Act the First: Scene IV

ROSAURA. Since I now have seen how prideCan offend thee, I were hardenedSure in folly not here humblyAt thy feet for life to ask thee;Then to me extend thy pity,Since it were a special harshnessIf humility and pride,Both alike were disregarded.

CLARIN. If Humility and PrideThose two figures who have actedMany and many a thousand timesIn the "autos sacramentales",Do not move you, I, who am neitherProud nor humble, but a sandwichPartly mixed of both, entreat youTo extend to us your pardon.

CLOTALDO. Ho!

SOLDIERS. My lord?

CLOTALDO. Disarm the two,And their eyes securely bandage,So that they may not be ableTo see whither they are carried.

ROSAURA. This is, sir, my sword; to theeOnly would I wish to hand it,Since in fine of all the othersThou art chief, and I could hardlyYield it unto one less noble.

CLARIN. Mine I'll give the greatest rascalOf your troop: [To a Soldier.] so take it, you.

ROSAURA. And if I must die, to thank theeFor thy pity, I would leave theeThis as pledge, which has its valueFrom the owner who once wore it;That thou guard it well, I charge thee,For although I do not knowWhat strange secret it may carry,This I know, that some great mysteryLies within this golden scabbard,Since relying but on itI to Poland here have travelledTo revenge a wrong.

CLOTALDO [aside.] Just heavens!What is this? Still graver, darker,Grow my doubts and my confusion,My anxieties and my anguish.--Speak, who gave you this?

ROSAURA. A woman.

CLOTALDO. And her name?

ROSAURA. To that my answerMust be silence.

CLOTALDO. But from whatDo you now infer, or fancy,That this sword involves a secret?

ROSAURA. She who gave it said: "Depart henceInto Poland, and by study,Stratagem, and skill so manageThat this sword may be inspectedBy the nobles and the magnatesOf that land, for you, I know,Will by one of them be guarded,"--But his name, lest he was dead,Was not then to me imparted.

CLOTALDO [aside]. Bless me, Heaven! what's this I hear?For so strangely has this happened,That I cannot yet determineIf 'tis real or imagined.This is the same sword that ILeft with beauteous Violante,As a pledge unto its wearer,Who might seek me out thereafter,As a son that I would love him,And protect him as a father.What is to be done (ah, me!)In confusion so entangled,If he who for safety bore itBears it now but to dispatch him,Since condemned to death he comethTo my feet? How strange a marvel!What a lamentable fortune!How unstable! how unhappy!This must be my son -- the tokensAll declare it, superaddedTo the flutter of the heart,That to see him loudly rappethAt the breast, and not being ableWith its throbs to burst its chamber,Does as one in prison, who,Hearing tumult in the alley,Strives to look from out the window;Thus, not knowing what here passesSave the noise, the heart uprushethTo the eyes the cause to examine --They the windows of the heart,Out through which in tears it glances.What is to be done? (O Heavens!)What is to be done? To drag himNow before the King were death;But to hide him from my master,That I cannot do, accordingTo my duty as a vassal.Thus my loyalty and self-loveUpon either side attack me;Each would win. But wherefore doubt?Is not loyalty a grander,Nobler thing than life, than honour?Then let loyalty live, no matterThat he die; besides, he told me,If I well recall his language,That he came to revenge a wrong,But a wronged man is a lazar,--No, he cannot be my son,Not the son of noble fathers.But if some great chance, which no oneCan be free from, should have happened,Since the delicate sense of honourIs a thing so fine, so fragile,That the slightest touch may break it,Or the faintest breath may tarnish,What could he do more, do more,He whose cheek the blue blood mantles,But at many risks to have come hereIt again to re-establish?Yes, he is my son, my blood,Since he shows himself so manly.And thus then betwixt two doubtsA mid course alone is granted:'Tis to seek the King, and tell himWho he is, let what will happen.A desire to save my honourMay appease my royal master;Should he spare his life, I thenWill assist him in demandingHis revenge; but if the KingShould, persisting in his anger,Give him death, then he will dieWithout knowing I'm his father.--Come, then, come then with me, strangers.Do not fear in your disastersThat you will not have companionsIn misfortune; for so balancedAre the gains of life or death,That I know not which are larger.