trembles with anger at the act. We seek the guilty one; perhaps thou knowest him?”
“It was not he—my lord—it was not he,” cried Lucrezia.
“Ah! duchess—duchess—how shouldst thou know?”
“He! he was elsewhere when it was done. ’Twas some of his companions dared——”
“No—no—that is not true.”
“Thou hearest, duchess. Now tell me, captain, and sincerely—art thou not he who dared to do this act.”
“I’m not much used to hesitate, therefore I say I am the man.”
Slowly he turned to the miserable duchess. “Thou dost mark his words” (how lowly the duke spoke!) “Thou dost mark his words, and I gave thee my sacred promise.”
“Alfonzo, Alfonzo, I would speak with thee alone.”
“Oh! surely. A moment, captain, but a moment. Well! duchess mine, we are alone. What wouldst thou ask?”
“The life of this poor youth.”
“Do I hear rightly? And but now such anger as thou didst show!”
“I pity him. ’Twas but a passing anger. I acted but in jest; he is too young to think of consequences. Again, to what good his death? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”
“No, no, dear lady mine, my word is pledged. I never break my word.”
“Nay, dear duke, but I insist. And why, thou seemest to ask? ’Twere ungenerous to refuse thy consort a poor favor such as this. What is the youth to me? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”
“No, no. What! pardon him who hath insulted thee! No, thou didst ask his death. And if I could pardon him—nor could I—for thy dear sake I would not.”
“Let us both pardon, and be clement, duke, for clemency is glorious in us all, and most of all in kings.”
“No king am I, but a poor duke. I cannot spare him, duchess.”
“Why shouldst thou be so angry with this same Gennaro?”
“Dost thou not know?”
“I?”
“Dost thou not LOVE him? Ah! thou dost start, Lucrezia. Even now I read in that face of thine thy crime.”
“Don Alfonzo!”
“Nay, do not speak—”
“If I swear?”
“It were useless. What! shall I never be revenged on thee? If I may not strike thee openly, shall I let pass this hope of wounding thee?”
“Pardon, Don Alfonzo.”
“Pardon!”
“For pity’s sake.”
“What, canst thou speak of pity—thou, Lucrezia?”
“Don Alfonzo, dear husband.” On her knees to him, clinging to him, her eyes dilated, her lips dry and white.
But he stands immovable. Looks down on her unyieldingly. Why, her very humiliation enrages him. For does not this poor unknown wretch, this Venetian, beat down her pride as he, duke and powerful, hath never, never beaten it down yet!
“Thou dost not answer. Beware!”
Once more she is the terrible duchess, and if the duke wear opal, let it warn him.
“I know thee, duchess. I have known thee long, Lucrezia. But forget not I am duke, and in Ferrara. Thou art in my power. Ah! well, I’m not unreasonable. I grant thee somewhat. Thou shalt choose the manner of his death. Or poison, or sword. Pray now choose!”
“I—I cannot.”
“Let him then be—stabbed.”
“No, no.”
“Stabbed—stabbed.”
“No, not blood, not blood.”
“The poison. Thou dost choose his death. Pray be seated.—Enter captain, enter. The duchess is all-powerful with me. Why, I cannot tell, but she pardons thy crime, and bids thee go in peace. Italy would grieve to lose so handsome a son.”
“The duke pardons me. Ah! well, now that I can speak without the look of cowardice and hope of mercy, I may tell the duke that his clemency has fallen on a man who doth deserve it. For thy father, surrounded by the enemy, would have died but for the arm of a poor adventurer.”
“The adventurer, good captain, was—”
“My very self.”
“Duke, duke,” lowly, and pulling his dress, “he saved thy father’s life—spare him.”
“The duchess speaks to me, but so lowly that I scarce can hear her. So thou didst save my father’s life—wilt follow his son’s standard?”
“Pardon me, I’m bound by oath to Venice, and oaths are binding.”
“Surely. Oaths are binding—is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good captain, take a golden present.”
“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”
“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so. Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups there—for me the silver one—the golden to the captain. Now, duchess, pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess will bear the cup to thee herself.”
Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has always thought so harsh and full of hate.
“Lady, I did not dream of pardon, and, methinks, my mother, whom I know doth pray for me, hath by her dearest prayers inclined thee and the duke to gracious mercy. I drink to the duke and duchess.”
Courteously the duke relieves the captain of the emptied goblet, lightly places it upon the table, then slowly creeping, like a reptile, he goes up to the duchess and says, softly, “Thou hast perchance somewhat to say to him. Permit me to retire.”
Why does a hopeful flush rush over her face? Why does she touch her bosom with a trembling hand? Why again does her countenance express so much emotion?
The young captain sees her accompany the duke to the doors. The duke bows to him profoundly,
