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SCENE 1.—Enter ALONZO in chains. A Sentinel walking near.

Al. For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed ocean close upon the light. For the last time, through my cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the quivering lustre of the stars. For the last time, oh, sun! (and soon the hour) I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering_dew-drops. Then comes my death; and in the morning of my day I fall, which -no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run by the mean reckoning of the hours and days which thou hast breathed ::-a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line-by deeds, not years. Then wouldst thou murmur not, but bless the providence which, in so short a span, made thee the instrument of wide and spreading blessings to the helpless and oppressed! Though sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls, whose memory records no benefit conferred by him on man. They only have lived long who have lived virtuously.

Enter a Soldier-shows a passport to the Sentinel, who withdraws.

Al. What bear you there?

Sol. These refreshments I was ordered to leave in your dungeon. Al. By whom ordered ?

Sol. By the lady Elvira. She will be here herself before the dawn.

Al. Bear back to her my humblest thanks: and take thou the refreshments, friend. I need them not.

Sol. I have served under you, Don Alonzo. Pardon my saying, my heart pities you.

[Exit.

Al. In Pizarro's camp, to pity the unfortunate no doubt requires forgiveness. (Looking out.) Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the east. If so, my life is but one hour more. I will not watch the coming dawn; but in the darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, power supreme! shall be for my wife and child! Grant them to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health and purity of mind—all else is worthless. [Exit.

Sen. Who's there? Answer quickly? Who's there?
Rolla (within). A friar come to visit your prisoner. (Enters

Scene from Pizarro.

375

disguised as a monk.) Inform me, friend, is not Alonzo, the Spanish

prisoner, confined in this dungeon?

Sen. He is.

Rol. I must speak with him.

Sen. You must not.

Rol. He is my friend.

Sen. Not if he were your brother.
Rol. What is to be his fate ?

Sen. He dies at sunrise.

Rol. Ha! then I am come in time.

Sen. Just-to witness his death.

Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him.

Sen. Back! back! it is impossible.

Rol. I do entreat you, but for one moment.

Sen. You entreat in vain. My orders are most strict.

Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence.

Sen. He brought a pass which we are all accustomed to obey. Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold: look on these precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope and wish. Take them; they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.

Sen. Away! Wouldst thou corrupt me? me! an old Castilian! I know my duty better.

Rol. Soldier! hast thou a wife?

Sen. I have.

Rol. Hast thou children ?

Sen. Four: honest lively boys.

Rol. Where didst thou leave them?

Sen. In my native village; even in the cot where myself was born.

Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?

Sen. Do I love them! God knows my heart, I do.

Rol. Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land: what would be thy last request ?

Sen. That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children.

Rol. Oh! but if that comrade were at thy prison gate, and should there be told-thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his wretched wife, what wouldst thou think of him, who thus could drive thy comrade from the door?

Sen. How!

Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.

Sen. Go in.

[Retires.

Rol. (Looking off).—Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form and life, human or savage, native of the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back

to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her breast soft as the cygnet's down; and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ringdove sits not more gently! Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate. Alonzo! Alonzo! my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! Alonzo-rise!

Enter ALONZO.

Al. How is my hour elapsed? Well (returning from the recess), I am ready.

Rol. Alonzo! know me.

Al. What voice is that?

Rol. 'Tis Rolla's.

Al. Rolla! my friend! (Embraces him.) Heavens !-how couldst thou pass the guard? Did this habit

Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon, now take it thou, and fly.

Al. And Rolla

Rol. Will remain here in thy place.

Al. And die for me?

No; rather eternal tortures rack me. Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me; or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, standing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go! go! Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child!

Al. Urge me not thus, my friend. I had prepared to die in peace. Rol. To die in peace! devoting her you've sworn to live for to madness, misery, and death! For be assured, the state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return.

Al. Oh, God!

Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word and shrank from its fulfilment; and by the heart of truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life in thee, no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence; and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and thy child are lost for ever!

Al. Oh, Rolla! you distract me!

Rol. A moment's further pause and all is lost. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me. I will treat with Pizarro as for surrender and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not; while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, mayst at night return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo. Even now, I hear the frantic Cora call thee. Haste! haste! haste!

Scene from John Bull.

377

Al. Rolla, I fear your friendship drives me from honour and from right.

Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend.

Al. Oh, my preserver! (Embracing him.)

Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go; I am rewarded. (Throws the friar's garment over ALONZO.) There, conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee!

Al. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me heaven! I return to save, or perish with thee!

[Exit. Rol. He has passed the outer porch-he is safe! He will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me? This is the first time, throughout my life, I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God of truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! Yes, there! (lifting his hands to heaven) assuredly we shall meet again; there possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship; on earth, imperfect and embittered. I will retire, lest the guard return before Alonzo may have passed their lines. [Exit.

19.-SCENE FROM JOHN BULL.

G. COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

[See page 358.]

CHARACTERS:

SIR SIMON ROCHDALE. PEREGRINE. JOB THORNBERRY. JOHN BUR.

An apartment in Job Thornberry's house.

Enter JOB THORNBERRY, L., in a dressing gown, followed by

JOHN BUR.

Bur. Don't take on so-don't you now! Pray listen to reason! Job. I wont !

Bur. Pray do!

Job. I wont! Reason bid me love my child and help my friend; -what's the consequence? My friend has run one way, and broke up my trade; my daughter has run another, and broke my- -Ño! she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she shan't know she made me.

Bur. Well, but, master

Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat churchwardens starved you at the workhouse-hang them for their want of feeling !—and you were thumped about, a poor, unoffending, ragged boy as you were!-I wonder you haven't rum away from me too!

Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never missed. a morning.

Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods; you wont have the trouble any longer.

Bur. Trouble!-Look ye, old Job Thornberry

Job. Well! What, are you going to be saucy to me now I'm ruined?

Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another. You have been as noted all round our town, for being a kind man as being a blunt one.

I

Job. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my ledger-they'll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great by industry: I never cringed to a customer to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill for long credit; I earned my fair profits; I paid my fair way; break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend shall be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate.

Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger all the time.

Job. I know you did.

Bur. From the time that you took me out of the workhouse.
Job. Pshaw! Rot the workhouse!

Bur. You never mentioned it to me yourself till to-day.

Job. I said it in a hurry.

Bur. And I've always remembered it at leisure. I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust for two-and-twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you now you're in trouble. Job. (Affected). John, I beg your pardon.

[Stretching out his hand. Bur. (Taking his hand). Don't say a word more about it.

Job. I

Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more!—come, be a man! get on your things, and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods.

Job. I can't, John-I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop.

Bur. Nay, consider what confusion! Pluck up a courage-do,

now!

Job. Well, I'll try.

Bur. Ay, that's right; here's your clothes. (Taking them from the back of a chair.) They'll play the deuce with all the pots and pans, if you arn't by. Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you?

Job. Ail me! do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me. [Crosses to R. Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. (Going to help him on with his clothes). This is the waistcoat young mistress worked with her own hands, for your birthday, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can.

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