Orra Act 4

GO in, I pray; thou wand'rest here too long.(A pause again.)The air is cold; behind those further mountainsThe sun is set. I pray thee now go in.

Or. Ha! sets the sun already? Is the dayIndeed drawn to its close?

Cath.Yes, night approaches.See, many a gather'd flock of cawing rooksAre to their nests returning.

Or. (solemnly.)Night approaches!—This awful night which living beings shrink from;All now of every kind scour to their haunts,While darkness, peopled with its hosts unknown,Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night!What things unutterable thy dark hoursMay lap!—What from thy teeming darkness burstOf horrid visitations, ere that sunAgain shall rise on the enlighten'd earth!(A pause.)

Cath. Why dost thou gaze intently on the sky?See'st thou aught wonderful?

Or. Look there; behold that strange gigantic formWhich yon grim cloud assumes; rearing aloftThe semblance of a warrior's plumed head,While from its half-shaped arm a streamy dartShoots angrily? Behind him, too, far stretch'd,Seems there not, verily, a seried lineOf fainter misty forms?

Cath. I see, indeed,A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed,Towering above the rest; and that behindIn misty faintness seen, which hath some likenessTo a long line of rocks with pine-wood crown'd:Or, if indeed the fancy so incline,A file of spearmen, seen thro' drifted smoke.

Or. Nay, look how perfect now the form becomes:Dost thou not see?—Aye, and more perfect still.O thou gigantic Lord, whose robed limbsBeneath their stride span half the heavens! art thouOf lifeless vapour form'd? Art thou not ratherSome air-clad spirit—some portentous thing—Some mission'd Being?—Such a sky as thisNe'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest.

Cath. Nay, many such I've seen; regard it not.That form, already changing, will ere longDissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer.Go in, I pray.

Or. No; while one gleam remainsOf the sun's blessed light, I will not go.

Cath. Then let me fetch a cloak to keep thee warm,For chilly blows the breeze.

Or.Do as thou wilt.[Exit Cath.

Enter an Outlaw, stealing softly behind her.

Out. (in a low voice.) Lady!—the Lady Orra!

Or. (starting.)Heaven protect me!Sounds it beneath my feet, in earth or air?

(He comes forward.)Welcome is aught that wears a human face.Did'st thou not hear a sound?

Out.What sound, an't please you?

Or. A voice which call'd me now: it spoke, methought.In a low, hollow tone, suppress'd and low,Unlike a human voice.

Out. It was my own.

Or. What would'st thou have?

Out.Here is a letter, Lady.

Or. Who sent thee hither?

Out.It will tell thee all. (Gives a letter.)I must be gone, your chieftain is at hand.[Exit.

Or. Comes it from Falkenstein? It is his seal.I may not read it here. I'll to my chamber.

[Exit hastily, not perceiving Rudigere, who enters by the opposite side, before she has time to get off.

Rud. A letter in her hand, and in such haste!Some secret agent here from Falkenstein?It must be so. (Hastening after her, exit.)

Theo. How now, good Captain; draws it near the time?Are those the keys?

Frank.They are: this doth unlockThe entrance to the staircase, known aloneTo Gomez, ancient keeper of the castle,Who is my friend in secret, and detersThe neighb'ring peasantry with dreadful talesFrom visiting by night our wide domains.The other doth unlock a secret door,That leads us to the chamber where she sleeps.

Theo. Thanks, gen'rous friend! thou art my better genius.Did'st thou not say, until the midnight hornHath sounded thrice, we must remain conceal'd?

Frank. Even so. And now I hear my men withoutTelling the second watch.

Theo. How looks the night?

Frank. As we could wish: the stars do faintly twinkleThro' sever'd clouds, and shed but light sufficientTo shew each nearer object closing on you

In dim unshapely blackness. Aught that movesAcross your path, or sheep or straggling goat,Is now a pawing steed or grizzly bull,Large and terrific; every air-mov'd bushOr jutting crag, some strange gigantic thing.

Theo. Is all still in the castle?

Frank. There is an owl sits hooting on the tower,That answer from a distant mate receives,Like the faint echo of his dismal cry;While a poor houseless dog, by dreary fits,Sits howling at the gate. All else is still.

Theo. Each petty circumstance is in our favour,That makes the night more dismal.

Frank. Aye, all goes well: as I approach'd the walls,I heard two centinels—for now I ween,The boldest spearman will not watch alone—Together talk in the deep hollow voiceOf those who speak at midnight, under aweOf the dead stillness round them.

Theo. Then let us put ourselves in readiness,And heaven's good favour guide us![Exeunt.

Or. (aside.) The room is darken'd: yesternight a lampDid shed its light around on roof and walls,And made the dreary space appear less dismal.

Rud. (overhearing her, and calling to a Servant without.)Ho! more lights here!(Servant enters with a light, and exit.)Thou art obey'd: in aughtBut in the company of human kind,Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mindFor higher super-human fellowship,If such there be, may now prepare it's strength.

Or. Thou ruthless tyrant! They who have in battleFought valiantly, shrink like a helpless childFrom any intercourse with things unearthly.Art thou a man? And bear'st thou in thy breastThe feelings of a man? It cannot be!

Rud. Yes, madam; in my breast I bear too keenlyThe feelings of a man—a man most wretched:A scorn'd, rejected man.—Make me less miserable;Nay rather should I say, make me most blest;

And then—(attempting to take her hand, while she steps back from him, drawing herself up with an air stately and determined, and looking stedfastly in his face.)I too am firm. Thou know'st my fix'd resolve:Give me thy solemn promise to.be mine.This is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid,That will redeem thee from the hour of terrour!This is the price—

Or. Which never shall be paid.(Walks from him to the further end of the apartment.)

Rud. (after a pause.) Thou art determin'd then. Be not so rash:Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear;The hour is near at hand.

(She, turning round, waves him with her hand to leave her.)

Thou deign'st no answer.Well; reap the fruits of thine unconquer'd pride.[Exit.

Manet Orra.

Or. I am alone: that closing door divides meFrom ev'ry being owning nature's life.—And shall I be constrain'd to hold communionWith that which owns it not?(After pacing to and fro for a little while.)O that my mindCould raise its thoughts in strong and steady fervourTo Him, the Lord of all existing things,Who lives, and is where'er existence is;Grasping its hold upon His skirted robe,Beneath whose mighty rule Angels and Spirits,Demons and nether powers, all living things,Hosts of the earth, with the departed deadIn their dark state of mystery, alikeSubjected are!—And I will strongly do it.—Ah! would I could! Some hidden powerful hindrance

Doth hold me back, and mars all thought.—

(After a pause, in which she stands fixed with her arms crossed on her breast.)

Dread intercourse!O! if it look on me with its dead eyes!If it should move its lock'd and earthy lips,And utt'rance give to the grave's hollow sounds!If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp—O horror, horror!

(Sinking lower at every successive idea, as she repeats these four last lines, till she is quite upon her knees on the ground.)

Would that beneath these planks of senseless matterI could, until the dreadful hour is past,As senseless be! (striking the floor with her hands.)O open and receive me,Ye happy things of still and lifeless being,That to the awful steps which tread upon yeUnconscious are!

Enter Cathrina behind her.

Who's there? Is't any thing?

Cath. 'Tis I, my dearest Lady; 'tis Cathrina.

Or. (embracing her.) How kind! such blessed kindness! keep thee by me;I'll hold thee fast; an angel brought thee hither.I needs must weep to think thou art so kindIn mine extremity.—Where wert thou hid?

Cath. In that small closet, since the supper hour,I've been conceal'd. For searching round the chamber,

I found its door, and enter'd. Fear not now,I will not leave thee till the break of day.

Or. Heaven bless thee for it! Till the break of day!The very thought of day-break gives me life.If but this night were past, I have good hopeThat noble Theobald will soon be hereFor my deliv'rance.

Cath. Wherefore think'st thou so?

Or. A stranger, when thou left'st me on the ramparts,Gave me a letter, which I quickly open'd,As soon as I, methought, had gain'd my roomIn privacy; but close behind me cameThat dæmon, Rudigere, and, snatching at it,Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which,I struggling with him still, he could not save it.

Cath. You have not read it then.

Or. No; but the sealWas Theobald's, and I could swear ere longHe will be here to free me from this thraldom.

Cath. God grant he may!

Or. If but this night were past! How goes the time?Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch?

Cath. (pointing to a small slab at the corner of the stage on which is placed a sand-glass.)That glass I've set to measure it. As soonAs all the sand is run, you are secure;The midnight watch is past.

Or. (running to the glass, and looking at it eagerly.)

There is not much to run: O an't were finish'd!But it so slowly runs!

Cath. Yes; watching it,It seemeth slow. But heed it not; the while,I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finish'd,The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I pray.(They sit, Orra drawing her chair close to Cathrina.)What story shall I tell thee?

Or. Something, my friend, which thou thyself hast known,Touching the awful intercourse which spiritsWith mortal men have held at this dread hour.Did'st thou thyself e'er meet with one whose eyesHad look'd upon the spectred dead—had seenForms from another world?

Cath.Never but once.

Or. (eagerly.) Once then thou did'st. O tell it! tell it me!

Cath. Well, Since I needs must tell it, once I knewA melancholy man, who did aver,That journeying on a time o'er a wild waste,By a fell storm o'erta'en, he was compell'dTo pass the night in a deserted tower,Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitantOf the sad place; prepared for him a bed:And, as he told his tale, at dead of night,By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd,As it might be an arm's-length from his bed—

Or. So close upon him?

Cath. Yes.

Or. Go on; what saw he?

Cath. An upright form, wound in a clotted shroud—Clotted and stiff, like one swaith'd up in hasteAfter a bloody death.

Or. O horrible!

Cath: He started from his bed, and gaz'd upon it.

Or. And did he speak to it?

Cath.He could not speak.Its visage was uncover'd, and at firstSeem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in coffin'd sleep;But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how,Into its beamless eyes a horrid glare,And turning towards him, for it did move—Why dost thou grasp me thus?

Or. Go on, go on!

Cath. Nay, heaven forfend! Thy shrunk and sharpen'd featuresAre of the corse's colour, and thine eyesAre full of tears. How's this?

Or. I know not how.A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart,And forc'd into mine eyes these icy tears.A fearful kindredship there is betweenThe living and the dead—an awful bond!Wo's me ! that we do shudder at ourselves—At that which we must be!——A dismal thought!Where dost thou run? thy story is not told.

(Seeing Cath. go towards the sand-glass.)

Cath. (shewing the glass.) A better story I will tell thee now;The midnight watch is past.

Or. Ha! let me see.

Cath. There's not one sand to run.

Or. But it is barely past.

Cath. 'Tis more than past.For I did set it later than the hour,To be assur'dly sure.

Or. Then it is gone indeed. O heaven be praised!The fearful gloom gone by!

(Holding up her hands in gratitude to heaven, and then looking round her with cheerful animation.)

In truth, alreadyI feel as if I breath'd the morning air:I'm marvellously lighten'd.

Cath.Ne'ertheless,Thou art forspent: I'll run to my apartment,And fetch some cordial drops that will revive thee.

Or. Thou need'st not go; I've ta'en thy drops already:I'm bold and buoyant grown.(Bounding lightly from the floor.)

Cath. I'll soon return:Thou art not fearful now?

Or.No; I breathe lightly;Valour within me grows most powerfully,Would'st thou but stay to see it, gentle Cathrine.

Cath. I will return to see it, ere thou canstThree times repeat the letters of thy name.[Exit hastily by the concealed door.

Or. (alone.) This burst of courage shrinks most shamefully.I'll follow her.—(Striving to open the door.)'Tis fast: it will not open.I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floorTill she return again.

(Paces up and down, muttering to herself, when a horn is heard without, pausing and sounding three times, each time louder than before.)

(Orra runs again to the door.)Despair will give me strength: where is the door?Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now.O God! protect me in this awful pass!

(After a pause, in which she stands with her body bent in a cowering posture, with her hands locked together, and trembling violently, she starts up and looks wildly round her.)

There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly handUpon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyesAnd ears intent I'll stand. Better it isThus'to abide the awful visitation,Than cower in blinded horror, strain'd intenselyWith ev'ry beating of my goaded heart.

(Looking round her with a steady sternness, but shrinking again almost immediately.)

I cannot do it: on this spot I'll hold meIn awful stillness.

(Bending her body as before; then, after a momentary pause, pressing both her hands upon her head.)

The icy scalp of fear is on my head;The life stirs in my hair; it is a senseThat tells the nearing of unearthly steps,Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish.

(Looking round, as if by irresistible impulse, to a great door at the bottom of the stage, which bursts open, and the form of a huntsman, cloathed in black, with a horn in his hand, enters and advances towards her. She utters a loud shriek, and falls senseless on the ground.)

Theo. (running up to her, and raising her from the ground.)No semblance, but real agony of fear.Orra, oh, Orra! know'st thou not my voice?Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald?Open thine eyes and look upon my face:(Unmasking.)I am no fearful waker from the grave.Dost thou not feel? 'Tis the warm touch of life.Look up, and fear will vanish.—Words are vain!What a pale countenance of ghastly strengthBy horrour chang'd! O ideot that I was.To hazard this!—The villain hath deceiv'd me:My letter she has ne'er received. O fool!That I should trust to this!(Beating his head distractedly.)

Enter Franko, by the same door.

Frank. What is the matter? what strange turn is this?

Theo. O cursed sanguine fool! could I not think—She moves, she moves!—rouse thee, my gentle Orra!'Tis no strange voice that calls thee; 'tis thy friend.

Frank. She opens now her eyes.

Theo.But, oh, that look!

Frank. She knows thee not, but gives a stifled groan.And sinks again in stupor.Make no more fruitless lamentation here,But bear her hence? the cool and open airMay soon restore her. Let us, while we may,Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised.[Exeunt, Orra borne off in a state of insensibility.