You shall not be disturb'd. (Stooping to lift the handkerchief.) You have dropp'd somewhat. De Mon. (preventing him.) Nay, do not stoop, my friend! I pray thee not! Thou art too old to stoop. I'm much indebted to thee.-Take this ring- I pray thee do it-thank me not-What stranger? [EXIT Jerome. A pause. Enter CONRAD. A tale so damn'd?-It chokes my breath(Stamping with his foot.) What wretch did tell it thee? Con. Nay, every one with whom I have conversed Has held the same discourse. I judge it not. (De Monfort pauses, staggers backward, and sinks into a chair; then starting up hastily.) De Mon. Where am I now? midst all the cursed thoughts, De Mon. You are the stranger who would speak That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd, with me? Con. I am so far unfortunate, my lord, That, though my fortune on your favour hangs, De Mon. How may this be? What can I do for you? Con. Since thus your lordship does so frankly ask, The tiresome preface of apology I will forbear, and tell my tale at once.- For I am come from thence, and I am told De Mon. They have befool'd thee with a false report. Con. Alas! I see it is in vain to plead. Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch, Who has, unfortunately for his weal, Offended the revengeful Rezenvelt. De Mon. What dost thou say? Con. What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid. Who will believe my wrongs if I complain? I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe, Who will believe my wrongs? De Mon. (eagerly catching him by the coat.) I will believe them! Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds, In ancient record told, I would believe them! Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. Speak boldly, tell it all; for, by the light! I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend, If he has done thee wrong. Con. Nay, pardon me, it were not well advised, If I should speak so freely of the man Who would so soon your nearest kinsman be. De Mon. What canst thou mean by this? Con. That Marquis Rezenvelt Has pledged his faith unto your noble sister, And soon will be the husband of her choice. So I am told, and so the world believes. De Mon. 'Tis false ! 'tis basely false ! What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue This never came before-0, if it be! The thought will drive me mad.-Was it for this Fell devil! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid To work such sorcery! (Pauses.) I'll not believe it, I must have proof clear as the noonday sun For such foul charge as this! Who waits without? (Paces up and down, furiously agitated.) Con. (aside.) What have I done? I've carried this too far. I've roused a fierce, ungovernable madman. Enter JEROME. De Mon. (in a loud, angry voice.) Where did she go, at such an early hour, And with such slight attendance? Jer. Of whom inquires your honour. De Mon. Why, of your lady. Said I not my sister? Jer. The Lady Jane, your sister? De Mon. (in a faltering voice.) Yes, I did call her so. Jer. In truth, I cannot tell you where she went. E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard by, De Mon. No, stop them not. I will remain unseen, And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little. (Conrad seems alarmed, and steals off unnoticed. De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the hand, and drawing back with him two or three steps, not to be seen from the garden, waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the glass door.) I hear their footsteps on the grating sand: How like the croaking of a carrion bird, That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear! And now she speaks-her voice sounds cheerly Jer. You do, in truth, and your teeth chatter too. De Mon. See! see they come! he strutting by her side. (Jane, Rezenvelt, and Countess Freberg appear See, his audacious face he turns to hers; he does! (Letting go his hold of Jerome, he throws out his hands vehemently, and thereby pushes him against the scene.) Jer. O! I am stunn'd! my head is crack'd in twain: Your honour does forget how old I am. And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink, Enter REZENVELT behind from the glass door. DE MON- Rez. De Monfort, thou art mad. De Mon. Speak not, but draw. Now for thy hated life! (They fight: Rezenvelt parries his thrusts with great skill, and at last disarms him.) Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee. Rez. No, Monfort, but I'll take away your sword, De Mon. Well, well, the wall is harder than I Not as a mark of disrespect to you, wist. Begone, and whine within. [EXIT Jerome, with a sad, rueful countenance. De Monfort comes forward to the front of the stage, and makes a long pause, expressive of great agony of mind.) It must be so: each passing circumstance; I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoin'd, Hell's blackest magic, in the midnight hour, O! I did love her with such pride of soul! I slipp'd o' tip-toe to her chamber door; His servant told me, De Mon, How! is he gone so soon? To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion And when she ask'd who gently knock'd-O! O! So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth! Who could have thought of this? (Throws himself into a chair, covers his face with I'll do a deed of blood!-Why shrink I thus ? (Throwing a dagger against the wall.) Shall groans and blood affright me? No, I'll do it. ough gasping life beneath my pressure heaved, I I would not walk through those wild dells alone (De Monfort stands fixed in thought.) I've ta'en your mare, an' please you, from her field, And wait your farther orders. (De Monfort heeds him not.) Her hoofs are sound, and where the saddle gall'd, Begins to mend. What further must be done? (De Monfort still heeds him not.) His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay? De Mon. (eagerly, as he is going.) He goes alone, saidst thou? SCENE III.-MOONLIGHT. A WILD PATH IN A WOOD, SHADED WITH TREES. Enter DE MONFORT, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if he listened to something. I've leant my back against some knotted oak, And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call He answer would return, and through the gloom, Between me and the star-bespangled sky, A hollow murmuring wind sounds through the trees; I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm. (A bell heard at some distance.) The convent bell. 'Tis distant still: it tells their hour of prayer. It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze, De Mon. How hollow groans the earth beneath | That, to a fearful superstitious mind, my tread! Is there an echo here? Methinks it sounds As though some heavy footstep follow'd me Deep settled shadows rest across the path That midst the murky darkness I might strike; As though they pass'd not; nor impress the mind (An owl is heard screaming near him.) (Starting.) What sound is that? (Listens, and the owl cries again.) It is the screech owl's cry. Foul bird of night! what spirit guides thee here? Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror? I've heard of this. (Pauses and listens.) How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path, With whispering noise, as though the earth around me Did utter secret things! The distant river too, bears to mine ear A dismal wailing. O mysterious night! A distant gathering blast sounds through the wood, I'd lift my hand and strike! but this pale light, Enter REZENVELT, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the stage: as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again. Rez. Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way? How much his hooting is in harmony With such a scene as this! I like it well. Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, In such a scene, would like a death-knell come. [EXIT. ACT V. SCENE I.-THE INSIDE OF A CONVENT CHAPEL, OF OLD GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE, ALMOST DARK: TWO TORCHES ONLY ARE SEEN AT A DISTANCE, BURNING OVER A NEWLY-COVERED GRAVE. LIGHTNING IS SEEN FLASHING THROUGH THE WINDOWS, AND THUNDER HEARD, WITH THE SOUND OF WIND BEATING UPON THE BUILDING. Enter two MONKS. 1st Monk. The storm increases: hark how dismally It howls along the cloisters. How goes time? And when the solemn requiem has been sung 1st Monk. See, the procession enters : let us join. (The organ strikes up a solemn prelude.) Enter a procession of NUNS, with the ABBESs, bearing torches. After compassing the grave twice, and remaining there some time, the organ plays a grand dirge, whilst they stand round the grave. THE BURIAL. Departed soul, whose poor remains Let HIM, in might and mercy dread, To sing with holy saints his everlasting praise! Departed soul, who in this earthly scene Hast our lowly sister been, Swift be thy way to where the blessed dwell! Until we meet thee there, farewell! farewell! Enter a young PENSIONER, with a wild, terrified look, her hair and dress all scattered, and rushes forward amongst them. Abb. Why comest thou here, with such disorder'd looks, To break upon our sad solemnity? Pen. O! I did hear through the receding blast, Pen. O no, for twice it call'd, so loudly call'd, O! it will never from my mind depart ! For then, so near, some horrid deed was done, Abb. Where didst thou hear it? Turning my feeble lantern from the wind, Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd, In the higher cells, Such horror-strain'd features, never yet As now a window, open'd by the storm, 1st Monk. I wish our brother Bernard were ar- He is upon his way. Abb. Be not alarm'd; it still may be deception. 'Tis meet we finish our solemnity, Nor show neglect unto the honour'd dead. (Gives a sign, and the organ plays again: just as it ceases a loud knocking is heard without.) Abb. Ha! who may this be? hush! (Knocking heard again.) 2d Monk. It is the knock of one in furious haste, Hush! hush! What footsteps come? Ha! brother Bernard. Enter BERNARD, bearing a lantern. Did earthly visage show. I shrunk and shudder'd. Bern. Was there any blood upon it? Bern. It is the murderer. 1st Monk. See, what a look he wears of stiffen'd Our duty so commands. (To 2d Monk.) Will you fear! Where hast thou been, good brother? Bern. I've seen a horrid sight! (All gathering round him and speaking at once.) I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back, A man, a man! Bern. Naught in the grave is deader. A chilly horror seized me, and I fled. 1st Monk. And does the face seem all unknown to thee? Bern. The face! I would not on the face have look'd For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world! go, brother? (To Bernard.) And you, good Bernard ? If I needs must go. Heaven be with you, then! [EXEUNT Monks. Pen. Amen! amen! Good heaven be with us all! Abb. Daughters, retire; peace to the peaceful Our solemn ceremony now is finish'd. [EXEUNT. Enter the ABBESS, young PENSIONER bearing a light, Abb. They have been longer absent than I thought; I fear he has escaped them. (Enter men, bearing the body of Rezen velt, covered with a white cloth, and set it down in the middle of the room: they then uncover it. De Monfort stands fixed and motionless with horror, only that a sudden shivering seems to pass over him when they uncover the corpse. The Abbess and Nuns shrink back and retire to some distance, all the rest fixing their eyes steadfastly upon De Monfort. A long pause.) Bern. (to De Mon.) Seest thou that lifeless corpse, those bloody wounds? See how he lies, who but so shortly since Bern. (without.) Open the door, I pray thee, Of sense, and motion, and humanity! brother Thomas ; I cannot now unhand the prisoner. (All speak together, shrinking back from the door, and staring upon one another.) He is with them! (A folding door at the bottom of the stage is opened, and enter Bernard, Thomas, and the other two Monks, carrying lanterns in their hands and bringing in De Monfort. They are likewise followed by other Monks. As they lead forward De Monfort, the light is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely; but when they come to the front of the stage, they turn the light side of their lanterns on him at once, and his face is seen in all the strengthened horror of despair, with his hands and clothes bloody. Abbess and Nuns speak at once, and start back.) Holy saints be with us! Bern. (to Abb.) Behold the man of blood! Abb. Of misery too; I cannot look upon him. Bern. (to Nuns.) Nay, holy sisters, turn not thus away. Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you: For from his mouth we have no utterance heard, Save one deep groan and smother'd exclamation, When first we seized him. Abb. (to De Mon.) Most miserable man, how art thou thus? (Pauses.) Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands Do witness horrid things. What is thy name? De Mon. (roused, looks steadfastly at the Abbess for some time, then speaking in a short hurried voice.) I have no name. Abb. (to Bern.) Do it thyself; I'll speak to him no more. Pen. O holy saints! that this should be the man Still in my ears it rings: O murder! murder! Pen. No, he did call, but now his voice is still'd. 'Tis past. De Mon. 'Tis past. Pen. Yes, it is past! art thou not he who did it? (De Monfort utters a deep groan, and is supported from falling by the Monks. A noise is heard without.) Abb. What noise is this of heavy lumbering steps, Like men who with a weighty burden come? Bern. It is the body: I have orders given That here it should be laid. O! what a heart had he who did this deed! 1st Monk. (looking at the body.) How hard those teeth against the lips are press'd, As though he struggled still! 2d Monk. The hands, too, clench'd: the last efforts of nature. (De Monfort still stands motionless. Brother Thomas then goes to the body, and raising up the head a little, turns it toward De Monfort.) Thom. Know'st thou this ghastly face? De Mon. (putting his hands before his face in violent perturbation.) O do not! do not! Veil it from my sight! Put me to any agony but this! Thom. Ha! dost thou then confess the dreadful deed? Hast thou against the laws of awful Heaven Such horrid murder done? What fiend could tempt thee? (Pauses and looks steadfastly at De Monfort.) De Mon. I hear thy words, but do not hear their sense Hast thou not cover'd it? Bern. (to Thom.) Forbear, my brother, for thou seest right well He is not in a state to answer thee. Let us retire and leave him for a while. Bern. (to Monks, &c.) Come, let us all depart. Monk. If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. And wilt thou go? [Monk covers the body, and EXIT. De Mon. (alone, looking at the covered body, but at a distance.) Alone with thee! but thou art nothing now. "Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast; |