The suburbs. Politian alone.
This weakness grows upon me. I am faint
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand
O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my hopes--give me to live,
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die!--what sayeth the Count?
_Enter Baldazzar_.
_Bal_. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.
_Pol_. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
_Pol_. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did say?
_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir,
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.
_Pol_. Now this is true--
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service? wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain--thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!------
_Pol_. (_aside_.) 'Tis he--he comes himself! (_aloud_.) thou reasonest
well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?--at the Vatican.
_Pol_. At the Vatican. (_exit Bal_.)
If that we meet at all, it were as well
That I should meet him in the Vatican--
In the Vatican--within the holy walls
Of the Vatican. (_Enter Castiglione_.)
_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.
_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione, the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee--have at thee then,
Proud Earl! (_draws_.)
_Pol_. (_drawing_.) Thus to th' expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas_. (_dropping his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage_.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--hold off thy hand!--Avaunt I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--I dare not--dare not.
_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well,
Exceeding well!--thou darest not fight with me?
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.
_Pol_. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee!--Coward! I do believe thee!
Thou darest not!
_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
the Earl_.)
Alas! alas!
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am--I am--a coward. O pity me!
_Pol_. (_greatly softened_.) Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
_Cas_. And Lalage------
_Pol_. Scoundrel!--arise and die!
_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(_baring his bosom_.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
_Pol_. Now s'Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir!
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare {108}
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
By God! thou _shalt!_ (_exit_.)
_Cas_. Now this--now this is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!