Part 8

_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?

_Egi._ Deeprooted hatred shelters no reproach. But whither is he gone?

_Jul._ Far from the walls.

_Egi._ And I knew nothing!

_Jul._ His offence was known To thee at least.

_Egi._ Will it be expiated?

_Jul._ I trust it will.

_Egi._ This withering calm consumes me. He marries then Covilla! ’twas for this His people were excited to rebel, His sceptre was thrown by, his vows were scorned, And I—and I—

_Jul._ Cease, Egilona!

_Egi._ Cease? Sooner shalt thou to live, than I to reign.

FIFTH ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Tent of_ MUZA.

MUZA. TARIK. ABDALAZIS.

_Muza_. To have first landed on these shores appears Transcendent glory to the applauded Tarik.

_Tarik_. Glory, but not transcendent, it appears, What might in any other.

_Muza_. Of thyself All this vain boast?

_Tarik_. Not of myself—’twas Julian. Against his shield the refluent surges rolled, While the sea-breezes threw the arrows wide, And fainter cheers urged the reluctant steeds.

_Muza_. That Julian, of whose treason I have proofs, That Julian, who rejected my commands Twice, when our mortal foe besieged the camp, And forced my princely presence to his tent.

_Tarik_. Say rather, who without one exhortation, One precious drop from true believer’s vein, Marched, and discomfited our enemies. I found in him no treachery. Hernando, Who, little versed in moody wiles, is gone To lead him hither, was by him assigned My guide, and twice in doubtful fight his arm Protected me: once on the heights of Calpé, Once on the plain, when courtly jealousies Tore from the bravest and the best his due, And gave the dotard and the coward command: Then came Roderigo forth—the front of war Grew darker—him, equal in chivalry, Julian alone could with success oppose.

_Abd._ I doubt their worth who praise their enemies.

_Tar._ And theirs doubt I who persecute their friends.

_Muza_. Thou art in league with him.

_Tar._ Thou wert, by oaths, I am without them; for his heart is brave.

_Muza_. Am I to bear all this?

_Tar._ All this, and more: Soon wilt thou see the man whom thou hast wronged, And the keen hatred in thy breast concealed Find its right way, and sting thee to the core.

_Muza_. Hath he not foiled us in the field; not held Our wisdom to reproach?

_Tar._ Shall we abandon All he hath left us in the eyes of men? Shall we again make him our adversary Whom we have proved so, long and fatally? If he subdue for us our enemies, Shall we raise others, or, for want of them, Convert him into one against his will?

FIFTH ACT: SECOND SCENE.

HERNANDO _enters_. TARIK _continues_.

Here comes Hernando from that prince himself—

_Muza_. Who scorns himself to come.

_Her._ The queen detains him.

_Abd._ How? Egilona?

_Muza_. ’Twas my will.

_Tar._ At last He must be happy; for delicious calm Follows the fierce enjoyment of revenge.

Her. That calm was never his, no other will be! Thou knowest not, and mayst thou never know, How bitter is the tear that fiery shame Scourges and tortures from the soldier’s eye. Whichever of these bad reports be true, He hides it from all hearts, to wring his own, And drags the heavy secret to the grave. Not victory, that o’ershadows him, sees he! No airy and light passion stirs abroad To ruffle or to soothe him; all are quelled Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind: Wakeful he sits, and lonely and unmoved, Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men; As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun Throws o’er the varying earth his early ray, Stands solitary, stands immovable Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, In the cold light, above the dews of morn. He now assumes that quietness of soul Which never but in danger have I seen On his staid breast.

_Tar._ Danger is past, he conquers; No enemy is left him to subdue.

_Her._ He sank not, while there was, into himself. Now plainly see I from his altered tone, He cannot live much longer—thanks to God!

_Tar._ What! wishest thou thy once kind master dead? Was he not kind to thee, ungrateful slave!

_Her._ The gentlest, as the bravest, of mankind. Therefore shall memory dwell more tranquilly With Julian, once at rest, than friendship could, Knowing him yearn for death with speechless love. For his own sake I could endure his loss, Pray for it, and thank God; yet mourn I must Him above all! so great, so bountiful, So blessed once! bitterly must I mourn. ’Tis not my solace that ’tis his desire; Of all that pass us in life’s drear descent We grieve the most for those that wished to die. A father to us all, he merited, Unhappy man! all a good father’s joy In his own house, where seldom he hath been, But, ever mindful of its dear delights, He formed one family around him, ever.

_Tar._ Yes, we have seen and known him—let his fame Refresh his friends, but let it stream afar, Nor in the twilight of home scenes be lost. He chose the best, and cherished them; he left To self-reproof the mutinies of vice; Avarice, that dwarfs ambition’s tone and mien; Envy, sick nursling of the court; and pride That cannot bear his semblance nor himself; And malice, with blear visage half-descried Amid the shadows of her hiding-place.

_Her._ What could I not endure, O gallant man, To hear him spoken of as thou hast spoken! Oh! I would almost be a slave to him Who calls me one.

_Muza_. What? art thou not? begone.

_Tar._ Reply not, brave Hernando, but retire. All can revile, few only can reward. Behold the meed our mighty chief bestows! Accept it, for thy services, and mine. More, my bold Spaniard, hath obedience won Than anger, even in the ranks of war.

_Her._ The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey.

[_Goes_.

MUZA _to_ TAR. Into our very council bringest thou Children of reprobation and perdition? Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech, Such images thou raisest as buffoons Carry in merriment on festivals; Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display To public notice their deformities, Nor cherish them nor fear them; why shouldst thou?

_Tar._ I fear not them nor thee.

FIFTH ACT: THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_.

_Abd._ Advance, O queen. Now let the turbulence of faction cease.

_Muza_. Whate’er thy purpose, speak, and be composed.

_Egi._ He goes; he is afar; he follows her; He leads her to the altar, to the throne. For, calm in vengeance, wise in wickedness, The traitor hath prevailed, o’er him, o’er me, O’er you—the slaves, the dupes, the scorn, of Julian. What have I heard! what have I seen!

_Muza_. Proceed.

_Abd._ And I swear vengeance on his guilty head Who intercepts from thee the golden rays Of sovereignty; who dares rescind thy rights; Who steals upon thy rest, and breathes around Empoisoned damps o’er that serenity Which leaves the world, and faintly lingers here.

_Muza_. Who shuns thee—

_Abd._ Whose desertion interdicts Homage, authority, precedency—

_Muza_. Till war shall rescue them—

_Abd._ And love restore.

_Egi._ O generous Abdalazis! never! never! My enemies—Julian alone remains— The worst, in safety, far beyond my reach, Breathe freely on the summit of their hopes; Because they never stopped, because they sprang From crime to crime, and trampled down remorse. Oh! if her heart knew tenderness like mine! Grant vengeance on the guilty; grant but that, I ask no more; my hand, my crown, is thine. Fulfil the justice of offended heaven, Assert the sacred rights of royalty, Come not in vain, crush the rebellious crew, Crush, I implore, the indifferent and supine.

_Muza_. Roderigo thus escaped from Julian’s tent.

_Egi._ No, not escaped, escorted, like a king. The base Covilla first pursued her way On foot; but after her the royal car, Which bore me from San Pablos to the throne, Empty indeed, yet ready at her voice, Rolled o’er the plain, amid the carcases Of those who fell in battle or in flight: She, a deceiver still, to whate’er speed The moment might incite her, often stopped To mingle prayers with the departing breath, Improvident! and those with heavy wounds Groaned bitterly beneath her tottering knee.

_Tar._ Now, by the clement and the merciful! The girl did well: when I breathe out my soul, Oh! if compassion give one pang the more, That pang be mine; here be it, in this land. Such women are they in this land alone.

_Egi._ Insulting man!

_Muza_. We shall confound him yet. Say, and speak quickly, whither went the king? Thou knewest where was Julian.

_Abd._ I will tell Without his answer: yes, my friends; yes, Tarik, Now will I speak, nor thou, for once, reply. There is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell In Xeres, whither few indeed resort; Green are the walls within, green is the floor And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet Avoid it, as half-holy, half accursed. Still in its dark recess fanatic sin Abases to the ground his tangled hair, And servile scourges and reluctant groans Roll o’er the vault uninterruptedly, Till, such the natural stillness of the place The very tear upon the damps below Drops audible, and the heart’s throb replies. There is the idol maid of Christian creed, And taller images, whose history I know not, nor inquired—a scene of blood, Of resignation amid mortal pangs, And other things, exceeding all belief. Hither the aged Opas of Seville Walked slowly, and behind him was a man Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless, In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head Dropped as he smote his breast; he gathered up, Replaced them all, groaned deeply, looked to heaven, And held them, like a treasure, with clasped hands.

_Egi._ Oh! was Roderigo so abased?

_Muza_. ’Twas he. Now, Egilona, judge between your friends And enemies; behold what wretches brought The king, thy lord, Roderigo, to disgrace.

_Egi._ He merited—but not from them—from me This, and much worse: had I inflicted it, I had rejoiced—at what I ill endure.

_Muza_. For thee, for thee alone, we wished him here, But other hands released him—

_Abd._ With what aim Will soon appear to those discerning eyes.

_Egi._ I pray thee, tell what passed until that hour.

_Abd._ Few words, and indistinct; repentant sobs Filled the whole space, the taper in his hand, Lighting two small dim lamps before the altar, He gave to Opas; at the idol’s feet He laid his crown, and wiped his tears away: The crown reverts not, but the tears return.

_Egi._ Yes, Abdalazis! soon, abundantly. If he had only called upon my name, Seeking my pardon ere he looked to heaven’s, I could have—no! he thought not once on me! Never shall he find peace or confidence; I will rely on fortune and on thee, Nor fear my future lot: sure, Abdalazis, A fall so great can never happen twice, Nor man again be faithless, like Roderigo.

_Abd._ Faithless he may be still, never so faithless. Fainter must be the charms, remote the days, When memory and dread example die, When love and terror thrill the heart no more, And Egilona is herself forgotten.

FIFTH ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

JULIAN _enters_.

_Tar._ Turn, and behold him! who is now confounded? Ye who awaited him, where are ye? speak. Is some close comet blazing o’er your tents? Muza! Abdalazis! princes, conquerors, Summon, interrogate, command, condemn.

_Muza_. Justly, Don Julian—but respect for rank Allays resentment, nor interrogates Without due form—justly may we accuse This absence from our councils, from our camp: This loneliness in which we still remain Who come invited to redress your wrongs. Where is the king?

_Jul._ The people must decide.

_Muza_. Imperfectly, I hope, I understand Those words, unworthy of thy birth and age.

_Jul._ O chieftain, such have been our Gothic laws.

_Muza_. Who then amid such turbulence is safe?

_Jul._ He who observes them: ’tis no turbulence, It violates no peace: ’tis surely worth A voice, a breath of air, thus to create By their high will the man, formed after them In their own image, vested with their power, To whom they trust their freedom and their lives.

_Muza_. They trust! the people! God assigns the charge: Kings open but the book of destiny And read their names, all that remains for them The mystic hand from time to time reveals. Worst of idolaters! idolater Of that refractory and craving beast Whose den is in the city, at thy hand I claim our common enemy, the king.

_Jul._ Sacred from justice then! but not from malice!

_Tar._ Surrender him, my friend: be sure his pains Will not be softened.

_Jul._ ’Tis beyond my power.

_Tar._ To-morrow—if in any distant fort He lies to-night: send after him.

_Jul._ My faith Is plighted, and he lives—no prisoner.

_Egi._ I knew the truth.

_Abd._ Now, Tarik, hear and judge. Was he not in thy camp? and in disguise?

_Tar._ No: I will answer thee.

_Muza_. Audacious man! Had not the Kalif Walid placed thee here, Chains and a traitor’s death should be thy doom. Speak, Abdalazis! Egilona, speak. Were ye not present? was not I myself? And aided not this Julian his escape?

_Jul._ ’Tis true.

_Tar._ Away then friendship; to thy fate I leave thee: thou hast rendered Muza just, Me hostile to thee. Who is safe! a man Armed with such power and with such perfidy!

_Jul._ Stay, Tarik! hear me; for to thee alone Would I reply.

_Tar._ Thou hast replied, already.

[_Goes_.

_Muza_. We, who were enemies, would not inquire Too narrowly what reasons urged thy wrath Against thy sovereign lord: beneath his flag The Christians first assailed us from these shores, And we seized gladly the first aid we found To quell a wealthy and a warlike king. We never held to thee the vain pretence That ’twas thy quarrel our brave youth espoused, Thine, who hast wrought us much disgrace and woe. From perils and from losses, here we rest And drink of the fresh fountain at our feet, Not madly following such illusive streams As overspread the dizzy wilderness, And vanish from the thirst they have seduced. Ours was the enterprise, the land is ours: What gain we by our toils if he escape Whom we came hither solely to subdue?

_Jul._ Is there no gain to live in amity?

_Muza_. The gain of traffickers and idle men: Courage and zeal expire upon such calms. Further, what amity can Moors expect When you have joined your forces?

_Jul._ From the hour That he was vanquished I have laid aside All power, all arms.

_Muza_. How can we trust thee, once Deceived, and oftener than this once despised? Thou camest hither with no other aim Than to deprive Roderigo of his crown For thy own brow.

_Egi._ Julian, base man, ’tis true. He comes a prince, no warrior, at this hour.

_Muza_. His sword, O queen, would not avail him now.

_Abd._ Julian, I feel less anger than regret. No violence of speech, no obloquy, No accusation shall escape my lips: Need there is none, nor reason, to avoid My questions: if thou value truth, reply. Hath not Roderigo left the town and camp? Hath not thy daughter?

_Egi._ Past the little brook Toward the Betis—from a tower I saw The fugitives, far on their way; they went Over one bridge, each with armed men—not half A league of road between them—and had joined But that the olive-groves along the path Concealed them from each other—not from me: Beneath me the whole level I surveyed, And, when my eyes no longer could discern Which track they took, I knew it from the storks Rising in clouds above the reedy plain.

_Muza_. Deny it, if thou canst.

_Jul._ I ordered it.

_Abd._ None could besides: lo! things in such a mass Falling together on observant minds, Create suspicion and establish proof: Wanted there fresh—why not employ our arms? Why go alone?

_Muza_. To parley, to conspire, To reunite the Spaniards, which we saw, To give up treaties, close up enmities, And ratify the deed with Moorish blood.

_Jul._ Gladly would Spain procure your safe return, Gladly would pay large treasures, for the aid You brought against oppression—

_Muza_. Pay she shall— The treasures of her soil, her ports, her youth: If she resist, if she tumultuously Call forth her brigands and we lose a man, Dreadful shall be our justice; war shall rage Through every city, hamlet, house, and field, And, universal o’er the gasping land, Depopulation.

_Jul._ They shall rue the day Who dare these things.

_Muza_. Let order then prevail. In vain thou sendest far away thy child, Thy counsellor the metropolitan, And Sisabert—prudence is mine no less. Divide with us our conquests, but the king Must be delivered up.

_Jul._ Never by me.

_Muza_. False then were thy reproaches, false thy grief.

_Jul._ O Egilona! were thine also feigned?

_Abd._ Say, lovely queen, neglectful of thy charms Turned he his eyes toward the young Covilla? Did he pursue her to the mad excess Of breaking off her vows to Sisabert, And marrying her, against the Christian law?

_Muza_. Did he prefer her so?

_Abd._ Could he prefer To Egilona—

_Egi._ Her! the child Covilla? Eternal hider of a foolish face, Incapable of anything but shame, To me? old man! to me? O Abdalazis! No: he but followed with slow pace my hate. And cannot pride check these unseemly tears.

[_Goes_.

_Muza_. The most offended, an offended woman, A wife, a queen, is silent on the deed.

_Abd._ Thou disingenuous and ignoble man, Spreading these rumours! sending into exile All those their blighting influence injured most: And whom? thy daughter and adopted son, The chieftains of thy laws and of thy faith. Call any witnesses, proclaim the truth, And set, at last, thy heart, thy fame, at rest.

_Jul._ Not, if I purposed or desired to live, My own dishonour would I e’er proclaim Amid vindictive and reviling foes.

_Muza_. Calling us foes, avows he not his guilt? Condemns he not the action we condemn, Owning it his, and owning it dishonour? ’Tis well my cares pressed forward, and struck home.

_Jul._ Why smilest thou? I never saw that smile But it portended an atrocious deed.

_Muza_. After our manifold and stern assaults, With every tower and battlement destroyed, The walls of Ceuta still were strong enough—

_Jul._ For what? who boasted now her brave defence, Or who forbade your entrance, after peace?

_Muza_. None: for who could? their engines now arose To throw thy sons into the arms of death. For this erect they their proud crests again. Mark him at last turn pale before a Moor.

_Jul._ Imprudent have they been, their youth shall plead.

_Abd._ O father, could they not have been detained?

_Muza_. Son, thou art safe and wert not while they lived.

_Abd._ I feared them not.

_Muza_. And therefore wert not safe: Under their star the blooming Egilona Would watch for thee the nuptial lamp in vain.

_Jul._ Never, oh never, hast thou worked a wile So barren of all good! speak out at once, What hopest thou by striking this alarm? It shocks my reason, not my fears or fondness.

_Muza_. Be happy then as ignorance can be; Soon wilt thou hear it shouted from our ranks. Those who once hurled defiance o’er our heads, Scorning our arms, and scoffing at our faith, The nightly wolf hath visited, unscared, And loathed them as her prey; for famine first, Achieving in few days the boast of year; Sank their young eyes and opened us the gates: Ceuta, her port, her citadel, is ours.

_Jul._ Blessed boys! inhuman as thou art, what guilt Was theirs?

_Muza_. Their father’s.