ARCHBISHOP OF LEMBERG. My voice goes with the primate's.

SEVERAL VOICES. So does mine.

SEVERAL PALATINES. And mine!

ODOWALSKY. And mine.

DEPUTIES. And all!

SAPIEHA. My gracious sirs! Weigh well ere you decide! Be not so hasty! It is not meet the council of the realm Be hurried on to——

ODOWALSKY. There is nothing here For us to weigh; all has been fully weighed. The proofs demonstrate incontestably. This is not Moscow, sirs! No despot here Keeps our free souls in manacles. Here truth May walk by day or night with brow erect. I will not think, my lords, in Cracow here, Here in the very Diet of the Poles, That Moscow's Czar should have obsequious slaves.

DEMETRIUS. Oh, take my thanks, ye reverend senators! That ye have lent your credence to these proofs; And if I be indeed the man whom I Protest myself, oh, then, endure not this Audacious robber should usurp my seat, Or longer desecrate that sceptre which To me, as the true Czarowitsch, belongs. Yes, justice lies with me,—you have the power. 'Tis the most dear concern of every state And throne, that right should everywhere prevail, And all men in the world possess their own. For there, where justice holds uncumbered sway, There each enjoys his heritage secure, And over every house and every throne Law, truth, and order keep their angel watch. It is the key-stone of the world's wide arch, The one sustaining and sustained by all, Which, if it fail, brings all in ruin down.

(Answers of SENATORS giving assent to DEMETRIUS.)

DEMETRIUS. Oh, look on me, renowned Sigismund! Great king, on thine own bosom turn thine eyes. And in my destiny behold thine own. Thou, too, hast known the rude assaults of fate; Within a prison camest thou to the world; Thy earliest glances fell on dungeon walls. Thou, too, hadst need of friends to set thee free, And raise thee from a prison to a throne. These didst thou find. That noble kindness thou Didst reap from them, oh, testify to me. And you, ye grave and honored councillors, Most reverend bishops, pillars of the church, Ye palatines and castellans of fame, The moment has arrived, by one high deed, To reconcile two nations long estranged. Yours be the glorious boast, that Poland's power Hath given the Muscovites their Czar, and in The neighbor who oppressed you as a foe Secure an ever-grateful friend. And you, The deputies of the august republic, Saddle your steeds of fire! Leap to your seats! To you expand high fortune's golden gates; I will divide the foeman's spoil with you. Moscow is rich in plunder; measureless In gold and gems, the treasures of the Czar; I can give royal guerdons to my friends, And I will give them, too. When I, as Czar, Set foot within the Kremlin, then, I swear, The poorest of you all, that follows me, Shall robe himself in velvet and in sables; With costly pearls his housings shall he deck, And silver be the metal of least worth, That he shall shoe his horses' hoofs withal.

[Great commotion among the DEPUTIES. KORELA, Hetman of the Cossacks, declares himself ready to put himself at the head of an army.

ODOWALSKY. How! shall we leave the Cossack to despoil us At once of glory and of booty both? We've made a truce with Tartar and with Turk, And from the Swedish power have naught to fear. Our martial spirit has been wasting long In slothful peace; our swords are red with rust. Up! and invade the kingdom of the Czar, And win a grateful and true-hearted friend, Whilst we augment our country's might and glory.

MANY DEPUTIES. War! War with Moscow!

OTHERS. Be it so resolved! On to the votes at once!

SAPIEHA (rises). Grand marshal, please To order silence! I desire to speak.

A CROWD OF VOICES. War! War with Moscow!

SAPIEHA. Nay, I will be heard. Ho, marshal, do your duty!

[Great tumult within and outside the hall.

GRAND MARSHAL. 'Tis, you see, Quite fruitless.

SAPIEHA. What? The marshal's self suborned? Is this our Diet, then, no longer free? Throw down your staff, and bid this brawling cease; I charge you, on your office, to obey!

[The GRAND MARSHAL casts his baton into the centre of the hall; the tumult abates.

What whirling thoughts, what mad resolves are these? Stand we not now at peace with Moscow's Czar? Myself, as your imperial envoy, made A treaty to endure for twenty years; I raised this right hand, that you see, aloft In solemn pledge, within the Kremlin's walls; And fairly hath the Czar maintained his word. What is sworn faith? what compacts, treaties, when A solemn Diet tramples on them all?

DEMETRIUS. Prince Leo Sapieha! You concluded A bond of peace, you say, with Moscow's Czar? That did you not; for I, I am that Czar. In me is Moscow's majesty; I am The son of Ivan, and his rightful heir. Would the Poles treat with Russia for a peace, Then must they treat with me! Your compact's null, As being made with one whose's title's null.

ODOWALSKY. What reck we of your treaty? So we willed When it was made—our wills are changed to-day.

SAPIEHA. Is it, then, come to this? If none beside Will stand for justice, then, at least, will I. I'll rend the woof of cunning into shreds, And lay its falsehoods open to the day. Most reverend primate! art thou, canst thou be So simple-souled, or canst thou so dissemble? Are ye so credulous, my lords? My liege, Art thou so weak? Ye know not—will not know, Ye are the puppets of the wily Waywode Of Sendomir, who reared this spurious Czar, Whose measureless ambition, while we speak, Clutches in thought the spoils of Moscow's wealth. Is't left for me to tell you that even now The league is made and sworn betwixt the twain,— The pledge the Waywode's youngest daughter's hand? And shall our great republic blindly rush Into the perils of an unjust war, To aggrandize the Waywode, and to crown His daughter as the empress of the Czar? There's not a man he has not bribed and bought. He means to rule the Diet, well I know; I see his faction rampant in this hall, And, as 'twere not enough that he controlled The Seym Walmy by a majority, He's girt the Diet with three thousand horse, And all Cracow is swarming like a hive With his sworn feudal vassals. Even now They throng the halls and chambers where we sit, To hold our liberty of speech in awe. Yet stirs no fear in my undaunted heart; And while the blood keeps current in my veins, I will maintain the freedom of my voice! Let those who think like men come stand by me Whilst I have life shall no resolve be passed That is at war with justice and with reason. 'Twas I that ratified the peace with Moscow, And I will hazard life to see it kept.

ODOWALSKY. Give him no further hearing! Take the votes!

[The BISHOP OF CRACOW and WILNA rise, and descend each to his own side, to collect the votes.

MANY. War, war with Moscow!

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN (to SAPIEHA). Noble sir, give way! You see the mass are hostile to your views; Then do not force a profitless division!

IMPERIAL HIGH CHANCELLOR (descends from the throne to SAPIEHA). The king entreats you will not press the point, Sir Waywode, to division in the Diet.

DOORKEEPER (aside to ODOWALSKY). Keep a bold front, and fearless—summon those That wait without. All Cracow stands by you.

IMPERIAL GRAND MARSHAL (to SAPIEHA). Such excellent decrees have passed before; Oh, cease, and for their sake, so fraught with good, Unite your voice with the majority!

BISHOP OF CRACOW (has collected the votes on his side). On this right bench are all unanimous.

SAPIEHA. And let them to a man! Yet I say no! I urge my veto—I break up the Diet. Stay further progress! Null and void fire all The resolutions passed——

[General commotion; the KING descends from the throne, the barriers are broken down, and there arises a tumultuous uproar. DEPUTIES draw their swords, and threaten SAPIEHA with them. The BISHOPS interpose, and protect him with their stoles.

Majority? What is it? The majority is madness; Reason has still ranked only with the few. What cares he for the general weal that's poor? Has the lean beggar choice, or liberty? To the great lords of earth, that hold the purse, He must for bread and raiment sell his voice. 'Twere meet that voices should be weighed, not counted. Sooner or later must the state be wrecked, Where numbers sway and ignorance decides.

ODOWALSKY. Hark to the traitor!——

DEPUTIES. Hew him into shreds! Down with him!

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN (snatches the crucifix out of his chaplain's hand and interposes). Peace, peace Shall native blood be in the Diet shed? Prince Sapieha! be advised! [To the BISHOPS. Bring him away, And interpose your bosoms as his shield! Through this side door remove him quietly, Or the wild mob will tear him limb from limb!

[SAPIEHA, still casting looks of defiance, is forced away by the BISHOPS, whilst the ARCHBISHOPS OF GNESEN and LEMBERG keep the DEPUTIES at bay. Amidst violent tumult and clashing of arms, the hall is emptied of all but DEMETRIUS, MEISCHEK, ODOWALSKY, and the Hetman of the Cossacks.

ODOWALSKY. That point miscarried,— Yet shall you not lack aid because of this: If the republic holds the peace with Moscow, At our own charges we shall push your claims.

KORELA. Who ever could have dreamed, that he alone Would hold his ground against the assembled Diet?

MEISCHEK. The king! the king!

[Enter KING SIGISMUND, attended by the LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR, the GRAND MARSHAL, and several BISHOPS.

KING. Let me embrace you, prince! At length the high republic does you justice; My heart has done so long, and many a day. Your fate doth move me deeply, as, indeed, What monarch's heart but must be moved by it?

DEMETRIUS. The past, with all its sorrows, is forgot; Here on your breast I feel new life begin.

KING. I love not many words; yet what a king May offer, who has vassals richer far Than his poor self, that do I offer you. You have been witness of an untoward scene, But deem not ill of Poland's realm because A tempest jars the vessel of the state.

MEISCHEK. When winds are wild the steersman backs his helm, And makes for port with all the speed he may.

KING. The Diet is dissolved. Although I wished, I could not break the treaty with the Czar. But you have powerful friends; and if the Pole, At his own risk, take arms on your behalf, Or if the Cossack choose to venture war, They are free men, I cannot say them nay.

MEISCHEK. The whole Rocoss is under arms already. Please it but you, my liege, the angry stream That raved against your sovereignty may turn Its wrath on Moscow, leaving you unscathed.

KING. The best of weapons Russia's self will give thee; Thy surest buckler is the people's heart. By Russia only Russia will be vanquished. Even as the Diet heard thee speak to-day, Speak thou at Moscow to thy subjects, prince. So chain their hearts, and thou wilt be their king. In Sweden I by right of birth ascended The throne of my inheritance in peace; Yet did I lose the kingdom of my sires Because my people's hearts were not with me.

Enter MARINA.

MEISCHEK. My gracious liege, here, kneeling at your feet, Behold Marina, youngest of my daughters; The prince of Moscow offers her his heart. Thou art the stay and pillar of our house, And only from thy royal hand 'tis meet That she receive her spouse and sovereign.

[MARINA kneels to the KING.

KING. Well, if you wish it, cousin, gladly I Will do the father's office to the Czar.

[To DEMETRIUS, giving him MARINA'S hand.

Thus do I bring you, in this lovely pledge, High fortune's blooming goddess; and may these Old eyes be spared to see this gracious pair Sit in imperial state on Moscow's throne.

MARINA. My liege, I humbly thank your grace, and shall Esteem me still your slave where'er I be.

KING. Rise up, Czaritza! This is not a place For you, the plighted bridesmaid of the Czar; For you, the daughter of my foremost Waywode. You are the youngest of your sisters; yet Your spirit wings a high and glorious course, And nobly grasps the top of sovereignty.

DEMETRIUS. Be thou, great monarch, witness of my oath, As, prince to prince, I pledge it here to you! This noble lady's hand I do accept As fortune's dearest pledge, and swear that, soon As on my father's throne I take my seat, I'll lead her home in triumph as my bride, With all the state that fits a mighty queen. And, for a dowry, to my bride I give The principalities Pleskow and Great Neugart, With all towns, hamlets, and in-dwellers there, With all the rights and powers of sovereignty, In absolute possession evermore; And this, my gift, will I as Czar confirm In my free city, Moscow. Furthermore, As compensation to her noble sire For present charges, I engage to pay A million ducats, Polish currency. So help me God, and all his saints, as I Have truly sworn this oath, and shall fulfil it.

KING. You will do so; you never will forget For what you are the noble Waywode's debtor; Who, for your wishes, perils his sure wealth, And, for your hopes, a child his heart adores, A friend so rare is to be rarely prized! Then when your hopes are crowned forget not ever The steps by which you mounted to the throne, Nor with your garments let your heart be changed! Think, that in Poland first you knew yourself, That this land gave you birth a second time.

DEMETRIUS. I have been nurtured in adversity; And learned to reverence the beauteous bond Which links mankind with sympathies of love.

KING. But now you enter on a realm where all— Use, custom, morals—are untried and strange, In Poland here reigns freedom absolute; The king himself, although in pomp supreme, Must ofttime be the serf of his noblesse; But there the father's sacred power prevails, And in the subject finds a passive slave.

DEMETRIUS. That glorious freedom which surrounds me here I will transplant into my native land, And turn these bond-serfs into glad-souled men; Not o'er the souls of slaves will I bear rule.

KING. Do naught in haste; but by the time be led! Prince, ere we part, three lessons take from me, And truly follow them when thou art king. It is a king that gives them, old and tried, And they may prove of profit to thy youth.

DEMETRIUS. Oh, share thy wisdom with me! Thou hast won The reverence of a free and mighty people; What must I do to earn so fair a prize?

KING. You come from a strange land, Borne on the weapons of a foreign foe; This first felt wrong thou hast to wash away. Then bear thee like a genuine son of Moscow, With reverence due to all her usages. Keep promise with the Poles, and value them, For thou hast need of friends on thy new throne: The arm that placed thee there can hurl thee down. Esteem them honorably, yet ape them not; Strange customs thrive not in a foreign soil. And, whatsoe'er thou dost, revere thy mother— You'll find a mother——

DEMETRIUS. Oh, my liege!

KING. High claim Hath she upon thy filial reverence. Do her all honor. 'Twixt thy subjects and Thyself she stands, a sacred, precious link. No human law o'errides the imperial power; Nothing but nature may command its awe; Nor can thy people own a surer pledge, That thou art gentle, than thy filial love. I say no more. Much yet is to be done, Ere thou mak'st booty of the golden fleece. Expect no easy victory! Czar Boris rules with strong and skilful hand; You take the field against no common man. He that by merit hath achieved the throne, Is not puffed from his seat by popular breath; His deeds do serve to him for ancestors. To your good fortune I commend you now; Already twice, as by a miracle, Hath it redeemed you from the grasp of death; 'Twill put the finish on its work, and crown you.

[Exeunt omnes but MARINA and ODOWALSKY.

ODOWALSKY. Say, lady, how have I fulfilled my charge? Truly and well, and wilt thou laud my zeal?

MARINA. 'Tis, Odowalsky, well we are alone; Matters of weight have we to canvass which 'Tis meet the prince know nothing of. May he Pursue the voice divine that goads him on! If in himself he have belief, the world Will catch the flame, and give him credence too. He must be kept in that vague, shadowing mist, Which is a fruitful mother of great deeds, While we see clear, and act in certainty. He lends the name—the inspiration; we Must bear the brain, the shaping thought, for him; And when, by art and craft, we have insured The needful levies, let him still dream on, And think they dropped, to aid him, from the clouds.

ODOWALSKY. Give thy commands: I live but for thy service. Think'st thou this Moscovite or his affairs Concern my thoughts? 'Tis thou, thou and thy glory For which I will adventure life and all. For me no fortune blossoms; friendless, landless, I dare not let my hopes aspire to thee. Thy grace I may not win, but I'll deserve it. To make thee great be my one only aim; Then, though another should possess thee, still Thou wilt be mine—being what I have made thee.

MARINA. Therefore my whole heart do I pledge to thee; To thee I trust the acting of my thoughts. The king doth mean us false. I read him through. 'Twas a concerted farce with Sapieha, A juggle, all! 'Twould please him well, belike, To see my father's power, which he dreads deeply, Enfeebled in this enterprise—the league Of the noblesse, which shook his heart with fear, Drawn off in this campaign on foreign bounds, While he himself sits neutral in the fray. He thinks to share our fortune, if we win; And if we lose, he hopes with greater ease To fix on us the bondage of his yoke. We stand alone. This die is cast. If he Cares for himself, we shall be selfish too. You lead the troops to Kioff. There let them swear Allegiance to the prince, and unto me;— Mark you, to me! 'Tis needful for our ends. I want your eye, and not your arm alone.

ODOWALSKY. Command me—speak—

MARINA. You lead the Czarowitsch. Keep your eye on him; stir not from his side, Render me 'count of every step he makes.

ODOWALSKY. Rely on me, he'll never cast us off.

MARINA. No man is grateful. Once his throne is sure, He'll not be slow to cast our bonds aside. The Russian hates the Pole—must hate him ever; No bond of amity can link their hearts.

Enter OPALINSKY, BIELSKY, and several Polish noblemen.

OPALINSKY. Fair patron, get us gold, and we march with you, This lengthened Diet has consumed our all. Let us have gold, we'll make thee Russia's queen.

MARINA. The Bishop of Kaminieck and Culm Lends money on the pawn of land and serfs. Sell, barter, pledge the hamlets of your boors, Turn all to silver, horses, means of war! War is the best of chapmen. He transmutes Iron into gold. Whate'er you now may lose You'll find in Moscow twenty-fold again.

BIELSKY. Two hundred more wait in the tavern yonder; If you will show yourself, and drain a cup With them, they're yours, all yours—I know them well.

MARINA. Expect me! You shall introduce me to them.

OPALINSKY. 'Tis plain that you were born to be a queen.

MARINA. I was, and therefore I must be a queen.

BIELSKY. Ay, mount the snow-white steed, thine armor on, And so, a second Vanda, lead thy troops, Inspired by thee, to certain victory.

MARINA. My spirit leads you. War is not for women. The rendezvous is in Kioff. Thither my father Will lead a levy of three thousand horse. My sister's husband gives two thousand more, And the Don sends a Cossack host in aid. Do you all swear you will be true to me?

ALL. All, all—we swear! (draw their swords.) Vivat Marina, Russiae Regina!

[MARINA tears her veil in pieces, and divides it among them. Exeunt omnes but MARINA.

Enter MEISCHEK.

MARINA. Wherefore so sad, when fortune smiles on us, When every step thrives to our utmost wish, And all around are arming in our cause?

MEISCHEK. 'Tis even because of this, my child! All, all Is staked upon the cast. Thy father's means Are in these warlike preparations swamped. I have much cause to ponder seriously; Fortune is false, uncertain the result. Mad, venturous girl, what hast thou brought me to? What a weak father have I been, that I Did not withstand thy importunities! I am the richest Waywode of the empire, The next in honor to the king. Had we But been content to be so, and enjoyed Our stately fortunes with a tranquil soul! Thy hopes soared higher—not for thee sufficed The moderate station which thy sisters won. Thou wouldst attain the loftiest mark that can By mortals be achieved, and wear a crown. I, thy fond, foolish father, longed to heap On thee, my darling one, all glorious gains, So by thy prayers I let myself be fooled, And peril my sure fortunes on a chance.

MARINA. How? My dear father, dost thou rue thy goodness? Who with the meaner prize can live content, When o'er his head the noblest courts his grasp?

MEISCHEK. Thy sisters wear no crowns, yet they are happy.

MARINA. What happiness is that to leave the home Of the Waywode, my father, for the house Of some count palatine, a grateful bride? What do I gain of new from such a change? And can I joy in looking to the morrow When it brings naught but what was stale to-day? Oh, tasteless round of petty, worn pursuits! Oh, wearisome monotony of life! Are they a guerdon for high hopes, high aims? Or love or greatness I must have: all else Are unto me alike indifferent. Smooth off the trouble from thy brow, dear father! Let's trust the stream that bears us on its breast, Think not upon the sacrifice thou makest, Think on the prize, the goal that's to be won— When thou shalt see thy daughter robed in state, In regal state, aloft on Moscow's throne, And thy son's sons the rulers of the world!

MEISCHEK. I think of naught, see naught, but thee, my child, Girt with the splendors of the imperial crown. Thou'rt bent to have it; I cannot gainsay thee.

MARINA. Yet one request, my dearest, best of fathers, I pray you grant me!

MEISCHEK. Name thy wish, my child.

MARINA. Shall I remain shut up at Sambor with The fires of boundless longing in my breast? Beyond the Dnieper will my die be cast, While boundless space divides me from the spot; Can I endure it? Oh, the impatient spirit Will lie upon the rack of expectation And measure out this monstrous length of space With groans and anxious throbbings of the heart.

MEISCHEK. What dost thou wish? What is it thou wouldst have?

MARINA. Let me abide the issue in Kioff! There I can gather tidings at their source. There on the frontier of both kingdoms——

MEISCHEK. Thy spirit's over-bold. Restrain it, child!

MARINA. Yes, thou dost yield,—thou'lt take me with thee, then?

MEISCHEK. Thou rulest me. Must I not do thy will?

MARINA. My own dear father, when I am Moscow's queen Kioff, you know, must be our boundary. Kioff must then be mine, and thou shalt rule it.

MEISCHEK. Thou dreamest, girl! Already the great Moscow Is for thy soul too narrow; thou, to grasp Domains, wilt strip them from thy native land.

MARINA. Kioff belonged not to our native land; There the Varegers ruled in days of yore. I have the ancient chronicles by heart; 'Twas from the Russian empire wrenched by force. I will restore it to its former crown.

MEISCHEK. Hush, hush! The Waywode must not hear such talk.

[Trumpet without. They're breaking up.



ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Greek convent in a bleak district near the sea Belozero. A train of nuns, in black robes and veils, passes over the back of the stage. MARFA, in a white veil, stands apart from the others, leaning on a tombstone. OLGA steps out from the train, remains gazing at her for a time, and then advances to her.

OLGA. And does thy heart not urge thee forth with us To taste reviving nature's opening sweets? The glad sun comes, the long, long night retires, The ice melts in the streams, and soon the sledge Will to the boat give place and summer swallow. The world awakes once more, and the new joy Woos all to leave their narrow cloister cells For the bright air and freshening breath of spring. And wilt thou only, sunk in lasting grief, Refuse to share the general exultation?

MARFA. On with the rest, and leave me to myself! Let those rejoice who still have power to hope. The time that puts fresh youth in all the world Brings naught to me; to me the past is all, My hopes, my joys are with the things that were.

OLGA. Dost thou still mourn thy son—still, still lament The sovereignty which thou has lost? Does time, Which pours a balm on every wounded heart, Lose all its potency with thee alone? Thou wert the empress of this mighty realm, The mother of a blooming son. He was Snatched from thee by a dreadful destiny; Into this dreary convent wert thou thrust, Here on the verge of habitable earth. Full sixteen times since that disastrous day The face of nature hath renewed its youth; Still have I seen no change come over thine, That looked a grave amid a blooming world. Thou'rt like some moonless image, carved in stone By sculptor's chisel, that doth ever keep The selfsame fixed unalterable mien.

MARFA. Yes, time, fell time, hath signed and set me up As a memorial of my dreadful fate. I will not be at peace, will not forget. That soul must be of poor and shallow stamp Which takes a cure from time—a recompense For what can never be compensated! Nothing shall buy my sorrow from me. No, As heaven's vault still goes with the wanderer, Girds and environs him with boundless grasp, Turn where he will, by sea or land, so goes My anguish with me, wheresoe'er I turn; It hems me round, like an unbounded sea; My ceaseless tears have failed to drain its depths.

OLGA. Oh, see! what news can yonder boy have brought, The sisters round him throng so eagerly? He comes from distant shores, where homes abound, And brings us tidings from the land of men. The sea is clear, the highways free once more. Art thou not curious to learn his news? Though to the world we are as good as dead, Yet of its changes willingly we hear, And, safe upon the shore, with wonder mark The roar and ferment of the trampling waves.

[NUNS come down the stage with a FISHER BOY.

XENIA—HELENA. Speak, speak, and tell us all the news you bring.

ALEXIA. Relate what's passing in the world beyond.

FISHER BOY. Good, pious ladies, give me time to speak!

XENIA. Is't war—or peace?

ALEXIA. Who's now upon the throne?

FISHER BOY. A ship is to Archangel just come in From the north pole, where everything is ice.

OLGA. How came a vessel into that wild sea?

FISHER BOY. It is an English merchantman, and it Has found a new way out to get to us.

ALEXIA. What will not man adventure for his gain?

XENIA. And so the world is nowhere to be barred!

FISHER BOY. But that's the very smallest of the news. 'Tis something very different moves the world.

ALEXIA. Oh, speak and tell us!

OLGA. Say, what has occurred?

FISHER BOY. We live to hear strange marvels nowadays: The dead rise up, and come to life again.

OLGA. Explain yourself.

FISHER BOY. Prince Dmitri, Ivan's son, Whom we have mourned for dead these sixteen years, Is now alive, and has appeared in Poland.

OLGA. The prince alive?

MARFA (starting). My son!

OLGA. Compose thyself! Calm down thy heart till we have learned the whole.

ALEXIA. How can this possibly be so, when he Was killed, and perished in the flames at Uglitsch?

FISHER BOY. He managed somehow to escape the fire, And found protection in a monastery. There he grew up in secrecy, until His time was come to publish who he was.

OLGA (to MARFA). You tremble, princess! You grow pale!

MARFA. I know That it must be delusion, yet so little Is my heart steeled 'gainst fear and hope e'en now, That in my breast it flutters like a bird.

OLGA. Why should it be delusion? Mark his words! How could this rumor spread without good cause?

FISHER BOY. Without good cause? The Lithuanians And Poles are all in arms upon his side. The Czar himself quakes in his capital.

[MARFA is compelled by her emotion to lean upon OLGA and ALEXIA.

XENIA. Speak on, speak, tell us everything you know.

ALEXIA. And tell us, too, of whom you stole the news.

FISHER BOY. I stole the news? A letter has gone forth To every town and province from the Czar. This letter the Posadmik of our town Read to us all, in open market-place. It bore, that busy schemers were abroad, And that we should not lend their tales belief. But this made us believe them; for, had they Been false, the Czar would have despised the lie.

MARFA. Is this the calm I thought I had achieved? And clings my heart so close to temporal things, That a mere word can shake my inward soul? For sixteen years have I bewailed my son, And yet at once believe that still he lives.

OLGA. Sixteen long years thou'st mourned for him as dead, And yet his ashes thou hast never seen! Naught countervails the truth of the report. Nay, does not Providence watch o'er the fate Of kings and monarchies? Then welcome hope! More things befall than thou canst comprehend. Who can set limits to the Almighty's power?

MARFA. Shall I turn back to look again on life, To which long since I spoke a sad farewell? It was not with the dead my hopes abode. Oh, say no more of this. Let not my heart Hang on this phantom hope! Let me not lose My darling son a second time. Alas! My peace of mind is gone,—my dream of peace I cannot trust these tidings,—yet, alas, I can no longer dash them from my soul! Woe's me, I never lost my son till now. Oh, now I can no longer tell if I Shall seek him 'mongst the living or the dead, Tossed on the rock of never-ending doubt.

OLGA [A bell sounds,—the sister PORTERESS enters. Why has the bell been sounded, sister, say?

PORTERESS. The lord archbishop waits without; he brings A message from the Czar, and craves an audience.

OLGA. Does the archbishop stand within our gates? What strange occurrence can have brought him here?

XENIA. Come all, and give him greeting as befits.

[They advance towards the gate as the ARCHBISHOP enters; they all kneel before him, and he makes the sign of the Greek cross over them.

ARCHBISHOP. The kiss of peace I bring you in the name Of Father, Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Proceeding from the Father!

OLGA. Sir, we kiss In humblest reverence thy paternal hand! Command thy daughters!

ARCHBISHOP. My mission is addressed to Sister Marfa.

OLGA. See, here she stands, and waits to know thy will.

[All the NUNS withdraw.

ARCHBISHOP. It is the mighty prince who sends me here; Upon his distant throne he thinks of thee; For as the sun, with his great eye of flame, Sheds light and plenty all abroad the world, So sweeps the sovereign's eye on every side; Even to the farthest limits of his realm His care is wakeful and his glance is keen.

MARFA. How far his arm can strike I know too well.

ARCHBISHOP. He knows the lofty spirit fills thy soul, And therefore feels indignantly the wrong A bold-faced villain dares to offer thee. Learn, then, in Poland, an audacious churl, A renegade, who broke his monkish vows, Laid down his habit, and renounced his God, Doth use the name and title of thy son, Whom death snatched from thee in his infancy. The shameless varlet boasts him of thy blood, And doth affect to be Czar Ivan's son; A Waywode breaks the peace; from Poland leads This spurious monarch, whom himself created, Across our frontiers, with an armed power: So he beguiles the Russians' faithful hearts, And lures them on to treason and revolt. The Czar, With pure, paternal feeling, sends me to thee. Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor; Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer To steal his name and title from the tomb, And with audacious hand usurp his rights. Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world That thou dost own him for no son of thine. Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never! Thou wilt—and this the Czar expects from thee— Give the vile counterfeit the lie, with all The righteous indignation it deserves.

MARFA (who has during the last speech subdued the most violent emotion). What do I hear, archbishop? Can it be? Oh, tell me, by what signs and marks of proof This bold-faced trickster doth uphold himself As Ivan's son, whom we bewailed as dead?

ARCHBISHOP. By some faint, shadowy likeness to the Czar, By documents which chance threw in his way, And by a precious trinket, which he shows, He cheats the credulous and wondering mob.

MARFA. What is the trinket? Oh, pray, tell me what?

ARCHBISHOP. A golden cross, gemmed with nine emeralds, Which Ivan Westislowsky, so he says, Hung round his neck at the baptismal font.

MARFA. What do you say? He shows this trinket, this?

[With forced composure.

And how does he allege he came by it?

ARCHBISHOP. A faithful servant and Diak, he says, Preserved him from the assassins and the flames, And bore him to Smolenskow privily.

MARFA. But where was he brought up? Where, gives he forth, Was he concealed and fostered until now?

ARCHBISHOP. In Tschudow's monastery he was reared, Unknowing who he was; from thence he fled To Lithuania and Poland, where He served the Prince of Sendomir, until An accident revealed his origin.

MARFA. With such a tale as this can he find friends To peril life and fortune in his cause?

ARCHBISHOP. Oh, madam, false, false-hearted is the Pole, And enviously he eyes our country's wealth. He welcomes every pretext that may serve To light the flames of war within our bounds!

MARFA. And were there credulous spirits, even in Moscow, Could by this juggle be so lightly stirred?

ARCHBISHOP. Oh, fickle, princess, is the people's heart! They dote on alteration, and expect To reap advantage from a change of rulers. The bold assurance of the falsehood charms; The marvellous finds favor and belief. Therefore the Czar is anxious thou shouldst quell This mad delusion, as thou only canst. A word from thee annihilates the traitor That falsely claims the title of thy son. It joys me thus to see thee moved. I see The audacious juggle rouses all thy pride, And, with a noble anger paints thy cheek.

MARFA. And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now, Who dares usurp the title of my son?

ARCHBISHOP. E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko; His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored; And with a force of mounted Polish troops And Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.

MARFA. Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thou Hast sent me rescue and revenge at last!

ARCHBISHOP. How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?

MARFA. Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here! Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!

ARCHBISHOP. Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust——

MARFA. He is my son. Yes! by these signs alone I recognize him. By thy Czar's alarm I recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes! Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear! There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem; The genuine Czar—the rightful heir draws nigh, He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.

ARCHBISHOP. Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!

MARFA. At length—at length has dawned the day of vengeance, Of restoration. Innocence is dragged To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom. The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe, Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet; Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!

ARCHBISHOP. Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?

MARFA. Can terror blind your monarch so, that he Should hope deliverance from me—from me— Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong? I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven Restores me by a miracle from the grave, And to please him, the butcher of my house, Who piled upon me woes unspeakable? Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sent In the sad evening of my heavy anguish? No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me, I have thee fast, I will not let thee free. Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last! At last launch forth against mine enemy The long-pent anger of my inmost soul! Who was it, who, That shut me up within this living tomb, In all the strength and freshness of my youth, With all its feelings glowing in my breast? Who from my bosom rent my darling son, And chartered ruffian hands to take his life? Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered, When, with a yearning that would not be still, I watched throughout the long, long starry nights, And noted with my tears the hours elapse! The day of succor comes, and of revenge; I see the mighty glorying in his might.

ARCHBISHOP. You think the Czar will dread you—you mistake.

MARFA. He's in my power—one little word from me, One only, sets the seal upon his fate! It was for this thy master sent thee here! The eyes of Russia and of Poland now Are closely bent upon me. If I own The Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine, Then all will do him homage; his the throne. If I disown him, then he is undone; For who will credit that his rightful mother, A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I, Could from her heart repulse its darling child, To league with the despoilers of her house? I need but speak one word and all the world Deserts him as a traitor. Is't not so? This word you wish from me. That mighty service, Confess, I can perform for Godunow!

ARCHBISHOP. Thou wouldst perform it for thy country, and Avert the dread calamities of war, Shouldst thou do homage to the truth. Thyself, Ay, thou hast ne'er a doubt thy son is dead; And couldst thou testify against thy conscience?

MARFA. These sixteen years I've mourned his death; but yet I ne'er have seen his ashes. I believed His death, there trusting to the general voice And my sad heart—I now believe he lives, Trusting the general voice and my strong hope. 'Twere impious, with audacious doubts, to seek To set a bound to the Almighty's will; And even were he not my heart's dear son, Yet should he be the son of my revenge. In my child's room I take him to my breast, Whom heaven has sent me to avenge my wrongs.

ARCHBISHOP. Unhappy one, dost thou defy the strong? From his far-reaching arm thou art not safe Even in the convent's distant solitude.

MARFA. Kill me he may, and stifle in the grave, Or dungeon's gloom, my woman's voice, that it Shall not reverberate throughout the world. This he may do; but force me to speak aught Against my will, that can he not; though backed By all thy craft—no, he has missed his aim!

ARCHBISHOP. Is this thy final purpose. Ponder well! Hast thou no gentler message for the Czar?

MARFA. Tell him to hope for heaven, if so he dare, And for his people's love, if so he can.

ARCHBISHOP. Enough! thou art bent on thy destruction. Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee; One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both.

[Exit.

MARFA. It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he. Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole, The palatine, doth stake his noble daughter On the pure gold of his most righteous cause, And I alone reject him—I, his mother? I, only I, shook not beneath the storm Of joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl, And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth. He is my son—I must, will trust in him, And grasp with living confidence the hand Which heaven hath sent for my deliverance. 'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts, To set me free, and to avenge my shame! Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang! Ye nations come—come from the east and south. Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woods Of every tongue, of every raiment come! Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel! Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves, And throng around the banners of your king! Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here, A prisoned soul with longings infinite! Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball, Be thou the messenger of my desires! Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'st With lightning speed to earth's remotest bound, Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart. My prayers are all I have to give; but these I pour all glowing from my inmost soul, And send them up to heaven on wings of flame, Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.



SCENE II.

A height crowned with trees. A wide and smiling landscape occupies the background, which is traversed by a beautiful river, and enlivened by the budding green of spring. At various points the towers of several towns are visible. Drums and martial music without. Enter ODOWALSKY, and other officers, and immediately afterwards DEMETRIUS.

ODOWALSKY. Go, lead the army downward by the wood, Whilst we look round us here upon the height.

[Exeunt some of the officers.

Enter DEMETRIUS.

DEMETRIUS (starting back). Ha! what a prospect!

ODOWALSKY. Sire, thou see'st thy kingdom Spread out before thee. That is Russian land.

RAZIN. Why, e'en this pillar here bears Moscow's arms; Here terminates the empire of the Poles.

DEMETRIUS. Is that the Dnieper, rolls its quiet stream Along these meadows?

ODOWALSKY. That, sire, is the Desna; See, yonder rise the towers of Tschernizow!

RAZIN. Yon gleam you see upon the far horizon Is from the roofs of Sewerisch Novogrod.

DEMETRIUS. What a rich prospect! What fair meadow lands!

ODOWALSKY. The spring has decked them with her trim array; A teeming harvest clothes the fruitful soil.

DEMETRIUS. The view is lost in limitless expanse.

RAZIN. Yet is this but a small beginning, sire, Of Russia's mighty empire. For it spreads Towards the east to confines unexplored, And on the north has ne'er a boundary, Save the productive energy of earth. Behold, our Czar is quite absorbed in thought.

DEMETRIUS. On these fair meads dwell peace, unbroken peace, And with war's terrible array I come To scatter havoc, like a listed foe!

ODOWALSKY. Hereafter 'twill be time to think of that.

DEMETRIUS. Thou feelest as a Pole, I am Moscow's son. It is the land to which I owe my life; Forgive me, thou dear soil, land of my home, Thou sacred boundary-pillar, which I clasp, Whereon my sire his broad-spread eagle graved, That I, thy son, with foreign foemen's arms, Invade the tranquil temple of thy peace. 'Tis to reclaim my heritage I come, And the proud name that has been stolen from me. Here the Varegers, my forefathers, ruled, In lengthened line, for thirty generations; I am the last of all their lineage, snatched From murder by God's special providence.



SCENE III.

A Russian village. An open square before a church. The tocsin is heard. GLEB, ILIA, and TIMOSKA rush in, armed with hatchets.

GLEB (entering from a house). Why are they running?

ILIA (entering from another house). Who has tolled the bell.

TIMOSKA. Neighbors, come forth! Come all, to council come!

[Enter OLEG and IGOR, with many other peasants, women and children, who carry bundles.

GLEB. Whence come ye hither with your wives and children?

IGOR. Fly, fly! The Pole has fallen upon the land At Maromesk, and slaughters all he finds.

OLEG. Fly into the interior—to strong towns! We've fired our cottages, there's not a soul Left in the village, and we're making now Up country for the army of the Czar.

TIMOSKA. Here comes another troop of fugitives.

[IWANSKA and PETRUSCHKA, with armed peasantry, enter on different sides.

IWANSKA. Long live the Czar! The mighty prince Dmitri!

GLEB. How! What is this!

ILIA. What do you mean?

TIMOSKA. Who are you?

PETRUSCHKA. Join all who're loyal to our princely line!

TIMOSKA. What means all this? There a whole village flies Up country to escape the Poles, while you Make for the very point whence these have fled, To join the standard of the country's foe!

PETRUSCHKA. What foe? It is no foe that comes; it is The people's friend, the emperor's rightful heir.

* * * * *

The POSADMIK (the village judge) enters to read a manifesto by Demetrius. Vacillation of the inhabitants of the village between the two parties. The peasant women are the first to be won over to Demetrius, and turn the scale.

Camp of DEMETRIUS. He is worsted in the first action, but the army of the Czar Boris conquers in a manner against its will, and does not follow up its advantages. Demetrius, in despair, is about to destroy himself, and is with difficulty prevented from doing so by Korela and Odowalsky. Overbearing demeanor of the Cossacks even to DEMETRIUS.

Camp of the army of the CZAR BORIS. He is absent himself, and this injures his cause, as he is feared but not loved. His army is strong, but not to be relied on. The leaders are not unanimous, and partly incline to the side of Demetrius from a variety of motives. One of their number, Soltikow, declares for him from conviction. His adherence is attended with the most important results; a large portion of the army deserts to DEMETRIUS.

BORIS in Moscow. He still maintains his position as absolute ruler, and has faithful servants around him; but already he is discomposed by evil tidings. He is withheld from joining the army by apprehension of a rebellion in Moscow. He is also ashamed as Czar to enter the field in person against a traitor. Scene between him and the archbishop.

Bad news pours in from all sides, and Boris' danger grows momently more imminent. He hears of the revolt of the peasantry and the provincial towns,—of the inactivity and mutiny of the army,—of the commotions in Moscow,—of the advance of Demetrius. Romanow, whom he has deeply wronged, arrives in Moscow. This gives rise to new apprehensions. Now come the tidings that the Boiars are flying to the camp of Demetrius, and that the whole army has gone over to him.

BORIS and AXINIA. The Czar appears in a touching aspect as father, and in the dialogue with his daughter unfolds his inmost nature.

BORIS has made his way to the throne by crime, but undertaken and fulfilled all the duties of a monarch; to the country he is a valuable prince and a true father of his people. It is only in his personal dealings with individuals that he is cunning, revengeful, and cruel. His spirit as well as his rank elevates him above all that surround him. The long possession of supreme power, the habit of ruling over men, and the despotic form of government, have so nursed his pride that it is impossible for him to outlive his greatness. He sees clearly what awaits him; but still he is Czar, and not degraded, though he resolves to die.

He believes in forewarnings, and in his present mood things appear to him of significance which, on other occasions, he had despised. A particular circumstance, in which he seems to hear the voice of destiny, decides him.

Shortly before his death his nature changes; he grows milder, even towards the messengers of evil, and is ashamed of the bursts of rage with which he had received them before. He permits the worst to be told to him, and even rewards the narrator.

So soon as he learns the misfortune that seals his fate, he leaves the stage without further explanation, with composure and resignation. Shortly afterwards he returns in the habit of a monk, and removes his daughter from the sight of his last moments. She is to seek protection from insult in a cloister; his son, Feodor, as a child, will perhaps have less to fear. He takes poison, and enters a retired chamber to die in peace.

General confusion at the tidings of the Czar's death. The Boiars form an imperial council and rule in the Kremlin. Romanow (afterwards Czar, and founder of the now ruling house) enters at the head of an armed force, swears, on the bosom of the Czar, an oath of allegiance to his son Feodor, and compels the Boiars to follow his example. Revenge and ambition are far from his soul; he pursues only justice. He loves Axinia without hope, and is, without knowing it, beloved by her in return.

ROMANOW hastens to the army to secure it for the young Czar. Insurrection in Moscow, brought about by the adherents of Demetrius. The people drag the Boiars from their houses, make themselves masters of Feodor and Axinia—put them in prison, and send delegates to Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS in Tula, at the pinnacle of success. The army is his own; the keys of numerous towns are brought to him. Moscow alone appears to offer resistance. He is mild and amiable, testifies a noble emotion at the intelligence of the death of Boris, pardons a detected conspiracy against his life, despises the servile adulations of the Russians, and is for sending them away. The Poles, on the other hand, by whom he is surrounded, are rude and violent, and treat the Russians with contempt. Demetrius longs for a meeting with his mother, and sends a messenger to Marina.

Among the multitude of Russians who throng around Demetrius in Tula appears a man whom he at once recognizes; he is greatly delighted to see him. He bids all the rest withdraw, and so soon as he is alone with this man he thanks him, with full heart, as his preserver and benefactor. This person hints that Demetrius is under especial obligations to him, and to a greater extent than he is himself aware. Demetrius urges him to explain, and the assassin of the genuine Demetrius thereupon discloses the real facts of the case. For this murder he had received no recompense, but on the contrary had nothing but death to anticipate from Boris. Thirsting for revenge, he stumbled upon a boy, whose resemblance to the Czar Ivan struck him. This circumstance must be turned to account. He seized the boy, fled with him from Uglitsch, brought him to a monk, whom he succeeded in gaining over for his ends, and delivered to him the trinkets which he had himself taken from the murdered Demetrius. By means of this boy, whom he had never lost sight of, and whose steps he had attended upon all occasions without being observed, he is now revenged. His tool, the false Demetrius, rules over Russia in Boris' room.

During this narration a mighty change comes over Demetrius. His silence is awful. In the moment of the highest rage and despair, the assassin drives him to the extreme of endurance, when with a defying and insolent air he demands his reward. Demetrius strikes him to the earth.

Soliloquy of Demetrius. Internal conflict; but the feeling of the necessity for maintaining his position as Czar is triumphant.

The delegates from Moscow arrive, and submit themselves to Demetrius. They are received gloomily, and with a menacing demeanor. Among them is the Patriarch. Demetrius deposes him from his dignity, and soon afterwards sentences to death a Russian of rank, who had questioned the authenticity of his birth.

MARFA and OLGA await Demetrius under a magnificent tent. Marfa speaks of the approaching interview with more doubt and fear than hope, and trembles as the moment draws near which should assure her highest happiness. Olga speaks to her, herself without faith. During the long journey they have both had time to recall the whole circumstances; the first exultation had given place to reflection. The gloomy silence and the repulsive glances of the guards who surround the tent serve still further to augment their despondency.

The trumpets sound. Marfa is irresolute whether she shall advance to meet Demetrius. Now he stands before her alone. The little that was left of hope in her heart altogether vanishes on seeing him. An unknown something steps between them—Nature does not speak—they are separated forever. The first impulse is an endeavor to approach; Marfa is the first to make a movement to recede. Demetrius observes it, and remains for a moment paralyzed. Significant silence.

DEMETRIUS. Does thy heart say nothing? Dost thou not recognize thy blood in me?

MARFA is silent.

DEMETRIUS. The voice of nature is holy and free; I will neither constrain nor belie it. Had thy heart spoken at the first glance then had mine answered it; thou shouldst have found a pious, loving son in me. The claim of duty would have concurred with inclination and heartfelt affection. But if thou dost not feel as a mother for me, then, think as a princess, command thyself as a queen! Fate unexpectedly gave me to thee as a son; accept me as a gift of heaven. Though even I were not thy son, which I now appear to be, still I rob thy son of nothing. I stripped it from thy foe. Thee and thy blood have I avenged; I have delivered thee from the grave in which thou went entombed alive, and led thee back into the royal seat. That thy destiny is linked with mine thou knowest. With me thou standest, and with me must fall. All the people's eyes are upon us. I hate deception, and what I do not feel I may not show; but I do really feel a reverence for thee, and this feeling, which bends my knee before thee, comes from my heart.

[Dumb show of MARFA, to indicate her internal emotion.

DEMETRIUS. Make thy resolve! Let that which nature will not prompt be the free act of thy will! I ask no hypocrisy—no falsehood, from thee; I ask genuine feelings. Do not seem to be my mother, but be so. Throw the past from thee—grasp the present with thy whole heart! If I am not thy son yet I am the Czar—I have power and success upon my side. He who lies in his grave is dust; he has no heart to love thee, no eye to smile upon thee. Turn to the living.

[MARFA bursts into tears.

DEMETRIUS. Oh, these golden drops are welcome to me. Let them flow! Show thyself thus to the people!

[At a signal from DEMETRIUS the tent is thrown open, and the assembled Russians become spectators of this scene.

Entrance of Demetrius into Moscow. Great splendor, but of a military kind. Poles and Cossacks compose the procession. Gloom and terror mingle with the demonstrations of joy. Distrust and misfortune surround the whole.

Romanow, who came to the army too late, has returned to Moscow to protect Feodor and Axinia. It is all in vain; he is himself thrown into prison. Axinia flies to Marfa, and at her feet implores protection against the Poles. Here Demetrius sees her, and a violent and irresistible passion is kindled in his breast. Axinia detests him.

DEMETRIUS as Czar. A fearful element sustains him, but he does not control it: he is urged on by the force of strange passions. His inward consciousness betokens a general distrust; he has no friend on whom he can rely. Poles and Cossacks, by their insolent licentiousness, injure him in the popular opinion. Even that which is creditable to him—his popular manners, simplicity, and contempt of stiff ceremonial, occasions dissatisfaction. Occasionally he offends, through inadvertency, the usages of the country. He persecutes the monks because he suffered severely under them. Moreover, he is not exempt from despotic caprices in the moments of offended pride. Odowalsky knows how to make himself at all times indispensable to him, removes the Russians to a distance, and maintains his overruling influence.

DEMETRIUS meditates inconstancy to Marina. He confers upon the point with the Archbishop Iob, who, in order to get rid of the Poles, falls in with his desire, and puts before him an exalted picture of the imperial power.

MARINA appears with a vast retinue in Moscow. Meeting with Demetrius. Hollow and cold meeting on both sides; she, however, wears her disguise with greater skill. She urges an immediate marriage. Preparations are made for a magnificent festival.

By the orders of Marina a cup of poison is brought to Axinia. Death is welcome to her; she was afraid of being forced to the altar with the Czar.

Violent grief of Demetrius. With a broken heart he goes to the betrothal with Marina.

After the marriage Marina discloses to him that she does not consider him to be the true Demetrius, and never did. She then coldly leaves him in a state of extreme anguish and dismay.

Meanwhile SCHINSKOI, one of the former generals of the Czar Boris, avails himself of the growing discontent of the people, and becomes the head of a conspiracy against Demetrius.

ROMANOW, in prison, is comforted by a supernatural apparition. Axinia's spirit stands before him, opens to him a prospect of happier times in store, and enjoins him calmly to allow destiny to ripen, and not to stain himself with blood. ROMANOW receives a hint that he may himself be called to the throne. Soon afterwards he is solicited to take part in the conspiracy, but declines.

SOLTIKOW reproaches himself bitterly for having betrayed his country to Demetrius. But he will not be a second time a traitor, and adheres, from principle and against his feelings, to the party which he has once adopted. As the misfortune has happened, he seeks at least to alleviate it, and to enfeeble the power of the Poles. He pays for this effort with his life; but he accepts death as a merited punishment, and confesses this when dying to Demetrius himself.

CASIMIR, a brother of LODOISKA, a young Polish lady, who has been secretly and hopelessly attached to Demetrius, in the house of the Waywode of Sendomir, has, at his sister's request, accompanied Demetrius in the campaign, and in every encounter defended him bravely. In the moment of danger, when all the other retainers of Demetrius think only of their personal safety, Casimir alone remains faithful to him, and sacrifices life in his defence.

The conspiracy breaks out. Demetrius is with Marfa when the leading conspirators force their way into the room. The dignity and courage of Demetrius have a momentary effect upon the rebels. He nearly succeeds in disarming them by a promise to place the Poles at their disposal. But at this point SCHINSKOI rushes in with an infuriated band. An explicit declaration is demanded from the ex-empress; she is required to swear, upon the cross, that Demetrius is her son. To testify against her conscience in a manner so solemn is impossible. She turns from Demetrius in silence, and is about to withdraw. "Is she silent?" exclaims the tumultuous throng. "Does she disown him?" "Then, traitor, die!" and Demetrius falls, pierced by their swords, at Marfa's feet.



MARY STUART.

A TRAGEDY.

By Frederich Schiller



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

ELIZABETH, Queen of England. MARY STUART, Queen of Scots, a Prisoner in England. ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester. GEORGE TALBOT, Earl of Shrewsbury. WILLIAM CECIL, Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer. EARL OF KENT. SIR WILLIAM DAVISON, Secretary of State. SIR AMIAS PAULET, Keeper of MARY. SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, his Nephew. COUNT L'AUBESPINE, the French Ambassador. O'KELLY, Mortimer's Friend. COUNT BELLIEVRE, Envoy Extraordinary from France. SIR DRUE DRURY, another Keeper of MARY. SIR ANDREW MELVIL, her House Steward. BURGOYNE, her Physician. HANNAH KENNEDY, her Nurse. MARGARET CURL, her Attendant. Sheriff of the County. Officer of the Guard. French and English Lords. Soldiers. Servants of State belonging to ELIZABETH. Servants and Female Attendants of the Queen of Scots.



ACT I.

SCENE I.

A common apartment in the Castle of Fotheringay.

HANNAH KENNEDY, contending violently with PAULET, who is about to break open a closet; DRURY with an iron crown.

KENNEDY. How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here? Back from that cabinet!

PAULET. Whence came the jewel? I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown; And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets. A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of all My strict precaution and my active search, Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed! And doubtless there are more where this lay hid.

[Advancing towards the cabinet.

KENNEDY. Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets.

PAULET. Exactly what I seek. [Drawing forth papers.

KENNEDY. Mere trifling papers; The amusements only of an idle pen, To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon.

PAULET. In idle hours the evil mind is busy.

KENNEDY. Those writings are in French.

PAULET. So much the worse! That tongue betokens England's enemy.

KENNEDY. Sketches of letters to the Queen of England.

PAULET. I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here?

[He touches a secret spring, and draws out jewels from a private drawer.

A royal diadem enriched with stones, And studded with the fleur-de-lis of France.

[He hands it to his assistant.

Here, take it, Drury; lay it with the rest.

[Exit DRURY.

[And ye have found the means to hide from us Such costly things, and screen them, until now, From our inquiring eyes?]

KENNEDY. Oh, insolent And tyrant power, to which we must submit.

PAULET. She can work ill as long as she hath treasures; For all things turn to weapons in her hands.

KENNEDY (supplicating). Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us not Of the last jewel that adorns our life! 'Tis my poor lady's only joy to view This symbol of her former majesty; Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest.

PAULET. 'Tis in safe custody; in proper time 'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care.

KENNEDY. Who that beholds these naked walls could say That majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne? Where the imperial canopy of state? Must she not set her tender foot, still used To softest treading, on the rugged ground? With common pewter, which the lowliest dame Would scorn, they furnish forth her homely table.

PAULET. Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once; And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold.

KENNEDY. Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld.

PAULET. The contemplation of her own vain image Incites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds.

KENNEDY. Books are denied her to divert her mind.

PAULET. The Bible still is left to mend her heart.

KENNEDY. Even of her very lute she is deprived!

PAULET. Because she tuned it to her wanton airs.

KENNEDY. Is this a fate for her, the gentle born, Who in her very cradle was a queen? Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court, Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure? Was't not enough to rob her of her power, Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel? A noble heart in time resigns itself To great calamities with fortitude; But yet it cuts one to the soul to part At once with all life's little outward trappings!

PAULET. These are the things that turn the human heart To vanity, which should collect itself In penitence; for a lewd, vicious life, Want and abasement are the only penance.

KENNEDY. If youthful blood has led her into error, With her own heart and God she must account: There is no judge in England over her.

PAULET. She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.

KENNEDY. Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.

PAULET. And yet she found the means to stretch her arm Into the world, from out these narrow bonds, And, with the torch of civil war, inflame This realm against our queen (whom God preserve). And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouse From out these walls the malefactor Parry, And Babington, to the detested crime Of regicide? And did this iron grate Prevent her from decoying to her toils The virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we not The first, best head in all this island fall A sacrifice for her upon the block? [The noble house of Howard fell with him.] And did this sad example terrify These mad adventurers, whose rival zeal Plunges for her into this deep abyss? The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weight Of her new daily victims; and we ne'er Shall see an end till she herself, of all The guiltiest, be offered up upon it. Oh! curses on the day when England took This Helen to its hospitable arms.

KENNEDY. Did England then receive her hospitably? Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal day When first she set her foot within this realm, And, as a suppliant—a fugitive— Came to implore protection from her sister, Has been condemned, despite the law of nations, And royal privilege, to weep away The fairest years of youth in prison walls. And now, when she hath suffered everything Which in imprisonment is hard and bitter, Is like a felon summoned to the bar, Foully accused, and though herself a queen, Constrained to plead for honor and for life.

PAULET. She came amongst us as a murderess, Chased by her very subjects from a throne Which she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced. Sworn against England's welfare came she hither, To call the times of bloody Mary back, Betray our church to Romish tyranny, And sell our dear-bought liberties to France. Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treaty Of Edinborough—to resign her claim To England's crown—and with one single word, Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates? No:—she had rather live in vile confinement, And see herself ill-treated, than renounce The empty honors of her barren title. Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles, And treacherous arts of base conspiracy; And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopes To conquer, from her prison, all this isle.

KENNEDY. You mock us, sir, and edge your cruelty With words of bitter scorn:—that she should form Such projects; she, who's here immured alive, To whom no sound of comfort, not a voice Of friendship comes from her beloved home; Who hath so long no human face beheld, Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows; Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousin She sees a second keeper, and beholds Fresh bolts and bars against her multiplied.

PAULET. No iron-grate is proof against her wiles. How do I know these bars are not filed through? How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strong Without, may not be hollow from within, And let in felon treachery when I sleep? Accursed office, that's intrusted to me, To guard this cunning mother of all ill! Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the night I, like a troubled spirit, roam and try The strength of every bolt, and put to proof Each guard's fidelity:—I see, with fear, The dawning of each morn, which may confirm My apprehensions:—yet, thank God, there's hope That all my fears will soon be at an end; For rather would I at the gates of hell Stand sentinel, and guard the devilish host Of damned souls, than this deceitful queen.

KENNEDY. Here comes the queen.

PAULET. Christ's image in her hand. Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.



SCENE II.

The same. Enter MARY, veiled, a crucifix in her hand.

KENNEDY (hastening toward her). O gracious queen! they tread us under foot; No end of tyranny and base oppression; Each coming day heaps fresh indignities, New sufferings on thy royal head.

MARY. Be calm— Say, what has happened?

KENNEDY. See! thy cabinet Is forced—thy papers—and thy only treasure, Which with such pains we had secured, the last Poor remnant of thy bridal ornaments From France, is in his hands—naught now remains Of royal state—thou art indeed bereft!

MARY. Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me, 'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen— Basely indeed they may behave to us, But they cannot debase us. I have learned To use myself to many a change in England; I can support this too. Sir, you have taken By force what I this very day designed To have delivered to you. There's a letter Amongst these papers for my royal sister Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor, To give it to her majesty's own hands, And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.

PAULET. I shall consider what is best to do.

MARY. Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter I beg a favor, a great favor of her,— That she herself will give me audience,—she Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er Acknowledge as my peers—of men to whom My heart denies its confidence. The queen Is of my family, my rank, my sex; To her alone—a sister, queen, and woman— Can I unfold my heart.

PAULET. Too oft, my lady, Have you intrusted both your fate and honor To men less worthy your esteem than these.

MARY. I, in the letter, beg another favor, And surely naught but inhumanity Can here reject my prayer. These many years Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort, The blessings of the sacraments—and she Who robs me of my freedom and my crown, Who seeks my very life, can never wish To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.

PAULET. Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.

MARY (interrupting him sharply). Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aid Of one of my own church—a Catholic priest.

PAULET. [That is against the published laws of England.

MARY. The laws of England are no rule for me. I am not England's subject; I have ne'er Consented to its laws, and will not bow Before their cruel and despotic sway. If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor Which I have borne, to add this new oppression, I must submit to what your power ordains; Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.] I also wish a public notary, And secretaries, to prepare my will— My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness Prey on my life—my days, I fear, are numbered— I feel that I am near the gates of death.

PAULET. These serious contemplations well become you.

MARY. And know I then that some too ready hand May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow? I would indite my will and make disposal Of what belongs tome.

PAULET. This liberty May be allowed to you, for England's queen Will not enrich herself by plundering you.

MARY. I have been parted from my faithful women, And from my servants; tell me, where are they? What is their fate? I can indeed dispense At present with their service, but my heart Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones Are not exposed to suffering and to want!

PAULET. Your servants have been cared for; [and again You shall behold whate'er is taken from you And all shall be restored in proper season.]

[Going.

MARY. And will you leave my presence thus again, And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart From the fell torments of uncertainty? Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies, I am divided from the world; no voice Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin. A month of dread suspense is passed already Since when the forty high commissioners Surprised me in this castle, and erected, With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal; They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared, Without an advocate, from memory, Before their unexampled court, to answer Their weighty charges, artfully arranged. They came like ghosts,—like ghosts they disappeared, And since that day all mouths are closed to me. In vain I seek to construe from your looks Which hath prevailed—my cause's innocence And my friends' zeal—or my foes' cursed counsel. Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst; What have I still to fear, and what to hope.

PAULET. Close your accounts with heaven.

MARY. From heaven I hope For mercy, sir; and from my earthly judges I hope, and still expect, the strictest justice.

PAULET. Justice, depend upon it, will be done you.

MARY. Is the suit ended, sir?

PAULET. I cannot tell.

MARY. Am I condemned?

PAULET. I cannot answer, lady.

MARY. [Sir, a good work fears not the light of day.

PAULET. The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.]

MARY. Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?

PAULET. Still entertain that thought and he will find you Better prepared to meet your fate than they did.

MARY (after a pause). Sir, nothing can surprise me which a court Inspired by Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal, Howe'er unjust, may venture to pronounce: But I have yet to learn how far the queen Will dare in execution of the sentence.

PAULET. The sovereigns of England have no fear But for their conscience and their parliament. What justice hath decreed her fearless hand Will execute before the assembled world.



SCENE III.

The same. MORTIMER enters, and without paying attention to the QUEEN, addresses PAULET.

MORTIMER. Uncle, you're sought for.

[He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, and turns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him.

MARY. Sir, one favor more If you have aught to say to me—from you I can bear much—I reverence your gray hairs; But cannot bear that young man's insolence; Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness.

PAULET. I prize him most for that which makes you hate him He is not, truly, one of those poor fools Who melt before a woman's treacherous tears. He has seen much—has been to Rheims and Paris, And brings us back his true old English heart. Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him.

[Exit.



SCENE IV.

MARY, KENNEDY.

KENNEDY. And dare the ruffian venture to your face Such language! Oh, 'tis hard—'tis past endurance.

MARY (lost in reflection). In the fair moments of our former splendor We lent to flatterers a too willing ear;— It is but just, good Hannah, we should now Be forced to hear the bitter voice of censure.

KENNEDY. So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady! You, who before so gay, so full of hope, Were used to comfort me in my distress; More gracious were the task to check your mirth Than chide your heavy sadness.

MARY. Well I know him— It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade, Rising in anger from his darksome grave And never will he make his peace with me Until the measures of my woes be full.

KENNEDY. What thoughts are these—

MARY. Thou may'st forget it, Hannah; But I've a faithful memory—'tis this day Another wretched anniversary Of that regretted, that unhappy deed— Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.

KENNEDY. Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit. The penitence of many a heavy year, Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed; The church, which holds the key of absolution, Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.

MARY. This long-atoned crime arises fresh And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave; My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge; No sacred bell can exorcise, no host In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.

KENNEDY. You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.

MARY. But it was known to me; I suffered it, And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.

KENNEDY. Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were Of tender years.

MARY. So tender, yet I drew This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.

KENNEDY. You were provoked by direst injuries, And by the rude presumption of the man, Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven, Your love drew forth, and raised above all others. Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted Up to your throne, and with your lovely self, And your hereditary crown, distinguished [Your work was his existence, and your grace Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.] Could he forget that his so splendid lot Was the creation of your generous love? Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it. With base suspicions, and with brutal manners, He wearied your affections, and became An object to you of deserved disgust: The illusion, which till now had overcast Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn. And did he seek again to win your love? Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon? Or fall in deep repentance at your feet? No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king, [And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.] Before your eyes he had your favorite singer, Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge With blood the bloody deed——

MARY. And bloodily, I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me: You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.

KENNEDY. You were, when you consented to this deed, No more yourself; belonged not to yourself; The madness of a frantic love possessed you, And bound you to a terrible seducer, The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will, And with his philters and his hellish arts Inflamed your passions.

MARY. All the arts he used Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.

KENNEDY. No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits Of hell he must have summoned to his aid, To cast this mist before your waking senses. Your ear no more was open to the voice Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut To decency; soft female bashfulness Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty, Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire. You cast away the veil of secrecy, And the flagitious daring of the man O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze: You let the murderer, whom the people followed With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh, Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland In triumph. You begirt your parliament With armed bands; and by this shameless farce, There, in the very temple of great justice, You forced the judges of the land to clear The murderer of his guilt. You went still further— O God!

MARY. Conclude—nay, pause not—say for this I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.

KENNEDY. O let an everlasting silence veil That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it. A crime to stain the darkest criminal! Yet you are no such lost one, that I know. I nursed your youth myself—your heart is framed For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame, And all your fault is thoughtless levity. Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits, Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast Their fatal residence, and there delight To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back Unto their native hell, and leave behind Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom. Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life, You have done nothing ill; your conduct has Been pure; myself can witness your amendment. Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace. Whatever cause you have for penitence, You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen, Nor England's parliament can be your judge. Here might oppresses you: you may present Yourself before this self-created court With all the fortitude of innocence.

MARY. I hear a step.

KENNEDY. It is the nephew—In.



SCENE V.

The same. Enter MORTIMER, approaching cautiously.

MORTIMER (to KENNEDY). Step to the door, and keep a careful watch, I have important business with the queen.

MARY (with dignity). I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence—remain.

MORTIMER. Fear not, my gracious lady—learn to know me.

[He gives her a card.

MARY (She examines it, and starts back astonished). Heavens! What is this?

MORTIMER (to KENNEDY). Retire, good Kennedy; See that my uncle comes not unawares.

MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly). Go in; do as he bids you.

[KENNEDY retires with signs of wonder.



SCENE VI.

MARY, MORTIMER.

MARY. From my uncle In France—the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?

[She reads.

"Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this; You have no truer, firmer friend in England."

[Looking at him with astonishment.

Can I believe it? Is there no delusion To cheat my senses? Do I find a friend So near, when I conceived myself abandoned By the whole world? And find that friend in you, The nephew of my gaoler, whom I thought My most inveterate enemy?

MORTIMER (kneeling). Oh, pardon, My gracious liege, for the detested mask, Which it has cost me pain enough to wear; Yet through such means alone have I the power To see you, and to bring you help and rescue.

MARY. Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannot So suddenly emerge from the abyss Of wretchedness to hope: let me conceive This happiness, that I may credit it.

MORTIMER. Our time is brief: each moment I expect My uncle, whom a hated man attends; Hear, then, before his terrible commission Surprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue.

MARY. You come in token of its wondrous power.

MORTIMER. Allow me of myself to speak.

MARY. Say on.

MORTIMER. I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years, Trained in the path of strictest discipline And nursed in deadliest hate to papacy, When led by irresistible desire For foreign travel, I resolved to leave My country and its puritanic faith Far, far behind me: soon with rapid speed I flew through France, and bent my eager course On to the plains of far-famed Italy. 'Twas then the time of the great jubilee: And crowds of palmers filled the public roads; Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twas As if all human-kind were wandering forth In pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom. The tide of the believing multitude Bore me too onward, with resistless force, Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder, As the magnificence of stately columns Rushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches, The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazement Struck my admiring senses; the sublime Creative spirit held my soul a prisoner In the fair world of wonders it had framed. I ne'er had felt the power of art till now. The church that reared me hates the charms of sense; It tolerates no image, it adores But the unseen, the incorporeal word. What were my feelings, then, as I approached The threshold of the churches, and within, Heard heavenly music floating in the air: While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed Crowds of celestial forms in endless train— When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded My captivated sense in real presence! And when I saw the great and godlike visions, The Salutation, the Nativity, The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's Descent, the luminous transfiguration And last the holy pontiff, clad in all The glory of his office, bless the people! Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels With which the kings of earth adorn themselves! He is alone surrounded by the Godhead; His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom, For not of earthly moulding are these forms!

MARY. O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes, Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.

MORTIMER. I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift My prison-gates flew open, when at once My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst Each narrow prejudice of education, To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths, And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd. Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal, Encouraged me, and with the gallant French They kindly led me to your princely uncle, The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man! How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great! Born to control the human mind at will! The very model of a royal priest; A ruler of the church without an equal!

MARY. You've seen him then,—the much loved, honored man, Who was the guardian of my tender years! Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me? Does fortune favor him? And prospers still His life? And does he still majestic stand, A very rock and pillar of the church?

MORTIMER. The holy man descended from his height, And deigned to teach me the important creed Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts. He showed me how the glimmering light of reason Serves but to lead us to eternal error: That what the heart is called on to believe The eye must see: that he who rules the church Must needs be visible; and that the spirit Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers. How vanished then the fond imaginings And weak conceptions of my childish soul Before his conquering judgment, and the soft Persuasion of his tongue! So I returned Back to the bosom of the holy church, And at his feet abjured my heresies.

MARY. Then of those happy thousands you are one, Whom he, with his celestial eloquence, Like the immortal preacher of the mount, Has turned and led to everlasting joy!

MORTIMER. The duties of his office called him soon To France, and I was sent by him to Rheims, Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priests Are trained to preach our holy faith in England. There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan, And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop, Who pass in France their joyless days of exile. I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men, And fortified my faith. As I one day Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struck With a fair female portrait; it was full Of touching wond'rous charms; with magic might It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings. "Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thus In deep emotion near this lovely face! For the most beautiful of womankind, Is also matchless in calamity. She is a prisoner for our holy faith, And in your native land, alas! she suffers."

[MARY is in great agitation. He pauses.

MARY. Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed, While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!

MORTIMER. Then he began, with moving eloquence, To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom; He showed me then your lofty pedigree, And your descent from Tudor's royal house. He proved to me that you alone have right To reign in England, not this upstart queen, The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed, Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard. [He from my eyes removed delusion's mist, And taught me to lament you as a victim, To honor you as my true queen, whom I, Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows, Had ever hated as my country's foe.] I would not trust his evidence alone; I questioned learned doctors; I consulted The most authentic books of heraldry; And every man of knowledge whom I asked Confirmed to me your claim's validity. And now I know that your undoubted right To England's throne has been your only wrong, This realm is justly yours by heritage, In which you innocently pine as prisoner.

MARY. Oh, this unhappy right!—'tis this alone Which is the source of all my sufferings.

MORTIMER. Just at this time the tidings reached my ears Of your removal from old Talbot's charge, And your committal to my uncle's care. It seemed to me that this disposal marked The wond'rous, outstretched hand of favoring heaven; It seemed to be a loud decree of fate, That it had chosen me to rescue you. My friends concur with me; the cardinal Bestows on me his counsel and his blessing, And tutors me in the hard task of feigning. The plan in haste digested, I commenced My journey homewards, and ten days ago On England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen.

[He pauses.

I saw then, not your picture, but yourself— Oh, what a treasure do these walls enclose! No prison this, but the abode of gods, More splendid far than England's royal court. Happy, thrice happy he, whose envied lot Permits to breathe the selfsame air with you! It is a prudent policy in her To bury you so deep! All England's youth Would rise at once in general mutiny, And not a sword lie quiet in its sheath: Rebellion would uprear its giant head, Through all this peaceful isle, if Britons once Beheld their captive queen.

MARY. 'Twere well with her, If every Briton saw her with your eyes!

MORTIMER. Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs, Your meekness, and the noble fortitude With which you suffer these indignities— Would you not then emerge from all these trials Like a true queen? Your prison's infamy, Hath it despoiled your beauty of its charms? You are deprived of all that graces life, Yet round you life and light eternal beam. Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot, That my poor heart with anguish is not torn, Nor ravished with delight at gazing on you. Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near, And danger hourly growing presses on. I can delay no longer—can no more Conceal the dreadful news.

MARY. My sentence then! It is pronounced? Speak freely—I can bear it.

MORTIMER. It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judges Have given the verdict, "guilty"; and the Houses Of Lords and Commons, with the citizens Of London, eagerly and urgently Demand the execution of the sentence:— The queen alone still craftily delays, That she may be constrained to yield, but not From feelings of humanity or mercy.

MARY (collected). Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified. I have been long prepared for such a message. Too well I know my judges. After all Their cruel treatment I can well conceive They dare not now restore my liberty. I know their aim: they mean to keep me here In everlasting bondage, and to bury, In the sepulchral darkness of my prison, My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.

MORTIMER. Oh, no, my gracious queen;—they stop not there: Oppression will not be content to do Its work by halves:—as long as e'en you live, Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen. No dungeon can inter you deep enough; Your death alone can make her throne secure.

MARY. Will she then dare, regardless of the shame, Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?

MORTIMER. She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.

MARY. And can she thus roll in the very dust Her own, and every monarch's majesty?

MORTIMER. She thinks on nothing now but present danger, Nor looks to that which is so far removed.

MARY. And fears she not the dread revenge of France?

MORTIMER. With France she makes an everlasting peace; And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.

MARY. Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?

MORTIMER. She fears not a collected world in arms? If with her people she remains at peace.

MARY. Were this a spectacle for British eyes?

MORTIMER. This land, my queen, has, in these latter days, Seen many a royal woman from the throne Descend and mount the scaffold:—her own mother And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path; And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?

MARY (after a pause). No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you; 'Tis but the honest care of your true heart, Which conjures up these empty apprehensions. It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear: There are so many still and secret means By which her majesty of England may Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere An executioner is found for me, Assassins will be hired to do their work. 'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer: I never lift the goblet to my lips Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught May have been mingled by my sister's love.

MORTIMER. No:—neither open or disguised murder Shall e'er prevail against you:—fear no more; All is prepared;—twelve nobles of the land Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day, Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you, With dauntless arm, from this captivity. Count Aubespine, the French ambassador, Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance: 'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.

NARY. You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy! An evil boding penetrates my heart. Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads, Set up as warnings upon London's bridge? Nor by the ruin of those many victims Who have, in such attempts, found certain death, And only made my chains the heavier? Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth! Fly, if there yet be time for you, before That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes, And mix his traitors in your secret plots. Fly hence:—as yet, success hath never smiled On Mary Stuart's champions.

MORTIMER. I am not scared By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads Set up as warnings upon London's bridge; Nor by the ruin of those many victims Who have, in such attempts, found certain death: They also found therein immortal honor, And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.

MARY. It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me:— My enemies are watchful, and the power Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only And his dependent host; all England guards My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will Alone can open them.

MORTIMER. Expect not that.

MARY. One man alone on earth can open them.

MORTIMER. Oh, let me know his name!

MARY. Lord Leicester.

MORTIMER. He!

[Starts back in wonder.

The Earl of Leicester! Your most bloody foe, The favorite of Elizabeth! through him——

MARY. If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir; Freely confide in him: and, as a proof You come from me, present this paper to him.