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SCENE II.—A poor cottage. An old Man and Woman sitting together

 
  Man.
  How's the poor lady now?
 
 
  Woman.
                          She's poorly still.
  I fancy every day she's growing thinner.
  I am sure she's wasting steadily.
 
 
  Man.
                           Has the count
  Been here again to-day?
 
 
  Woman.
                                 No. And I think
  He will not come again. She was so proud
  The last time he was here, you would have thought
  She was a queen at least.
 
 
  Man.
                        Remember, wife,
  What she has been. Trouble like that throws down
  The common folk like us all of a heap:
  With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,
  It sets the mettle up.
 
 
  Woman.
                          All very right;
  But take her as she was, she might do worse
  Than wed the Count Nembroni.
 
 
  Man.
                                       Possible.
  But are you sure there is no other man
  Stands in his way?
 
 
  Woman.
                    How can I tell? So be,
  He should be here to help her. What she'll do
  I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.
  And for her work, she does it far too well
  To earn a living by it. Her times are changed—
  She should not give herself such prideful airs.
 
 
  Man.
  Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard
  On one another! You speak fair for men,
  And make allowances; but when a woman
  Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.
  But where is this you're going then to-night?
  Do they want me to go as well as you?
 
 
  Woman.
  Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.
  They cannot give the money to me, except
  My husband go with me. He told me so.
 
 
  Man.
  Well, wife, it's worth the going—but to see:
  I don't expect a groat to come of it.
 

SCENE III.—Kitchen of a small inn. Host and Hostess

 
  Host.
  That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!
  What the deuce is he?
 
 
  Hostess.
                       What is that to us?
  He always pays his way, and handsomely.
  I wish there were more like him.
 
 
  Host.
                       Has he been
  At home all day?
 
 
  Hostess.
                   He has not stirred a foot
  Across the threshold. That's his only fault—
  He's always in the way.
 
 
  Host.
                   What does he do?
 
 
  Hostess.
  Paces about the room, or sits at the window.
  I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,
  To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,
  But does not speak a word.
 
 
  Host.
                                 He must be crazed,
  Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.
 
 
  Hostess.
  He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;
  But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,
  If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;
  And though he does not say much, when he speaks
  A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.
 
 
  Host.
  Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?
 

SCENE IV.—The inn; a room upstairs. JULIAN at the window, half hidden by the curtain

 
  Julian.
  With what profusion her white fingers spend
  Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!
  It was so late this morning ere she came!
  I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!
  Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.
  Do I not love he? more than when that beauty
  Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond
  The confines of her wondrous face and form,
  And animated with a present power
  Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!
  Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
  In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
  As for her husband. Something will follow this.
  And here he comes, all in his best like her.
  They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
  With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
  The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!
 

SCENE V.—A back street. Two Servants with a carriage and pair

 
  1st Serv.
  Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!
  That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,
  I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;
  We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.
 
 
  2nd Serv.
  Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare
  She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,
  As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were
  Under some roof or other. I fear this business
  Is not of the right sort.
 
 
  1st Serv.
                        He looked as black
  As if he too had lightning in his bosom.
  There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!
 

SCENE VI.—Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without

 
  Julian.
  Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone—no, there it flares!
  I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.
  Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm
  Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!
  That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he
  Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear
  This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain
  Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.
  'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,
  And take my stand in the corner by the door.
  But if he comes while I go down the stairs,
  And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently
  Up the stair to the landing by her door.
 

[He goes quickly toward the door.]

 
Hostess (opening the door and looking in). If you please, sir—
 

[He hurries past]

 
The devil's in the man!
 

SCENE VII.—The landing

 
  Voice within.
  If you scream, I must muffle you.
 
 
  Julian (rushing up the stair).
                                    He is there!
  His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!
 

[Flinging the door open, as NEMBRONI springs forward on the other side.]

 
Back!
 
 
Nembroni. What the devil!—Beggar!
 

[Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at JULIAN, which he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he springs within NEMBRONI'S guard.]

 
  Julian (taking him by the throat).
                     I have faced worse
  storms than you.
 

[They struggle.]

 
Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,
 

[He stabs him.]

 
Your ribs will not mail your heart!
 

  [NEMBRONI falls dead. JULIAN wipes his dagger on the  dead man's coat.]

 
  If men will be devils,
  They are better in hell than here.
 

[Lightning flashes on the blade.]

 
  What a night
  For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!
 

[Approaches the lady within.]

 
  Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope
  It will not pass too soon. It is not far
  To the half-hidden door in my own fence,
  And that is well. If I step carefully,
  Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.
  What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think!
  Oh, I see! it is mine—he has wounded me.
  That's awkward now.
 

[Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window.]

 
Pardon me, dear lady;
 

[Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm.]

 
  'Tis not to save my blood I would defile
  Even your handkerchief.
 

[Coming towards the door, carrying her.]

 
                         I am pleased to think
  Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.
 

[Looking out of the window on the landing.]

 
For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.
 

[He goes down the stair]

SCENE VIII.—A room in the castle. JULIAN and the Nurse

 
  Julian.
  Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
  You have put your charge to bed?
 
 
  Nurse.
  Yes, my dear lord.
 
 
  Julian.
  And has she spoken yet?
 
 
  Nurse.
                        After you left,
  Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
  Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,
  And her eyes wandered over all my face,
  Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
  They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
  As feeble as a child.
 
 
  Julian.
                            Under your care
  She'll soon be well again. Let no one know
  She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.
 
 
  Nurse.
  Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.
 
 
  Julian.
  That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
  Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.
 
 
  Nurse.
  Leave?
 
 
  Julian.
  Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
  Over the earth and sea. She must not know
  I have been here. You must contrive to keep
  My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
  When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
  She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
  Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
  Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
  Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
  When she is well and wishes to be gone,
  Then write to this address—but under cover
 

[Writing.]

 
      To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
      Will see to all the rest. But let her know
      Her father is set free; assuredly,
      Ere you can say it is, it will be so.
 
 
  Nurse.
  How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?
 
 
  Julian.
  I have thought of that. There's a deserted room
  In the old west wing, at the further end
  Of the oak gallery.
 
 
  Nurse.
                     Not deserted quite.
  I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
  Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.
 
 
  Julian.
  You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
  I found a sliding panel, and a door
  Into a room behind. I'll show it you.
  You'll find some musty traces of me yet,
  When you go in. Now take her to your room,
  But get the other ready. Light a fire,
  And keep it burning well for several days.
  Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
  Take everything to make it comfortable;
  Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
  Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
  Then put her there. I'll let her father know
  She is in safety.—I must change attire,
  And be far off or ever morning break.
 

[Nurse goes.]

 
  My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
  Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
  A treasure unto which I dared not come.
  Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—
  But not with even a heavenly gift would I
  Go begging love; that should be free as light,
  Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
  I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
  Over and over in my secret heart:—
  She lives, and is the better that I live!
 

Re-enter Nurse.

 
  Nurse.
  My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;
  She's in a dreadful fever. We must send
  To Arli for the doctor, else her life
  Will be in danger.
 
 
  Julian
  (rising disturbed).
                    Go and fetch your daughter.
  Between you, take her to my room, yours now.
  I'll see her there. I think you can together!
 
 
  Nurse.
  O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!
 

[Nurse goes.]

 
  Julian.
  I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
  If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
  Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
  I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!
 

SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot

 
  Abbot.
  'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
  One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
 

Enter STEPHEN.

 
  Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
  You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
  You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
 
 
  Stephen.
  I did, my lord.
 
 
  Abbot.
                    How would you do it, Stephen?
 
 
  Stephen.
  Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
  Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
  And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
  Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
  I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
  I'll find him out.
 
 
  Abbot.
                Stephen, you're just the man
  I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.
 

SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching

 
  Julian.
  I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
  She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
  My heart is beating as if it would spend
  Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
  And well it may, for there is more of life
  In one such moment than in many years!
  Pure life is measured by intensity,
  Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
  Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
  The window-blind? or is it but a band
  Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
  Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself,
  Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—
 
 
  Lilia
  (half-asleep, wildly).
  If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!—
  Julian! Julian!
 

[Half-rising.]

 
  Julian
  (forgetting his caution, and going up to her).
                              I am here, my Lilia.
  Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,
  A terrible dream. Gone now—is it not?
 

  [She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on the pillow. He leaves her.]

 
  How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!
  But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long
  She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead
  In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,
  And leave her to console my solitude.
  Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!
  And what a grief! I will not think of that!
  Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!
  O God, I did not know thou wast so rich
  In making and in giving; did not know
  The gathered glory of this earth of thine.
  What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?
  Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take
  Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born
  In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?
 

[He leans on the wall.]

 
  Lilia
  (softly).
  Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,
  As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.
  I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;
  I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,
  That vibrate music on the murmuring air!
  Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool
  Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!—
  What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?
  I knew, but cannot find it—I forget.
  It must be here—what was it?—Hark! the fall,
  The endless going of the stream of life!—
  Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,—I am so thirsty!
 

[Querulously.]

[JULIAN gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him again, with large wondering eyes.]

 
Ah! now I know—I was so very thirsty!
 

[He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window.]

 
  Julian.
  The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;
  With its obtrusive I am written large
  Upon its face!
 

  [Approaches the bed, and gazes on LILIA silently with clasped hands; then returns to the window.]

 
                 She sleeps so peacefully!
  O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.
  Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.
 

Enter Nurse.

 
  Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.
  You must be near her when she wakes again.
  I think she'll be herself. But do be careful—
  Right cautious how you tell her I am here.
  Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!
 

[JULIAN goes.]

 
  Nurse.
  Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,
  That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,
  And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!—
  Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life
  From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see
  Your shutters open, for I then should know
  Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,
  To peep at morning from her own bright windows.
  Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,
  To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams
  Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!
  Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!