The cold-hearted worldling renews his odious condescensions, and even after reiterated assurances that the love and society of his pupil are all the meed the master desires, can propose to him as a slight sacrifice, to forego, perhaps for ever, that satisfaction, by an immediate separation. The surprise of the artist may be conceived. Marq. I must speak plainer.-It is said the Count Named Anton Leny-dost know where now he dwells? Marq. Is his history known to thee? Paint. He is my friend-few secrets are between us. We listen to a nursery tale. Hath been to him this early love-it forms The story of his soul-his art's inspirer, The angel shape that led him pure through life. Marq. Ye know him well, and warmly plead his cause. Paint. Was his beloved one call'd. Marq. My only daughter, at Paint. Yes! Camilla Did it bring ye joy When sever'd? have ye in your daughter's heart Ever replaced what then ye tore away? Marq. The noxious seed will grow though by no hand Its poisonous blade. If ye do wish us well, Labour with me to root it from the soil. Paint. Who, I?-and how? Marq. Annihilate the cause Of the Count's idle journey-well ye know The painter can be nothing to my child. Paint. I do not understand-methought a love To cherish Hope. To rear a stately tomb? Dost thou not shudder To see thy work? a daughter's grief-quench'd eyes, Marq. Ye think me hard. I am not so-as for your friend ye plead, I take a father's part-she shall not weep, Paint. How! promised to another! Who hath dared? Marq. He hath forsworn it. Yon black cross knight? What! his brother's widow ? Marq. The holy father gives a dispensation. Paint. No, no! it is not so-ye but deceive me. Even now, he goes himself to bid the hopeless Dream joy once more. Marq. Romance is ever readier To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear The sober edifice of mutual bliss! Know that the Count was destined for my child, Long ere his brother wedded her-To him In fatal chivalry he sacrificed With his own hopes-the happiness of all. Paint. What! twice?-he loved and yet assumed the Cross? Marq. And now, when after years of silent pain, Now, when despising all its rich revenues, He spurns the knightly cross, and hath achieved Love's surest, holiest basis-when through life The Count that still this painter Leny lived, Paint. Aye, aye, he loves her!-all is now explain'd, In his frank heart.-Hath he confess'd his love? Paint. Oh, noble heart! in love and victory great Paint. Ev'n as a saint, Mild and magnanimous-I bow before him. Marq. And my blind daughter-think'st thou not with him, Paint. Ask not me! Marq. I speak confidingly-dost thou not think so? The heart forgets When the Grave interposes-o'er that barrier Paint. Marq. The dead! but Anton Leny Indeed! say but the word, and then He's dead. Life has been borrow'd by the grave The unfeeling Marquis presses his relentless request with cruel ingenuity, and at length seals his triumph by the following terrible ordeal. Marq. Well! I set thee Ev'n in a parent's place-Be thou her father, Paint. Oh, do not ask me-let thy daughter choose- Paint. The victims crown'd Stand at the altar-(Pointing to heaven)-'Tis the High Priest's office Marq. Grant a father's prayer: Never before did I to mortal bend. Our peace-our bliss hang on thy lips. He's dead, Paint. Alas! Farewell, poor heart! That binds us to the Count, thou mayst return. Paint. Fear not,—I go—and never to return! Marq. Thou'rt a high-minded man! Now to thy task; Bid her apprize Camilla, and refer her To thee for confirmation. My last request-I cannot be your debtor- Paint. The painter, Leny, himself will pay me, when (Exit MARQUIS. Fan, though with dying breath, yon holier flame That she loves thee; that thou didst rear her child; Heart! summon all thy strength; lips, tremble not We must pass over, with reluctant brevity, a scene in the Baronial-hall, where the old seneschal eagerly unfolds to the Count, and Leonhard, the treasured secret of his vindictive spirit, viz. the identity of the private mark on the newly finished picture of the Countess, with that on the fatal likeness of her husband, brought from the gallows at Naples. The shock of the Count and his nephew may be conceived. The young man, of course, seeks to palliate when he can no longer doubt the evidence of his senses; but the Count, with a grave severity, in painful contrast with his usual mildness, and still more with the mortal sacrifice which we know the poor artist to be at that moment making to his happiness, takes up the matter with all the sternness of a judge, and remarks, that ever since the discovery of Leonhard's birth, a painful mystery had appeared to hang over and disturb the painter. The old retainer breathes nothing but in stant and secret revenge. Poor Leonhard indignantly silences his croak ings, and answers, with the fervour of youth and long acquaintance, for the artist's innocence. The Count coldly remarks, that, even if proceeding from culpable weakness, and not malice, the share of the painter in his father's fate must for ever place a bar between him and his pupil. He determines, however, on investigation-declares, that he will, himself, be the avenger, and, in the mean time, enjoins secrecy, on pain of his utmost displeasure, on the disappointed seneschal. The latter, left alone, vows to his dead master's picture, that his murderer shall not escape through the mistaken lenity of others. A scene of deep interest ensues. Camilla has been expressing to her son and the Count her regret and surprise, on hearing that the painter talks of leaving them. She fears he may have been slighted by some one, and owns an inexplicable interest in him, and regret for his departure. She remembers his kindness to her child, and weeps. Poor Leonhard exclaims― Leon. Ah, mother! so, could I, if I but dared. The Marquis and Painter now join them, and the former announces to the Count his having for the present relinquished all thoughts of going to Italy. The Count requests him to remain master of the castle during his absence, as his own journey is irrevocably fixed on. The Marquis-waving that subject-adverts to the necessary departure of the Painter. All look toward Spinarosa, who remains with his eyes downcast. Leonhard asks Leon. And wilt thou leave me? The Painter only nods in reply, and Camilla, who had listened intensely for his answer, exclaims Count. (Aside.) By heav'n, Guilt's hue is on his cheek! (Aloud.) If thou must go, Upon mine errand? Paint. Let me go alone. Stay here-thy journey would be now in vain. Count. In vain, say'st thou? I trust not; yet 'tis plain Marq. (To Count.) Why torment him? I know his cause of sorrow. Why conceal The fatal tidings? He hath lost a friend. Cam. Oh, do not weep! Paint. 'Tis false ! When Life's long sultry day Hath set, Death's night will have its due. Marq. What was his name? ye mention'd ev'n now. Count. (Ironically.) You've soon, methinks, forgotten it. The name of my dead friend was-Anton Leny! Cam. Leny! Oh, my God! Was he an artist? Paint. Oh, no! Aye, 'Tis not so-he lies! Help! my mother faints! Cam. (Fainting.) My son, Lenardo! Paint. (Aside.) Farewell! Barbarian! how did she offend thee? Marq. Come to thy chamber. Oh! death's wing is cold, So cold! his night far darker still than mine, (Exeunt all except COUNT and PAINTER. Paint. He's lost to thee for ever-he is dumb! Oh! I beseech thee, |