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Aye, I thought so once,

To lead me to him?

Paint,

But now the tidings of his death have reach'd me.

Count. Heavens, is it possible! Is she thus free?

Paint. Take, then, the bliss thou didst design for him
Home to thine own pure breast.

Count. (Aside.)

What doth he mean?

Hath he discover'd?-(Aloud) Ha! my mind misgives me,
As if thou wert a villain, making havoc

Of others' bliss to aid thine own escape.

But hear me; I'll forgive thee-thou shalt go-
I'll never ask what crime thou didst commit,
If thou'lt but say-" I lied;"-say it-and live!
Paint. My noble friend, suspicion is to thee
As strange as guilt to me. I love, and honour,
And bow before thy silent generosity,
Yet did ye rank me not too far beneath ye-
Believe me, Anton Leny is dead-and lay
Yon monumental cross upon his grave.

Leonhard enters hastily, summoning the Count, at his grandfather's desire, to his inconsolable mother. The Painter betrays deep but suppressed emotion. The Count thus addresses him—

Count. To a dread secret bar I summon thee;

I'll lay before ye blighted wreaths, and call
Pale, silent witnesses, whom, if ye face,
Then I'll believe.

(Exit.

The Painter and Leonhard are now left in painful tête-à-tête. The latter stands, for the first time in his life, shyly apart.

Paint. My son, my Leonhard, we must part!
Leon.
And wherefore?
Paint. Ask not-we must. Come, lay thyself once more
Upon my heart. Why stand'st thou shuddering there?-
Am I grown strange to thee?

Leon.

Wean myself thence?

Paint.

Strange! ah, how shall I

Bid farewell to the tree

Amid whose boughs thy nest hung, when, like those
Of the young nightingale, thine earliest notes
Were pour'd. Alas! Fate's winter is approaching,
The tree must die-while thou, on jocund wing,
Spring'st into life!

Leon.
And hast thou kept thy promise,
My master? Surely 'tis nought good that breaks
Our hallow'd bond, and sends thee from my side!

Paint. What! doth Suspicion's demon-form arise
Even in thy soul? Then is our heart's-bond broken
Indeed. If thou hast lost love's precious fruit,
Sweet confidence, the tottering plant is ripe

For parting.

Leon. Be not in a parting hour

Thus harsh.

Paint. Nor thou! seem as thou lovedst me still.

I will not ask what thus estranges thee,

I will not know who mine accusers are,

If thou absolv'st me not-alas! I cannot!"

But give me the sweet boon of childhood's love
To live on in my weary pilgrimage,

When life's a desert to my beggar'd heart!

Leon. O, master! father!

Look me in the face;

Paint.
Dost thou mark stains of conscious guilt behind
Its tearful veil? Lay on my breast thine hand-
Higher my heart may swell than e'er thou know'st,
But 'tis with love, pure, inexpressible,

That bids me leave thee-and in silence!

Leon.

Methinks, seeks not concealment.

Love,

Paint. (Lifting his hands to heaven.) Oh! to Thee
Dare child of dust compare himself! What eye
Fathoms the fount of that Eternal Love

Which leads the stars through ether, dips their wings
In light, and bids their radiant arms expand
In brotherly embrace across heaven's fields;
Yet bids the rose-bud be with dews refresh'd,
And balmy breezes fann'd? Behind a veil,
Deep, dread, inscrutable, 'tis shrouded; yet
Thou dost believe it, for thou feel'st its power.
Oh! thus believe my love-thou'lt understand it
When I'm no more; 'tis but a sever'd drop
From the bright fount above-and, like it, pure!

Leon. (Embracing him.) Yes, yes! I do believe! Forgive me, father!

Unfortunately the youth's returning confidence forbids him to demand, or even listen, to the explanation the Painter could so easily give of the fatal picture affair-the enigmatical allusions to which, on his pupil's part, he is anxious to clear up; so they part, though in perfect amity, yet without a inutual understanding on that important point.

Paint. So! thou art mine once more-before I go!
Leon. Why shouldst thou go? thou wilt return again?
Paint. 'Tis in the hand of God-I scarce believe it.
Leon. Not to return! and wilt thou, thus forsaken,
Thus unprotected, wander through the world?
Oh, take with thee a token of my love,

For retribution, like a shadowy ghost,

Oft dogs the pilgrim's footsteps; take this sword,

Giv'n thee by love to be thy bosom's friend;
'Twas consecrated to a pious purpose:
Thy son fulfils it-in thus arming thee.

(The curtain falls.

We must hasten to a conclusion, and compress into brief space the whole sad catastrophe of the fifth act, which opens with a soliloquy of the Painter's.

Paint. Lull'd is the day's loud tempest! and the depths

Of night heave only with the measured swell

Of deep-breathed slumber! Dreams the cradle rock
Of the vex'd mariner-the land smiles nigh,
And friendly beacons call the wand'rer home!
'Tis fix'd-I must depart. Night! let thy peace
Rest on this house-and light me on my path,
Ye stars! and when glad morning-chimes
Announce the dawn, when loving hearts enquire
Of me, I shall be far. Farewell, farewell!

14

He is joined by the Seneschal, in consequence of a private signal he had made him to do so. The old man ironically remarks on the general dejection pervading the noble household, and the inability of all (save the ironsouled Marquis) to partake of the evening meal. The poor artist breaks out into passionate parting sorrow, which the Seneschal hears unmoved; but becomes animated by keen malice, when the Painter solicits his assistance to depart secretly under cloud of night; a design which, of course, he ascribes to the consciousness of guilt.

Sen. Wilt thou go forth to-night?
Paint.

Aye, this same night.

My silent farewell hath to all been said,
On all love's blessing shed! Now am I ready;
Open the doors at midnight-'tis the hour
Best fits my journey-

Sen.

Paint. But one prayer more-Where doth the picture hang?

Sen. Which mean ye?

Paint.

I lately painted.

Sen.

Trust me, I'll be there.

Which! the likeness of the Countess

'Tis in the great hall.

Paint. I would take leave of it-Wilt let me see it
Before I part?

Sen.
Thou'lt find more pictures there,
Perchance they may have farewell greetings for thee!
Paint. Then ye consent; but not a word of this.
Sen. I can be secret. Well I know your reasons!
Paint. O, night, come quickly with thy pall of sleep;
When life's at rest, the dead should wander free!

The significant comments of the old servant, on the murderer's guilty flight, prepare the mind for some impending catastrophe.

The Count and Julia now enter in earnest conference, which the Seneschal unfortunately attempts to interrupt in vain with his supposed unimportant secret. Julia, now urged by necessity, places unlimited confidence in the Count-exculpates Leny from all guilt, or even an involuntary accession to his brother's fate—and, after drawing from this magnanimous lover his determination not even to attempt to rival the memory of the deceased Leny, she informs him of his being not only alive, but actually on the spot, in the person of his pretended friend; whose generous motives for signing his own death-warrant the Count now first comprehends and fully appreciates. He resolves on devoting his whole powers of persuasion and claims on the Marquis to the cause of unfortunate love; but also defers, not unnaturally, these final

(Exit.

exertions till the Painter's moment of departure next day, when the feelings of Camilla may powerfully second the voice of friendship. To Leonhardwho has at length been made acquainted by his mother with her early history

he holds out similar though general promises of labouring for her happiness, and permits Julia, in the meantime, to soothe her regrets by vague but pleasing anticipations-doomed, alas, by this procrastination, never to be realized. In the meantime, the vindictive Seneschal, finding his warning slighted by the engrossed Count, awakes the more congenial Marquis from his first sleep, to take upon himself the office of avenger. They conceal themselves in Camilla's chamber, adjoining the Baronial-hall, availing themselves of her absence with her attendant in the castle gardens, unusual presentiments having deprived her of rest.

As twelve strikes the Painter enters, and thus apostrophizes the Countess's picture

Paint. Here may I dare to breathe no mute farewell,
And stamp thine image on my widow'd heart.

In memory shalt thou live, as pictured here,
Still smiling-though I weep-I'll clothe thy future
In the bright halo art has round thee thrown.
Races unborn may pause, perchance, before thee,
Wondering to see the charms, that singly grace
Thy late posterity, in one rich crown

Twine round thy brow. The magic wand of art
Shall speak the master's power, when all unknown
Is its sad source-and his true love forgotten.
'Tis midnight! Spirits of yon silent heroes,
Wake ye not now? Do ye not hover nigh,
Ye ancient masters, o'er your darling works?
Oh! take me to ye! let me join your band,
That nightly we may wander here together.

(To the covered picture) And thou-who art thou? there, behind the veil,
Fear'st thou her charms should dazzle thee? for shame,

Doff thy concealment, and salute yon angel!

What do I see? hath hell dispatch'd thee hither,

Detested image! love and art alike

Once more with fiendish mockery to profane,

And with thy faded, ghastly features, scare

My soul bewilder'd from yon holy shrine?

Avaunt! Begone from her whose life 'twas thine

To poison! Thou'rt my work, and I may dare

Annihilate thee! (He draws his sword to destroy the picture.

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Sen.

And I !

Paint. Is't possible? Hung this upon the scaffold?
Did this betray him? Heav'nly justice, hold!

Cease to be love's avenger! 'Tis enough!

Let deep oblivion bury all-and so

Farewell. I must be gone.

Marq.

Stand, traitor, stand!

The Marquis then, referring to Julia's former communication to himself, puts it to Spinarosa, whether he or Leny painted the fatal picture-betraying his cruel wish to have the blame laid on the latter, that his very memory may be embittered to Camilla. The generous Painter, by a last effort of magnanimity, refuses to give her this additional pang, and at the risk of his life ans

wers

Paint. Not Leny-'twas I !
Sen.

Ye hear him! he confesses!

The Seneschal falls on him, accusing him of having purloined the sword designed for his own punishment. The Painter indignantly appeals to Heaven, and disarms the assailant in a moment.

Marq. Then, it remains for me-Vengeance is mine.

Defend thyself! Blood calls aloud for blood!

Paint. No, no! I dare not! No! it is her father!

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Cam.

(CAMILLA and her Attendant now burst in from the adjoining

chamber.

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Ha! who calls? I hear

Merciful Heav'n, what's here?

How? dost thou see his ghost

Julia. (To Painter.) Man thyself, and say

What hath befall'n thee.

Paint. (Imploringly.)

Ask not-and begone.

Julia. Revive! but for Camilla

Paint. (In agony.)

Ah! Camilla!

Hence, I say!

Cam. Hark! 'twas his voice! he call'd me!

Marq. (To Julia.)

Julia. 'Tis he, Camilla! and his outstretch'd arms Are longing to enfold thee.

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Horror and joy run mingling through my frame-
The thunder-clouds have met; strange lightnings flash
Through the deep midnight! Who hath from mine eyes
Rent the dark veil, letting forgotten rays

Pierce through the gloom of years? Where is he?
Marq.

Hence, I command thee! 'Tis no place for women
Mid manhood's strife.

Hence!

Cam. (Gazing bewildered on him.) What form is that I see With bloody sword? Thou, like my old hard father,

Art come to stand between our new-freed souls

No! on this side the grave thy might is ended!

Marq. Take hence yon lunatic-my shuddering soul
Shrinks from her ravings.

Cam.
Why are ye so pale?
Is judgment nigh? I see its morn hath dawn'd,
The graves have open'd! Is thy word fulfill'd,
Dread recompenser? Is thy time arrived
For healing broken hearts? Dost give me him
Once more? Where is Antonio?

Julia. (To Painter.)
Once, ere her senses fail.

Paint.

Call her by her name

O my Camilla!

Cam. 'Tis love calls on me! Yes, I know thee now !

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Count. (To Painter.) What do I see? My friend, methinks thou'rt

wounded.

Paint. Ev'n unto death!

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