Chapter III: Part 3

_Cov._ My mother will at last return to thee.
Might I once more, but—could I now behold her,
Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire?
No, never tell her these inhuman things,
For they would waste her tender heart away
As they waste mine; or tell when I have died,
Only to show her that her every care
Could not have saved, could not have comforted.
That she herself, clasping me once again
To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go,
Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God!
Sweet mother, that far-distant voice I hear,
And passing out of youth and out of life,
I would not turn at last, and disobey.

SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE.

SISABERT _enters_.

_Sis._ Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,
That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?
That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame
Through the whole land, to seize upon the throne
By the permission of those recreant slaves?
What shall I call thee? art thou—speak, Count Julian—
A father, or a soldier, or a man?

_Jul._ All—or this day had never seen me here.

_Sis._ O falsehood! worse than woman’s!

_Cov._ Once, my cousin,
Far gentler words were uttered from your lips.
If you loved me, you loved my father first,
More justly and more steadily, ere love
Was passion and illusion and deceit.

_Sis._ I boast not that I never was deceived,
Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base,
Nor that I never loved; let this be thine.
Illusions! just to stop us, not delay;
Amuse, not occupy! Too true! when love
Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on
To some fresh object in its natural course,
Widely and openly and wanderingly,
’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloom
In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul.
Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose
Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

_Cov._ Shun me then: be beloved, more and more.
Honour the hand that showed you honour first,
Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade,
Thy voice alone can mutter it—another—

_Sis._ Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power
Alter thy heart thus to abandon mine,
And change my very nature at one blow?

_Cov._ I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vain
To urge me more, to question, or confute.

_Sis._ I know it, for another wears the crown
Of Witiza my father; who succeeds
To king Roderigo will succeed to me.
Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear,
And o’er my aching temples breathes one gale
Of days departed to return no more.

_Jul._ Young man, avenge our cause.

_Sis._ What cause avenge?

_Cov._ If I was ever dear to you, hear me,
Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon.
O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured
On your long absence—

_Sis._ Will be now consoled.
Thy father comes to mount my father’s throne;
But though I would not a usurper king,
I prize his valour and defend his crown:
No stranger and no traitor rules o’er me,
Or unchastised inveigles humbled Spain.
Covilla, gavest thou no promises?
Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply—
Too well I know, too justly I despise,
Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery;
Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea,
An enemy wert thou to Mahomet,
And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

_Jul._ ’Tis well: a soldier hears throughout in silence.
I urge no answer: to those words, I fear,
Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

_Sis._ [_to_ COVILLA.] Then I demand of thee before thou reign,
Answer me—while I fought against the Frank
Who dared to smite thee? blazoned in the court,
Not trailed through darkness, were our nuptial bands;
No: Egilona joined our hands herself,
The peers applauded, and the king approved.

_Jul._ Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

_Cov._ Father! O father!

_Sis._ I will not implore
Of him or thee what I have lost for ever.
These were not when we parted thy alarms;
Far other, and far worthier of thy heart
Were they; which Sisabert could banish then.
Fear me not now, Covilla! thou hast changed—
I am changed too—I lived but where thou livedst,
My very life was portioned off from thine.
Upon the surface of thy happiness
Day after day I gazed, I doted—there
Was all I had, was all I coveted;
So pure, serene, and boundless it appeared:
Yet, for we told each other every thought,
Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest,
At times I feared; as though some demon sent
Suspicion without form into the world,
To whisper unimaginable things.
Then thy fond arguing banished all but hope,
Each wish, and every feeling, was with thine,
Till I partook thy nature, and became
Credulous, and incredulous, like thee.
We, who have met so altered, meet no more.
Mountains and seas! ye are not separation:
Death! thou dividest, but unitest too,
In everlasting peace and faith sincere.
Confiding love! where is thy resting-place?
Where is thy truth, Covilla? where!—Go, go,
I should adore thee and believe thee still.

[_Goes_.

_Cov._ O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite,
And leave me lifeless this too trying hour!
He thinks me faithless.

_Jul._ He must think thee so.

_Cov._ Oh, tell him, tell him all, when I am dead—
He will die too, and we shall meet again.
He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.
Ah, cannot he before? must I appear
The vilest?—O just Heaven! can it be thus?
I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised,
Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.
’Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion,
No dream that wakens with o’erwhelming horror:
Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,
And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast
To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.

_Jul._ Invulnerable, unassailable
Are we, alone perhaps of human kind,
Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.

_Cov._ Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!
I should have died long earlier: gracious God!
Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain
My faith in Thee! O hide me from the world,
And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness,
That opened in this wilderness of woe
A source of tears—it else had burst my heart,
Setting me free for ever: then perhaps
A cruel war had not divided Spain,
Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars,
Had not endangered thee! Oh, haste afar
Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides
Whether we live beneath a foreign sway—

_Jul._ Or under him whose tyranny brought down
The curse upon his people. O child! child!
Urge me no further, talk not of the war,
Remember not our country.

_Cov._ Not remember!
What have the wretched else for consolation!
What else have they who pining feed their woe?
Can I, or should I, drive from memory
All that was dear and sacred, all the joys
Of innocence and peace? when no debate
Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,
To whom among the blessed it arose,
Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell
And every finger ceased from the guitar,
And every tongue was silent through our land;
When, from remotest earth, friends met again
Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced,
So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour.
Now, in what climate of the wasted world,
Not unmolested long by the profane,
Can I pour forth in secrecy to God
My prayers and my repentance? where besides
Is the last solace of the parting soul?
Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear
Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires,
That it may leave them lighter, and more blest.

_Jul._ Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:
Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,
See her best people, choose some holiest house;
Whether where Castro from surrounding vines
Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,
And, through the fissure in the green churchyard,
The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;
Or where Santona leans against the hill,
Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

_Cov._ Oh! for one moment in those pleasant scenes
Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe:
Why could I not have rested, and heard on!
My voice dissolves the vision quite away,
Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

_Jul._ Nature and virtue! they shall perish first.
God destined them for thee, and thee for them,
Inseparably and eternally!
The wisest and the best will prize thee most,
And solitudes and cities will contend
Which shall receive thee kindliest—sigh not so;
Violence and fraud will never penetrate
Where piety and poverty retire,
Intractable to them, and valueless,
And looked at idly, like the face of heaven.
If strength be wanted for security,
Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach
With iron-pointed and uplifted gates,
Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar,
Impenetrable, marble-turreted,
Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,
The massive fane, the sylvan avenue;
Whose hospitality I proved myself,
A willing leader in no impious war
When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell
In Reynosa’s dry and thriftless dale,
Unharvested beneath October moons,
Among those frank and cordial villagers.
They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!
So little know they whom they call the great,
Would pity one another less than us,
In injury, disaster, or distress.

_Cov._ But they would ask each other whence our grief,
That they might pity.

_Jul._ Rest then just beyond,
In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs
And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,
So motionless and tranquil its repose.

_Cov._ Thither let us depart, and speedily.

_Jul._ I cannot go: I live not in the land
I have reduced beneath such wretchedness:
And who could leave the brave, whose lives and fortunes
Hang on his sword?

_Cov._ Me thou canst leave, my father;
Ah yes, for it is past; too well thou seest
My life and fortunes rest not upon thee.
Long, happily—could it be gloriously!—
Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

_Jul._ Unconquerable land! unrivalled race!
Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike
The power and weakness of accursed kings—
How cruelly hast thou neglected me!
Forcing me from thee, never to return,
Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake!
I hear a voice—’tis Egilona—come,
Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl,
Let us away.

SECOND ACT: THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_.

_Egi._ Remain, I order thee.
Attend, and do thy duty: I am queen,
Unbent to degradation.

_Cov._ I attend
Ever most humbly and most gratefully
My too kind sovereign, cousin now no more;
Could I perform but half the services
I owe her, I were happy for a time;
Or dared I show her half my love, ’twere bliss.

_Egi._ Oh! I sink under gentleness like thine.
Thy sight is death to me; and yet ’tis dear.
The gaudy trappings of assumptive state
Drop at the voice of nature to the earth,
Before thy feet—I cannot force myself
To hate thee, to renounce thee; yet—Covilla!
Yet—oh distracting thought! ’tis hard to see,
Hard to converse with, to admire, to love—
As from my soul I do, and must do, thee—
One who hath robbed me of all pride and joy,
All dignity, all fondness. I adored
Roderigo—he was brave, and in discourse
Most voluble; the masses of his mind
Were vast, but varied; now absorbed in gloom,
Majestic, not austere; now their extent
Opening, and waving in bright levity—

_Jul._ Depart, my daughter—’twere as well to bear
His presence as his praise—go—she will dream
This phantasm out, nor notice thee depart.

[COVILLA _goes_.

_Egi._ What pliancy! what tenderness! what life!
Oh for the smiles of those who smile so seldom,
The love of those who know no other love!
Such he was, Egilona, who was thine.

_Jul._ While he was worthy of the realm and thee.

_Egi._ Can it be true, then, Julian, that thy aim
Is sovereignty? not virtue, nor revenge?

_Jul._ I swear to Heaven, nor I nor child of mine
Ever shall mount to this polluted throne.

_Egi._ Then am I still a queen. The savage Moor
Who could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword,
In his own country, not with every wile
Of his whole race, not with his myriad crests
Of cavalry, seen from the Calpian heights
Like locusts on the parched and gleamy coast,
Will never conquer Spain.

_Jul._ Spain then was conquered
When fell her laws before the traitor king.

SECOND ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

_Officer announces_ OPAS.

O queen, the metropolitan attends
On matters of high import to the state,
And wishes to confer in privacy.

_Egi._ [_to_ JULIAN.] Adieu then; and whate’er betide the country,
Sustain at least the honours of our house.

[JULIAN _goes before_ OPAS _enters_.

_Opas_. I cannot but commend, O Egilona,
Such resignation and such dignity.
Indeed he is unworthy; yet a queen
Rather to look for peace, and live remote
From cities, and from courts, and from her lord,
I hardly could expect in one so young,
So early, widely, wondrously admired.

_Egi._ I am resolved: religious men, good Opas,
In this resemble the vain libertine;
They find in woman no consistency,
No virtue but devotion, such as comes
To infancy or age, or fear or love,
Seeking a place of rest, and finding none
Until it soar to heaven.

_Opas_. A spring of mind
That rises when all pressure is removed,
Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves,
But weakness in much fondness; these, O queen,
I did expect, I own.

_Egi._ The better part
Be mine; the worst hath been—and is no more.

_Opas_. But if Roderigo have at length prevailed
That Egilona willingly resigns
All claim to royalty, and casts away,
Indifferent or estranged, the marriage-bond
His perjury tore asunder, still the church
Hardly can sanction his new nuptial rites.

_Egi._ What art thou saying! what new nuptial rites?

_Opas_. Thou knowest not?

_Egi._ Am I a wife; a queen?
Abandon it! my claim to royalty!
Whose hand was on my head when I arose
Queen of this land? whose benediction sealed
My marriage vow? who broke it? was it I?
And wouldst thou, virtuous Opas, wouldst thou dim
The glorious light of thy declining days?
Wouldst thou administer the sacred vows,
And sanction them, and bless them, for another,
And bid her live in peace while I am living?
Go then; I execrate and banish him
For ever from my sight: we were not born
For happiness together; none on earth
Were ever so dissimilar as we.
He is not worth a tear, a wish, a thought—
Never was I deceived in him—I found
No tenderness, no fondness, from the first:
A love of power, a love of perfidy,
Such is the love that is returned for mine.
Ungrateful man! ’twas not the pageantry
Of regal state, the clarions, nor the guard,
Nor loyal valour, nor submissive beauty,
Silence at my approach, awe at my voice,
Happiness at my smile, that led my youth
Toward Roderigo! I had lived obscure,
In humbleness, in poverty, in want,
Blest, oh supremely blest! with him alone:
And he abandons me, rejects me, scorns me,
Insensible! inhuman! for another!
Thou shalt repent thy wretched choice, false man!
Crimes such as thine call loudly for perdition;
Heaven will inflict it, and not I—but I
Neither will fall alone, nor live despised.

[_A trumpet sounds_.

_Opas_. Peace, Egilona, he arrives; compose
Thy turbid thoughts, meet him with dignity.

_Egi._ He! in the camp of Julian! trust me, sir,
He comes not hither, dares no longer use
The signs of state, and flies from every foe.

[_Retires some distance_.

SECOND ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

_Enter_ MUZA _and_ ABDALAZIS.

_Muza_ [_to_ ABDALAZIS.] I saw him but an instant, and disguised,
Yet this is not the traitor; on his brow
Observe the calm of wisdom and of years.

_Opas_. Whom seekest thou?

_Muza_. Him who was king I seek.
He came arrayed as herald to this tent.

_Abd._ Thy daughter! was she nigh? perhaps for her
Was this disguise.

_Muza_. Here, Abdalazis, kings
Disguise from other causes; they obtain
Beauty by violence, and power by fraud.
Treason was his intent: we must admit
Whoever come; our numbers are too small
For question or selection, and the blood
Of Spaniards shall win Spain for us to-day.

_Abd._ The wicked cannot move from underneath
Thy ruling eye.

_Muza_. Right! Julian and Roderigo
Are leagued against us, on these terms alone,
That Julian’s daughter weds the Christian king.

_Egi._ [_rushing forward_.] ’Tis true—and I proclaim it—

_Abd._ Heaven and earth!
Was it not thou, most lovely, most high-souled,
Who wishedst us success, and me a crown?

[OPAS _goes abruptly_.

_Egi._ I give it—I am Egilona, queen
Of that detested man.

_Abd._ I touch the hand
That chains down fortune to the throne of fate;
And will avenge thee; for ’twas thy command,
’Tis Heaven’s—My father! what retards our bliss?
Why art thou silent?

_Muza_. Inexperienced years
Rather would rest on the soft lap, I see,
Of pleasure, after the fierce gusts of war.
O Destiny! that callest me alone,
Hapless, to keep the toilsome watch of state;
Painful to age, unnatural to youth,
Adverse to all society of friends,
Equality, and liberty, and ease,
The welcome cheer of the unbidden feast,
The gay reply, light, sudden, like the leap
Of the young forester’s unbended bow;
But, above all, to tenderness at home,
And sweet security of kind concern
Even from those who seem most truly ours.
Who would resign all this, to be approached,
Like a sick infant by a canting nurse,
To spread his arms in darkness, and to find
One universal hollowness around?
Forego, a little while, that bane of peace.
Love may be cherished.

_Abd._ ’Tis enough; I ask
No other boon.

_Muza_. Not victory?

_Abd._ Farewell,
O queen! I will deserve thee; why do tears
Silently drop, and slowly, down thy veil?
I shall return to worship thee, and soon;
Why this affliction? Oh, that I alone
Could raise or could repress it!

_Egi._ We depart,
Nor interrupt your counsels, nor impede;
Oh, may they prosper, whatsoe’er they be,
And perfidy soon meet its just reward!
The infirm and peaceful Opas—whither gone?

_Muza_. Stay, daughter; not for counsel are we met,
But to secure our arms from treachery,
O’erthrow and stifle base conspiracies,
Involve in his own toils our false ally—

_Egi._ Author of every woe I have endured!
Ah, sacrilegious man! he vowed to Heaven
None of his blood should ever mount the throne.

_Muza_. Herein his vow indeed is ratified:
Yet faithful ears have heard this offer made,
And weighty was the conference that ensued,
And long, not dubious; for what mortal e’er
Refused alliance with illustrious power?
Though some have given its enjoyments up,
Tired and enfeebled by satiety.
His friends and partisans, ’twas his pretence,
Should pass uninterrupted; hence his camp
Is open every day to enemies.
You look around, O queen, as though you feared
Their entrance—Julian I pursue no more;
You conquer him—return we; I bequeath
Ruin, extermination, not reproach.
How we may best attain your peace and will
We must consider in some other place,
Not, lady, in the midst of snares and wiles
How to supplant your charms and seize your crown.
I rescue it, fear not: yes, we retire.
Whatever is your wish becomes my own,
Nor is there in this land but who obeys.

[_He leads her away_.

THIRD ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Palace in_ XERES.

RODERIGO _and_ OPAS.

_Rod._ Impossible! she could not thus resign
Me, for a miscreant of Barbary,
A mere adventurer: but that citron face
Shall bleach and shrivel the whole winter long
There, on yon cork-tree by the sallyport.
She shall return.

_Opas_. To fondness and to faith?
Dost thou retain them, if she could return?

_Rod._ Retain them? she has forfeited by this
All right to fondness, all to royalty.

_Opas_. Consider, and speak calmly: she deserves
Some pity, some reproof.

_Rod._ To speak then calmly,
Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt—
Infamous and atrocious! let her go—
Chains

_Opas_. What! in Muza’s camp?

_Rod._ My scorn supreme!

_Opas_. Say pity.

_Rod._ Ay, ay, pity—that suits best.
I loved her, but _had_ loved her; three whole years
Of pleasure, and of varied pleasure too,
Had worn the soft impression half away.
What I once felt, I would recall; the faint
Responsive voice grew fainter each reply:
Imagination sank amid the scenes
It laboured to create; the vivid joy
Of fleeting youth I followed, and possessed.
’Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour,
’Tis the first mien on entering new delights,
We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these.

_Opas_. Thou hast; and what remains?

_Rod._ Myself—Roderigo—
Whom hatred cannot reach, nor love cast down.

_Opas_. Nor gratitude nor pity nor remorse
Call back, nor vows nor earth nor heaven control.
But art thou free and happy? art thou safe?
By shrewd contempt the humblest may chastise
Whom scarlet and its ermine cannot scare,
And the sword skulks for everywhere in vain,
Thee the poor victim of thy outrages,
Woman, with all her weakness, may despise.

_Rod._ But first let quiet age have intervened.

_Opas_. Ne’er will the peace or apathy of age
Be thine, or twilight steal upon thy day.
The violent choose, but cannot change, their end:
Violence, by man or nature, must be theirs:
Thine it must be, and who to pity thee?

_Rod._ Behold, my solace! none. I want no pity.

_Opas_. Proclaim we those the happiest of mankind
Who never knew a want? Oh, what a curse
To thee this utter ignorance of thine!
Julian, whom all the good commiserate,
Sees thee below him far in happiness:
A state indeed of no quick restlessness,
No glancing agitation, one vast swell
Of melancholy, deep, impassable,
Interminable, where his spirit alone
Broods and o’ershadows all, bears him from earth,
And purifies his chastened soul for heaven.
Both heaven and earth shall from thy grasp recede.
Whether on death or life thou arguest,
Untutored savage or corrupted heathen
Avows no sentiment so vile as thine.

Rod. Nor feels?

_Opas_. O human nature! I have heard
The secrets of the soul, and pitied thee.
Bad and accursed things have men confessed
Before me, but have left them unarrayed.
Naked, and shivering with deformity.
The troubled dreams and deafening gush of youth
Fling o’er the fancy, struggling to be free,
Discordant and impracticable things:
If the good shudder at their past escapes,
Shall not the wicked shudder at their crimes?
They shall—and I denounce upon thy head
God’s vengeance—thou shalt rule this land no more.

_Rod._ What! my own kindred leave me and renounce me!

_Opas_. Kindred? and is there any in our world
So near us, as those sources of all joy,
Those on whose bosom every gale of life
Blows softly, who reflect our images
In loveliness through sorrows and through age,
And bear them onward far beyond the grave.

_Rod._ Methinks, most reverend Opas, not inapt
Are these fair views; arise they from Seville?

_Opas_. He, who can scoff at them, may scoff at me.
Such are we, that the giver of all good
Shall, in the heart he purifies, possess
The latest love—the earliest—no, not there!
I’ve known the firm and faithful—even from these
Life’s eddying spring shed the first bloom on earth.
I pity them, but ask their pity too.
I love the happiness of men, and praise
And sanctify the blessings I renounce.

_Rod._ Yet would thy baleful influence undermine
The heaven-appointed throne.

_Opas_.—the throne of guilt
Obdurate, without plea, without remorse.

_Rod._ What power hast thou? perhaps thou soon wilt want
A place of refuge.

_Opas_. Rather say, perhaps
My place of refuge will receive me soon.
Could I extend it even to thy crimes,
It should be open; but the wrath of heaven
Turns them against thee, and subverts thy sway:
It leaves thee not, what wickedness and woe
Oft in their drear communion taste together,
Hope and repentance.

_Rod._ But it leaves me arms,
Vigour of soul and body, and a race
Subject by law, and dutiful by choice,
Whose hand is never to be holden fast
Within the closing cleft of gnarled creeds;
No easy prey for these vile mitred Moors.
I, who received thy homage, may retort
Thy threats, vain prelate, and abase thy pride.

_Opas_. Low must be those whom mortal can sink lower,
Nor high are they whom human power may raise.

_Rod._ Judge now: for, hear the signal.

_Opas_. And derides
The buoyant heart the dubious gulfs of war?
Trumpets may sound, and not to victory.

_Rod._ The traitor and his daughter feel my power.

_Opas_. Just God! avert it!

_Rod._ Seize this rebel priest.
I will alone subdue my enemies.

[_Goes out_.

THIRD ACT: SECOND SCENE.

RAMIRO _and_ OSMA _enter from opposite sides_.

_Ram._ Where is the king? his car is at the gate,
His ministers attend him, but his foes
Are yet more prompt, nor will await delay.

_Osma_. Nor need they—for he meets them as I speak.

_Ram._ With all his forces? or our cause is lost.
Julian and Sisabert surround the walls.

_Osma_. Surround, sayst thou? enter they not the gates?

_Ram._ Perhaps ere now they enter.

_Osma_. Sisabert
Brings him our prisoner.

_Ram._ They are friends! they held
A parley; and the soldiers, when they saw
Count Julian, lowered their arms and hailed him king?

_Osma_. How? and he leads them in the name of king?

_Ram._ He leads them; but amid that acclamation
He turned away his head, and called for vengeance.

_Osma_. In Sisabert, and in the cavalry
He led, were all our hopes.

_Opas_. Woe, woe is theirs
Who have no other.

_Osma_. What are thine? obey
The just commands of our offended king:
Conduct him to the tower—off—instantly.

[_Guard hesitates_: OPAS _goes_.

Ramiro, let us haste to reinforce—

_Ram._ Hark! is the king defeated? hark!

_Osma_. I hear
Such acclamation as from victory
Arises not, but rather from revolt,
Reiterated, interrupted, lost.
Favour like this his genius will retrieve
By time, or promises, or chastisement,
Whiche’er he choose—the speediest is the best—
His danger and his glory let us share;
’Tis ours to serve him.

_Ram._ While he rules ’tis ours.
What chariot-wheels are thundering o’er the bridge?

_Osma_. Roderigo’s—I well know them.

_Ram._ Now, the burst
Of acclamation! now! again, again.

_Osma_. I know the voices; they are for Roderigo.

_Ram._ Stay, I entreat thee—one hath now prevailed.
So far is certain.

_Osma_. Ay, the right prevails.

_Ram._ Transient and vain their joyance, who rejoice
Precipitately and intemperately,
And bitter thoughts grow up where’er it fell.

_Osma_. Nor vain and transient theirs, who idly float
Down popularity’s unfertile stream,
And fancy all their own that rises round?

_Ram._ If thou still lovest, as I know thou dost,
Thy king—

_Osma_. I love him; for he owes me much,
Brave soul! and cannot, though he would, repay.
Service and faith, pure faith and service hard,
Throughout his reign, if these things be desert,
These have I borne toward him, and still bear.

_Ram._ Come, from thy solitary eiry come,
And share the prey, so plenteous and profuse,
Which a less valorous brood will else consume.
Much fruit is shaken down in civil storms:
And shall not orderly and loyal hands
Gather it up? (Loud shouts.) Again! and still refuse?
How different are those citizens without
From thee! from thy serenity! thy arch,
Thy firmament, of intrepidity!
For their new lord, whom they have never served,
Afraid were they to shout, and only struck
The pavement with their ferrules and their feet:
Now they are certain of the great event
Voices and hands they raise, and all contend
Who shall be bravest in applauding most.
Knowest thou these?

_Osma_. Their voices I know well—
And can they shout for him they would have slain?
A prince untried they welcome; soon their doubts
Are blown afar.

_Ram._ Yes, brighter scenes arise.
The disunited he alone unites,
The weak with hope he strengthens, and the strong
With justice.

_Osma_. Wait: praise him when time hath given
A soundness and consistency to praise:
He shares it amply who bestows it right.

_Ram._ Doubtest thou?

_Osma_. Be it so: let us away;
New courtiers come—

_Ram._ And why not join the new?
Let us attend him, and congratulate;
Come on: they enter.

_Osma_. This is now my post
No longer: I could face them in the field,
I cannot here.

_Ram._ To-morrow all may change;
Be comforted.

_Osma_. I want nor change nor comfort.

_Ram._ The prisoner’s voice!

_Osma_. The metropolitan’s?
Triumph he may—not over me forgiven.
This way, and through the chapel—none are there.

[_Goes out_.

THIRD ACT: THIRD SCENE.

OPAS _and_ SISABERT.

_Opas_. The royal threat still sounds along these halls:
Hardly his foot hath passed them, and he flees
From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes,
Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails
Now falsehood sinks from under him. Behold,
Again art thou where reigned thy ancestors;
Behold the chapel of thy earliest prayers,
Where I, whose chains are sundered at thy sight
Ere they could close around these aged limbs,
Received and blest thee, when thy mother’s arm
Was doubtful if it loosed thee! with delight
Have I observed the promises we made
Deeply impressed and manfully performed.
Now, to thyself beneficent, O prince,
Never henceforth renew those weak complaints
Against Covilla’s vows and Julian’s faith,
His honour broken, and her heart estranged.
Oh, if thou holdest peace or glory dear,
Away with jealousy; brave Sisabert,
Smite from thy bosom, smite that scorpion down.
It swells and hardens amid mildewed hopes,
O’erspreads and blackens whate’er most delights,
And renders us haters of loveliness,
The lowest of the fiends: ambition led
The higher on, furious to dispossess,
From admiration sprung and frenzied love.
This disingenuous soul-debasing passion,
Rising from abject and most sordid fear,
Stings her own breast with bitter self-reproof,
Consumes the vitals, pines, and never dies.
Love, Honour, Justice, numberless the forms,
Glorious and high the stature, she assumes;
But watch the wandering changeful mischief well,
And thou shalt see her with low lurid light
Search where the soul’s most valued treasure lies,
Or, more embodied to our vision, stand
With evil eye, and sorcery hers alone,
Looking away her helpless progeny,
And drawing poison from its very smiles.
For Julian’s truth have I not pledged my own?
Have I not sworn Covilla weds no other?

_Sis._ Her persecutor have not I chastised?
Have not I fought for Julian, won the town,
And liberated thee?

_Opas_. But left for him
The dangers of pursuit, of ambuscade,
Of absence from thy high and splendid name.

_Sis._ Do probity and truth want such supports?

_Opas_. Griffins and eagles, ivory and gold,
Can add no clearness to the lamp above;
But many look for them in palaces
Who have them not, and want them not, at home.
Virtue and valour and experience
Are never trusted by themselves alone
Further than infancy and idiocy:
The men around him, not the man himself,
Are looked at, and by these is he preferred.
’Tis the green mantle of the warrener
And his loud whistle, that alone attract
The lofty gazes of the noble herd:
And thus, without thy countenance and help
Feeble and faint is still our confidence,
Brief perhaps our success.

_Sis._ Should I resign
To Abdalazis her I once adored?
He truly, he must wed a Spanish queen!
He rule in Spain! ah! whom could any land
Obey so gladly as the meek, the humble,
The friend of all who have no friend besides,
Covilla! could he choose, or could he find
Another who might so confirm his power?
And now indeed from long domestic wars
Who else survives of all our ancient house—

_Opas_. But Egilona.

_Sis._ Vainly she upbraids
Roderigo.

_Opas_. She divorces him, abjures,
And carries vengeance to that hideous height
Which piety and chastity would shrink
To look from, on the world, or on themselves.

_Sis._ She may forgive him yet.

_Opas_. Ah, Sisabert!
Wretched are those a woman has forgiven:
With her forgiveness ne’er hath love returned.
Ye know not till too late the filmy tie
That holds heaven’s precious boon eternally
To such as fondly cherish her; once go
Driven by mad passion, strike but at her peace,
And, though she step aside from broad reproach,
Yet every softer virtue dies away.
Beaming with virtue inaccessible
Stood Egilona; for her lord she lived,
And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high:
All thoughts were on her—all, beside her own.
Negligent as the blossoms of the field,
Arrayed in candour and simplicity,
Before her path she heard the streams of joy
Murmur her name in all their cadences,
Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade,
Reflect her image; but acknowledged them
Hers most complete when flowing from her most.
All things in want of her, herself of none,
Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet
Unfelt and unregarded: now behold
The earthly passions war against the heavenly!
Pride against love, ambition and revenge
Against devotion and compliancy:
Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted;
And coming nearer to our quiet view
The original clay of coarse mortality
Hardens and flaws around her.

_Sis._ Every germ
Of virtue perishes, when love recedes
From those hot shifting sands, the female heart.

_Opas_. His was the fault; be his the punishment
’Tis not their own crimes only, men commit,
They harrow them into another’s breast,
And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain.

_Sis._ Yes, blooming royalty will first attract
These creatures of the desert—now I breathe
More freely—she is theirs if I pursue
The fugitive again—he well deserves
The death he flies from—stay! Don Julian twice
Called him aloud, and he, methinks, replied.
Could not I have remained a moment more,
And seen the end? although with hurried voice
He bade me intercept the scattered foes,
And hold the city barred to their return.
May Egilona be another’s wife
Whether he die or live! but oh!—Covilla—
She never can be mine! yet she may be
Still happy—no, Covilla, no—not happy,
But more deserving happiness without it.
Mine never! nor another’s—’tis enough.
The tears I shed no rival can deride;
In the fond intercourse, a name once cherished
Will never be defended by faint smiles,
Nor given up with vows of altered love.
And is the passion of my soul at last
Reduced to this? is this my happiness?
This my sole comfort? this the close of all
Those promises, those tears, those last adieus,
And those long vigils for the morrow’s dawn?

_Opas_. Arouse thee! be thyself. O Sisabert,
Awake to glory from these feverish dreams:
The enemy is in our land—two enemies—
We must quell both—shame on us, if we fail.

_Sis._ Incredible! a nation be subdued
Peopled as ours!

_Opas_. Corruption may subvert
What force could never.

_Sis._ Traitors may.

_Opas_. Alas
If traitors can, the basis is but frail.
I mean such traitors as the vacant world
Echoes most stunningly: not fur-robed knaves
Whose whispers raise the dreaming bloodhound’s ear
Against benighted famished wanderers;
While with remorseless guilt they undermine
Palace and shed, their very father’s house,
O blind! their own, their children’s heritage,
To leave more ample space for fearful wealth.
Plunder in some most harmless guise they swathe,
Call it some very meek and hallowed name,
Some known and borne by their good forefathers,
And own and vaunt it thus redeemed from sin.
These are the plagues heaven sends o’er every land
Before it sink, the portents of the street,
Not of the air, lest nations should complain
Of distance or of dimness in the signs,
Flaring from far to Wisdom’s eye alone:
These are the last! these, when the sun rides high,
In the forenoon of doomsday, revelling,
Make men abhor the earth, arraign the skies.
Ye who behold them spoil field after field,
Despising them in individual strength,
Not with one torrent sweeping them away
Into the ocean of eternity,
Arise! despatch! no renovating gale,
No second spring awaits you—up, begone—
If you have force and courage even for flight—
The blast of dissolution is behind.

_Sis._ How terrible! how true! what voice like thine
Can rouse and warn the nation! if she rise,
Say, whither go, where stop we?

_Opas_. God will guide.
Let us pursue the oppressor to destruction;
The rest is heaven’s: must we move no step
Because we cannot see the boundaries
Of our long way, and every stone between?

_Sis._ Is not thy vengeance for the late affront,
For threats and outrage and imprisonment—

_Opas_. For outrage, yes—imprisonment and threats
I pardon him, and whatsoever ill
He could do _me_.

_Sis._ To hold Covilla from me!
To urge her into vows against her faith,
Against her beauty, youth, and inclination,
Without her mother’s blessing, nay without
Her father’s knowledge and authority—
So that she never will behold me more,
Flying afar for refuge and for help
Where never friend but God will comfort her—

_Opas_. These, and more barbarous deeds were perpetrated.

_Sis._ Yet her proud father deigned not to inform
Me, whom he loved and taught, in peace and war,
Me, whom he called his son, before I hoped
To merit it by marriage or by arms.
He offered no excuse, no plea; expressed
No sorrow; but with firm unfaltering voice
Commanded me—I trembled as he spoke—
To follow where he led, redress his wrongs,
And vindicate the honour of his child.
He called on God, the witness of his cause,
On Spain, the partner of his victories,
And yet amid these animating words
Rolled the huge tear down his unvisored face—
A general swell of indignation rose
Through the long line, sobs burst from every breast,
Hardly one voice succeeded—you might hear
The impatient hoof strike the soft sandy plain:
But when the gates flew open, and the king
In his high car came forth triumphantly,
Then was Count Julian’s stature more elate;
Tremendous was the smile that smote the eyes
Of all he passed. “Fathers, sons, and brothers,”
He cried, “I fight your battles, follow me!
Soldiers, we know no danger but disgrace!”
“Father, and general, and king,” they shout,
And would proclaim him: back he cast his face,
Pallid with grief, and one loud groan burst forth;
It kindled vengeance through the Asturian ranks,
And they soon scattered, as the blasts of heaven
Scatter the leaves and dust, the astonished foe.

_Opas_. And doubtest thou his truth?

_Sis._ I love—and doubt—
Fight—and believe: Roderigo spoke untruths—
In him I place no trust; but Julian holds
Truths in reserve—how should I quite confide!

_Opas_. By sorrows thou beholdest him oppressed;
Doubt the more prosperous: march, Sisabert,
Once more against his enemy and ours:
Much hath been done, but much there still remains.

FOURTH ACT.—FIRST SCENE.

_Tent of_ JULIAN.

RODERIGO _and_ JULIAN.

_Jul._ To stop perhaps at any wickedness
Appears a merit now, and at the time
Prudence and policy it often is
Which afterward seems magnanimity.
The people had deserted thee, and thronged
My standard, had I raised it, at the first;
But once subsiding, and no voice of mine
Calling by name each grievance to each man,
They, silent and submissive by degrees,
Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but oppressed,
Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived;
Thou hast done all a foreign foe could do,
And more, against them; with ingratitude
Not hell itself could arm the foreign foe:
’Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar.
Amid whate’er vain glories fell upon
Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve,
Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank,
How thou preservedst me, my family,
All my distinctions, all my offices,
When Witiza was murdered, that I stand
Count Julian at this hour by special grace.
The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta,
And not the shadow that attends his name:
It was no badge, no title, that o’erthrew
Soldier, and steed, and engine—Don Roderigo,
The truly and the falsely great here differ:
These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance;
Him the Almighty calls amid his people
To sway the wills and passions of mankind.
The weak of heart and intellect beheld
Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain:
I rose—Roderigo lords o’er Spain no more.

_Rod._ Now to a traitor’s add a boaster’s name.

_Jul._ Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe
I boast for pride or pastime? forced to boast,
Truth costs me more than falsehood e’er cost thee.
Divested of that purple of the soul,
That potency, that palm of wise ambition,
Cast headlong by thy madness from that height,
That only eminence ’twixt earth and heaven,
Virtue, which some desert, but none despise,
Whether thou art beheld again on earth,
Whether a captive or a fugitive,
Miner or galley-slave, depends on me:
But he alone who made me what I am
Can make me greater, or can make me less.

_Rod._ Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power;
Give me my sword again and try my strength.

_Jul._ I tried it in the front of thousands.

_Rod._ Death
At least vouchsafe me from a soldier’s hand.

_Jul._ I love to hear thee ask for it—now my own
Would not be bitter; no, nor immature.

_Rod._ Defy it, say thou rather.

_Jul._ Death itself
Shall not be granted thee, unless from God;
A dole from his and from no other hand.
Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy—

_Rod._ Chains, dungeons, tortures—but I hear no more.

_Jul._ Silence, thou wretch, live on—ay, live—abhorred.
Thou shalt have tortures, dungeons, chains, enough—
They naturally rise and grow around
Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever.

_Rod._ Insulter of the fallen! must I endure
Commands as well as threats? my vassal’s too?
Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet?

_Jul._ Could I speak patiently who speak to thee,
I would say more—part of thy punishment
It should be to be taught.

_Rod._ Reserve thy wisdom
Until thy patience come, its best ally:
I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee.

_Jul._ No, thou shalt study soon another tongue,
And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind.
Either the cross thou bearest, and thy knees
Among the silent caves of Palestine
Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer;
Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary,
Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well
From sultry noon till the skies fade again,
To draw up water and to bring it home
In the cracked gourd of some vile testy knave,
Who spurns thee back with bastinadoed foot
For ignorance or delay of his command.

_Rod._ Rather the poison or the bowstring.

_Jul._ Slaves
To other’s passions die such deaths as those:
Slaves to their own should die—

_Rod._ What worse?

_Jul._ Their own.

_Rod._ Is this thy counsel, renegade?

_Jul._ Not mine;
I point a better path, nay, force thee on.
I shelter thee from every brave man’s sword
While I am near thee: I bestow on thee
Life: if thou die, ’tis when thou sojournest
Protected by this arm and voice no more;
’Tis slavishly, ’tis ignominiously,
’Tis by a villain’s knife.

_Rod._ By whose?

_Jul._ Roderigo’s.

_Rod._ O powers of vengeance! must I hear? endure?
Live?

_Jul._ Call thy vassals? no! then wipe the drops
Of froward childhood from thy shameless eyes.
So! thou canst weep for passion—not for pity.

_Rod._ One hour ago I ruled all Spain! a camp
Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone
Against me: now, no friend throughout the world
Follows my steps or hearkens to my call.
Behold the turns of fortune, and expect
No better; of all faithless men, the Moors
Are the most faithless: from thy own experience
Thou canst not value nor rely on them.

_Jul._ I value not the mass that makes my sword,
Yet while I use it I rely on it.
Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates—
Plainly I see it—death to me—pursue
The dictates of thy leaders, let revenge
Have its full sway, let Barbary prevail,
And the pure creed her elders have embraced:
Those placid sages hold assassination
A most compendious supplement to law.

_Jul._ Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other,
Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear!
Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banished from me;
Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall
Those solaces of every grief, erewhile.
I stand abased before insulting crime—
I falter like a criminal myself.
The hand that hurled thy chariot o’er its wheels,
That held thy steeds erect and motionless
As molten statues on some palace-gates,
Shakes, as with palsied age, before thee now.
Gone is the treasure of my heart, for ever,
Without a father, mother, friend, or name.
Daughter of Julian—such was her delight—
Such was mine too! what pride more innocent,
What, surely, less deserving pangs like these,
Than springs from filial and parental love!
Debarred from every hope that issues forth
To meet the balmy breath of early life,
Her saddened days, all, cold and colourless,
Will stretch before her their whole weary length
Amid the sameness of obscurity.
She wanted not seclusion, to unveil
Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell;
She found it in all places, at all hours:
While, to assuage my labours, she indulged
A playfulness that shunned a mother’s eye,
Still, to avert my perils, there arose
A piety that, even from _me_, retired.

_Rod._ Such was she! what am I! those are the arms
That are triumphant when the battle fails.
O Julian, Julian! all thy former words
Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity;
These, through its steely coverings, pierce the heart.
I ask not life nor death; but, if I live,
Send my most bitter enemy to watch
My secret paths, send poverty, send pain—
I will add more—wise as thou art, thou knowest
No foe more furious than forgiven kings.
I ask not then what thou wouldst never grant:
May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand receive
A pardoned man, a chastened criminal.

_Jul._ This further curse hast thou inflicted; wretch,
I cannot pardon thee.

_Rod._ Thy tone, thy mien,
Refute those words.

_Jul._ No—I can _not_ forgive.

_Rod._ Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore—
Upon the earth, before thy feet—hard heart!

_Jul._ Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer
And scorned it? ’tis the last thou shouldst repeat.
Upon the earth! upon her knees! O God!

_Rod._ Resemble not a wretch so lost as I:
Be better; Oh! be happier; and pronounce it.

_Jul._ I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine,
Conquered; and I have sworn to dedicate,
Like a torn banner on my chapel’s roof,
Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebelled.
Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances.

_Rod._ Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace.
Pardon me not, then—but with purer lips
Implore of God, who _would_ hear _thee_, to pardon.

_Jul._ Hope it I may—pronounce it—O Roderigo!
Ask it of him who can; I too will ask,
And, in my own transgressions, pray for thine.

_Rod._ One name I dare not—

_Jul._ Go—abstain from that,
I do conjure thee: raise not in my soul
Again the tempest that has wrecked my fame;
Thou shalt not breathe in the same clime with her.
Far o’er the unebbing sea thou shalt adore
The eastern star, and—may thy end be peace.

FOURTH ACT.—SECOND SCENE.

RODERIGO _goes_: HERNANDO _enters_.

_Her._ From the prince Tarik I am sent, my lord.

_Jul._ A welcome messager, my brave Hernando.
How fares it with the gallant soul of Tarik?

_Her._ Most joyfully; he scarcely had pronounced
Your glorious name, and bid me urge your speed,
Than, with a voice as though it answered heaven,
“He shall confound them in their dark designs,”
Cried he, and turned away with that swift stride
Wherewith he meets and quells his enemies.

_Jul._ Alas, I cannot bear felicitation,
Who shunned it even in felicity.

_Her._ Often we hardly think ourselves the happy
Unless we hear it said by those around.
O my lord Julian, how your praises cheered
Our poor endeavours! sure, all hearts are ope
Lofty and low, wise and unwise, to praise.
Even the departed spirit hovers round
Our blessings and our prayers; the corse itself
Hath shined with other light than the still stars
Shed on its rest, or the dim taper, nigh.
My father, old men say, who saw him dead
And heard your lips pronounce him good and happy,
Smiled faintly through the quiet gloom, that eve,
And the shroud throbbed upon his grateful breast.
Howe’er it be, many who tell the tale
Are good and happy from that voice of praise.
His guidance and example were denied
My youth and childhood: what I am I owe—

_Jul._ Hernando, look not back: a narrow path
And arduous lies before thee; if thou stop
Thou fallest; go right onward, nor observe
Closely and rigidly another’s way,
But, free and active, follow up thy own.

_Her._ The voice that urges now my manly step
Onward in life, recalls me to the past,
And from that fount I freshen for the goal.
Early in youth, among us villagers
Converse and ripened counsel you bestowed.
O happy days of (far departed!) peace,
Days when the mighty Julian stooped his brow
Entering our cottage door; another air
Breathed through the house; tired age and lightsome youth
Beheld him, with intensest gaze: these felt
More chastened joy; those, more profound repose.
Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home
And midday suns, when from the social meal
The wicker window held the summer heat,
Praised have those been who, going unperceived,
Opened it wide, that all might see you well:
Nor were the children blamed, upon the mat,
Hurrying to watch what rush would last arise
From your foot’s pressure, ere the door was closed,
And not yet wondering how they dared to love.
Your counsels are more precious now than ever,
But are they—pardon if I err—the same?
Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian,
Can he be more? or ought he to be less?
Alas! his faith!

_Jul._ In peace or war, Hernando?

_Her._ Oh, neither—far above it; faith in God—

_Jul._ ’Tis God’s, not thine—embrace it not, nor hate it.
Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering,
Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven,
Because we know it not? the Sovereign Lord
Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense
From some, from others penitence and prayer:
Why intercept them from his gracious hand?
Why dash them down? why smite the supplicant?

_Her._ ’Tis what they do?

_Jul._ Avoid it thou the more.
If time were left me, I could hear well-pleased
How Tarik fought up Calpé’s fabled cliff,
While I pursued the friends of Don Roderigo
Across the plain, and drew fresh force from mine.
Oh! had some other land, some other cause,
Invited him and me, I then could dwell
On this hard battle with unmixed delight.

_Her._ Eternal is its glory, if the deed
Be not forgotten till it be surpassed:
Much praise by land, by sea much more, he won;
For then a Julian was not at his side,
Nor led the van, nor awed the best before;
The whole, a mighty whole, was his alone.
There might be seen how far he shone above
All others of the day: old Muza watched
From his own shore the richly laden fleet,
Ill-armed and scattered, and pursued the rear
Beyond those rocks that bear St. Vincent’s name,
Cutting the treasure, not the strength, away;
Valiant, where any prey lies undevoured
In hostile creek or too confiding isle:
Tarik, with his small barks, but with such love
As never chief from rugged sailor won,
Smote their high masts and swelling rampires down;
And Cadiz wept in fear o’er Trafalgar.
Who that beheld our sails from off the heights,
Like the white birds, nor larger, tempt the gale
In sunshine and in shade, now almost touch
The solitary shore, glance, turn, retire,
Would think these lovely playmates could portend
Such mischief to the world, such blood, such woe;
Could draw to them from far the peaceful hinds,
Cull the gay flower of cities, and divide
Friends, children, every bond of human life;
Could dissipate whole families, could sink
Whole states in ruin, at one hour, one blow.

_Jul._ Go, good Hernando—who _would_ think these things?
Say to the valiant Tarik, I depart
Forthwith: he knows not from what heaviness
Of soul I linger here; I could endure
No converse, no compassion, no approach,
Other than thine, whom the same cares improved
Beneath my father’s roof, my foster-brother,
To brighter days and happier end, I hope;
In whose fidelity my own resides
With Tarik and with his compeers and chief.
I cannot share the gladness I excite,
Yet shall our Tarik’s generous heart rejoice.

FOURTH ACT.—THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_: HERNANDO _goes_.

_Egi._ Oh, fly me not because I am unhappy,
Because I am deserted fly me not.
It was not so before, it cannot be
Ever from Julian.

_Jul._ What would Egilona
That Julian’s power with her new lords can do?
Surely her own must there preponderate.

_Egi._ I hold no suit to them—restore, restore Roderigo.

_Jul._ He no longer is my prisoner.

_Egi._ Escapes he then?

_Jul._ Escapes he—dost thou say?
O Egilona! what unworthy passion—

_Egi._ Unworthy, when I loved him, was my passion;
The passion that now swells my heart is just.

_Jul._ What fresh reproaches hath he merited?