a foreign clime, I may return to reap My vengeance; for a wrong doth never sleep. But whither do I stray, Treading the shades of death in this dark way? My path is lost: I go Whither I do not know; Perchance escaping from my prison bands To fall again into my tyrant's hands. If the dark night doth not my sight deceive, Yonder a rustic cabin I perceive. Yes, I am right. I'll knock; I can't much err, They'll know the way. [He knocks.
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