Fern. In Messina. Proc. Knowest thou the history Of this thy native land? Who was her king When he vouchsafed thee draw the breath of life Fern. Why Manfred then was king. Proc. Fern. What came of him? He lost his crown. Proc. 'Tis false ! Fern. [aside]. What power hath this mysterious man That while he chafes me thus, I thus forbear! Proc. Were one to take thy purse from thee by force, Wouldst say that thou hadst lost it? Thou wouldst say That thou wast robb'd of it. So Manfred was Robb'd of his crown. Lost it! Is king of Sicily? Who say you now Fern. Charles of Anjou. Proc. That's false Again! Charles of Anjou is usurper And not a king-not king of Sicily. Manfred was slain in battle, was he not? Fern. He was. Proc. He was. He died as became a king And see him wear the spoil? Fern. Conradine. Proc. Yes! The chivalrous, the patriotic prince! He took the cause up-but he lost the day. Fern. And with the day his life. Proc. How! Can't you tell? Know you so far the tragedy so well, And do you halt at the catastrophe Which brings the crowning horror of the whole? The prince was taken captive-taken alive Whole! without scaith! No wound, the matter even Of his forefathers! What could Conradine That Charles need fear? He was bound hand and foot. With a palsy! Charles had just as much to fear Fern. 'Twas sacrilege! Proc. 'Twas murder !-murder, sir! Murder and sacrilege!-Conradine met the scaffold In his own house, by thieves! Now mark, young man, Fern. I never heard it told so well before. Proc. Fern. Proc. Fern. Proc. Fern. I was. What then? Didst thou pick up the gage ? I would. And wherefore? Out of pity for The murder'd king. Proc. What!-Given thy private cares, To his most desperate cause-his throne usurp'd! Might call a broken troop !-So seeming-lost Fern. I had! Proc. [taking a glove from his breast]. There 'tis! There! As I [pluck'd it from the scaffold foot! The look that martyr cast upon me then, It moves that giant Might. With seconding, None other than this empty glove, I went Proc. The oath? Death to the Gaul whoe'er he be, that now Fern. That oath I will not take. Proc. Fern. Proc. Thou wilt not? Thou'rt a traitor! Thou'rt a coward! Fern. [drawing]. Try if I fear death! Death is a little thing to brave or fear. 'Tis but a plunge and over, By the feeble as the stout. ta'en as oft Give me the man That's bold in the right-too bold to do the wrong. Proc. What! fear'st thou degradation? How Can he crouch lower than he does who kneels To his own weaknesses, when Duty bids him Stand up and take the manly post becomes him At the side of Virtue. Were thy mother-she That bore thee in her womb-in fetters, how Wouldst deal with those that put them on? And laugh with them-shake hands with them-embrace them? "Thou wouldst not!" But I tell thee, slave, thou wouldst. For what's thy country, be she not thy mother, Wouldst talk Fern. Proc. But with my sword's point will I answer thee! Behoves that it be quick and seek thy sword! Thy life's in danger! Proc. Hast thou a father, still I say to thee? Fern. Thy sword, or I'm upon thee! Proc. Then thou wilt have a murder on thy soul, For from my stand I will not budge an inch, Nor move, so far, my arm to touch my sword, Until thou answer'st me. Hast thou a father? Fern. [bursting into tears]. No, no! thou churlish, harsh, re [morseless man That bait'st me with thy coarse and biting words, Mine eyes inflaming with my scalding tears, Thou kindless, ruthless man! I never knew one! Proc. [aside]. I thank God! Hast thou a father? A father-hadst a father's training-O How blest the son that hath. O Providence, A father, quick in love, wakeful in care, Stamp'd with authority! Hadst such a father? I knew no training, save what fostering Did give me, in the mood and was bestow'd Like bounty to a poor dependant; which He might take or leave. Those who protected me How could I learn the patriot's lofty lesson? They told me Sicily had given me birth, To a contentless and ungracious mother. And they were kind to me. What wouldst thou have Of a young heart, but what you'd ask of wax- 'Twas cruel, knowing that thou wast so rich, The whole of my heart. I would have given it him -never run I never had gainsaid him— Counter to him. I had copied him, as one In jealous, humble imitation. I had lived to pleasure him. Before I had Proc. [aside]. My son! My son! O Heaven! Proc. Thou wast made captive in A stormed hold. Fern. I was. Proc. That hold belong'd To John of Procida. Fern. It did. Proc. 'Twas storm'd And taken, in his absence. Fern. So 'tis said. Proc. That John of Procida had then a son Just four years old. Fern. That age was mine, I have heard, When first the Governor adopted me. Proc. There was no other child within the castle. Fern. I must have been that child! Proc. Upon his right fore-arm he bore a mark. Fern. Yes; here! Proc. Yes; in the very place thou point'st to. Proc. Thou art ;-and I am John of Procida. Fern. [falling on his knee]. Father! Proc. My son! My boy! My child I left At four years old and thought was dead! Fern. Thou own'st me? Proc. Own thee !-Ay!-Look at me and tell me, boy, Dost thou not see thy father? Fern. Yes! Thy looks Are words of love that call me from thy feet Up to thy arms. Proc. Up to them, then! |