SCENE III

[He sweeps back the tent-skirts, and stands face to the storm, the torch behind him.

O shifting elements,Chaos is on me—I am not of Chaos!I could ride forthA single horseman riding forth to conquerThe day, the night; I could confine these windsHad I the watchword.... Beaten back, destroyed!—Close in!

[He wraps the folds of the tent together. There is no sound in the tent.

Who passes?Pampeluna!Do you hear?I give youPampeluna!...[In a whisper.] No,Saint Jaques!Then it must be the wind.

Beaumont, a Beaumont!

The enemy! Ho, ho! The enemy!Awake, wake!

Beaumont!

[Within.]Duca!Blood of God!What is their war-cry?Beaumont?

[He throws open the doors of the tent, struggling into his armour.Juanitorushes up.

Ambushed by Fate! Juanito, the torchIs falling: light another. Do you see,I cannot find the buckles.... I must ride....Fetch out my horse.... The corselet—that will serve.

[Juanitogoes for the horse.

Beaumont, a Beaumont!

[Snatching up his sword.] Curse the renegades!What is my war-cry? [He comes out of the tent bareheaded.It confuses me....The tramp, the tramp! Ah, if I led an army!Ah, I could lead—on, on!

[The horse is brought.

With one look at his master, as he mounts.

Unarmed!

[He runs into the tent.

[Laughing.] Unarmed!... The sweep, the rush, the hungry onsetSweep me along, cry round ... the engines crash!Banners of Hell, my banners on the wind!

[Running out of the tent.] Stay—yourcelada!

Fling it!Duca!On!

[He dashes out of the courtyard. His escort has gathered and waits stupidly the word of command.

He gave us no command. His horse has stumbled.Curses across the wind—

[Suddenly distinct, though far away.] On,Duca, on!

He flies down the Solana in the wind.Mount, mount! God’s Love! But we must follow him.

TheAbbess’room at the Convent of Corpus Domini at Ferrara. At the back there is a little shrine and a crucifix.TheLord Cardinal Ippolito d’Esteconverses withMesser Cristofero.

TheAbbess’room at the Convent of Corpus Domini at Ferrara. At the back there is a little shrine and a crucifix.

TheLord Cardinal Ippolito d’Esteconverses withMesser Cristofero.

It will not be her death; she has such safetyAs quiet pinions give to birds in storm.

I dared not tell her till her husband wrote:His letter trembles in my hand....

For daysShe has been pacing, fasting, full of terrorsWorse far than any term! The air has quickenedTo prophet’s divination—noise and silenceWas in it of great woe.She comes.... God’s mercy!

EnterDuchess Lucrezia Borgia d’Este,in the dress of a penitent, her hair unbound.

He is dead, Ippolito!

Read—from your husband.

Tell me ... the parchment rocks.... You seeMy hands, my eyes are helpless; but my soulIs firmer. Tell me....

He is dead, Madonna!

God told me—and I only hear it now!Cesare!—and so far, so far....Oh, tell me,Save me in nothing: I shall lose all refugeOf credence if you do not make me sureAs death that he is dead.

The letter——

Some voice to tell me!

[ToCristofero.] Call Juanito. [ExitCristofero.Sister, if you would learn, the King Don JuanHas sent the faithful squire whose feet have followedYour soldier to his grave.

Whose feet have followed,Among the foreigners....

O Light of Arms!His wife, his sister will lament for him,As round the dead Achilles wept Cassandra,And wept Polyxena,That in the world none lived redoubtableAs he who everywhere brought peace or war.He drew his doom as lightnings ever strikeThe mountain-heights Acroceraunian,While lesser mountains stretch along, unflamed.We leave him to God’s judgment, in the gloryAnd terror of those strokes.

Re-enterCristoferowithJuanito Grasica.

By your own eyes,By your own lips, vow you will tell me truth.

[Juanitolays his forehead on her hand.

Where?

At Viana in Navarre.

Viana!...It is as distant as the grave.

He challengedThe outposts of the Count of Lérin....

ThatIs nothing now—foregone! Speak but of him;The moment, my extremity.

We lost him;His horse affrighted galloped on the blast;He disappeared beneath us where the leaBroke to ravine: we heard the hoofs beneath us,And cries of fierce pursuit ... but all was darkness.

[He weeps bitterly.

Yes, weep, weep—it is well!Now speak of him.

Dawn found me tangled by the night, and cryingIn the alien, stone wilderness, a captive.They brought his arms,His sparkling arms; they questioned of the PrinceWho wore them.

But the moment....

Of a suddenThe foe retreated, leaving me: I reachedThe rough-hewn gorge....

[Near to her and in a changed voice.

He lay there, nakedHe lay....

[Lucreziafolds her arms over her breast as with a close embrace.

—his face under the sky: his woundsA hero’s—twenty-three; across his loinsA bloodied stone, his life-blood round the rocks,His hair a weft of red. How beautiful,And wild and out of memory was his face!The great wind swept him and the sun rose up ...

They buried him?

Beside the lectern of St. Mary’s churchWithin Viana, and the pomp was great,For he had thought to bind a crown on once:They gave him kingly honours.

Oh, pray for him,That he may rest in peace! There must be peace.Great, agitated Spirit! Oh, let prayers,Reverend Ippolito, let prayers be saidIn every church, at every altar-stone,By all the quiet lips that wait on God.Leave me.... The prayers, the prayers, dear Cardinal,That he may rest in everlasting peace!Cristofero and the poor Squire—all go.All pray for us.

[They leave her and she kneels before the crucifix of the little shrine.

Cesare, O my eagle!...The stony tract!...I am but for thy useTo pray thee into peace, to win a crownEven now for thee, where the vast MajestyGives each his destined aim made bright by prayers.Maria, aid! It is his heritage.Spare him and aid me! Every day, at night,On through the years while I must see the sunWho have lost my sun fallen in that dire west—On to the silence of the hour of death,Let me not cease my voice! It is my loveSole to him, as I am. O Cesare,My body evermore, till sepulture,Shall bind the hair-shirt to its flesh as barbs,Never forgetful how thou wert cast forthStripped to the sky, with nothing in the worldTo plead to God with but thy valiant blood,Thy regal front below Him.I could almostSwoon into prayer, but for the intercessionOf the great, peaceful companies on earth,And bowing through the heavens and round God’s Throne.

[She sinks into a still ecstasy. SilentlySuor Luciaenters and kneels beside her.

The Château of La Motte-Feuilly in France.A balcony hung with black—below it are forest-trees, some in full leaf, others creeping into green. Solemn masses of wild hyacinths clump up against the castle walls.TheDuchess Charlotte de Valentinoisin deep black stands in the balcony, a purple purse laid beside her.

The Château of La Motte-Feuilly in France.

A balcony hung with black—below it are forest-trees, some in full leaf, others creeping into green. Solemn masses of wild hyacinths clump up against the castle walls.

TheDuchess Charlotte de Valentinoisin deep black stands in the balcony, a purple purse laid beside her.

My sablesHang heavy on the spring; and I myselfHave known a bliss struck cold, a pleasureSo terrible ... he, who attracts such joyAnd overcomes such hate,Is puissant as an infinite lost god....The leavesAre very soft and green and masterful....The peasant-folk approach, the humble poorThey say he gave his voice in softness toWho brought old kings to murmur round his urn,Rebellious that it held him.

[SomePeasantscome through the trees.

O good people,Pray for Lord César—for his soul!

[She gives alms from the purple purse and they pass out.

They pray,They will go home and pray:I love to watch them homeward, simple folk,With hunger I can feed.[She leans forward, supporting her arms on the balcony.

They pray,They will go home and pray:I love to watch them homeward, simple folk,With hunger I can feed.

[She leans forward, supporting her arms on the balcony.

I cannot pray: myAvesAnd all the beads of all my rosary,Would be for access to him, for his favour.They will pray,And bring him peace far from me. But to meIt is the many leaves bring peace, the forest,The wrapping and the murmur of the wind;For when I wake at night, wake in my forest,I am glad to wake: I hear the accusationOf the great Kings they carved about his tomb,Who pass around it, weeping—Saul and DavidAnd Solomon, the Scripture Kings, all lostAnd wandering as ghosts and desolate,With cry to the four royal winds, to Heaven,And to the swerving roll of the great forest,That César has no crown....

[ANursepasses under the balcony leading a young child.

... No crown, no race—I have not borne a son.

[She bows her face over her arms.

There is not anyAmong the Kings gold-browed as this. Oh, peace!But lift it in your hands—’tis Gideon’s fleeceThis forthright weft of silky blond. And manyDumb animals lurk at the eyelids’ crease,Under the eyes—a serpent that from fennyMarish finds sluice; a lion when in den heDeviseth rage; an ox beneath the trees:Yea, and an eagle droopeth for its prey,A malign eagle, in the slack, dull gaze.But on the lips what panting savagery,The fang of the wolf on winter forest-ways!Yet is the face soft, lonely, over allA honied mystery that must appal.

Elogia virorum illustrium, 1551.

Printed byBallantyne, Hanson & Co.London & Edinburgh

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