SCENE.
[A garden; Arnold De Malpas and Catharine discovered walking slowly towards a summerhouse in the distance].
CATHARINE.
Art thou prepared to risk all this, De Malpas?
DE MALPAS.
Ay! this, and more, if I but thought--
[Hesitating].
CATHARINE.
What, Arnold?
DE MALPAS.
If I but thought that when the strife was over,
The feeble prince hurled down, the throne secured,
She, for whose love I braved the people's hate,
Malice of rulers, and the headsman's axe,
Would deign to share with me that perilous height.
CATHARINE.
She! Oh, thou hast a lady-love!
DE MALPAS.
Cruel! Wouldst thou put by my passion thus,
With a feigned jest? Catharine, I stake my all,
Manhood's strong hopes and purpose, the heart's wealth,
And the mind's store of hard-bought lore, my peace
Of conscience, and my soul's immortal life,
To lift thee to the summit of thy wish;
(Oh? I have proved thee, and I know thy thoughts),
And yet, thou feignest ignorance!
CATHARINE.
Dear De Malpas,
Forgive me! let us both throw by the mask!
I hate the queen; even in our girlish days,
She was my rival; her mild-mannered arts
Stole suitors from me; the old priest, our teacher,
Though I eclipsed her ever in the school,
And shamed her dullness with keen-witted words
And quicker apprehension, shone on her
With sunny aspect, sleeked her golden hair,
Fondled and soothed and petted, whilst for me,
The apter scholar, he reserved harsh looks,
And harsher tones; (well, the old fool is dead!
In after time, some friend of holy church,
Some zealous friend, proved that his saintship taught
Schism and heresy, and so--he, perished)!
But for this queen, this Eleanor! Our souls
Nursed yearly a more fixed hostility;
We sat together at the knightly jousts,
And watched the conflict with high beating hearts,
Flushed cheeks, and fluttering pulses; she from fear,
I with the mounting heat of martial blood,
Thrilled with the music of the battle's roar,
The ring of mighty lances on steel helms,
Clangor of shields, and neighing of wild steeds:
One morn my knight was victor; as he placed
The crown of gems and laurel on my brow,
Methought that I was born to be a queen,
Not the brief ruler of a festal throng,
But 'stablished kingdoms, and a host of men
Bound to my sway forever!
DE MALPAS.
A true thought!
Oh, noble Catherine! thy aspiring spirit
Fires my purpose, and gives wings to action;
Thy rival hath sped past thee in the race,
But she shall fall midway; the blinded monarch
Walks on the brink of an abysmal deep,
And soon shall topple over; then, a victor,
(Not from the conflict with half-blunted spears,
In friendly tournament), but the tumult fierce
Of revolution, and the crash of states,
Shall set a weightier crown about thy brows,
And hail thee ruler,--not of festal throngs,
But 'stablished kingdoms, and a host of men
Bound to thy sway forever!
DE MALPAS.
Speak, Bolton! what say these, my faithful friends,
Touching my present life?
BOLTON.
Why, Master Arnold,
I' sooth they're much divided; some assert,
That thou art moonstruck; that some morbid fancy,
Whether of love or pride, hath seized upon thee;
Others, that thou hast simply lost thy trust
In man and in thyself; and others still,
That thou hast sunk to base, inglorious ease,
Urging the languid currents of the blood
With fiery spurs of sense; a few there are,
Few, but most faithful, who at dead of night
In secret conclave, with low-whispered words,
And pallid faces glancing back aghast,
Speak of it monstrous wrong, which thou--
DE MALPAS. [Starting up, and seizing Bolton.]
Unhappy wretch! therein thou speak'st thy doom!
That prying, curious spirit is thy fate.
[Stabs him suddenly.]
Did I not warn thee of it
BOLTON.
Oh! I die!
Yet my soul swells and lightens; all the future
Flashes before me like a revelation.
Arnold De Malpas! thou shalt gain thine end!
The aged king shall fall, the throne be thine!
But, as thou goest to claim it, as thy foot
Presses the royal dais (mark my words)!
A bolt shall fall from heaven, sudden, swift,
Even as thy blow on me, thou'lt writhe i' the dust,
Down-trodden by the hostile heel of thousands,
Whilst she, for whom thou'st turned conspirator,
Smiling, shall gaze from out her palace doors,
And wave her broidered scarf, and join the music
Of her low witching laughter to the sneers
Of courtly parasites; "De Malpas bore
His honors bravely, did he not, my lords?
Now, by our lady, 'tis a grievous fall!"
"Yet pride, thou know'st, sweet Catharine,"--
"Ay, ay, ay!
"Prithee, Francisco, wilt thou dance to-night?"
DE MALPAS.
What, fool! wilt prate forever? Hence, I say,
And entertain the devil with thy dreamings!
[Stabs him again.]
. . . . .
DE MALPAS.
Thou hast been to court, Bernaldi, hast
thou not?
BERNALDI.
Ay! all the forenoon!
DE MALPAS.
Didst thou see the lady,
Catharine of Savoy, whose miraculous beauty
Hath set all Spain aflame?
BERNALDI.
I did, my cousin,
But, I am bold to speak it, liked her not;
Her beauty is the beauty of the serpent,
Masking a poisonous spirit, there's no depth
Of womanly nature in her gleaming eyes,
Falsest when most they flatter: men have said
She owns the Borgia's blood; I know not that,
But, by St. Mark! she owns their temper, cousin!
