He breaks off the dangerous interview, and bids sound to arms. Presently the armies join battle, and the old king is overthrown, and his routed army scattered in confused flight. The poor gracioso, Clarin, has now a tragic part assigned to him, and one very characteristic of Calderon's skill in making all parts of his drama work together for one effect. He conceals himself among the rocks, in a place, as he boasts, of such entire security, that no danger can possibly find him out. The king presently appears, with Astolfo and others, also flying; shots are fired from behind, and the poor clown drops from his place of concealment, mortally wounded, at the king's feet. To the question, "Who is he?" he has strength to reply that he is one who, seeking to avoid death, has found it; who has fulfilled in himself that destiny which he thought most certainly to defeat, and this by the very means which he took to defeat it. The lesson is not thrown away upon the king. The pursuers are upon him and his company. They enter, Sigismund and his troops. After a momentary attempt at concealment, the king comes forth from his hiding-place, throws himself at his son's feet, and the menace of the stars is accomplished-here, also, by the very means employed to defeat it. Let us see how Calderon manages this concluding scene:

SOLDIER.

In this intricate wilderness,

Somewhere in its thickest tangles,

The king hides himself.

SIGISMUND.

Pursue him,

Till not one bush has remainèd

Which you have not thoroughly searched, All its trunks and all its branches.

CLOTALDO.

Fly, sir!

KING.

Wherefore should I fly?

ASTOLFO.

Sire, what mean you?

KING.

Prince, unhand me!

CLOTALDO.

What, sir, would you?

KING.

Use, Clotaldo,

That sole help which yet avails me.

Prince, if thou art seeking me,
At thy feet behold me fallen.

Let the snow of these white hairs

Serve unto thee as a carpet;
Set thy foot upon my neck,
On my crown-my glory trample.
Serve thyself of me thy captive,
And, all cares and cautions baffled,
Let the stars fulfil their threatenings,
Heaven accomplish what is fated.

SIGISMUND.

Princes, nobles, court of Poland,
Who of these unequalled marvels
Are the witnesses, your prince
Speaks unto you- therefore hearken!
That which is of Heaven determined,
That which on its azure tablets
God has with his finger written-

Who those broad and skiey pages,
Pranked with all their golden ciphers,
Makes his solemn scroll and parchment-
That doth never falsely play:
It is he alone plays falsely,
Who, injuriously to use them,
Their hid mysteries unravels.
Thus my father, who is here,
That he might escape the madness
Of my nature, did for this

In man's shape a wild beast make me,
In such fashion that when I,

By the gentle blood that races
In my veins, my noble state,
By such nurture as became me,

Might, of good hope, have approved me
Mild and docile; yet that manner

Of my wild and savage rearing

Was alone sufficient amply

To have brutalized my soul.

Oh, fair way to shun the danger!
Were it to a man fore-uttered,
"Some inhuman beast will slay thee,"
Would he choose, such prophecy

That he might defeat, to waken

Beasts that he perchance found sleeping?
Were it said-"The sword thou bearest
Sheathed, shall prove the very one
Which shall be thy death"-O vainest
Method to annul the threat,

From that hour to bear it naked,

With its point against his bosom !
Were it said-"The gulfs of water,
Building silver tombs above thee,
For thy sepulchre are fated"-

"Twere ill done to brave the wild waves,
When the indignant sea in anger
Lifted hills of snowy foam,

Mountainous heights of crystal raised.

With my sire the same thing fortuned,

As with one who should awaken
The wild beast that threatened him;
As with one who bared the dagger
He most feared, or, to sea-tomb
Doomed, the stormiest oceans challenged.
When my fury might have proved
Like a sleeping beast (now hearken),
And my fierceness a sheathed sword,
And my pride a tranquil calmness,
Yet no destiny by wrong
Or unrighteousness is baffled-
Rather these do more provoke it:
So that he who means to master
Fate, with gentleness must do it,
With meek wisdom, not with harshness.

Let for an example serve

This rare spectacle, this strangest

Prodigy, most wonderful

Sight of all; for what were stranger

Than to have arrived to see
After such preventions taken,
At my feet a father prostrate,
In the dust a monarch fallen?
"Twas the sentence of high Heaven,
Which, for all he strove to baffle,
Yet he could not; and could I,
Less in all things, hope to master,
Less in valor, and in years,