The Count of Narbonne Part 11

[_Exit COUNT, with his ATTENDANTS._

_Theod._ Insolence!

Too proud to thank our kindness! yet, what horror Shook all his frame, when thus I stood before him!

_Aust._ The statue of thy grandsire (The very figure as thou stood'st before him, Arm'd just as thou art), seem'd to move, and live; That breathing marble, which the people's love Rear'd near his tomb, within our convent's walls.

Anon I'll lead thee to it.

_Theod._ Let me hence, To shake these trappings off.

_Aust._ Wear them, and mark me.

Ere night, thy kinsman G.o.dfrey, will be master Of all thy story:-- He is brave, and just, And will support thy claim. Should proof and reason Fail with the usurper, thou must try thy sword (And Heaven will strike for thee) in combat with him.

The conscious flash of this thy grandsire's mail, Worse than the horrors of the fabled Gorgon, That curdled blood to stone, will shrink his sinews, And cast the wither'd boaster at thy feet.

_Theod._ Grant it ye powers! but not to shed his blood: The father of my Adelaide, that name--

_Aust._ Is dearer far than mine;--my words are air; My counsels pa.s.s unmark'd. But come, my son!

To-night my cell must house thee. Let me show thee The humble mansion of thy lonely father, Proud once, and prosperous; where I have wept, and pray'd, And, lost in cold oblivion of the world, Twice nine long years; thy mother, and thyself, And G.o.d, were all my thoughts.

_Theod._ Ay, to the convent!

For there my love, my Adelaide, expects me. [_Aside._

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Another Apartment in the Castle._

_Enter COUNT and FABIAN._

_Count._ By h.e.l.l, this legend of Alphonso's death Hourly gains ground.

_Fab._ They talk of naught besides; And their craz'd notions are so full of wonder, There's scarce a common pa.s.sage of the times, But straight their folly makes it ominous.

_Count._ Fame, that, like water, widens from its source, Thus often swells, and spreads a shallow falsehood.

At first, a twilight tale of village terror, The hair of boors and beldams bristled at it; (Such bloodless fancies wake to nought but fear:) Then, heard with grave derision by the wise, And, from contempt, unsearch'd and unrefuted, It pa.s.s'd upon the laziness of faith, Like many a lie, gross, and impossible.

_Fab._ A lie believ'd, may in the end, my lord, Prove fatal as a written gospel truth.

Therefore----

_Count._ Take heed; and ere the lightning strike, Fly from the sulphurous clouds.--I am not dull; For, bright as ruddy meteors through the sky, The thought flames here, shall light me to my safety.

Fabian, away! Send hither to me straight, Renchild and Thybalt. [_Exit FABIAN._] They are young and fearless.

Thy flight, ungrateful Isabel, compels me To this rude course. I would have all with kindness; Nor stain the snow-white flower of my true love With spots of violence. But it must be so.

This lordly priest, this Clarinsal, or Austin, Like a true churchman, by his calling tainted, Prates conscience; and in craft abets Earl G.o.dfrey, That Isabel may wed his upstart son.

Let Rome dart all her lightnings at my head, Till her grey pontiff singe in his own fires: Spite of their rage, I'll force the sanctuary, And bear her off this night, beyond their power; My bride, if she consents; if not, my hostage.

_Enter Two OFFICERS._

Come hither, sirs. Take twenty of your fellows; Post ten at the great gate of Nicholas; The rest, by two's, guard every avenue Leads from the convent to the plain or castle.

Charge them (and as their lives shall answer it,) That none but of my train pa.s.s out, or enter.

_1 Offi._ We will, my lord, about it instantly.

_Count._ Temper your zeal, and know your orders first.

Take care they spill no blood:--no violence, More than resisting who would force a pa.s.sage: The holy drones may buzz, but have no stings.

I mean to take a bawble from the church, A reverend thief stole from me. Near the altar, (That place commands the centre of the aisle) Keep you your watch. If you espy a woman (There can be only she), speed to me straight; You'll find my station near Alphonso's porch.

Be swift as winds, and meet me presently.

[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE III.

_The inside of a Convent, with Aisles and Gothic Arches; Part of an Altar appearing on one side; the Statue of ALPHONSO, in Armour, in the centre. Other Statues and Monuments also appearing. ADELAIDE veiled, rising from her knees before the Statue of ALPHONSO._

_Adel._ Alas! 'tis mockery to pray as I do.

Thoughts fit for heaven, should rise on seraphs' wings, Unclogg'd with aught of earth; but mine hang here; Beginning, ending, all in Theodore.

Why comes he not? 'Tis torture for the unbless'd, To suffer such suspense as my heart aches with.

What can it be,--this secret, dreadful cause, This shaft unseen, that's wing'd against our love?

Perhaps--I know not what.--At yonder shrine Bending, I'll seal my irrevocable vow: Hear, and record it, choirs of saints and angels!

If I am doom'd to sigh for him in vain, No second flame shall ever enter here; But, faithful to thy fond, thy first impression, Turn thou, my breast, to every sense of joy, Cold as the pale-ey'd marbles which surround me.

[_ADELAIDE withdraws._

_Enter AUSTIN and THEODORE._

_Aust._ Look round, my son! This consecrated place Contains the untimely ashes of thy grandsire.

With all the impious mockery of grief, Here were they laid by the dire hand which sped him.

There stands his statue; were a gla.s.s before thee, So would it give thee back thy outward self.

_Theod._ And may the Power, which fas.h.i.+on'd thus my outside, With all his n.o.bler ornaments of virtue Sustain my soul! till generous emulation Raise me, by deeds, to equal his renown, And--

_Aust._ To avenge him. Not by treachery, But, casting off all thoughts of idle love, Of love ill-match'd, unhappy, ominous,-- To keep the memory of his wrongs; do justice To his great name, and prove the blood you spring from.

_Theod._ Oh, were the bold possessor of my rights A legion arm'd, the terrors of his sword Resistless as the flash that strikes from heaven, Undaunted would I meet him. His proud crest Should feel the dint of no unpractis'd edge.

But, while my arm a.s.sails her father's life, The unnatural wound returns to my own breast, And conquest loses Adelaide for ever.

_Aust._ The barbarous deed of Raymond's father lost her.

_Theod._ Pierce not my soul thus. Can you love your son,-- And coldly tell me, Without one tear unmov'd thus, I must lose her?

But where, where is she? [_Looking out._] Heavenly innocence!

See, the dear saint kneels at the altar's foot; See, her white hands with fervent clasps are rais'd; Perhaps for me. Have you a heart, my father, And bid me bear to lose her?--Hold me not-- I come, I fly, my life, my all! to join thee.

[_Exit._

_Aust._ Return, return, rash boy!----Pernicious chance!

One glance from her will quite destroy my work, And leave me but my sorrow for my labour.

[_Follows him._