Act 2 — SCENE IV.

Veniero. Set down the lamp—there—where its beams may pierce Farthest into the gloom. ‘Alack, the rays ‘Faint ere they half can journey to these walls, ‘Though sooth, they are not spacious.’—You have orders, Remember, to admit my child. Retire. [Exit Beltramo. A dark dawn, truly, for the gorgeous day That waits upon my fortunes; but its noon Will shine the brighter. Can he fail me now? I scarce would trust his plighted word alone! But, were it not that breath of mine could blow His fabric of ambition to the winds, I’ve yet another hold; he loves the girl Whose fair young hand must bind this wreath of glory Around her brows and mine.—She is here. This hour Improved, shall win us all. Enter Teresa. My daughter here? I am not quite forsaken. Teresa (clinging to him.) No, my father! Veniero. Who bade thee seek me? Let me look on thee, Thy cheek is wet with tears. Nay, dry them girl— Let them not flow for me. True, I can give Poor welcome; yet thy loveliness breaks in Upon my prison’s gloom, like the fresh light Of morning to the hopeless. Weep not for me! Why—foolish child! will tears undo these bars? They are of massive weight, and have withstood In ancient service past, more briny floods Than would have drowned this cell, save that the earth Drank the hot tide of anguish as it gushed,— More thirsty now than ever! Let me pass Nearer that side—methinks a freer air Is entering thence. Your hand, Beltramo— Teresa. Hold! What hand should serve him but mine own?—What’s this? You tremble, you are faint! Help—ho! Veniero. ’Tis nought! I do not tremble. Yet I’m sick at heart To look upon this dungeon—knowing here The wretched remnant of my days may pass, Shut out from light and life! Teresa. Oh! talk not so! We’ve friends in the council; they will never hear Your name attainted, and hold back in silence. Veniero. Alas! you know them not; know not that here Who is suspected is already doomed. ’Tis hard that I should perish thus, the scorn Of the schooled rabble! Trust me—I would meet Death on the field with joy—but to be hewn By menial hands—gazed on by eyes that gloat Upon my blood—or wept by vulgar pity! I do not scorn to say I fear such fate. Contarini (entering.) You may escape it. Veniero. Ha! Contarini. Hear me, Veniero. I speak to you as one who is condemned, Though sentence be not passed. Proofs are alleged So specious and so startling, it were madness To dream of an acquittal. I alone By means that cannot fail, have power to save you. Veniero. Thanks! thanks! (aside) you’ve well begun! Contarini. Yet will I sue And humble me for you, to be disdained By yonder fair, when I shall kneel to claim My guerdon for such service? Shall the city Know that I saved you for your daughter’s love, And know me spurned by her? No! I will plead For you, but as the father of my bride! Let your Teresa pledge her faith to me, Before high heaven and you;—in two hours’ time I’ll set you free. Veniero. Teresa! Teresa. It is false! His story’s false, my father! Heed him not! They will not sentence you! Contarini. You’ll learn my truth, When ’tis too late. Veniero. Dost doubt him, When proofs like these (pointing to his dungeon walls) confirm his tale? Or deem’st thou My life not worth the purchase? Teresa. Alas! my strait Is fearful! But I know him the deceiver! Trust him not. If he talk of bribes and stratagems, Think you he’d scruple at a gilded tale, To cheat us with false hopes? Contarini. Let the sun set, And you are fatherless! Teresa. And would you take, Even could you wring from me the sacrifice, A victim bride? Contarini. Aye, though I won your hate! From you even hate is sweetness—Choose between A husband whom you love not, and the death Of one you love! Veniero. Urge her no more—her choice Is fixed already! Let me die in peace— She may look on; and—if she weep for me, Some dearer hand will dry her short lived tears. Teresa (struggling with emotion.) My father! Veniero. Touch me not! the old man’s years Are nearly run—why should they now be lengthened? These hairs are white—no matter! they’ll be dabbled With red, full soon! My limbs are old and weary— They’ll rest well in the grave—and until then The earth’s a fitting bed! (throws himself on the ground.) Teresa (kneeling beside him.) Oh! taunt me not So bitterly! Oh! I would die to save you! Veniero. Would die! so those who prate of filial virtue Talk—but shrink from the test. Off! I’ll no more Of clinging and of honied words! Teresa. Dear father! I am your child—and more than life I love you! Speak to me! speak to me! With idle words I will displease no more.—For your sake, father, I will do all!—will wed—him! Veniero. She is yours!