Wilf. [After a pause.] I swear, by all the ties that bind a man, Divine or human,-never to divulge! Sir E. Remember, you have sought this secret:-Yes, 'Tis big with danger to you; and to me, Sir E. Him. She knows it not ;-none know it.— You are the first ordained to hear me say, I am- -his murderer. Wilf. Sir E. O horror! His assassin. Wilf. What! you that-mur-the murderer-I am choked. Sir E. Honour, thou blood-stained god! at whose red altar Sit war and homicide: Oh! to what madness Will insult drive thy votaries! In truth, In the world's range, there does not breathe a man Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me, Stained me-Oh, death and shame!-the world looked on. I left the room which he had quitted: Chance, Wilf. Sir E. Would you think it? E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, I had all good men's love. But my disgrace, They summoned me, as friend would summon friend, To acts of import and communication. We met and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour, To put me on my trial. No accuser, No evidence appeared, to urge it on 'Twas meant to clear my fame. -How clear it then? How cover it?-you say.-Why, by a lie Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast, This tongue to utter it ;-rounded a tale, Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth; So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court Wilf. Heaven forgive you! It may be wrong- Sir E. I disdain all pity. I ask no consolation. Idle boy! Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence Dead, in the church-yard. Boy, I would not kill thee; To check them there was no way left but this Save one-your death:-you shall not be my victim. Wilf. My death! What, to take my life ?-My life! to prop This empty honour? Sir E. Empty? Grovelling fool! Wilf. I am your servant, Sir, child of your bounty, And know my obligation. I have been Too curious, haply: 'tis the fault of youth I ne'er meant injury: if it would serve you, Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved you, Reflection interposed, and held your arm. But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it, XIV. SCENE FROM THE TRAGEDY OF 66 ION."-Talfourd. ADRASTUS on a couch asleep. Enter ION, with a knife. Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along With trembling steps? Am I not armed by Heaven, As if some happy thought of innocent days Played at his heart-strings: must I scare it thence With Death's sharp agony? He lies condemned By the high judgment of supernal Powers, And he shall know their sentence.-Wake, Adrastus! Collect thy spirits and be strong to die! Adras. Who dares disturb my rest? Guards! Soldiers! Recreants: Where tarry ye? Why smite ye not to earth This bold intruder? Ha! no weapon here! What wouldst thou with me, ruffian? Ion. I am none; But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand, Adras. Villains! does no one hear? Ion. Vex not the closing minutes of thy being Could reach thee. Present death is the award Adras. Thou! I know thee The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear Ion. It is most true; Thou spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods Adras. I have none on earth. Most piteous doom! Adras. Art melted? Ion. If I am, Hope nothing from my weakness; mortal arms, And we shall fall together. Be it so! Adras. No; strike at once; my hour is come: in thee I recognise the minister of Jove, And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. Ion. Avert thy face! Adras. No; let me meet thy gaze; For breathing pity lights thy features up Into more awful likeness of a form Which once shone on me, and which now my sense Mournful and calm ;-'tis surely there!-she waves As if to bless thee-and I bless thee too, Death's gracious angel! Do not turn away. [Adrastus kneels.] Ion. Gods! to what office have ye doomed me !-Now! [ION raises his arm to stab ADRASTUS. The voice of MEDON is heard without, calling, "ION! ION!"] Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost! [MEDON rushes in.] Medon. Ion, forbear! Behold thy son, Adrastus! [ION drops the knife and stands stupified with horror.] Adras. What strange words Are these which call my senses from the death They were composed to welcome?" Son !" 'tis false I had but one-and the deep wave rolls o'er him! Medon. That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight In wicked haste to slay; I'll give thee proofs. Who made me happy once-the voice, now still, Medon. The clang of arms! Ion. (starting up.) They come! they come! They who are leagued with me against thy life, Here let us fall! Adras. I will confront them yet. Within I have a weapon which has drunk A traitor's blood ere now; there will I wait for them. [A noise without.] XV.—THE KING AND THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.-Dodsley. King (alone.) No, no, this can be no public road, that's certain; I am lost, quite lost indeed. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect: I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. What is a king? Is he not wiser than another man? Not without his councillors, I plainly find. Is he not more powerful? I oft have been told so, indeed, but what now can my power command? Is he not greater and more magnificent? When seated on his throne, and surrounded with nobles and flatterers, perhaps, he may think so; but when lost in a wood, alas! what is he but a common man? His wisdom knows not which is north and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at; and his greatness the beggar would not bow to. And yet how oft are we puffed up with these false attributes? Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man. [The report of a gun is heard.] Hark! some villain sure is near! What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside then, and let manhood do it. Miller (enters.) I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there? King. No rogue, I assure you. Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun? King. Not 1, indeed. Miller. You lie, I believe. King. Lie! lie! How strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style! (aside.) Upon my word I don't. Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, have not you? King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, indeed, and was afraid some robbers might be near. Miller. I'm not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name? King. Name! Miller, Name! yes, name. Why, you have a name, have not you? Where do you come from? What is your business here? King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man. Miller. May be so, honest man; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer, I think: so, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold-to take you along with me, if you please. King. With you! what authority have you to Miller. The king's authority; if I must give you an account, sir, I am John Cockle, the Miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in this forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected fellow pass this way that cannot give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you. King. I must submit to my own authority—(aside.) Very well, sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it. Miller. It's more than you deserve, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself. King. I have the honour to belong to the king as well as you, and, perhaps, should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest; and the chase leading us to-day |