Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Ferdinand. Ah! what of him, my lord?

Osorio. He proved a villain;

Betray’d the mystery to a brother villain;

And they between them hatch’d a damnéd plot

To hunt him down to infamy and death

To share the wealth of a most noble family, 125

And stain the honour of an orphan lady

With barbarous mixture and unnatural union.

What did the Velez? I am proud of the name,

Since he dared do it.

[OSORIO grasps his sword and turns off from FERDINAND,

then, after a pause, returns.

Osorio. Our links burn dimly.

Ferdinand. A dark tale darkly finish’d! Nay, my lord! 130

Tell what he did.

Osorio (fiercely). That which his wisdom prompted.

He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,

And here he kill’d the traitor.

Ferdinand. No! — the fool.

He had not wit enough to be a traitor.

Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen 135

That he, who gull’d thee with a whimper’d lie

To murder his own brother, would not scruple

To murder thee, if e’er his guilt grew jealous

And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

Osorio. Thou would’st not then have come, if ——

Ferdinand. O yes, my lord! 140

I would have met him arm’d, and scared the coward!

[FERDINAND throws off his robe, shows himself armed,

and draws his sword.

Osorio. Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!

My heart was drawing back, drawing me back

With womanish pulls of pity. Dusky slave,

Now I will kill thee pleasantly, and count it 145

Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Ferdinand. And all my little ones fatherless! Die thou first.

[They fight. OSORIO disarms FERDINAND, and in disarming

him, throws his sword up that recess, opposite to

which they were standing.

Ferdinand (springing wildly towards Osorio). Still I can strangle

thee!

Osorio. Nay, fool! stand off.

I’ll kill thee — but not so! Go fetch thy sword.

[FERDINAND hurries into the recess with his torch.

OSORIO follows him, and in a moment returns

alone.

Osorio. Now — this was luck! No bloodstains, no dead body! 150

His dream, too, is made out. Now for his friend.

[Exit.

SCENE changes to the court before the Castle of VELEZ.

MARIA and her FOSTER-MOTHER.

Maria. And when I heard that you desired to see me,

I thought your business was to tell me of him.

Foster-Mother. I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.

Maria. ‘Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly 155

As mine and Albert’s common foster-mother.

Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe’er he be,

That join’d your names with mine! O my sweet lady,

As often as I think of those dear times

When you two little ones would stand at eve, 160

On each side of my chair, and make me learn

All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk

In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you,

‘Tis more like heaven to come, that what has been!

Maria. O my dear mother! this strange man has left me 165

Wilder’d with wilder fancies than yon moon

Breeds in the love-sick maid — who gazes at it

Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye

She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!

Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! 170

Maria. No one.

Foster-Mother. My husband’s father told it me,

Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul!

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw

With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam

Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? 175

Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,

He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined

With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool

As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,

And rear’d him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. 180

And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.

A pretty boy, but most unteachable —

And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,

But knew the names of birds, and mock’d their notes,

And whistled, as he were a bird himself. 185

And all the autumn ‘twas his only play

To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them

With earth and water on the stumps of trees.

A friar who gather’d simples in the wood,

A grey-hair’d man — he loved this little boy, 190

The boy loved him — and, when the friar taught him,

He soon could write with the pen; and from that time

Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.

So he became a very learned youth.

But O! poor wretch — he read, and read, and read, 195

Till his brain turn’d — and ere his twentieth year,

He had unlawful thoughts of many things.

And though he pray’d, he never loved to pray

With holy men, nor in a holy place.

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 200

The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him,

And once as by the north side of the chapel

They stood together, chain’d in deep discourse,

The earth heav’d under them with such a groan,

That the wall totter’d, and had well-nigh fall’n 205

Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten’d;

A fever seiz’d him; and he made confession

Of all the heretical and lawless talk

Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz’d

And cast into that hole. My husband’s father 210

Sobb’d like a child — it almost broke his heart.

And once as he was working in the cellar,

He heard a voice distinctly; ‘twas the youth’s,

Who sung a doleful song about green fields,

How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah 215

To hunt for food, and be a naked man,

And wander up and down at liberty.

He always doted on the youth, and now

His love grew desperate; and defying death,

He made that cunning entrance I described: 220

And the young man escaped.

Maria. ‘Tis a sweet tale:

Such as would lull a list’ning child to sleep,

His rosy face besoil’d with unwiped tears.

And what became of him?

Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard

With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 225

Of golden lands; Leoni’s younger brother

Went likewise, and when he return’d to Spain,

He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,

Soon after they arrived in that new world,

In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat, 230

And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,

Up a great river, great as any sea,

And ne’er was heard of more; but ‘tis supposed

He liv’d and died among the savage men.

Enter VELEZ.

Velez. Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you. 235

Maria. O Christ! the tortures that hang o’er his head,

If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

Velez (with a kind of sneer). A portly man, and eloquent, and

tender!

In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn

That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim. 240

Maria. The horror of their ghastly punishments

Doth so o’ertop the height of sympathy,

That I should feel too little for mine enemy —

Ah! far too little — if ‘twere possible,

I could feel more, even tho’ my child or husband 245

Were doom’d to suffer them! That such things are ——

Velez. Hush! thoughtless woman!

Maria. Nay — it wakes within me

More than a woman’s spirit.

Velez (angrily). No more of this —

I can endure no more.

Foster-Mother. My honour’d master!

Lord Albert used to talk so.

Maria. Yes! my mother! 250

These are my Albert’s lessons, and I con them

With more delight than, in my fondest hour,

I bend me o’er his portrait.