LITMIR.BIZ

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Oh no, I love you— Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian; But blood is terrible.

      Julian (drawing her close to him). My own sweet Lilia, 'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, As it had been a tiger that I killed. He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling; His blood lies not on me, but on himself; I do not feel its stain upon my conscience.

      [A tap at the door.]

      Enter Nurse.

      Nurse. My lord, the steward waits on you below.

      [JULIAN goes.]

      You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!

       Lie down a little. There!—I'll fetch you something.

      SCENE XVI.—The Steward's room. JULIAN. The Steward.

      Julian. Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect To hear from you soon after my arrival. Is the boat ready?

      Steward. Yes, my lord; afloat Where you directed.

      Julian. A strange feeling haunts me, As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

      Steward. I will, directly.

      [Goes.]

      Julian. How shall I manage it? I have her father's leave, but have not dared To tell her all; and she must know it first! She fears me half, even now: what will she think To see my shaven head? My heart is free— I know that God absolves mistaken vows. I looked for help in the high search from those Who knew the secret place of the Most High. If I had known, would I have bound myself Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds Never a lark springs to salute the day? The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! It cannot be God's will I should be such. But there was more: they virtually condemned Me in my quest; would have had me content To kneel with them around a wayside post, Nor heed the pointing finger at its top? It was the dull abode of foolishness: Not such the house where God would train his children! My very birth into a world of men Shows me the school where he would have me learn; Shows me the place of penance; shows the field Where I must fight and die victorious, Or yield and perish. True, I know not how This will fall out: he must direct my way! But then for her—she cannot see all this; Words will not make it plain; and if they would, The time is shorter than the words would need: This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.— It may be only vapour, of the heat Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear That the fair gladness is too good to live: The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down; But how will she receive it? Will she think I have been mocking her? How could I help it? Her illness and my danger! But, indeed, So strong was I in truth, I never thought Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. My love did make her so a part of me, I never dreamed she might judge otherwise, Until our talk of yesterday. And now Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me: To wed a monk will seem to her the worst Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. I cannot take the truth, and, bodily, Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. She loves me—not as I love her. But always —There's Robert for an instance—I have loved A life for what it might become, far more Than for its present: there's a germ in her Of something noble, much beyond her now: Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.

      This evening must decide it, come what will.

      SCENE XVII.—The inn; the room which had been JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, Host, and Hostess. Wine on the table.

      Stephen. Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.

      Hostess. I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say I am a judge myself.

      Host. I'm confident It needs but to be tasted.

      Stephen (tasting critically, then nodding). That is wine! Let me congratulate you, my good sir, Upon your exquisite judgment!

      Host. Thank you, sir.

      Stephen (to the Hostess). And so this man, you say, was here until The night the count was murdered: did he leave Before or after that?

      Hostess. I cannot tell; He left, I know, before it was discovered. In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, He rushed into the street, half tumbling me Headlong down stairs, and never came again. He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!

      Stephen. What was he like, fair Hostess?

      Hostess. Tall and dark, And with a lowering look about his brows. He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, Indoors as well as out. I dare not say He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange He always sat at that same window there, And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if There were much traffic in the village now; These are changed times; but I have seen the day—

      Stephen. Excuse me; you were saying that the man Sat at the window—

      Hostess. Yes; even after dark He would sit on, and never call for lights. The first night, I brought candles, as of course; He let me set them on the table, true; But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.

      Stephen. Where is the lady?

      Hostess. That's the strangest thing Of all the story: she has disappeared, As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, White as my apron. The whole house was empty, Just as I told you.

      Stephen. Has no search been made? Host. The closest search; a thousand pieces offered For any information that should lead To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother, Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

      Stephen. 'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; I have to write some letters.

      Hostess (rising). Thank you, sir, For your kind entertainment.

      [Exeunt Host and Hostess.]

      Stephen. We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll be for marrying her on the sly, and away!—I know the old fox!—for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve. The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the cloven foot. Keep back thy servant, &c.—Purgatory couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll go find the new count. The Church shall have the castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well have the thousand pieces as not.

      SCENE XVIII.—Night. The Nurse's room. LILIA; to her JULIAN.

      Lilia. How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.

      Enter JULIAN.

      Julian. My Lilia, will you go to England with me?

      Lilia. Julian, my father!

      Julian. Not without his leave. He says, God bless us both.

      Lilia.

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