SCENE I.

BERTRAN, you have obliged me much, and I am not ungrateful.

I have proofs of that, Sir.

You shall have more anon, good Bertran. I know your character, and respect it. You are a man who feel an injury, and will resent it. You have not forgotten how much the Count Ladesma wronged you. Was it not enough to refuse you his ward, Eugenia, but he must add contempt to his rejection—scoff at your pre⯑tensions—as if your small in heritance attached inſamy to your name.

May I perish if ever I forget it!

But Ferdinand was the cause of this: he has Eugenia's heart: 'twas for his sake his father rejected you.

Curses on them both! I'll be revenged.

Right, Bertran, right. Revenge becomes a man. Be of good cheer. Thou still shalt have Eugenia. Come nearer, Bertran—take this purse: it should be heavier were I the master here. Then should you blaze in splendour, then should you receive Eugenia from my hand!

Heavens, what joy springs from that thought! If Ferdinand were dead—then—

Ay, then we should need no stretch of policy to gain our wishes. Ferdinand dead, I am the absolute heir of my step-father, Count Lades⯑ma's wealth and power. That was determined on my mother's union with him. Each by a former marriage having a son, the compact was, that on the failure of more issue, Ferdinand and myself were mutual heirs. A contract well stipulated by my prudent mother; as my in he⯑ritance is not a twentieth part of the rich lord⯑ships of Ladesma.

How I long to hail you master of these do⯑mains! Spain would not then contain a lord more potent than Count Roderic de Froila.

‘You, my good Bertran, do not only wish me prosperous fortunes, but zealously assist me to [7] obtain them’ They plans, to which you have so ably ministered, have thus far proved suc⯑cessful Our suppression of Ferdinand's letters to his ſather, and the calumnies we have con⯑trived so artfully, to lower him in his regard, have answered to my wish. This forgery

will, I trust, do wonders. We have every thing at stake to animate exertion: you have your love—I, my ambition▪ Retire: the Count approaches.

How do you, Sir? Alas! you look pale—I fear you are not well.

As well as sorrow and old age will let me be.

A letter, Sir, is just arrived from Lerma.

From my son Ferdinand?

No, Sir. It appears the hand of your cor⯑respondent, Don Veremond.

Then it relates to my son. Read it, good Roderic.

Consider, Sir, the intelligence you have of late received has been afflicting, very afflicting, to a fond father: I am therefore alarmed for your health's sake—I beg your pardon—but let me entreat you to hear its contents when you may be better able to bear ill tidings.

‘Oh! Ferdinand, how you rend your father's heart! Alas! every fresh account I hear forces me a step nearer to the grave.’

Roderic!—from you I experience all the ten⯑derness the best of sons could shew me—while my own offspring—Ah dear Roderic! you have compassion on my grey head: you wish to spare me; but read the letter—let me know the worst.

I shall ever hold it my first duty to obey you—in this instance, a melancholy duty—but still, let us hope that this brings the glad tidings of amendment. Let us hope it, Sir▪

"Your son has filled up the measure of his shame. His dissolute conduct, with the report of which I have hitherto had the melancholy office of wounding your feelings, wears the semblance of purity when compared to his last act of infamy. His Sovereign—so gracious to him—who had loaded him with honours too mighty for his years, even had they been merited by his services—his Sovereign he deserted, and drew his sword on the part of rebellion."

Enough, enough—Oh! oh!

"Our monarch is victorious; and the un⯑happy Ferdinand has been brought a prisoner to his injured King, who, swayed by his attach⯑ment [9] to your noble house, has spared his for⯑feited life—but the name of Ladesma is stained with treason."

My name! my honourable name!

‘Oh all my prospects!—my golden dreams! When he came into life, when for the first time I pressed my infant to my bosom, did I not call God himself to witness my happiness? And now—misery! misery!’

Oh that I could give you comfort!

My comfort lies only in the grave. Yet, for thy kindness, Roderic, let me not be ungrate⯑ful. Heaven, that has ordained these tears to flow for the crimes of my son, has sent me a son in thee.

Oh my father! (for father you have have ever been to me) let me wipe those tears away. I would sacrifice my life to prolong thy days. ‘No tie of nature can be more strong, more sacred, than the bond of duty and affection by which I am devoted to thee.’

May heaven bless you for your goodness! Oh Ferdinand, what misery hast thou heaped on thy aged father's head!

When I reflect on that, Sir,—when I think how he has afflicted you, the affection I once bore him is turned to hatred. Oh Sir! as you value [10] your peace, nay your existence, banish him and his vices from your remembrance—renounce for ever this—

Renounce my son?

Oh that such counsel should ever be forced from my lips! But how else can your goaded mind have rest? How else can be preserved the life most dear to me?

Oh Ferdinand! unfeeling child!—but still, still my child!

Think, Sir—if he be exposed for some time to the pressure of misery, is it not probable he will amend? Will not affliction prove his best physician to rid him of the vices which indul⯑gence nourished? What say you, Sir?

I will write to him that I abandon him to his fate.

You will do wisely.

He shall never see my face again.

That will be well.

Till he become another man.

Right—very right—but—stay, Sir—one word more: I fear your anger may make you express yourself too harshly. It would be cruel to drive him at once to despair. And, on the other [11] hand, would he not interpret a letter written by you—as, perhaps, a sort of pardon? Would it not be better, Sir, if I should write to him?

Do so, do so, Roderic. Oh, it would break my heart to write to him! Write to him that—

It is agreed then?

Write to him, that a thousand tears of blood—a thousand sleepless nights—But don't, Ro⯑deric, don't drive him to despair.

Come, Sir, won't you retire to your chamber? This affects you too much.

Write to him, that his father's heart—But don't, don't drive him to despair.

This last forgery has proved a mas⯑terpiece. Ferdinand is banished! What fol⯑lows?—Desperation! That will urge him to acts of danger that may soon make me the right⯑ful heir! Or, grant he lives, he lives an outcast, and, at Ladesma's death, I seize the power, which, once obtained, supports itself. Here comes Eugenia. From her heart, too, I must banish Ferdinand—ay, were that heart to break for it.

Eugenia!

Is it you?—you here?—whom of all mankind I most desired to see.

Me? Is it possible? me of all mankind?

You, Sir, even you!—now then, let me enjoy my highest pleasure—let me execrate thee to thy face.

Why am I thus treated? You wrong me. Go to the father who—

The father! ah, that father who is the wretch⯑ed dupe of your base arts—that father who has a son the paragon of honour, and yet, poor weak deluded man! him he renounces at the sug⯑gestions of a villain.

You wrong me—you wrong me, vilely.

Wretch, I know thee!—‘Ay! he deserves to be father of a son like thee.’ When, stretched on the bed of death, he shall extend his feeble hands, and seek to grasp, for the last time, his injured noble Ferdinand, let him feel thy icy hand, thou fiend! and shudder at the touch.

You rave, Eugenia—yet spite of your disdain, spite of your insults, still I love you.

Love from thee! I ask thy hate.—Oh I should die with shame, while thinking on my Ferdi⯑nand, could I for a moment believe that thou didst not hate me.

Charming enthusiast! how that impassioned soul enchants me! Ferdinand reigned sole mo⯑narch of thy heart—temple sacred to his divi⯑nity. Creation itself spoke but of Ferdinand—of Ferdinand alone, to that enraptured soul.

Yes, I own it—yes, spite of your detested slanders, to the world I will avow it, I love him—I adore him!

How ungenerous, how cruel, so basely to re⯑quite such fondness! nay, to forget—

Forget!—What mean'st thou, wretch?

He is doubly disloyal—to his King, and to thee. Wore he not once a ring of yours—a ring you put yourself upon his finger?—a pledge of your fond love? Ah! those wantons have such fas⯑cinating arts—

My ring!

Had I had such a jewel, and from Eugenia too, death itself should not have forced it from this hand.

Detested, shameless slanderer! Quit my sight.

You hate me then!

I scorn thee.

Ha! Thou shalt repent of this. To be sacrificed to an outcast—a traitor! Vengeance, ven⯑geance!

Go, mean and infamous wretch! My Ferdi⯑nand will triumph over all your baseness. He disloyal! he a traitor! I know his noble nature. Treason had never root in such a soil. No, my Ferdinand! thy soul's all truth and honour.

SCENE II.

Once more welcome to Toledo. The raptu⯑rous acclamations which hail the return of our Sovereign to his capital must give delight to every honest heart, and shew rebellion the weakness of its efforts against a monarch en⯑throned so firmly in his people's love.

So, war's at an end. Lie quiet,

my good old companion; you and I must give over our intimacy. Well, peace may be very desirable to men who have a natural aversion to hard fare and hard blows; but to a soldier it is a miserable penance for past sins. ‘What am I to do? I can't scribble songs, and squall them under a young miss's window by moonlight; I must therefore now give place to fellows who brandish goosc▪quills instead of swords; and [15] the blood stained banners of Mars must bow to the silken streamers of Cupid.’

Peace! curse on the peace that would confine to earth the flight of an eagle▪ 'tis war [...]r [...]ates the hero. Here, then, must I bid adieu to all noble enterprize, and seek once more my native peaceful fields.

I seek those fields with pleasure. To serve my Sovereign and my Country, I flew to arms. Their wrongs are well revenged: the soldier's duty is done. Now, then, in the shade of my paternal woods, and in the arms of my dear be⯑trothed Eugenia, I court the highest gift of Heaven—domestic happiness.

But, Ferdinand, have you no dread of disap⯑pointment? Methinks your father's conduct has been strange. He has but ill supplied you with the means to keep the state your rank de⯑mands; and had not your own high merits drawn on you the regard and favours of your Sovereign, you could but scantily have borne yourself as the heir of an illustrious house.

That still has filled me with astonishment: since my absence from my father, he seems not only to have lost his former fondness for me, but almost to have forgotten that I am his son. Sup⯑plies have been assigned me with a niggard hand, and the few letters I have received in answer to my warm expressions of respect and love, have been filled with sour remonstrances I do not merit▪ and frozen admonitions which I hope I need not.

News, news for you, my heroes; news that will make all your hearts dance!

What's your news, Lerida?

That peace will not continue long. The King has signified his intention of marching against the Moors. So you will all get to work again soon.

Not very soon, I fear. The King aims at their total expulsion from Spain; and such an armament as he will▪bear against them, now we are exhausted with our late wars, will require much time to raise.

So it appears, Lerida, that your news is like informing a starving man that a twelvemonth hence he is likely to get a dinner.

Ferdinand, I forgot to tell you that Spinola is in search of you.

What? he has letters for me?

Yes.

From my father? He is here.

Give me—

What now? Ferdinand, you seem petrified!

Where are you going? What is the matter, Ferdinand?

There—there—Oh! lost, lost for ever!

What can it mean?

No wonder Ferdinand is so afflicted.

Why should he be afflicted? The whole world is not comprized in his father's castle and fo⯑rests; and of all the losses in life, that of a mis⯑tress is soonest supplied.

As his friend, I lament what causes his mi⯑sery; but were I to consider only his fame, I should rejoice at the event which proscribes him from the narrow limits in which his gallant spi⯑rit would have been confined, and gives him the whole world to range in. Oh! I could point out to you all the path of glory.

Say on.

Hear me, then. If there be a drop of true Castilian blood in your veins, render yourselves worthy of the rewards of your Sovereign, of the affections of your countrymen, of the admira⯑tion of posterity. Let us form into a glorious band, to hurl destruction against the foes of our religion and the spoilers of our country.

Guzman, I honour you.

Reflect, the very ground on which we tread was once usurped by Infidels, and the proud Crescent waved on the towers of Toledo. What drove them from the very heart of Spain to their now narrow confines? The lance of glorious chivalry. Let them behold in us, that Spain has still her champions of the Cross—her soldiers of religion and humanity.

Guzman, the project is worthy of you. With all my soul I am your's.

Now, why did not this grand idea dawn on my mind? 'Tis very strange; for I have a brain famous for creating giant enterprizes▪

Well! second the endeavour with your hand and heart, and praise the superior genius which got the start of your giant conceptions.

Superior genius! Ha! ha! You are given to raillery, Garcias. No, no—a lucky hit, that is all I allow. Superior genius! Ha! ha!

But, my friends, one important point re⯑mains—a leader for this enterprize.

Ay, ay, there you spoke to the purpose, in⯑deed! We must have a chief—a man of talents, great reach—a politic head,

wise, crafty.

If there were any hope that he would consent.

Perhaps he may—‘difficult as it is to guide the ship when buffeted by winds and waves, and however cumbrous may be the weight of a diadem.’—Speak it out boldly—I say, per⯑haps he may be prevailed on.

It will be all children's play, if he is not our leader. Without Ferdinand we are a body without a head.

Men, men! False, treacherous crocodiles! Your eyes are water, your hearts are iron! Kisses on your lips, and poniards in your bosom! Whatever malice can invent, I have learned to bear. I could smile were my enemy to carouse on my heart's blood; but when a father's love [20] becomes a fury's hate—Oh then must every fibre of the tortured frame be racked to anguish and despair!

Ferdinand, hear me.

I loved him with such unbounded affection I would have sacrificed a thousand lives for him; and yet, without one pang of nature, he can consign me to endless misery.

Not so, my friend. He is the instrument of your glory. He snatches you from dishonour⯑able inactivity, and impels you to the course of heroism. Hear me, Ferdinand: you are chosen the leader of an enterprize which will immorta⯑lize our names. Shall our swords, which have borne destruction to our country's foes, rust in indolence, while that country needs their use? while Moorish robbers ravage our fertile plains, and fellow countrymen and fellow Christians are made the slaves of Infidels?

Guzman, I thank thee. Yes, the wrongs and miseries of Spain shall rouse me from re⯑membrance of my own. My poor Eugenia! one tear to thy loss and thy distress, and now I am all my country's. Come, fellow warriors, hasten to take the sacred vows of chivalry; and when its holy badge adorns your bosoms, the Infidels shall prove we wear the ensigns of Re⯑ligion's soldiers, not for vain ornament nor empty form; but as the zealous active ministers of Heaven. Be it our glorious duty to redeem our altars from unbelieving impious violators; to release the groaning captive from the gloomy dungeon where he lies, body and mind in [21] shackles; forced even to suppress the prayer he would offer to his God; and all his torments ag⯑gravated by hearing hourly blasphemies against the Being he adores. Think what delight will fill your souls, to snatch the sufferer from such wretchedness, and lead him to Christian temples, and his native home!

Ours is indeed a course of glory!

Come, then, my brethren—Champions of Heaven and of your country. Now let the proud oppressor tremble. He shall find the prayers of helpless innocence are not put up to Heaven in vain. Where'er we meet him, he who has wronged the virtuous is our foe: and if he dare to mock religion by the name of Chris⯑tian, while his deeds defy its sacred laws, he is worse than Infidel. That wretch, who has the mandate of his God to love his neighbour as himself, and yet will injure him, what punish⯑ment can be for him too mighty?—yet hold—let us remember an equal mandate of that God is to be merciful.

SCENE I.

I HAVE lost all patience. An old man's existence is an eternity. If one could find a new avenue for death's entrance into the ſort of life, by wounding the soul to kill the body, ha! could that be effected? But what horrible emotion would have force at once to break the heart⯑strings? Rage? No! That hungry wolf sur⯑feits himself and regorges his meal. Grief? That's a worm that lingers in the flesh, and mines his way too slowly! Fear? No: Hope blunts his dart, and will not let him strike his prey!

I have it—Terror is the word! Reason, religion, hope, all must retreat before this giant fiend—and then—should he even bear the shock, there is more behind. Ye blissful years o'erpast, display your charms to memory's fond retrospect, and poison with your sweets the present hour! Ye scenes of fu⯑ture bliss, combine to wound; shew him the joys of paradise before him, and hold the daz⯑zling mirror out to hope, but cheat his feeble grasp! Thus let me play my battery of death till nature's mound is broken, and the whole troop of furies seize the soul, and end their work by horror and despair. Now then to execute—

Ha! Bertran.

Ever at your service, Sir.

Bertran, we have done much, but still have much to accomplish. The old man's fondness for his son may yet defeat my purposes; and the girl too—Eugenia I mean—pursues him in⯑cessantly with her tears and reproaches. He'll soon be sending in quest of him; and if he be found, good night to both of us. Then shall I who would raise you to honour, and load you with riches, be myself a despised beggar.

No, that shall never be.

You too, my dear Bertran, must sink be⯑neath his scourge, and all your hopes be blasted, by seeing Eugenia in his arms.

Speak! What must I do?

You find how I enter into your feelings like a true friend. Go, disguise yourself so as to defy discovery; get yourself announced to the old man as one just returned from Arragon; report that you there saw Ferdinand breathe his last upon the field. I'll give you all the needful documents.

And then it will be "Long live our new master Roderic de Froila."

Even so. Look with what certainty and ex⯑pedition the project works. Eugenia's hopes are gone. The old man charges himself with the death of his son—he falls sick! A tottering house does not need an earthquake to shake it to the ground. He'll never outlive your intel⯑ligence. Then am I his heir. Eugenia has [24] lost every support, and is the play-thing of my will. You may easily guess what follows—You—in short all succeeds to a wish—that is, if you shrink not—

Shrink, say you? No, no—Bertran is firm—Trust to him—Farewell

Remember, 'tis all for yourself you are working.

How impetuously the blockhead throws off his honesty, to snatch at an object that the smallest gleam of common sense must shew him he can never attain. This fellow is an arrant knave, and yet he confides in a promise. It costs him nothing to deceive an honest man, and yet when deceived himself, he never will forgive it. And this is the con⯑sistency of the boasted lord of the creation.

SCENE II.

There he sleeps—How good! how venera⯑ble! Angry with thee! Oh never, never! Sweet be thy slumbers as the roses' sweet per⯑fume! May the image of Ferdinand visit you in your dreams!

Ferdinand! Ferdinand! Oh my Ferdinand!

Hark! his guardian angel has heard my prayer.

'Tis sweet to breathe the air in which his name was uttered.

Are you there? Are you there indeed? Oh do not look so piteously upon me! I am miserable enough already!

Sir, Sir!

Was he not there? Had I not his hand in mine? Where am I? Are you here, Eugenia? I was dreaming of my Ferdinand. Why did they break my dreams? In them my Ferdinand appeared all goodness.

He appeared then as himself. He is all goodness.

My Lord, a stranger entreats to see you. He says he has tidings for you of importance.

To me, Eugenia, there is but one subject of such tidings; you know it. Perhaps 'tis some poor creature who comes to me for charity—for relief—he shall not go hence in sorrow.

A beggar, and he is received at once!

Here is the stranger, Sir. He says his tidings are of the most distressing nature▪ terrible for [26] you to hear. Can you bear to let him speak them?

I know but one thing terrible to hear. Speak, friend.

You are the father of Ferdinand Ladesma.

Does he live? Say! where is he? where?

Speak quickly, friend!

After receiving the pardon of his Monarch, he did hope forgiveness from his father; but when he found you determined to renounce him, and that his paternal doors were shut against him, deserted, abandoned, destitute, he wandered through Castille, begging his wretched sustenance from door to door.

Oh do not look at me, Eugenia▪

At length, anxious to bear away his poverty and wretchedness from his native country, he reached Arragon, when the King had just taken arms to quell an insurrection. Weary of life, and eager to meet a soldier's death, he entered the royal army. Give me leave, said he to the King, to die on the bed of heroes. I have no longer a father.

Oh my Ferdinand!

Your son and I slept in the same tent—often did he speak of his old father, of the days of his former happiness, and of his blasted hopes, till his eyes ran over at the thought.

Enough—enough—no more!

A few days after, we came to an engagement. Your son behaved like a gallant soldier: he saw five regiments successively relieved, and he kept his ground. A shower of arrows was poured in on every quarter—your son kept his ground—a spear pierced his right hand; he seized the colours with his left, and still he kept his ground.

He kept his ground!—he kept his ground!

On the evening of the day of battle, I found him lying on the field on that same spot, wel⯑tering in his blood. In a faultering voice he cried, "dear friend, go seek my father, tell him his malediction was my doom; 'twas that which made me rush on battle and on death—I die in despair." The last word he uttered was—Eugenia.

'Twas I that caused his death! He died by my hand—he died in despair!

I cannot bear it! this sight of misery unmans me! My Lord, ſarewell.

Have you a heart? How could you do this?

His last sigh breathed Eugenia. No, thou [28] art no impostor—it is true—alas 'tis true! He is dead! my Ferdinand is dead!

My child, my daughter, do not abandon me!

Wretch, give me back my son!

Who gave him his malediction? Who was it made him rush on battle and on death? Who drove him to despair? Oh curse upon his mur⯑derers!

‘Accursed be the father who murdered his own son! I am that father! He loved me even in death. To expiate my vengeance▪ he rush⯑ed on battle and on death! Monster that I am! Oh monster!’

‘He is dead! 'Tis easy to murder, but who can restore life?’

‘Wretch, it was you who forced that male⯑diction from my tongue! Oh give me back my son!’

‘Rouse not my fury!’

Inhuman monster! give me back my son!

‘Ten thousand curses on thy head! Lightning consume thee!’ Thou hast robbed me of my only child! Hence, monster, hence!'

Oh to despair and not to die! They abandon me in death. Is my good angel fled? Yes! every angel must de⯑sert the murderer—the hoary murderer! Oh! oh! will none release this spirit? No son! no [29] daughter! no friend! Is there not to be found one kind—Oh! to despair and not to die! Oh!—oh!—

Amidst my own affliction, still let me think of thine—

O Heaven! dead! dead!

SCENE III.

WHAT spiteful fiend, an enemy to my happi⯑ness, could put it into my master, Don Ferdi⯑nand's head to turn knight errant? ‘I would willingly make that man a present to old Luci⯑fer, who first invented the nonsense of Chi⯑valry.’ Just as if people had not quarrels enough of their own, but they must run about thrusting forward their stupid skulls to get the raps that were intended for others. For my part, I think it quite bad enough to fight when one is forced to it, ‘without running here and there, like mad, insisting that there shan't be such a thing as a battle on the face of the earth but they must come in for a share of it.’ We were far enough out of the way of these cursed Moorish fellows, if we could but have been con⯑tented to sleep in a whole skin; but nothing would serve my master and his mad comrades but poking themselves just under their black [30] noses. Oh lord! oh lord!—I can't look at that great huge city stuffed full of Infidels but I tremble all over. However, the constant fright they keep me in has one good effect, it has certainly lowered my appetite; and that is very convenient, considering knight errant adven⯑turers are generally on short commons.

Well now! you who have so mighty an opi⯑nion of your Commander, what, think you, will be the event of this project?

Success! The happiness of releasing Garcias.

They will both most inevitably perish.

Oh dear Sir, what was that you said? My master perish! Oh dear! oh lord! My master!

Most indisputably. Now I will tell you how I should have conducted the business.

Pray, Sir, don't trouble yourself; only tell me where is my master?

In yonder city.

Mercy on us! What, taken prisoner?

No! He has nobly ventured himself to rescue Garcias. Garcias was yesterday made prisoner, and from a Moor we have this morning cap⯑tured, we learn this day is destined for his exe⯑cution.

And as sure as fate they will cut off my mas⯑ter's head at the same time.

That is precisely what will happen.

Oh what shall I do for a master, and what will you do for a commander?

Silly fellow! The loss of a Commander will, I am apt to imagine, be very soon well supplied. There can be little doubt on whom that honour will light; and I may therefore just as well—

You may just as well hold your tongue, and give over your cursed vanity, for here is my master! Huzza! My master is alive!—Here comes my noble master.

Liberty,—victory, my friends—Garcias is free!

Are you his ghost, or are you flesh and blood?

Were you not condemned to die?

Yes, and something more. I was at the foot of the scaffold! Stay till I get my breath—How you stare at me! Guzman will tell you my life was not worth a single [32] piastre. 'Twas Ferdinand, my Commander—'twas he—he saved me. To him I owe my breath, my liberty—my life!

But how did you effect his rescue?

I'll tell you. The Moor, our prisoner, be⯑trayed to us a secret avenue into the town. By this we entered. We lay concealed till all was quiet—the streets deserted—every mortal gone to see the Christian die. Now, said our Com⯑mander, now's the time! set fire to the town—'Twas done!

Then my attendants began to look behind them—every man thought only about himself and his habitation. The terror was universal—I became unnoticed. Now was my time—Off I darted with an arrow's swiftness—out of sight in a moment. Luckily I had but a few paces to run to the river—I plunged in. Our brave Commander was on the other side with horses ready, and here, my friends, here I am. Ferdi⯑nand, Ferdinand—Oh my noble deliverer!

'Twas masterly done by Heaven!

Sir—Sir—you would have ma⯑naged it a great deal better, shouldn't you?

Insolent menial!

You are pursued—myriads of Infidels pour in upon us.

They have reached the heights and blocked up all the passes.

Ha! they will let us come to a fair battle with them at last!

They are full twenty times our number.

So much the better. We will pour on them like a deluge.

Friends, draw near.

The Commander's breath oft kindles to a blaze the spark of valour in a com⯑mon soul; but he who leads no vulgar herd may spare his eloquence. My task of words is brief! 'Tis but to tell you—The foe is prepared to give you battle—their host is numberless. So let it be—for on our side HE battles who can give death without a wound. Come on—to victory.

SCENE I.

WHAT, sorrowing still, my lovely obstinate enthusiast? Why will you shun the joys which court you, to pine in dreary solitude? My guests were full of gaiety, yet you, in sullen sorrow, fled from our scene of mirth.

Shame on such mirth, when the funeral dirge of the good Count still sounds in your ears!

Let the dead sleep in their graves, and be you the joy of the living. I come to inform you—

That Roderic de Froila is now lord of this castle.

Yes. The old Count is at rest with his an⯑cestors. I am now the Count Ladesma, lord of these domains. He whom all envy, all fear, declares himself Eugenia's voluntary slave!

Why does the thunder sleep, nor cleave that impious tongue? Infamous wretch! The mur⯑derer of my Ferdinand—and thou darest hope to be the husband of Eugenia!

Less warmth, Eugenia! Lower that haughty tone. Roderic d [...] Ladesma has not learned to [35] breathe his amorous plaints to the caves and rocks and echoes: he speaks, and when he is not answered, he commands.

Thou command! command me! And if I laugh to scorn your commands, what follows?

A cloister and imprisonment. I know how to humble, to break that proud spirit.

Welcome the cloister, the imprisonment, that hide me from the glances of that basilisk! There I shall be free to think of Ferdinand, to dwell on his dear image. Away, away! haste to that blest abode!

Ha! You 'scape me not. The hated Roderic shall drag you to the altar, and with his dagger force from your trembling lips the nuptial oath.

Behold, villain, what I can do. Although a woman, I am a woman desperate. Dare to ap⯑proach me, and this steel shall pierce thy heart! Fly me this instant.

Think not your triumph shall be lasting—That haughty soul shall be subdued.

To a cloister did he say? Would that were my destiny! Love, forlorn and hopeless love, finds there a kind retreat—a quiet grave!

SCENE II.

OH what a miserable state is mine, borne away a captive from my humble happy cottage, and threatened with death if I do not comply with the will of the tyrant Governor! Ah, my dear Antonio! I would rather meet a thousand deaths than be false to thee.

Dear Rosa!

Ah, Antonio! Even in this sad place, 'tis still a joy to have you near me.

I have news, dear Rosa, to raise our hopes. A troop of warlike Christians are now before this city's gates, encountering with the Infidels, and should they prove victorious—

We shall regain our liberty. How my heart bounds at the thought!

SCENE III.

WE must not say that we have fought the cause of Heaven; but Heaven has fought for us; for without immortal aid our scanty num⯑bers never could have purchased such a victory.

How it glads my soul to see the Christian banners on the Moslem towers!

What splendour!—what lavish waste of riches! Here in his gaudy palace and his groves rivalling e'en his Prophet's paradise; here the luxurious delegated despot, immersed in plea⯑sure, and inflamed with pride, mistakes the purpose of his exaltation, and feels as all were for his use, not he for the good of all. The cries of wretchedness against oppression disturb the pleasures of the soft voluptuary, and are forbid to wound his ears. Hence the mighty fearless oppress the weak, and he himself, placed to be guardian of the poor, grasps at their humble pittance to swell his luxury; and tho' his pro⯑vince is to check oppression, becomes the worst oppressor.

'Twould be justice to vest the injured with the power of their oppressors.

No, Guzman! Slaves who have burst their bonds, and seized on power, prove the worst of tyrants. And in the preference of [39] wretchedness, he would be wise who rather chose to be enrolled the slave of the most lordly ruler of the East, than bear the mockery of a freeman's name where slaves are become rulers. No! there alone is happinesss where Law is supreme, not Will. Will uncontrolled, even if prone to goodness, is clogged with Nature's passions and infirmities; Law speaks the dictates of unclouded Reason; and there only Justice dwells, where those who deal the law are sub⯑ject to the law.

Behold! some fair petitioners.

Mercy, mercy, mighty Con⯑querors▪

Rise, rise! knighthood and manhood are de⯑graded when a woman kneels. Chase from your beauteous eyes those tears that speak re⯑proaches which we merit not. In us you see the champions of your sex. We allow no bonds for lovely woman but the bonds of sweet affec⯑tion; and he who makes his power the agent of his wishes, and demands what her repugnant feelings would withhold, encloses in a human form a heart that's brutal.

Oh what a bevy of beauty! and I am told they all belonged to one man—what a devil of a fellow! Well, ugly women must have the best chance among the disciples of Mahomet; for all the pretty ones are huddled together to fill the Harams of two or three Grandees; so that the plain ones, who are leſt at large, must [40] be able to get a dozen or two husbands apiece: Oh what a blessing ugliness must be reckoned here!

The Christian Captives.

What happiness is ours to rescue suffering virtue!

You cannot feel more transport at throwing off your shackles than I to welcome you to liberty.

Brave deliverers, accept thanks the most grateful that the human heart can offer!

Blest be the hands that have given us free⯑dom! Oh dear Antonio, what a day of rapture!

The flame of love which animates their breasts, has touched the smouldering fire long pent up in my heart, and makes it blaze with fury uncontrollable. Eugenia! oh my lost Eugenia! I know no second love could falsify thy vows to me; then what must be thy anguish and despair, doomed to a villain's power. Yes I will seek thee! I will pace the farthest limits of the world to see and to redeem the idol of my heart. First in disguise I will enter my father's castle. It shall be so. Friends, with the morning's dawn I must depart. Garcias, do thou remain, with force sufficient to preserve the conquest we have added to our Sovereign's crown. The rest I know will gladly follow me; when they shall hear that love and happiness in⯑spire the expedition. This day devote to joy. To morrow we embrace again the toils of Knighthood.

SCENE I.

COME, my kind guests, shew by your mirth that you approve our cheer. Who wears a se⯑rious face will make me think that he contemns our feast. Come fill your goblets to the brim, and let the firmest pillar of the castle vibrate with our festivity.

My lord, the Warder espies from the tower a Knight clad in the garments of a Moor, yet bearing a shield whose device is a flaming cross.

Perhaps some Christian Knight escaped from bondage.

My lord, a Knight of the Red Cross com⯑mands his greetings to the Count Ladesma. He brings the joyful tidings of a victory over the Infidels.

Give him entrance

Where is the Count Ladesma?

Here, brave Knight, and welcome to our castle.

Roderic! Heavens! Are you the Count La⯑desma?

I am.

What, then the good old Count—he is—

Dead.

Oh Heaven!

You knew him?

Yes, well—very well. But had he not a son?

Who also is no more.

Amazement! Ha! The light dawns on me. But hold! Let me not betray myself.

My courteous guests, receive as your friend this stranger Knight; he knew the good old Count, and all who knew him are dear to me.

Thanks for your courtesy.

But say, Sir Knight, why do we behold you arrayed in Moorish vestments?

'Twas needful policy made me assume this [45] habit. By it I obtained entrance where, with⯑out such device, the gates would have been as⯑sailed in vain. To combat villainy 'tis some⯑times needful that honesty should use the vil⯑lain's weapon—cunning.

In war art is meritorious, and I rejoice in your success. All hearts must rejoice at his triumph who fights the cause of virtue.

Indeed!

Surely all hearts of goodness must.

True: and even the worst of villains wish to be thought possessors of those hearts: such is the loveliness of virtue.

Be seated, Sir, and pray enjoy our festival with freedom. I am well pleased that you arrived at this happy time to behold, and, I hope, to par⯑take my joy. To-morrow makes me the most enviable of mortals. The fairest object of crea⯑tion I shall then call my bride. I have sent for her to grace our banquet—and behold she comes.

Gracious Heaven! Is she to be your bride?

She is. What, Sir, amazes you?

I thought that—my thoughts are wandering—pardon me—

What does this mean?

The form reminded me of—no matter.

Be seated, Sir, and be chearful, I entreat you.

SCENE II.

WHAT can this stranger want? This un⯑known Knight? Does he not seem a spy of hell, to dog me at the heels? Methinks I should know him. There is something great, something surely I have seen before in those noble fea⯑tures—something that makes me tremble—I'll question Percy—he introduced him—the slave will confess all if I put him to the torture.—Percy, Percy—I say!

Look at me stedfastly! You tremble; confess, Sir. What plots, what machinations have you [48] devised to get rid of me? To stab me in my sleep?—to poison me in my drink—drug my meals?—I know it all.

Good Heaven! What mean you, Sir?

Tell me, did not the stranger say he knew you well?—that perhaps you might know him—that one day you might discover how?—Said he not something to that purport?

No such word, Sir.

What! Recollect yourself. Have you forgot that he said he knew your late master very well—that he loved him much—loved him as a son loves a father?

I do remember—I think he did say something of that kind.

Did he say it? Did he say he was Count Fer⯑dinand?

No, indeed, Sir.

Go! quick! call Bertran hither!

'Tis clear as day! 'Tis Ferdinand! He will soon imperiously ask—where is my inheritance? And is it for this that I have lost my sleep—stifled the cries of conscience in my breast—and now, when the reward should come, he steps between, and with his horrid hand, tears all the fine spun web? Softly! 'Tis but one step—an easy one—None but an idiot would leave his work imperfect, or idly be a looker on till time should finish it.

Ah welcome, my good Bertran—my bold, my active instrument!

What did you want with me, Count?

That you should give the completion to your work.

Really!

Ay—put the seal to it.

Sir, I have a few words to say, which, if you will deign to hear, may perhaps hereafter save your breath.

Hum! And what may those words be?

"Thou still shalt have Eugenia."

Bertran!

"Eugenia has lost every support, and is the play-thing of my will. Then, you may easily guess what follows—in short, all succeeds to a wish."—

Now, Count Ladesma, what have you to say to me?

Is it thus, Sir, you accost your master?—Tremble, slave!

Roderic, I abhor you for a villain—don't make me laugh at you for a fool.

Come, come, good friend, be politic, and—

To detest a wretch like you, is the best policy—to keep faith with you, would be an utter want of sense! Oh, such faith makes me shud⯑der! Falsehood is virtue here, and perfidy a saint-like quality.

Bertran, you—some few days past—you left a purse in this apartment; a hundred—ay—a hundred pistoles were in it! I had almost forgot it. Here, my good friend, take what is your own.

Curse on your Judas bribe, the earnest of perdition! You thought to make my poverty a pandar to my conscience: there you are foiled. And know, Sir Count, I will enhance your shame—double your mess of infamy. I will prepare a banquet for you, where the whole world shall be the guests! You understand me now, my most revered, most gracious master!

Ha!

Here is treason—deliberate treason!

Nay, nay, re⯑strain your valour—I am prepared for all events with you.

Keep my secret—at least till I collect my thoughts.

Yes, till you employ a dozen assassins to seal my lips for ever. But mark me, Count, should I fall, the secret will survive me.

Roderic! Where was your courage! your presence of mind, that used to be so prompt? Betrayed by my own instruments! The props of my good fortune begin to totter; the mound is broken, and all will speedily give way. Now for a quick resolve. But how? but what? to stab him! Ay. But if my shadow should dis⯑cover me while I struck him! Ugh!—Ha! Well thought of. This very night—in his bed. There is a secret passage to his chamber. This night, then, by a single blow, I will release myself from every fear.

SCENE III.

'Tis clear I am the victim of infernal treach⯑ery. Perhaps my father's death, too, hastened by some vile calumny against the son whom once he doated on. Oh, why is man created so imperfect that his honesty should be his ruin? Why is the guileless heart ever devoid of need⯑ful caution to escape the stroke of villainy? The brute, however harmless, by instinct knows his ſoe; yet man, the lord of reason, clouded by his integrity, cannot discern a human monster till he becomes the victim of his ſangs. Oh, Eugenia! My lot was misery, when I believed thee torn from me by the rude hand of violence; [52] but to find thee willingly devoted to another's arms, 'tis more than my worn heart and feeble brain can bear.

Hear me, dear, much-wronged girl! Thy Fer⯑dinand—

Stranger, beware!

Ha! Who speaks there?

A friend to all good men, and I would fain hope, I would fain believe, that of all men alive I am most a friend to thee.

Why most a friend to me?

For the same cause that others seek thy de⯑struction—because I think thee—Heaven grant that I mistake not!—because I think thee my dear old master's son.

Do I resemble him?

Yes, yes, in truth thou dost; but 'twas not I that found the likeness out. My eyes are dim with age, and weeping for the loss of those I loved. But let me hope one whom I have mourned still lives, and I shall then go happy to my grave.

Percy! my faithful Percy!

'Tis he!—he calls me by my name: it is my master's son—it is Count Ferdinand!

Rise, rise, thou good old man.

The time is precious, and I come to warn thee that danger is nigh. That bad man, that wicked Froila, I fear he seeks thy life. There is a secret passage leading to this chamber; I heard him earnestly demand the key of it. He means no good, I am sure.

Then leave me, Percy, and let me face the wretch.

Nay, my good master, do not so. The castle is filled with wretches ready to obey his will, whate'er it be. Let me persuade you hence—to stay were certain death.

But my Eugenia!

She, too, would fall a victim to your rashness. No, no; let me conduct you forth.

And her, too, with me.

Impossible. Nay, come, delay will ruin us. To-morrow, among your vassals, you may col⯑lect a force—

I have a force superior to his strength. Come, faithful Percy, not many hours shall pass before the rightful lord will here assert his claims, and villainy shall meet its punishment. Then shalt thou be rewarded.

Indeed, indeed, I shall be, when I see you happy. But come, come, make haste, dear master.

SCENE I.

OH this is a blessed life I lead! Sleeping in the open air may be needfully cooling, and pleas⯑ingly refreshing, to the hot-blooded sparks, my master's associates; but my constitution is quite of another kind I have a temperate pulse that does not need the fanning of midnight breezes: ‘and as for the grandeur of nature, I have a low groveling soul that gives the pre⯑ference to the humblest works of art—for in⯑stance the poorest flock mattress is preferable to me, to all the beds of roses and lil [...]es that ever bloomed in the sweetest of vallies;’ and I would willingly exchange this fine spangled canopy for the humblest tester in the worst hovel of Castille. Now what is become of my master?—ah! he will never be quiet till he is made so by that grim gentleman who quiets every body.

Who goes there?

One who would rather go any where else.

Popoli! Is your master returned?

No, Sir! Nor never will return, I ſear.

What are you afraid of? Be of good cheer, man.

Good cheer is the last thing I am likely to be provided with. Oh Sir, I am a miserable man! I have a good appetite, and little to eat—very fond of a comfortable night's rest, and no bed to creep into—very little addicted to quarrel⯑ling; yet of fighting I have plenty—so my only plenty is of what I can't relish.

Poor Popoli!

Ah, poor Popoli indeed! I thought when we got possession of that fine Moorish city, that I was happy for life—that my master would have been Governor, and that I should have held some high office. How I was reckoning on the pretty pickings I should get! I little thought that all my pickings would turn out berries and acorns.

Do you repine at what your master and we bear cheerfully?

Oh dear Sir! you are a different race of be⯑ings—you are all soul—now I am unhappily en⯑cumbered with a troublesome thing called a body, which will be attended to. You hunger and thirst for honour, and if you get that—oh what a delicious banquet you think it! Now I can make nothing of such windy diet—honour is a fine thing, as it leads to other fine things—It is like the sound of a trumpet to call one to dinner; I hear it with rapture, considering what it invites me to; but you are ravished with the music without caring for what follows it.

Who goes there?

Friends.

Is Ferdinand returned?

No.

No.

Then we shall not see him till morning.

Heaven send we see him then!

Psha! Away with fear, man! Why, how you tremble!

Methinks the bleak night alone might account for that. I am a mere mortal, liable to shiver in a frosty air. I am as Nature made me.

Say not so—for if thou wert, thou wouldst not shrink thus at a midnight breeze. Nature gave man a heart, in which she lodged the flame of sacred virtue—keep that alive, it will diffuse a warmth throughout thy frame to make it glow amid Siberia's snows. Come, friends, to our turf pillows; where we'll enjoy such sweet re⯑pose, as Guilt wooes in vain upon his bed of down.

Thus, by the honesty and love of my old faithful Percy, have I preserved a life which my Eugenia's truth has now made worth preserv⯑ing. Roderic! soon shalt thou prove how weak is the fabric reared on treachery. Hark! a foot⯑step—my friends surely are at rest. Who can wander here at this late hour?

Hush! hush! how the howlet cries. The village clock has struck twelve—all wrapt in sleep except remorse and vengeance.

Arise, thou man of sor⯑row! tenant of the tower!

What can that mean?

Who calls there? Is it thou, Bertran?

Yes, 'tis Bertran. Come to the grate, and eat. Thy comrades of the night make fearful music.

Oh thou who sendst the ravens, ac⯑cept my thanks for this thy bread in the wilder⯑ness! How fares it with my good Bertran?

Hush! hark! what noise is that? Oh 'tis the [59] wind whistling through the ruins of the tower. Hark! noise again.

Stay!

Who is that?

Stay—speak! Who art thou? What dost thou here? speak!

'Tis one of Roderic's spies.

De⯑fend yourself, coward; you have a man to en⯑counter.

I'll have an answer

What boots this childish sword-play?

By Heaven that arm withers like the stroke of death.

Some dreadful mystery is concealed in that tower; I will discover it.

Horrible Spectre! my father! Shade of La⯑desma! Who has disturbed thee in the grave? Is thy soul charged with some foul crime, that bars the gates of Paradise against thee? I will say prayers and masses of the dead to gain thy spirit peace.

I still hold mortal life—Oh life of misery!

What! Wast thou not in thy grave?

I was indeed. Here have I languished in this dark dungeon, where no sweet air, no healthful breath can enter.

Heaven and earth!

Hear me! I lay upon a sick bed. Scarcely had I begun to gain a little strength, when the dreadful intelligence was brought me that my son had fallen in battle, and with his latest breath declared, that my inhuman malediction had driven him to despair and death.

A horrible imposture! The villain who de⯑livered that falsehood was myself—corrupted by the cruel Roderic, to blast the miserable rem⯑nant of your days.

And was it thou? Oh Heaven▪ Was I then deceived?

Here, crush the viper! I was his vile ac⯑complice: I forged calumnies against the spot⯑less honour of your Ferdinand—I suppressed his letters to you, which glowed with fond af⯑fection for his father, and fervent loyalty to his king.

Roderic! May Heaven—but I will curse no more—and I saw nothing—nothing suspect⯑ed—Oh wretched dotard!

Horror! horror!

The news of my son's death bereaved me of [61] my senses. When I recovered them, I found myself closed in this dreary vault.

Oh everlasting chaos!

Thus I lay for many hours, and none relieved my sufferings. At last this man brought me some food. By his means I have preserved a miserable being so long; but the chilling cold—the foul air—the anguish of my mind—my strength was quite exhausted.

It is enough!—

Friends! awake! awake! and hear me.

Ferdinand!

Discord is set at large, and rages wild from hell. See there—see there!—look at that poor old man! A wretch, whom he had ever treated as a son, confined him in that tower—cold, naked, hungry, and athirst. Look there—look there! This is my father.

Venerable man! I draw this sword, and here devote it to his service.

Revenge, revenge, revenge this violated, profaned, this hoary head! Mercy would now be impious. Hear me, thrice terrible Avenger! Behold me on my knees, begging for justice! Oh send the monster hither, that on this spot, before this horrid dungeon, the seat of his atro⯑cious [62] crime, I may pour forth his blood, till the foul vapour from the fountain of his heart rise into air, and dim the blessed sun.

Give your orders—say what we shall do?

Lead the troop to yonder Castle. Seize him, and bring him hither—bring him alive—You have my purpose; hasten to accomplish it.—

Bertran, be it your charge to seek Eugenia, and consign her to their care.

My duty binds me here.

SCENE II.

HE sleeps! Foiled in his wicked purpose▪ rage has overpowered his spirits, and he has sunk exhausted into restless slumber. Ha! What noise▪ 'Tis he!

Betrayed! betrayed! the spirits of the dead rise from their graves, a countless host, to haunt the murderer. Who's that?

My lord!

Where is the villain fled?—Heard'st thou no tumult—no shouts of triumph?

None, my lord.

Who said I trembled? No, 'twas but a dream. Tremble!—No—I am calm—I am quite at ease.

You are ill, Sir—very ill.

Yes, that is all. It is so, and illness affects the brain and gives wild dreams. What matter what one dreams!

Dreams come from Heaven. Oh how dread⯑ful are the pangs of guilt!

No—'tis idle superstition. Does vengeance dwell above the stars? No, no:—yet there is something here, that tells in dreadful whispers to my soul, there is a judge above the stars! Should I this night appear before him—Why this quaking of the joints? This fearful shud⯑dering? To die! That word congeals my blood. To give account! Ay, and when that reckoning comes, to face the judge—a judge that will do justice!

My lord, a troop of horsemen spur on to the Castle, crying, "Vengeance, vengeance on the murderer!"

Ah! 'Tis as I dreaded. Go summon all—

To die—to die is dreadful!

Storm—break down the gates.

Hear my prayer, O Heaven! It is the first—Hear me, O Heaven!

Where is he—where is the monster?

I have been no common murderer—no mise⯑rable petty crimes committed!

Merciful Heaven! Even his prayers are sins.

I cannot pray—Here, here,

all is choaked up! No, I will pray no more.

The Castle is in flames!

Here! take this sword! thrust it into my heart—that these villains may not come to make their sport of me.

Heaven forbid!

Then leave me, slave▪—look to the castle—summon our men.

These are their shouts of triumph! Hark, they are coming up! they are at the door! Why should I shudder at this sword's point? Ha! the ga [...]e is down! now 'tis impossible to escape.

SCENE III.

AND was your son dear to you?

Heaven knows how dear!—Oh! now I feel the truth of what Eugenia uttered! "In vain, when on your death bed, you shall stretch your feeble hands to grasp your Fer⯑dinand—he never will approach your bed—never more comfort you."

Oh were this the hand of my Ferdinand!—But he is gone! No son have I to close my eyes!

Should I discover myself while he remains in this feeble state, his joy might kill him: yet I must gain from him his blessing.

I broke the iron bolts of the dungeon—blessed old man! I ask thy kiss for that.

Take this, and think it is a father's kiss—and I will dream I hold my Ferdinand to my breast. What! do you weep?

I thought it was a fa⯑ther's kiss!

Hark! 'tis vengeance comes!

Alas! alas! what is that noise? Are his con⯑federates [66] come to drag me from the dungeon to the scaffold?

Oh no! Fear nothing.

Ferdinand, I have fulfilled my word.

Dost thou know me?

Dost thou know him?

Thunder of Hea⯑ven! 'tis he!

Go! May Heaven forgive you!

Enough. Lead him on into the forest.—I need no father's tears to prompt to what remains.

Approach, my friends. I stand commissioned here as Minister of Hea⯑ven, and shall pronounce a doom which the most pure and upright court on earth would sanction and approve. Hear then thy sentence.—

His mother loved me, and I called her mother too. Bear him away. On the scaffold, at the hand of public justice, give the death too lenient for his crimes.

Where is he? Keep me no longer from him?

Eugenia's voice!

Ferdinand! Oh Heaven and earth!

Do I once more hold thee to my heart? again kiss these dear lips? Oh Heaven of delight!

Oh more than mortal rapture!

But where is your father? They told me he was living—saved from that tower.

Behold him!

What do I see? Engenia here! My dear▪ dear child!

Oh Heaven! What miracles!

Lead me to my blest deliverer from the grave.

What, was it Ferdinand? your own dear Fer⯑dinand?

What do you tell me? I am worn with age and sorrows. My mind is very feeble. But did you not say my Ferdinand?

Yes! yours—my Ferdinand. Do you not know him then?

My Ferdinand alive!

He is alive! sent here to save—to avenge his father!

My Ferdinand alive! Oh extasy▪ Come, my children—Here, Ferdinand, thy hand—and thine, Eugenia. Such happiness I never looked for in this life. Here let me bless your union, and for ever.

Ye dear companions of my toils, and instruments of my happiness, I know my joy has kindled transport in your friendly bosoms. By encountering danger for my country's happiness, I have attained my own. Thus Heaven ever blesses those who seek the bliss of others.