Obrázky stránek
PDF
ePub

ACT III.

SCENE I.--The Sierra de Ronda.

Enter BULCAZIN MULEY, GANEM, and Moorish Soldiers,

Ganem. (R.) In truth, the men must rest, sir.
Bulca. (c.) Must?

Ganem. Perforce,

This long and hurried march has made them faint
We are all nigh to drop.

Bulca. Here sink and rot, then!-I will on alone.
Sluggard! the blisters now that gall thy feet
Work upwark to thy heart, and fester there!
Then thou wilt feel some touch of anguish in't,
Like that which thou hast fixed in mine! Thou base,
Unmindful slave! who, in thy master's absence,
Should'st mark each fly that buzzes through his portal,
Thy vigilance must nod upon its post,

While a vile Christian steals away my daughter!
Ganem. Believe me, sir-

Bul. I will not, wretch, believe thee!

Thou art-Yes, Ganem-yes, I will believe thee. 'Twas all my daughter's doings; 'twas her nature's,— Her sex's wicked, wanton, subtle nature!

To fly me!

To fly her father! and so kind a father!
If somewhat rough, that was the trick of battles,
Where I was bred. She knew I doated on her:
When I have thought on what could charm the sense,
Till it would almost ache with tenderness,
Great Alla knows I have named thee, Zorayda!
Then leave me thus, and break my poor old heart!
And with a Christian, too! Oh, death and shame!
Should she now cross me, though she smiled upon me
Like twenty dimpled cherubim, my rage
Would tear her limb from limb, and her sweet form
Should scatter piece-meal through the desert! [Crosses, R.

Gan. Sir,

I pray you, be advised: think what is best

To cheer your fainting people on the march.
Your pardon, sir; but this same flow of passion,

Unnerving you, and harassing your men,
Defeats the purpose of your enterprise.

"Bulca. Check my full passion! happy, happy fool! "Thou know'st not a fond parent's agony, 'Deserted by his loved, ungrateful child!

Oh, my Zorayda! dear, shameless girl! "Thou art delicious poison to my sense, "Most sweet, and yet most deadly. Out upon thee,

16

66

66

In stern and rugged justice; and affection "Would throw the weeping father on his knees, "To kiss the wound the much-wronged judge had made.” Ganem. Beseech you, sir, give order for your soldiery. Bulca. A pestilence upon thee !—Thou'rt a fiend, That grudges me my sorrow's luxury, And goad'st me when I would indulge in torture! Tell me again of what these filth endure, I'll cleave thy body downward from thy head, To teach them how to labour and be silent!

Ganem. Think, sir, it is in care alone for you
I pour unpleasing truth into your ear;
Which, like a nauseous drug to the diseased,
Is given to work your welfare. 'Tis my duty
Sooth, sir, they cannot on.

Bulca. Mad, senseless liar!

Thou gallest me past endurance, and hast pulled Thy death upon thee! [Draws his cimeter

Ganem. [Kneeling.] Oh, sir, take my life! It is not worth the keeping. I have followed you From infancy, till now, in honest zeal: 'Twould grieve me, sir, to seek another master: And, as my truth is grown displeasing to you, 'Twere best you bring my service to a close, And e'en dispatch me here at once.

Bulca. [Softened.] Why, Ganem!

I tell thee, Ganem-Psha! when we are formed,
So much of mother marks our composition,
It mars our manly resolution. Ganem,

I have a daughter-think on that, good Ganem!
And she has fled me. I do think thy counsel
Is kindly meant; but spare it now, good fellow;
My passions cannot brook it. Have we strayed?
Do we pursue the track?

Ganem. The peasant, sir,

Thitherward

Whom we did question at the mountain's foct,
Pointed this path to Ronda.
Your daughter, as we trace it, must have journeyed.
Bulca. They shall not rest!

[Crosses, L.

By Mahomet, I swear, if I do hear

A single Moor bewailing the fatigue,
His coward body suffers on the instant!
My cimetar shall search his body through!
March, slaves! away!

[Exeunt, L.

SCENE II.-The Outside of a Goatherd's Cottage. SADI, L., and AGNES, R., discovered before the door, c. F., at table, eating and drinking.

Sadi. Truly, eating is a mighty refreshing invention ! -This olla podrida of our friend, the goatherd's here, has a strange quality in't of raising the spirits. What is the reason on't, Agnes? I never swallowed a meal before that made me so merry.

Agnes. Out, you goose! 'tis the wine that thou hast drank. Wine, thou knowest, comforts man, makes him light of heart, Sadi.

Sadi. What an advantage 'tis to a Catholic to be able thus to cork up comfort, and carry his happiness about with him under his arm, in a flagon! Pour some of this light-heartedness down thy sweet throat, Agnes. Had I a hundred vintages of welfare, I would leave them all untapped, if thou wert not by to share them with me. [Fills and drinks. Agnes. 'Tis sufficient, Sadi. [They rise.] Thou knowest not the strength of liquor; too much on't would work to thy brain, and weaken reason.

Sadi. That must be because my skull is not yet altogether Christian: it would never happen to a regular head to grow weak with having strength crammed into it. Didst repose well here at the goatherd's, Agnes?

Agnes. Trust me, did I; but it had better pleased me had you not sat and watched in the corner of the hut, while I rested

Sadi. I could watch twenty years, like a cat, to see you sleep so sweetly. What a pretty thing it is to be near the

woman one loves, when she's taking a nap, and check one's inclination of kissing her eyelids, for fear of awaking her? Should'st thou ever slumber at night, with thy head upon my shoulder, Agnes, I would not stir to disturb thee, though I were bit all over by a million of musquitos.

Agnes. Away, you giddy pate! Thou wilt be a right follower of the bottle shortly. When the liquor mounts, then thou wilt flatter me, and prate nonsense, like the best Christian toper of them all.

Sadi. Why, look thee, sweet: ere I loved a bottle, I loved a woman; and I am told, he that sticks fairly to the nne, seldom behaves like a knave to the other. My love for wine is but of a few hours' growth; yet, though I am enamoured at first taste, I mean to stick by it with true Christian constancy; for it has let me into a secret, Agnes: every drop I take of it makes me find out how much delight I have in thy company; I grow fonder and fonder at every tipple.

Agnes. Ay, so it would happen were any other present but I.

Sadi. No, by Mahom-Pish! that's a Mussulman oath, and disgraces a mouth that has been washed with wine. By St. Dominick, then, sweet Agnes, should all the beauties of Spain be collected together, like a huge row of filberts, I would pick thee from the cluster, nor think another nut in the whole grove worth cracking.

Agnes. Will thy love hold fast, now, after we are married, Sadi?

Sadi. Ay, marry, will it, and never let go. 'Tis in my nature, wench: you might as soon think to scour me white, as scrub my love out of me. 'Tis of the lasting kind, Agnes, like my countenance.

Agnes. And if thy skin grows dusky as thy love strengthens, Sadi, I should think thee pretty, though thy cheeks were as dark as a raven.

Sadi. There is no accounting for the taste of a female. Were all women of thy mind, Agnes, what a number of vain copper-faced gentlemen would strut about among the girls in Christian countries! We should frisk it through the towns as merry as dogs in the market; and dingy puppies would be as plenty as those of a lighter complex ion!

Enter FLORANTHE and ROQUE, L.

Roque. Stand!

Art not a Moor, and an enemy?

Sadi. I have now near two full flagons of Christianity within me, but I am somewhat Moorish as to impatience; therefore, parley courteously, lest you get nothing but dry blows in exchange.

Flor. Peace, peace! good Roque, and let me question him.

Tell me, beseech you, as you journeyed on,
Has it so chanced that there should cross your path
A man-Good faith, it cuts my heart in twain
How to describe him! -What hand of man

Sadi. Lovely as the day he was, but envious clouds
Have dimmed his lustre. He is as a rock
Opposed to the rude sea that beats against it;
Worn by the waves, yet still o'ertopping them
In sullen majesty. Rugged now his look;
For, out, alas! calamity has blurred
The fairest pile of manly comeliness
That ever reared its lofty head to heaven!
'Tis not of late that I have heard his voice;
But if it be not changed-I think it cannot-
There is a melody in every tone
Would charm the towering eagle in her flight,
And tame a hungry lion.

Agnes. Never trust me, Sadi, if he means not our guide. Sadi. [To Flor.] Answer me to one point, and I can satisfy you is he crazy?

Roque. Crazy!-Now do my fingers itch to beat this unmannerly morsel of dinginess!

Sadi. Hark ye, rough sir: should occasion serve, I can go to cuffs with as good will as another. Agnes. Nay, Sadi! Sadi. I'll cuff him!

Agnes. Good Sadi !

Sadi. Well, then, I won't cuff him.

Flor. Pr'ythee, be calm, Roque. [To Sadi.] Now to answer thee.

He whom we seek, through wayward circumstance

And crosses of the time-though in the main,

« PředchozíPokračovat »