Ors. That she speaks not, but you may
Conceive such half conjectures as I do,
From her fixed paleness, and the lofty
grief

Of her stern brow, bent on the idle air,
And her severe unmodulated voice,
Drowning both tenderness and dread; and
last

From this; that whilst her step-mother
and I,

Bewildered in our horror, talked together

With obscure hints; both self-misunderstood,

And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk,

Over the truth, and yet to its revenge, She interrupted us, and with a look Which told before she spoke it, he must die:

Giac. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased;

There is a higher reason for the act Than mine; there is a holier judge than me,

A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised A living flower, but thou hast pitied it With needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whom

Men wondered how such loveliness and wisdom

Did not destroy each other! Is there
made

Ravage of thee? O, heart, I ask no more
Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino,

Till he return, and stab him at the door? Ors. Not so; some accident might interpose

To rescue him from what is now most sure;

And you are unprovided where to fly, How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen:

All is contrived; success is so assured
That-

That then thou hast consented to his death.

Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, Brotherly love, justice, and clemency, And all things that make tender hardest hearts,

Make thine hard, brother. Answer not: farewell.

(Exeunt severally.)

SCENE II. A mean Apartment in Giacomo's House. Giacomo alone.

Giacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. (Thunder, and the sound of a storm.)

What! can the everlasting elements Feel with a worm like man? If so, the shaft

Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep:

They are now living in unmeaning dreams:

But I must wake, still doubting if that deed

Be just, which was most necessary. 0, Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire

Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge Devouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame,

Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, Still flickerest up and down, how very

soon,

Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be

As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks

Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:

But that no power can fill with vital oil That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 't is the blood

Which fed these veins, that ebbs till all is cold:

It is the form that moulded mine, that sinks

Into the white and yellow spasms of death:

It is the soul by which mine was arrayed In God's immortal likeness, which now stands

Naked before Heaven's judgment seat! (A bell strikes.) One! Two! The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs are white,

My son will then perhaps be waiting

thus,

Ors. Why, that were well. I must be gone; good night!

When next we meet may all be done― Giac.

And all Forgotten-Oh, that I had never been! (Exeunt.)

ACT IV.

SCENE 1. An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter Cenci.

Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even

now

Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty

Of her delay: yet what if threats are vain?

Am I not now within Petrella's moat? Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome? Might I not drag her by the golden hair? Stamp on her? keep her sleepless till her brain

Be overworn? tame her with chains and famine?

Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone

What I most seek! No, 't is her stubborn will,

Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as low

As that which drags it down.

(Enter Lucretia.)

Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair.

Lucr. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence

She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; And in that trance she heard a voice which said,

"Cenci must die! Let him confess himself!

"Even now the accusing angel waits to hear

"If God, to punish his enormous crimes. "Harden his dying heart!"

Cen. Why-such things are: No doubt divine revealings may be made. 'Tis plain I have been favored from above,

For when I cursed my sons they diedAy-so

As to the right or wrong that's talkrepentance

Repentance is an easy moment's work, And more depends on God than me. Well-well

I must give up the greater point, which

My parchments and all records of my wealth;

And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave
Of my possessions nothing but my name;
Which shall be an inheritance to strip
Its wearer bare as infamy. That done,
My soul, which is a scourge, will I re-
sign

Into the hands of him who wielded it;
Be it for its own punishment or theirs,
He will not ask it of me till the lash
Be broken in its last and deepest wound;
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me
make

Awe her before I speak? for I on them Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. (Enter Lucretia.)

Well; what? Speak, wretch!

Lucr. She said, "I cannot come; "Go tell my father that I see a torrent "Of his own blood raging between us." Cen. (kneeling) God!

Hear me! If this most specious mass of

flesh,

Which thou hast made my daughter; this my blood,

This particle of my divided being;

Or rather, this my bane and my disease, Whose sight infects and poisons me; this

devil,

Which sprung from me as from a hell,

was meant

To aught good use; if her bright loveli

ness

Was kindled to illumine this dark world; If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love

Cen.

She would not come.

'T is well. I can do both: first take what I demand, And then extort concession. To thy chamber!

Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night

That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer

To come between the tiger and his prey. (Exit Lucretia.)

It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim

With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies!

They say that sleep, that healing dew of heaven,

Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain

Which thinks thee an impostor. I will