Don Carlos | Page 2

not promised you
The earliest purple in
the gift of Spain?
DOMINGO.
You mock me, prince!
CARLOS. Nay! Heaven forefend, that I
Should mock that awful man
whose fateful lips
Can doom my father or to heaven or hell!
DOMINGO.
I dare not, prince, presume to penetrate
The sacred
mystery of your secret grief,
Yet I implore your highness to
remember
That, for a conscience ill at ease, the church
Hath opened
an asylum, of which kings
Hold not the key--where even crimes are
purged
Beneath the holy sacramental seal.
You know my meaning,
prince--I've said enough.
CARLOS.
No! be it, never said, I tempted so
The keeper of that
seal.
DOMINGO.
Prince, this mistrust--
You wrong the most devoted of your servants.
CARLOS.
Then give me up at once without a thought
Thou art a
holy man--the world knows that--
But, to speak plain, too zealous far
for me.
The road to Peter's chair is long and rough,
And too much
knowledge might encumber you.
Go, tell this to the king, who sent
thee hither!
DOMINGO.
Who sent me hither?
CARLOS. Ay! Those were my words.
Too well-too well, I know,
that I'm betrayed,
Slandered on every hand--that at this court
A

hundred eyes are hired to watch my steps.
I know, that royal Philip to
his slaves
Hath sold his only son, and every wretch,
Who takes
account of each half-uttered word,
Receives such princely guerdon as
was ne'er
Bestowed on deeds of honor, Oh, I know
But hush!--no
more of that! My heart will else
O'erflow and I've already said too
much.
DOMINGO.
The king is minded, ere the set of sun,
To reach
Madrid: I see the court is mustering.
Have I permission, prince?
CARLOS. I'll follow straight.
[Exit DOMINGO.
CARLOS (after a short silence).
O wretched Philip! wretched as thy
son!
Soon shall thy bosom bleed at every pore,
Torn by suspicion's
poisonous serpent fang.
Thy fell sagacity full soon shall pierce
The
fatal secret it is bent to know,
And thou wilt madden, when it breaks
upon thee!
SCENE II.
CARLOS, MARQUIS OF POSA.
CARLOS.
Lo! Who comes here? 'Tis he! O ye kind heavens,
My
Roderigo!
MARQUIS. Carlos!
CARLOS. Can it be?
And is it truly thou? O yes, it is!
I press thee
to my bosom, and I feel
Thy throbbing heart beat wildly 'gainst mine
own.
And now all's well again. In this embrace
My sick, sad heart is
comforted. I hang
Upon my Roderigo's neck!
MARQUIS. Thy heart!
Thy sick sad heart! And what is well again

What needeth to be well? Thy words amaze me.

CARLOS.
What brings thee back so suddenly from Brussels?

Whom must I thank for this most glad surprise?
And dare I ask?
Whom should I thank but thee,
Thou gracious and all bounteous
Providence?
Forgive me, heaven! if joy hath crazed my brain.
Thou
knewest no angel watched at Carlos' side,
And sent me this! And yet I
ask who sent him.
MARQUIS.
Pardon, dear prince, if I can only meet
With wonder
these tumultuous ecstacies.
Not thus I looked to find Don Philip's son.

A hectic red burns on your pallid cheek,
And your lips quiver with
a feverish heat.
What must I think, dear prince? No more I see
The
youth of lion heart, to whom I come
The envoy of a brave and
suffering people.
For now I stand not here as Roderigo--
Not as the
playmate of the stripling Carlos--
But, as the deputy of all mankind,

I clasp thee thus:--'tis Flanders that clings here
Around thy neck,
appealing with my tears
To thee for succor in her bitter need.
This
land is lost, this land so dear to thee,
If Alva, bigotry's relentless tool,

Advance on Brussels with his Spanish laws.
This noble country's
last faint hope depends
On thee, loved scion of imperial Charles!

And, should thy noble heart forget to beat
In human nature's cause,
Flanders is lost!
CARLOS.
Then it is lost.
MARQUIS.
What do I hear? Alas!
CARLOS.
Thou speakest of times that long have passed away.
I,
too, have had my visions of a Carlos,
Whose cheek would fire at
freedom's glorious name,
But he, alas! has long been in his grave.

He, thou seest here, no longer is that Carlos,
Who took his leave of
thee in Alcala,
Who in the fervor of a youthful heart,
Resolved, at
some no distant time, to wake
The golden age in Spain! Oh, the

conceit,
Though but a child's, was yet divinely fair!
Those dreams
are past!
MARQUIS.
Said you, those dreams, my prince!
And were they only dreams?
CARLOS.
Oh, let me weep,
Upon thy bosom weep these burning tears,
My
only friend! Not one have I--not one--
In the wide circuit of this
earth,--not one
Far as the sceptre of my sire extends,
Far as the
navies bear the flag of Spain,
There is no spot--none--none, where I
dare yield
An outlet to my tears, save only this.
I charge thee,
Roderigo! Oh, by all
The hopes we both do entertain of heaven,

Cast me not off from thee, my friend, my friend!
[POSA bends over him in silent emotion.
Look on me, Posa, as an
orphan child,
Found near the throne, and nurtured by thy love.

Indeed, I know not what a father is.
I am a monarch's son. Oh, were it
so,
As my heart tells me that it surely is,
That thou