Part 2 / Act 2 — Scene I.—Apartment in a Palace.

Con. Will you not hear me? Oh! that they who need Hourly forgiveness—they who do but live While mercy’s voice, beyond th’ eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless! Gentle brother! yet ’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon. Eri. ’Tis too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody—but they must die. Con. What!—die!—for words?—for breath which leaves no trace To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough For such a venial fault to be deprived One little day of man’s free heritage, Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem That evil harbours in their souls, at least Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stem justice wake. Eri. I am not one Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown’d and arm’d. And, mark me, sister! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O’er my being Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note— I have said, and they must die. Con. Have you no fear? Eri. Of what?—that heaven should fall? Con. No!—But that earth Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e’en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me. Eri. Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look? Con. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs to liberty! Have not these men Brave sons or noble brothers? Eri. Yes! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear— A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men. Con. But not forgotten! Ah! beware, beware! —Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast: and I—I dared To foster its faint spark. You smile!—Oh! then He will be saved! Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, ’tis strange! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock’d the boy’s sad mother: I have said— You should not thus have mock’d her!—Now, farewell! [Exit Eribert. Con. O brother! hard of heart!—for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale May slay her too—for heaven is merciful. —’Twill be a bitter task! [Exit Constance.