Scene First of Act Fourth is a prison in the castle. Antonio is sitting there, and as he hears footsteps, expects another visit, from persons

seeking to torment him into con-
fession, It is Mencia, who, be-
lieving him guilty, comes at once
to renounce and to deliver him.
I dread

Even but to look upon thee, wretched man!
Take this disguise; it will ensure escape.

Ant. Thou dreadst to look upon me, yet thou comest
To save my life-to save a murderer's life?

Men. I said not so in pity of thy state;

That bloody deed I know hath been the act

Of frenzied passion in some foreign land

:

Live and repent: heaven grant thee grace for this!
Let not man's hand, the brand of public shame,

Be on thy wretched head.

Her behaviour towards him while Thanks, gentle, virtuous Mencia; but,

yet she believes him guilty-her gradual release from that intolerable belief-her bliss on its being utterly done away-and her love welling up from its depths, but a moment before frozen by despair and horror-are all most beautifully painted-nor can any thing be more affecting-but we can quote only

the close.

alas!

Far different is the hapless outlaw's

home

From what thy gentle fancy fashioneth. With lawless men he must protection find.

Some murky cavern where the light of day

Hath never peer'd—where the pitch'd

brand, instead,

Henriquez motions on Mencia to leave the dungeon, and she obeys; and he then offers Antonio opportunity and means of escape. The colloquy is managed with much skill; and the guilty, in spite of all his art, betrays himself to the suspicion of the innocent, unsuspicious though his nature be

ANTONIO (after following him with his eye as he ascends the stair at the bottom of the

stage).

But that it were so horrid and unnatural,

A thing at strife with all consistent thoughts,

I could believe-No! 'tis impossible.

Henriquez had sent a Friar to Antonio, and now he has sent for the same Friar for himself-and remorse is about to become repentance.

SCENE III.

A Chapel. HENRIQUEZ discovered on his knees by the Confessional, the FRIAR bending over him, and muttering words in a low voice.

Friar (aloud). Rise, son, in humble but assured faith
Repentance, and these penances endured,

Will gain from heavenly grace full absolution

Of this most guilty deed-of all thy sins.

Rise, and be comforted. (Raising him, and leading him forward). Be com

forted!

The worst of sinners league not with despair,

But by their own untoward disbelief,

The greatest sin of all. Thou smit'st thy breast,

And shak'st thy drooping head: thou must not doubt.

All sin is finite, mercy infinite;

Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon thee?

Hen. I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all

Who truly do repent; and O how truly,

How deeply, how intensely I repent!
But in my breast there is a goading sense,
An inward agony, a power repelling

In dire abhorrence every better thought.

The bliss of heaven for me! incongruous hope!
My soul, my fancy, yea my very will

Is link'd to misery; and happiness

Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day
To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful,
Fitted by nature for their dismal dens.

O that I were like such! in the reft rock

Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and unconscious
Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke
Should crush me from existence !

Friar. Alas, alas, my son! have better thoughts.
Hen. Let them arise in better hearts, for mine

A nest of stinged scorpions hath become,
And only fit for such. Each recollection,
Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang,
Pierces its core with thrilling agony,
Which yields to a succeeding, sharper sting,
And that again to others keener still.

So kind, so dear, such manly, true affection!
Friendship so pure! such noble confidence!

Love that surmounted all things! When, in passion,
I did an outrage on his fiery blood,

What would have hurl'd on any other head

The instant stroke of death-he only waited

Friar. Give o'er, my son; thou art too vehement.
Hen. He waited till my senseless rage was spent,
Then smiled-O such an upbraiding smile!
Open'd his arms, and clasp'd me to his heart.
That smile, those open'd arms, I see them now,-

I see them constantly; where'er I turn,
They front me like a vision of delight

Changed to a gorgon terror.

But no restraining love did plead for him:

As though he had some faithless rav'ller been,
All base suggestions were received against him,
Were cherish'd, brooded on, by dint of thought
Work'd to a semblance of consistent truth,
Which, but for this-Base, black ingratitude!
Passing all crimes, detested, monstrous!

(Beating his forchead violently as he strides rapidly away).

This base, believing heart, this ruffian's hand!

Friar. My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion, Which leads not to that humble true repentance Our holy Church enjoins.

Hen. (returning). Or had I met him as an open foe,
With accusation of defiance fairly

Preceding vengeance; but unheard, i' th' dark!
Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers

Of my brave fathers, men without reproach!
Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust

What bears the honour'd semblance of their son,
Although unmeet to bear the human form.

Friar. Nay, nay! I pray forbear! this violent grief

For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable.

Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance.

The sufferings of the body will relieve

The suff'rings of the mind.

Hen. The sufferings of the body!

They are powerless.
(Showing his hand).
See here, short while, in agony of thought,
Pacing the armory where hangs the mail
Which Juen wore, when in Tolosa's field
We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side;
It was his gift, which I did beg of him,
In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds.
How swell'd my heart! A braver knight in arms
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent haud,
And lofty mien, and eyes that flash'd with valour.
Where run my words? I have forgot their drift.

Friar. Something which happened in the armory
Hen. Ay, in the armory, as I have said,
I struck my hand, in vehemence of action,
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards,
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh
The broken iron was sheath'd.

No; what can corporeal pain or penance do?

That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature;
'Tis that alone hath power. Yet from the effort
Nature starts back; my mind, stunn'd at the thought,
Loses the use of thought.

Friar. I do not understand you; good, my Lord.
Hen. It matters not; you will, perhaps, hereafter.
Friar. You are at present feeble and exhausted,

And lack repose; retire a while, my son.

Hark! on the walls without, do you not hear

The warder's call to note the rising morn?

Hen. The morn! And what have I to do with morn?

The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir

Of tented sleepers rousing to the call,

The snorting steed, in harness newly dight,

Did please my fancy once. Ay; and the sweetness
Of my still native woods, when, through the mist,
They showed at early dawn their stately oaks,
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully.

These pleased me once in better days; but now
My very soul within me is abhorrent

Of every pleasant thing; and that which cheers
The stirring soldier or the waking hind,
That which the traveller blesses, and the child
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door
Of his pent cot he issues to the air,
Does but increase my misery.—

I loathe the light of heaven: let the night,
The hideous unblessed night, close o'er me now,
And close for ever!

Friar. Cease, cease! and cherish not such dark despair.
Retire to your apartment, and in prayer

Beseech Almighty Goodness to have pity

On a perturbed soul.

Hen. Pray thou for me; I will pray when I can.
Friar. Hark! steps along the corridor; they come

To say an early mass for the repose

Of the interr'd: they must not find you here.

Hen. And to the dead they give repose! What mass,
What prayers, what chanted hymns can to the living
Give respite from this agony of soul?

Alas, alas! there is no cure for this.

Balthazer, 66

[Exeunt.

our keen and fiery secretary," has returned from Zamora, commissioned by the King to make search for Juen's murderer, and, when found, to bring him there forthwith for instant execution.

"Bal. Ay, every cot and castle in the realm
At my command must open gate and hold,
Chamber and bower; even the sepulchral vault,
Whose sable scutcheon'd door hath not for years
Upon its hinges jarr'd, must be unlocked,
And show its secrets to the searching light.
But as I learn you have secured the murderer,
I am content; here ends my brief commission.
I pray you lead me to the prison-house :
I burn to see the wretch.

And from the prison-house comes Antonio in chains-while Henriquez is about to mount "Black Sultan," who stands saddled at the gate

"champing his bit, And casting from his mouth the flaky foam,"

that he may see the prisoner safely delivered into the hands of justice. Carlos urges them to lose no time, as Henriquez is intent to gain a royal audience before the sitting of tomorrow's court. Henriquez has forbid Leonora to accompany him, but he sends to him his scarf, gloves,

and signet, which he had forgotten, and Diego gives them to his master at the gate.

Act Fifth opens in the court at Zamora-a grand ball of audience, nobles, prelates, officers, &c. discovered in waiting; and after several petitions have been presented to the King, and received in very kingly manner, it is announced to his Majesty that Don Henriquez waits without, and humbly begs for an audience before sitting of the court, and that he is attended with a goodly train, guarding a prisoner. The King marvels-and

Enter HENRIQUEZ, followed by CARLOS and ANTONIO, going up to the KING, who rises

But that thy services have been to me
Beyond all recompense, and that I know

Thy country's welfare and thy sovereign's honour
Are dear to thee, as thou full well hast proved,

I should with some precaution give my word.
But be it so; I say thy suit is granted.

Hen. Nay, swear it on this sword.

King. Where doth this tend? Doubt'st thou my royal word?
Hen. When honour'd lately by your princely presence,

You gave to me this ring with words of favour;

And said if I should e'er, by fortune press'd,
Return the same to you, whatever grace

I then might ask, should be conceded to me.
Receive your royal token: my request

Is that you swear upon my sword to grant
This boon which I shall beg.

(Giving the ring).

[Holds out his sword to the KING, who lays his hand on it.

King. This sword, this honour'd blade, I know it well,

Which thou in battle from the princely Moor

So valiantly did'st win: why should I shrink
From any oath that shall be sworn on this?
I swear, by the firm honour of a soldier,
To grant thy boon, whatever it may be.
Declare it then, Henriquez. (4 pause.)
Thou art pale

And silent too: I wait upon thy words.

Hen. My breath forsook me. 'Tis a passing weakness:

I have power now.-There is a criminal,

Whose guilt before your Highness in due form

Shall shortly be attested; and my boon

Is, that your Highness will not pardon him,
However strongly you may be inclined
To royal clemency, however strongly
Entreated so to do.

King. This much amazes me.

Ever till now,

Thou'st been inclined to mercy, not to blood.

Hen. Yea; but this criminal, with selfish cruelty,

With black ingratitude, with base disloyalty

To all that sacred is in virtuous ties,

Knitting man's heart to man — What shall I say?

I have no room to breathe. (Tearing open his doublet with violence).
He had a friend,

Ingenuous, faithful, generous, and noble:

Ev'n but to look on him bad been full warrant
Against th' accusing tongue of man or angel
To all the world beside,—and yet he slew him.
A friend whose fost'ring love had been the stay,
The guide, the solace of his wayward youth,—
Love steady, tried, unwearied,-yet he slew him.
A friend, who in his best devoted thoughts,
His happiness on earth, his bliss in heaven,
Intwined his image, and could not devise
Of sep'rate good, and yet he basely slew him;
Rush'd on him like a ruffian in the dark,

And thrust him forth from life, from light, from nature,

Unwitting, unprepared for th' awful change

Death brings to all. This act so foul, so damned,

This he hath done: therefore upon his head

Let fall the law's unmitigated justice.

King. And wherefore doubt'st thou that from such a man

I will withhold all grace? Were he my brother

I would not pardon him. Produce your criminal.

[Those who have ANTONIO in custody lead him forward.

Hen. (motioning with his hand to forbid them). Undo his shackles; he is

innocent,