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 Copy 1 
 
 THE 
 
 CONSPIRATOR 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 BY JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD, 
 
 MEMPHIS, - - TENN. 
 
THE 
 
 CONSPIRATOR 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 / 
 
 BY JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD, 
 
 MEMPHIS, - - TENN. 
 
 
 9n 
 
DRAMATIS-PERSONi:. 
 
 P5 3515 
 
 Guido. — The Conspirator. . — -. 
 
 Zelia. — Guido's daughter. • '—('"C^fo 
 
 Count of Zeno. — Guido's friend. 
 
 Antonio. — The old fisherman. 
 
 Duke. — Ruler of Venice. 
 
 Doge-Falereo. — 2d Ruler. 
 
 First Council. 
 
 Second '' 
 
 Third 
 
 Fourth 
 
 Fifth 
 
 Sixth " 
 
 S'eventh 
 
 Eighth 
 
 Ludovico. — Alfonso's friend. 
 
 Bernado. — A young noble. 
 
 Farota. — A Young noble. 
 
 Signio — Hostler of St. Marco's Square. 
 
 Alfonso. — A villain and noble. 
 
 Silvia — Zelia' s old nurse. 
 
 Leoni. — A young noble. 
 
 Bertrand. — Antonio's son. 
 
 Page — Alfonso's servant. 
 
 Bruno. — Foreman. 
 
 First Monk. 
 
 Portio. — Guido's spv. 
 
 Mario. 
 
 Doge^s Scribe. 
 
 Citizen. 
 
 Claud. — Mario's brother, Hrst brother, 
 
 Lucretia. 
 
 Deppo. — Captain ot the ^ruard. 
 
 Priest. — Who married A. and M. 
 
 Guards, Greeks, Turks, Jews, Pages, (5rv. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 [scene in guido's garden.] 
 
 Guido. — Venice, Oh, proud Venice! what-ever changing 
 fate led me blind-folded to your shores? Why did I leave a 
 land of freedom — my childhood's happy home? The moun- 
 tains kissed the clouds, and they lingering lovingly, around 
 those hoary-headed anthems of eternal liberty-a union of the 
 gods and men — -your aged heads were crowned with heav- 
 en's own diadem. My father's cot upon the mountain's side, 
 a sheltering nook, a babbling brook, a life of freedom and of 
 joy — all, all crowd upon my memory now, till thought is 
 madness and madness pain. The dreams of childhood, come 
 back to me with a thousand brilliant charms. I climbed the 
 ruggetl cliffs, and scaled the mountain's side, plucked the 
 wild flowers from the shaded vale, and played from sun to 
 sun. My brother, too, a comely lad, and sure of foot as I, 
 was ever my companion true, and always by my side; forty 
 years have sped them by — long years they've been to me. 
 We parted on that fatal morn; shuddering I recall the boy- 
 ish quarrel, the angry words, the struggle and the awful fall. 
 
 Zelia. — Father, father! why do you look so strange? — such 
 vacant eyes and horrid stare! — speak to me, speak to your 
 child? 
 
 Guido. Nothing, Zelia, nothing; I was but dreaming of 
 the days gone by. How is my child to-day? Does the lag- 
 ging sunbeams creeping so slowly o'er the palace walls of 
 proud old Venice find thee in health and strength ? 
 
 Zelia. — I have been up an hour or more, watching the swift 
 gliding gondolas as they skim through these watery streets; 
 how strange a city on the sea — few bestir themselves — all 
 Venice sleeps. 
 
 Guido. — Most true; all Venice sleeps; the lion of St. Mark 
 doth guard them well. Bacchus' courts Morpheus, and Mor- 
 pheus holds them firmly. They dream away, the best part 
 of their days and lives. Their masters in their guarded pal- 
 aces can well say all Venice sleeps. Be thou my child ever 
 up betimes, to catch the morning breeze, 'twill brighten the 
 roses on thy velvet cheeks; all nature seems more fair. Dost 
 love thy father, child, and wilt thou ever be, the same good 
 child to me, or will thy heart be filled with cankering care, 
 to rob thee of thy roses and thy youth. 
 
 Zelia. — How could I ever love thee less? for I have never 
 known a mother's tender, loving care; you have been both 
 to me. The last childish prattle, the slumbering drowsy lid, 
 the upturned good-night glance were all for thee — pillowed 
 on thy strong, broad breast, my sleep was sweet indeed. 
 
4 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Guide. — Thou art wondrous fair to-day, and all Venice 
 would so sa}'. Be braye of heart, my child; take not the 
 shadow for the substance; would that I had a cerberus to 
 guard thee from the living, as he guards the forgotten dead. 
 To your room my child, I'll to my work. (ExitZelia.) The 
 vicious, untamed, depraved youths of Venice, shall never 
 snatch my treasure from me. Wiio can tell? we are but 
 human after all, and have been so for four thousand years. 
 The very heart so loyal to me now, may cause me griet in 
 years to come — did I say years? it may be only months. 
 
 Zeno. — Good morrow, Guido; what ails thee man? art 
 brooding o'er thy cares? Come, smile, be proud; no arm in 
 Venice is so strong, no rapier so true; a buckler for thy cradle, 
 rhy childish toy a blade. 
 
 Guido- — Zeno, forgive me; I was dreaming of the past. 
 
 Zeno. — 'Tis of the past I'd speak, from whence came you 
 — your proud and haughty bearing; 111 bespeaks a near ap- 
 proach to confidence. 
 
 Guido. — I want no friends, distrusting friendship nuich. I 
 command respect, 'tis all I ask or give. 
 
 Z<?/zf.— Beware of such a speech, the day will come, when 
 you will feel the want of one, and maybe more. 
 
 Guido. — The eaglet was not more free than I ; .the deer 
 more fleet of foot ; no readier blade to do or dare; I lived on 
 freedom's air. All is changed ; the very palace walls have 
 ears; suspicion and distrust walk arm in arm; a man uare not 
 say his soul's his own; the revenues of State are all absorbed 
 by theft ; argus-eyed vigilance eternal watch is keeping. 
 The rack, the torture, have done their work; we are a repub- 
 lic only in name. Down with the Doge, and his much dread- 
 ed council of ten; they are tyrants; death to them. 
 
 Zeno. — Silence is liberty in Venice. Had thou saidst as 
 much to other ears, the proud eaglets wings, were closely 
 clipped, the bridge of sighs, would soon convey thee to a dun- 
 geon deep. 
 
 Guido. — I care not, Zeno, the end must come; ai'gus-eyed 
 vigilance, eternal watch is keeping — not on the ducal treasury; 
 this cruel, iron-handed Doge and handful of robed mur- 
 derers squander it in a thousand ways. Their spies, an 
 army in themselves, are all well fed and kept, ready for their 
 master's bidd-ng. Base hirelings that they are, miscreants, 
 cowards — only brave in numbers. The gorgious trappings of 
 the palace guard, all glitteri)ig in the noon-day sun ; their 
 sumptuous larders well filled with stores of wine and luxuries; 
 their tables groan beneath the weight of dainties that would 
 shame an eastern prince. For their amusement all Venice 
 dances and will sing; we are slaves — 'base slaves; the yoke 
 fits well, then let it stay. 
 
 Zeno. — 'Tis most true; 'tis niost human, and always will 
 be so. Man must govern and men be governed. 
 
THE CONSPARITOR. 5 
 
 Giiido. — Why not overthrow this htindful of petty tyrants, 
 clothed with some brief authority. They are a stain upon 
 proud Venice; times were not thus, when first my wander- 
 ing footsteps sought these fair shores. All was liberty then, 
 that is but slavery new; the four hundred and eighty electors 
 of this free people are reduced to ten. Centralization and 
 the torture have done their work. The people with abject 
 fear, have given up. one vested right, then another, till all is 
 lost. Eternal liberty, is the price of eternal vigilance. 
 , Zeno. — I pra}' thee, Guido, for thy sake, beware, you tread 
 on dangerous ground, and invite the council's wrath and 
 torture. 
 
 Guido. — Tile surest throne, is in the people'^ heart; more 
 liberty of speech, more field for action, the will of the people 
 should be the nation's laws; they should guard well these 
 rights. 
 
 Zeno. — Hush, for God's sake hush; the very air will send 
 thy words to listening ears, and then good-by to thv fair 
 thoughts of freedom, and reform. 
 
 Guido. — Their shrouded council, seated with closed doors, 
 and guarded with mailed hands, could ne'er withstand the 
 gorgeous light of day. Their deeds are darkness and there- 
 fore night. 
 
 Zeno. — I love thee well, and were rot for thy manly arm, 
 the soul of Zeno had taken flight, his body food for worms. 
 Speak no more of things we cannot help, 'tis at the peril of 
 thy life. 
 
 Guido. — You overrate the little service I have done — not 
 worth the thought. The time may come, when I will try thv 
 proffered friendship to the last degree. 
 
 Zeno. — It will stand the test, and by all the gods I swear 
 my sword, and fortune, are thine to command, until we meet 
 again. Good by. (Exit.) 
 
 Guido. — He has gone; a truer heart beats not beneath a 
 doublets silken fold. He would be a man, but for the brawl- 
 ing times, the sparkling wine, the ribald jest, the women 
 bold and free. They cast a spell upon our better selves, a 
 blow, a quarrel, and a rapier thrust — all is over — we are but 
 dust. 
 
 Antonio. — I am here, friend Guido, for a little help; old 
 and feeble, with gray hairs and tottering to his fall, the old 
 man asks for bread. 
 
 Guido. — Where is thy son, Antonio? hast been unfortunate 
 with his net, or has the sea gone dry.' 
 
 Antonio. — He has not fished these many days ; he is far too 
 grand for that. I see liim seldom, then 'tis late. He was so 
 brave and true, till evil companions, gaming, and bad wine, 
 have so completely turned his head, lie cursed his poor old 
 father because he asked for bread. 
 
 Guido. — I'll seek, Antonio, for your erring son; it needs 
 
O THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 but a word, to recall the manliness that not long since held 
 sway, o'er that misguided heart. 
 
 Antonio. — I'll bless you, Guido, bless you, with my latest 
 breath; your very name is reverenced in all Venice, for the 
 noble deeds you have done. 
 
 Guido. — Pardon, old man, you have not broken fast, enter, 
 and partake of Guido's cheer; another soon will fill Antonio's 
 place. The tree is tottering' to its fall; those old eyes have 
 seen the rise and fall of many a Doge's rule, and may see at 
 least one more. 
 
 Scene. — [In the council chamber, all seated in their places 
 and in appropriate dress, the Duke in the middle, five on 
 each side, Pages, Guards and Messengers.] 
 
 Duke. — Good day, my worthy council. How fares Adri- 
 atics fair queen to-day? Our ships well ladened from the 
 Levant — bring wealth and commerce to our doors. Our 
 well-sailed ships — they whiten every sea. Venice is great, 
 and mistress of the world. 
 
 Doge. — Passing well. Our faithful spies, report a quiet 
 night. Nothing has transpired worthy of great mention. 
 These good people frolic and drink wine. The women gossip 
 and dress fine. They are but children after all. If we but 
 keep them well amused, we have naught to fear. We have 
 no malcontents to stir — the surface of a smooth and glossy sea. 
 
 First Council. — There is one — you all know him well — (at 
 least by reputation) — Guido by name — an armorer of great 
 renown, of which all Venice should be proud. Orders for 
 his suits of mail come from all kingdoms, and all climes. 
 He has the secret, that is a fortune in itself, of so tempering 
 steel, with half the weight of other cumbrous suits, they 
 double in resistance. 
 
 Duke. — Well, what of that.'' Would that we had more of 
 his kind. It would our revenues increase — of which we 
 greatly stand in need. 
 
 First Council. — Why not seize his shop, and run this work 
 ourselves? It is a secret, that should belong alone to Venice. 
 It will throw a lustre on our arms abroad, and make us feared 
 at home. I like him not. None know from whence he 
 came. He may be a Genoaian in disguise — from the Devil, 
 and all such. Our patron saint deliver us. 
 
 Doge. — Well to the point. 
 
 First Council. — He has high notions of Knight-errantry — 
 would rather crack a helmet with a battle-axe, than woo the 
 fairest maid. Rather with a lance in rest, and visor down, 
 meet in the deadly shock and unhorse men, than play the 
 gallant to some lady fair. 
 
 Second Council — I thank the gods, that Venice swims upon 
 the Adriatic sea. I like not too much land — the neighing 
 steed — the mailed knight — and battle-cry. Ugh ! ! they make 
 my blood run cold. 
 
THE CONSPIRITOR. 7 
 
 First Council. — The people, old and young, think htm a 
 very god, and worship at his shrine. No gay young noble, 
 but would give a kingly crown for such an arm, and such a 
 blade. He has captured all hearts by his princely bearing: 
 always on the side of weakness, and i'gainst the strong. 
 
 Third Cou?icil. — He is a dangerous man, and should be 
 closely watched. 
 
 First Council. — The Count of Zeno swears by him — for to 
 this Guido, Zeno owes his life. He keeps his counsel, and 
 his tongue. His money, without stint, he gives to the poor — 
 while we with little mercy, tax from door to door. 
 
 Fourth Council. — He mocks and derides Venetian ways — 
 calls us women, and not men. Civilization brings refine- 
 ment; and with refinement, all our martial deeds, give place 
 to gallant speeches, dress, fair women, and old wine — so let 
 it be, at least for me. 
 
 Doge. — Forewarned is forearmed — I'll so instruct our spies. 
 
 First Council. — His bearing, and his well stored mind, ill 
 befit his calling. I like him not: a fire-brand, ready for the 
 burning. 
 
 Fifth Council. — I know him, and of his deeds I well can 
 speak. No braver heart among your Highness' subjects; no 
 one can say aught of his good name. He tends his business 
 close — has no liking for the mid -night brawl. A more 
 peaceable, unoffending citizen dwells not in Venice. 
 
 Duke. — Why, half the day is done, our work scarce begun. 
 One would think this valiant knight was at our very doors, 
 with sword in hand, to slay us all. No more of this; I have 
 need of your good counsel. As you well know, our money 
 bags are empty — our guards, and spies, have not been paid. 
 Discontent will follow soon enough. All this glittering pomp, 
 and well-guarded power, makes paupers of us all, and strains 
 our credit to the last degree. These standing armies in times 
 of peace take bread from peoples' mouths, and support the 
 very men who should bring us wealth by toil. 
 
 Doge. — Your Highness forgets our neighbors of Genoa. 
 Jealous of our fame, they would make short work of Venice; 
 her wealth of marble palaces; her shipping, and her com- 
 merce. We are not over-loved in Venice, as you well know, 
 and need these troops to keep our people down. Without 
 them, we are lost. 
 
 Duke. — How can we raise some money.'' Everything is . 
 taxed. Can some fertile brain! devise some scheme. 
 
 Fourth Council. — Have we ever taxed ourselves? Gods so 
 forbid. We are the rulers of proud old Venice. To tax 
 ourselves would be an insult to the people. It must come 
 bome other way. 
 
 Sixth Council. — The Jews the crucifiers — the money bags 
 
 of St. Marco's square, and the Rialto — they toil not; neither 
 do they spin. When shall the tax begin? 
 
8 THE CONSPIRITOR. 
 
 Seventh Coimcil. — Old shylocks, with their hoarded wealth 
 — we will bleed them well. Their yellow turbans, and red 
 hats^ are thick as Vampire bats; and, like them, suck our 
 blood, while soothing us to slumber, with the flutter of their 
 wings. 
 
 Eighth Council. — Their business is more prosperous, than 
 any in all Venice — which speaks not well for us. 
 
 Duke. — A forced loan, then, let it be. Poor, friendless 
 Jews! The church and state thy foes. The strong oppress 
 the weak — might makes right, and right makes conquest and 
 so the world moves on. 
 
 Doge. — Our ducal guards, our retinue of spies, and menial, 
 make the cost of government immense. How can it be 
 otherwise. The velvet glove, on a hand of iron, serves these 
 base plebeians well, and seats royalty securely on the throne. 
 Amuse, but keep them down. Make them feel your power. 
 There is not a whisper that floats upon the midnight air, 
 that comes not straight to us. 
 
 Duke. — We cannot trust these inoffensive people, then, and 
 need only fear, to uiake them abject slaves. Would that our 
 law was less severe — more merciful. We rule them with an 
 iron hand. The wretch who stands before the council is 
 condemned, before he is fairly tried. These dreadful instru- 
 ments of torture, so grimly silent stand, are monuments of 
 blood and shame. Those gloomy dungeons, where all hope 
 has fled, and where the Adriatic sea, idly breaks against those 
 prison walls, tells them that all things but man are free — 
 man's inhumanity to man. His God created soul for free- 
 dom, and the mind for thought. God's precious gifts, bring 
 down the wrath of Kings upon them; and all these horrors 
 are for man, and man alone. Prometheus' stolen fire 
 brought not happiness, but woe. 
 
 Doge. — Your Highness must be jesting, or a woman's weak- 
 ness steals upon your heart. You cannot govern Venice, 
 with such thoughts as thine. 
 
 Duke. — V7e are a Republic only in name. There seems 
 to be no feeling of revolt; no conspirators to hatch high 
 treason in their dens. Then why so many fawning, cring- 
 ing attendants, who serve us for our gold to-day, and to- 
 morrow tear us limb from limb. Confidence begets con- 
 fidence. We distrust them, and they distrust us. 
 
 Doge. — Well, so let it be, and be it must. Our iron hand 
 shall still strike terror to their conspiring souls; our grasp 
 shall not relax upon their unwilling purses. We curse the 
 boat, that weathers the storm, and brings us safe to land. 
 
 Duke. — As you will. I would rather be enthroned in the 
 hearts of this good people, than rule them with a tyrant's rod. 
 I'll hence, and sign the tax decree — affix the ducal seal. See 
 thou 'tis well and truly kept. 
 
 Scene. — [In Guido's Jhouse. — Enter, Alfonso, Ludovico, 
 Bernado, Farota, Signio.] 
 
THE CONSPIRITOR. 9 
 
 Alfonso. — Fair greet'mgs to you, Guido. How goes the day 
 with thee? 
 
 Guido. — Most fair indeea. Dame fortune is most cheery 
 of her smiles. My business prospers. I have more orders 
 than I well can fill. 
 
 Alfonso. — How is this? The world's at peace. I hear of, no 
 clash of arms. 
 
 Guido. — The world soon will not be — a crusade on the tur- 
 banedTurk. A conflict is close at hand, all Europe turns with 
 hungry eyes. A treasure so very rare, a prize so great, she 
 covets and will grasp, though seas of blood be shed. 
 
 Ludovico. — You speak in riddles, Guido. What mean you? 
 We are dull ot ear in grand old Venice. Foreign news 
 moves slow. 
 
 Guido. — The Savior's tomb to be reclaimed, forsooth. 
 What care we for the casket, since the precious jewel's flown? 
 The crescent, and the cross, in deadly conflict soon will be. 
 Though I like not the foolish cause, the very thought of mailed 
 knights, mounted on their fiery steeds, their pennons proudly 
 floating o'er their glittering hosts — the sword, the battle-axe, 
 and spear. They thrill my very blood with joy. It tingles 
 to my finger-tips. 
 
 Ludovico. — Yours is a foolish dream. For my part, Fd 
 rather dwell at peace with all the world — in these marble 
 walls of proud old Venice — content to sip old Flemish wine, 
 live on sumptuous fare, and woman's smile to cheer the lag- 
 ging hours, than ride to death in the whirling, wheeling 
 charge — horse and rider down, the corselet punched, the 
 helmet cracked, their mirrored surface smeared with Ludo- 
 vico's brains. 
 
 Alfonso. — They would strike deep indeed to find so rare a 
 thing. What say you, Signio? Ha! ha! ha! (Laughs.) 
 
 Signio. — Ha! ha!! ha!!! You are right, Alfonso. A 
 Turkish cimeter is not more keen than Alfonso's jest. 
 
 Ludovico — I like not jesting over much, Alfonso. Be they 
 much or little, they will rest at peace, in this good shell of 
 mine. 
 
 F'arota. — Shell — ha! ha!! ha!!! 'Tis quite the word. It 
 is a shell indeed. 
 
 Ludovico. — Peace, fools ! your glib tongues anger me. 
 Your senseless jests fall flat upon my ears, and were not 
 worth a rapier thrust. 
 
 Guido. — Peace, young gallants. This is my place, humble 
 tho' it be. Forget not you are only guests. 'Twere better 
 to fall in square, and manly fight, than on some quiet spot, 
 stuck through and through — an unharnessed corpse, a sense- 
 less thing. 
 
 \Zelia — Knocks.] 
 
 Guido. — Enter, Zelia — (by all the gods that ever cursed 
 this earth, I am undone. Oh, unpropitious fate! Oh, direful 
 
lO THE CONSPIRITOR. 
 
 fortune! I'd rather thrown a thousand ducats in the sea.) 
 [All this aside.] 
 
 Guide. — My daughter, gentlemen — an only child, whose 
 mother died so young, she scarce remembers theda}^. I have 
 been both to her. 
 
 What ails thee, child? and to what am I indebted for this 
 untimely call? 
 
 Zelia.—\ was lonesome, father, and did tire of Silvia's 
 presence, and my work. It is not often that I see thee now. 
 Drive me not back — you do not love me as of yore. 
 
 Alfofiso. — Pardon, good Guido. I am dazed, blinded, by 
 this vision. How is this? A flower so beautiful and rare, 
 sees not the light of day. She is the peer of Mari by great odds. 
 
 Guido. — She is but a child in years — time enough to make 
 or unmake her happiness. 
 
 Ltidovico. — By heavens, she is more fair than dreams. I 
 am pleased^ smitten, slain by Cupid's tender shafts. 'Tis 
 some picture, to vanish in thin air, 
 
 Farota. — How could such beauty be concealed, and in 
 Venice, too. 'Tis most strange, and yet most true. 
 
 Zelia. — You are welcome, noble sirs, to my father's house. 
 We have good cheer, and wine; and, best of all, content. 
 
 Alfonso. — Fair Zelia is the jewel — most dazzling. The 
 casket is a worthless thing, I ween, and my eternal hate 
 upon it, that so long hid. so fair a queen. 
 
 Zelia. — You are smooth of tongue, good Seignior. My 
 thanks extend no further than the gallant speech deserves. 
 
 Alfonso. — Then take it lor its w^orth — I'll be content. 
 
 Zelia. — So let it be. 
 
 Ludovico. — Your pardon, fair Zelia ; and may I ask, if in 
 your childish heart, there lurks no keen desire — no wish to 
 mingle with the worldly throng. 
 
 Zelia. — Give me time to think. A maiden's heart's a fool- 
 ish thing, and changeful as the wind. 
 
 Ludovico. — If you so will, it shall be done. The ducal balls 
 are grand. Rounds of pleasure never cease. Light-hearted 
 Venice always on the wing. 
 
 Guido. — Light-headed as well. I thank you, gentlemen, 
 for your interest in my child. There is time enough for all 
 these frivolous things. 
 
 Alfonso. — We will, one and all, say good bye, and for my- 
 self, will ever pray that we shall meet again. (Exit all.) 
 
 Guido. — My child, it grieves me, that you should have met 
 these senseless^ hair-brained fops. They are not men, but 
 things, created to suit these effeminate times — idlers, babblers, 
 ever on the alert, to break some woman's heart; or, empty 
 flagons, and the midnight brawl. 
 
 Zelia.— T\iQy were your guests, my father; and as such, de- 
 served recognition at my hands. 
 
 Guido. — So is Antonio, the fisherman, and all, from high to 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. II 
 
 low degree. The}' come on business. This does not admit 
 them to my inner life, or to my daughter's presence. 
 
 Zelia. — Are they, then, so black of heart? They are so 
 handsome in my eyes, and have the proud bearing of Vene- 
 tian nobles. 
 
 Giiido. — Judge not man by dress, but by his actions, in this 
 transitory life. I fear my daughter is not pleased with home, 
 and friends; and like the birdling. tr}- her unfledged wings 
 only, to fall to earth, a helpless lump of sinful clay. 
 
 Zelia. — I am as happy, as I well can be; my music, tapestry 
 and teachei occupy my entire time. My father's love is all I 
 wish for, or can ask, and yet methinks, there steals upon me, 
 now and then, the sadness of a lonely life; companionship I 
 crave — some one of my age. Silvia is old, though kind of 
 heart and true. 
 
 Guido. — -You are right, my child, we are young but once; 
 who shall it be? I'll find some worthy girl. Antonio's 
 daughter is of your age — a charming, guileless girl — besides 
 thev are so very poor. It shall be so, my Zelia. 
 
 Zelia. — I thank you, father, thank you. I'll to my childish 
 duties; would that I were fully grown, to wear such hand- 
 some dresses, long trails, jevvels and Venetian vails. 
 
 Guido. — You shall; my child, and now good bye. (Kisses; 
 exit Zelia.) This sweet, sweet flower, I have watched with 
 tender care--the bud, the blossom and now the full blown 
 rose; the blast of winter strikes deep into my soul, and leaves 
 it leafless, agonized and bare; the rose is blighted and soon 
 will fade. The poisoned arrow's flight has been most true ; 
 the seeds of discontent are sown; her face so beautiful and 
 fair, her heart so pure and free, can never stand the fierce on- 
 slaught of these corrupting times. A woman's heart's a strange, 
 strange thing, a ribbon, a piece of lace, a jewel rare, a constant 
 thirst for that they do not own, surfeited possession, and a wish 
 for more, quick intuition, and desire to please; they probe the 
 wounded spot, with quick precision, and leave the heart for- 
 lorn. (Rings for Silvia). I'll call good Silvia up, her wise 
 counsel will help me much. 
 
 Silvia. — Noble master, I wait your good commands. 
 Guido. — Why, noble Silvia! I am abase plebeian born; there 
 is a wide gulf between them, in Venice. 
 
 Silvia. — Nobility of heart is all from God. Nobility of title 
 is a brutish thing, and covered by fine clothes. God's noble- 
 men are rare. Venetian nobles are as thick as clowns, upon 
 some festal day. 
 
 Guide. — Purity of heart count? little now, good Silvia. 
 These degenerate times nature's noblemen are rare. About 
 my child I wish to speak. I have been so engrossed in busi- 
 ness, have quite neglected Zelia. Tell me, seems she happy 
 and content? Zelia is a child no longer, a woman's shadow, 
 overspreads a childish heart; be vigilant. I trust to your 
 
12 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 good care; she is my cherished idol ; God forgive my love 
 for her, if 'tis sinful, forgive again. 
 
 Silvia. — She is not content; she asks more questions in one 
 hour, than I well could answer in a week, of Venice, and her 
 motle}- throng, from every clime, and tongue, and drinks the 
 answers as some drink old flemish wine. 
 
 Guido. — I thought as much; give me your advice — what 
 shall I do? 
 
 Silvia. — Go with her yourself, and let her see these sights. 
 Give her fine clothes, and jewels rare, for you are well able. 
 
 Guido. — The richest man in Venice to-day, and made it 
 all myself 
 
 Silvia. — Let her be surfeited, and then you'll hear no more 
 of this, and if you go not yourself, why, some one will. 
 
 Guido. — How can I mix in such a motley throng, of shal- 
 low pates, idiots, fools, puppets, who sti'ut upon life's stage, 
 and with singed wings they die? Will my child pass through 
 all this unscathed? My good heart tells me it is wrong. 
 Whoever deceives this sweet and lovely child, shall my full 
 vengeance feel. Woe to the wretch again, I say doubly woe 
 to thee. 
 
 Silvia. — You will be so proud of Zelia; her face the fairest 
 in all Venice. She'll turn the hearts of oUi, and young, and 
 lead captivity captive in her train. 
 
 Guido. — I wish not to measure strength, or break a lance. 
 I am content to cry me quits already; I have no time, for 
 such foolish pastime; my business now so prosperous, would 
 soon melt away. What would my humble friends in Venice, 
 think of stern, and unrelenting Guido, transformed into some 
 jesting clown? It can never be. Silvia, I trust her to your 
 care and watchful eyes; let nothing escape you; indulge her 
 as you will. My child's happiness is all I live for or can ask. 
 Silvia. — As you so say, it shall be done. (Exi':.) 
 Zeno. — -Give me your hand, friend Guido^ and a friendly 
 shake. Your hand is feverish, some internal fire consumes 
 thee and needs the leeches craft; what ails thee, art sick.? 
 
 Guido. — Sick unto death. Sick in mind, body and in spirit. 
 The time has come, or is it coming, that will tr\' my very 
 soul. 
 
 Zeno. — What has happened, tell me Guido? 
 Guido. — I told thee not long since, I wished not for friends; 
 I feel the need of one to-day. 
 
 Ztno. — I'll be thy friend and be most glad. What can I do 
 for thee? Come, speak. 
 
 Guido. — Much friend Zeno, much. I have an only child, 
 whose face so fair, will yet be my curse. Just budding into 
 womanhood, she wishes, sighes and feels most sad, because 
 she's lonely, and would see the sights. How can I trust her, 
 so frail a bark, would soon be wrecked upon so rough a sea? 
 Zeno. — You take life's troubles all too much to heart; there 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. I 3 
 
 are other daughters in the world,. and other father's too. Bor- 
 row not trouble from the future, or it will repay thee with 
 gray hairs. 
 
 Guide. — Not like mine; she ne'er has had a mother's watch- 
 ful care, and woman's quick tuition, to tell the right from 
 wiong^ to pick the gold, from heaps of dross. 
 
 Zeno. — She will weather the storm I ween. Give her the 
 chance, an untried saintly soul, deserves no credit from on 
 high: with no temptation comes no sin, and \vith no sin no 
 fall, and with no fall no devil. 
 
 Guido .—\y\iS. harm come to my darling child, I'd turn all 
 Venice up side down. 
 
 Zeno. — I doubt it not, and only ask delay, and safety, till 
 that time does come. 
 
 Guide. — I like not these piping times of peace: we are be- 
 hind the age. All Europe's armed and ready for tlie fray, 
 while we sit moping, with no soul above the fragrant vvine — 
 no hearts for brave and manly deeds; it brings a blush of 
 shame for Venice, who well could spare ten thousand men. 
 
 Zeuo. — Softlv, Guido, you are boiling over, and no fire be- 
 neath the caldron either. The world's all wrong with thee 
 to-day. Many a brave spirit dwells in Venice, though now 
 debauched with wine and game, would l-e foremost in the 
 deadly charge. Some one to rouse this latent manliness, and 
 this sleep of wine once broken. Venice would be proud in- 
 deed to own such daring knights. 
 
 Guido. — Come sup with me, the day is on the wane, the 
 shadows thicken and grow deep along the palace walls, the 
 gondolier's shrill signal, is all that's heard; there is light and 
 cheer within, I have much to say to-night. (Enter.) 
 
 Scene. — [In St. Marco's Square, near Signio's.] 
 
 Alfonso. — So, so, easy, good fellow, there is a ducatoon 
 for thy trouble; land me safely on Signio's marble stairs. 1 
 am late already; the nights are long, thank God, and well 
 drawn out; the\' are equal to a week. (Knocks and enters.) 
 
 Signio. — Welcome, Alfonso, thrice welcome to my hall; 
 few have come in to-night, we will have a quiet game, and 
 may dame fortune smile to-night upon thee. (Knocks, re- 
 peated knocks. Enter Ludivico, Farota, Bernado, Lioni, 
 Bertrand.) 
 
 Signio. — Now all the gods be praised for this; we will have 
 a rousing night. Sit round this table, and I'll call for 
 wine. Waiters, ho! waiters! Bring wine — give us my best, 
 'tis ambrosia for the gods. Let Bacchus reign supreme, we 
 will be the votaries at his shrine, and Mercury help us in our 
 game. 
 
 Alfunso. — This is good wine, and fit for any Grecian god ; 
 thanksgiving to the tenders of the vine, that grew the grapes, 
 that made this wine. May their shadow never lengthen to 
 the east. (All drink.) 
 
14 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Ludovico. — Fill up again, it gives me thirst for more, sets my 
 blood on fire, gives a generous warmth, an all-pervading glow, 
 and moves my sluggish heart. 
 
 Farota. — It makes the poor man rich — tne rich man poor — 
 turns the world, and all its people upside down ; our cares sit 
 lightly on our hearts; it dulls the edge of keen desire. 
 
 Leoni. — It steals our sense, imprisons our lofty souls, and 
 weakens God's precious gift — the intellect. 
 
 Bertrand. — Desolate homes, aged gray hairs, and suffering 
 hearts, a mother's saintly love — these and many more its her- 
 itage. 
 
 Bernado. — Come, come, we are too hard on wine — gener- 
 ous wine. The fault is in ourselves. Let us one and all drink 
 to Signio's health and prosperity. 
 
 Bertrand. — Here is to the hostler of St. Marco's Square — 
 always ready with wine, and game, to freshen the lagging 
 hours — a short life, and a merry one for me. (All drink and 
 say Signio forever.) 
 
 Ludovico. — Well, who can give us news.^ Has good old 
 Venice gone to sleep? 
 
 Leoni. — You have heard the last decree of State — an extra 
 tax upon the Jews. Some revenue to raise until the next one's 
 due. 
 
 Bertrand. — Our council seem to be bad managers; the 
 money gone already, and for what? We have naught to show; 
 the same old housing we have seen since we were boys; we 
 have no extra shipping that I see; no marble palaces as mon- 
 uments of Venetian glory; St. Marco's Square's the same; 
 the rialto shows no improvement. Where, I say, where, has 
 the seven million ducats gone? Who can answer? 
 
 Leoni. — True, most true; where does the money go? Our 
 ships they ride at anchor in every port, our commerce is the 
 world's; the revenues immense. Where can these moneys go? 
 
 Ludovico. — A tax upon the Jews? Ha, ha, ha! They are 
 the treasurers for the State; the money well in band, they 
 seem to thrive and save; will make it back again, from all 
 our gay young nobles; we will make it from the poor; a lit- 
 tle doubling of their precious backs, increase our golden store; 
 the rate of interest, will be raised, among the moneyed Jews. 
 
 Bertrand. — It cannot last; the tension is too great---the 
 string will break. One more turn, of the little screw, then 
 good-b>e council ten. 
 
 Alfonso. — Art mad; you know not what you say. The 
 council, and the Doge's spies are everywhere, and thick as 
 the busy little bees — not to extract honey, from the sweet, 
 sweet flowers — but the truth, and in a manner, you least 
 would like. 
 
 Bertrand — And must the seal of si'ence, be placed upon our 
 lips — no liberty of speech, to censure, the conduct of our ducal 
 council. Where, does the money 2:0, I ask? Who can an- 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. I 5 
 
 swer? Can we not change them, once a year? Why do we 
 keep them? Because the nobles fear to loose, their iron grip 
 upon the toilers of the sea. 
 
 Alfonso. — The Doge, can answer you, I ween; his answer 
 would bring sorrow to your soul. Who are ycu, anyway, 
 Antonio's son, the poor old fisherman?. It is by noble grace 
 \'ou are here; art friendly to the poor, and well you may be 
 so; you are the poorest of the poor; you cannot go with us, and 
 defend the other side. 
 
 Bertrand. — Wine, women and game, make equals of us here, 
 at least. The time will come, when all things will be more 
 equal, outside; (All start up say: What say you?) Be calm, 
 gentlemen — when we are dead, oh! ah!! oh!! ah!I! 
 
 Alfonso. — I thought some deep-laid plot, was in your fertile 
 brain. 
 
 Btrtrand. — I hear more than you know of. The bone and 
 sinew of the land, they think; can j^our worthy Doge stop 
 that? 
 
 Alfonso. — With all ease. The headsman's ax can soon 
 do that; a poniard thrust, poison---a thousand ways, Ber- 
 trand. 
 
 Bertrand. — The murmur of the poor, like the Adriatic sea 
 — is vast — a little wind would reap the whirlwind. 
 
 Ludovico. — What mean you ? 
 
 Bertrand. — The people's curses, though deep, are long. 
 Mark you well; I say not there is high treason, hatching in 
 low places, for it is not so; the people are most true, and 
 loyal; the situation is not secure; one little spark would kindle 
 a conflagration, that all the power of church, and State, could 
 not repress. 
 
 Signio. — Away with politics; let's have more wine; why 
 trouble, with afif^^irs of State — leave them to older heads. 
 
 Ludovico. — Guido's daughter, is fair indeed — the fairest in 
 all Venice. Only by chance we met this Venus. Guido was 
 displeased, as one well could see; he guards her as close as 
 any miser does his gold. Many a time, and oft, we wined 
 and dined, beneath his humble roof; never yet have we laid 
 eyes upon her, and never dreamed, one so fair, dwelt in those 
 quaint old walls. 
 
 Signio. — Fairest of the fair, as thou well hast said, and if her 
 heart's as stern, and unrelenting, as her noble sire's, she will 
 be a match for all. 
 
 Ludovico. — Alfonso's fair and flattering speech, fell flat upon 
 those dainty ears, and made no more impression, than a i-a- 
 pier thrust, upon a marble wall. 
 
 Alfonso. — I would have said more ; I liked not Guido's 
 scowling face — he seemed ill at ease. I'd rather rouse the 
 tiger from his lair, than offend this Guido in the least. 
 
 Bertrand. — Your life were not worth the hazard of a die 
 — a spitted hare would be as much. 
 
l6 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Alfonso, — I know it well, and therefore am prepared by 
 stealth, or otherwise, to win this lady fair; she seemed most 
 jileased with me, and if I am a judge, those tell-tale eyes, and 
 blushing cheeks, betra}ed the love, her face could not con- 
 ceal. I'll lay siege to her heart at once j a hundred ducats, 
 that I win. 
 
 Ludovico. — She will be a target, for more shafts than thine; 
 a prize so fair, will well be worth the winning. How will 
 fair Mario feel, whose heart, you have already won? How 
 will she take this slight? Beware, Alfonso, a woman scorned, 
 breathes vengeance on the scorner, and like Circe, changes 
 them to swine. 
 
 Alfonso. — One would well think, you had some claims 
 yourself, and threw the gauntlet at my feet. 
 
 Ludovico. — The fight, is a fair one. I'll break a lance with 
 thee. In the list, the victor wins my )ady's favor, it may be 
 you, or it may be me. 
 
 Alfonso. — A hundred ducats that I win; who will take my 
 wager then? She will fall an easy prey — the falcon's swoop, 
 will not be more sure. She is a novice, in the world's bad 
 ways — truth to her is on every lip — no guile in human heart. 
 
 Bertrand. — The eagle soars above the hawk, and one fell 
 swoop, upon this dove so fair, would rend the falcon limb 
 from limb. A fig, for such a narrow soul as thine, Alfonso, 
 so pure a heart, deserves a better fate. 
 
 [Enter two strangers. Seat themselves at a distant table 
 and converse.] 
 
 Guido. — I knew, we would find him here. I promised 
 Antonio, and the promise shall be kept. I like not the crowd, 
 at yonder table, flushed with wine. There sits Bertrand, 
 too. 
 
 Faroto. — Who comes so late? Some gallants, from some 
 ladies fair. 
 
 Signio. — Waiters ! wine for those gentlemen, at once. 
 
 Alfonso. — ril make the race. A hundred ducats that I win 
 the prize. 
 
 Signio. — I double it, thou dost not. If I am any judge of 
 human nature, you will have no easy conquest. 
 
 Alfonso. — Guido's daughter shall be mine. 
 ; Guido. — By all the gods, they are speaking of my child. 
 
 Zeno. — Be calm my friend, be calm. 'Tis Alfonso and his 
 mates, by all that's good. 
 
 Guido. — Villains!! Such profane lips, to speak of things so 
 pure. 
 
 Ze7io. — Come, Guido, away. Oh, unpropitious fate! Why 
 came we here? Becalm, my brain, for thy very wit's sake. 
 
 Guido. — I'll stay, till Venice sinks beneath the sea. Si- 
 lence ! Listen, Zeno, listen ! 
 
 Alfonso. — By fair means, or by foul, I care not which, her 
 charms shall yield, to my seductive tongue. Fill up your 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 1 7 
 
 goblets to the brim; we will drain them and refill. Seven 
 times seven, to Guido's daughter: fit subject, for Juno's jealous 
 wrath. The peer of Trojan Helen. 
 
 Guido. — (Springs forward, just as they raise to drink; 
 knocks Alfonso's glass from his hands; falls to the floor; all 
 spring back aghast.) 
 
 By all the furies, of Pluto's dark realm, the cup that's 
 drained, shall be the last. (All set their glasses down.) 
 
 Alfonso.— QmdiO, by all the shades of death ! 
 Guido. — Well, may your wine-flushed face turn pale 
 Fools! idiots! degraded bestial things ! with no more honor 
 than the dogs. No braver hearts, than to defame some poor 
 girl's name, I spit upon you, as too base to live, too damned 
 to die. 
 
 Alfonso. — Take back ^^our words, or we will pin you to 
 the wall. (All draw and advance.) 
 
 Guido. — White livered cowards, advance ! My nerves are 
 steel, and true as this good blade. My blood is up^ and 
 surges through my veins. I am ready. Come, advance, 
 brave men, advance. Zeno and I stand side by side. 
 
 Signio. — Waiters, one and all, down with Guido ! Down 
 with these base intruders ! (All advance. Guido blows a 
 whistle. Ten men in masks enter; place themselves by 
 Guido's side, with drawn swords.) 
 
 (Tableaux.) Curtain falls. End of first act. 
 
 Scene. — [In Guido's Garden. — Enter Zelia and Silvia.] 
 
 Zelia. — How strange the sight, of Alfonso's face, should 
 dwell so in my heart. Handsome, and proud of main, with 
 all the ease, and bearing of a nobleman. His flattering 
 speeches, would turn an older head than mine. How strange 
 my father should have been so much disturbed, by my unex- 
 pected entrance. Does he hope to keep me, a close prisoner? 
 Will some nun's cloistered life be mine, or will I always (in 
 his eyes) be a child, and treated as one? Can you answer, 
 Silvia.? 
 
 Silvia. — I can, my child. Your best of fathers, has so or- 
 dered, that you can go at will — your happiness his only wish. 
 
 Zelia. — Oh, noble sire! How can I thank you, enough for 
 this? Thrice noble, thou. Tell me all, what said he, Silvia. 
 
 Silvia. — Said you could go, and come at will: gave me the 
 money for your dresses, laces, and fine jewels; and bade me 
 spare him no expense — 'twas for his darling child. 
 
 Zelia. — Thrice liappy heart. To think I'll be a lady grand. 
 How many pages shall I own, to bear this royal train? I 
 have all a woman's heart could wish for, excepting, one little 
 thing, and this I quite forgot, 
 
 Silvia. — What is it, child. It shall be yours. 
 
 Zelia. — Alfonso's love and admiration, when his hand- 
 some eyes, looked into mine, he read the secret of my heart 
 
 Silvia. — This I cannot promise, my child. 
 
I 8 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Zelia — I have changed my mind, good Silvia. I care not 
 to go, beyond these garden walls ; I'll stay at home. 
 
 Silvia. — What mean you child, and why this change r 
 You are jesting w^Ith me now. 
 
 Silvia. — Your eager wish, to mingle, with these courtly 
 Venetian dames — and shine a peerless star, with wealth 
 enough to buy a throne. You tell me now, you care not 
 to go? 
 
 Zelia. — Reprove me not, good nurse; for that, I cannot 
 help. I have a woman's heart within me. 
 
 Silvia. — What mean you? 
 
 Zelia. — Man's transgression through a woman came. The 
 forbidden fruit, was sweetest to the taste. Say not the 
 father's so. 
 
 Silvia. — Because you are allowed, full freedom from all re- 
 straint, you care not now to mingle with the throng. 
 
 Zelia. — You have well said. 
 
 Silvia. — Your father will rejoice, at this turn of your mind. 
 I will restore this gold at once. 
 
 Zelia. — Hold, Silvia; be not so fast. I may yet, change 
 my mind. I would give this all, for one little corner in 
 Alfonso's heart. Will these fair gallants, call soon ? and 
 when? Would they were here now. You are so stupid, 
 Silvia. I tire of thee, which liked you the best. 
 
 Silvia. — None my child, for the selfsame reason, was your 
 noble sire so much chagrined. 
 
 Zelia. — And why ? Oh, tell me why. 
 
 Silvia. — They are a heartless set. The best impulses of 
 their lives, reach no higher than a broken heart, or empty 
 flagon. Of this they boast. 
 
 Zelia. — What do you mean? 
 
 Silvia. — They would win your love, and honor too, for a 
 base, ignoble use. There! I can say no more. If your father 
 could find, some brave young heart, untainted by this worldly 
 world, and all its wicked ways, he would be proud to own 
 him for a son — where will he find as much, and in Venice, too. 
 
 Zelia. — How knows he, that my love would follow, in his 
 train of thought? Remember well, T am but a child. The 
 forbidden fruit, is sweetest to my taste. Alas, for human 
 nature ! 
 
 Silvia. — It grieves me, Zelia, to hear all this. Gra}' hairs, 
 and declining age, give us ripe experience. You do but jest, 
 to worry this old heart. You are a wayward child at best. 
 
 Zelia. — A ducat for your tame young man, with Monkish- 
 praying ways. I like the reckless dash, of these gay Venetian 
 gallants, as sparkling, as the wine they drink. Would I were 
 a man, I'd live a thousand years in one. 
 
 Silvia. — Ah! my poor Zelia; you are the dazed moth, 
 whose golden wings, will soon be singed, by the meridian 
 glare, that blinds, yet burns. Let Phaeton's fate, serve thee as 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. I9 
 
 a warning. You ask for a most fatal gift. Be warned in 
 time. 
 
 Zelia. — I do not understand. 
 
 Silvia. — You will when naught is left, but those poor 
 singed wings. As your father well has said, take not the 
 shadow for the substance. 
 
 [Enter Page, with note from Alfonso. 
 
 Page. — Lady most fair, I have instructions, from my noble 
 young master, to place this in your hands, and in yours 
 alone. Y'ou are the lady I seek — my good eyes tell me as 
 much. I could not well go wrong: the description was good 
 indeed — and while you read. Fll wander through this lovely 
 spot, and wait 3'our answer. 
 
 Zelia. — Oh, happy heait. This new-born love — the very 
 dawn of life. My soul's entranced. (Opens and reads.) 
 His pen's as readv as his tongue. Sweet breathings of love — 
 I press thee to my heart. He fears, that I will offended be, 
 at this bold avowal of his love. Oh, Alfonso! you know not 
 Zella's heart. Qiiick ! some one — .Silvia, pen and ink at 
 Once. 
 
 Silvia. — Hold, mv child. You must be crazed, and need 
 the leeches care. You'll answer no note of his. Let me see 
 the letter. (Holds out her hand.) 
 
 Zelia. — No eyes but mine will ever see this note. I am no 
 child. Good Page ! 
 
 Page. — At your service, lady. 
 
 Zelia. — Tell him, I'll send an answer soon — and now de- 
 part. 
 
 Silvia. — I have not yet seen that note, my child. Will 
 you not show it to me? 
 
 Zelia. — Do not ask this of me. The note is to myself alone 
 and is not for other's eyes. You would laugh good, Silvia. 
 
 Silvia. — Far from it, child. I'd sooner cry — too serious, to 
 be the subject of a senseless jest. Your first downward step 
 is taken — the road is sure and swift. The first lesson of life, 
 you have learned, and that is deceit. Go, tell your father all; 
 keep nothing back. You are withholding the truth, from 
 those who love you most — whose every wish is for your 
 happiness, and peace of mind. 
 
 Zelia. — Go, good Silvia; get thee hence, and leave me in 
 peace. 
 
 Silvia. — Poor wayward heart. Leave thee in peace ! I 
 would that it could be so. There is no peace for thee. Cu- 
 pid's arrow was well aimed — the shaft sunk deep. The 
 wound's incurable. I tell thee now, thy father's good will, is 
 wanting in this suit, and always will be. He would stop at 
 nothing, to prevent thy downward f^ll. I'll to thy sire and 
 tell him all. 
 
 Zelia. — I am alone — thank God for that — and can com- 
 mune with my own thoughts, I'll analyze this froward heart 
 
20 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 — this priceless love; and can Alfonso's love be mine? — the 
 first avow^al of my life, and from so grand a king! Would 
 that I could see him now, and tell him of my love. This 
 would never do. We have met but once. Is this all 
 right, or wrong? I should ask advice of those who loye 
 me most. Who loves me most, my lover, or my sire. Poor 
 heart, how can you well decide, between the two? I was too 
 impulsive. I'll not write the note. If he loves me, he will 
 send, or call, again. My reason tells me, the too ripe fruit 
 falls soonest, and soonest decays, and cloys the appetite. 
 Keep him on the hook, of keen desire, nian soon tiires of tame 
 possession, of the thing, he ©nee did love. I have my father's 
 solid brain. I'll see how deep his love for me will be — not 
 too hasty, Zelia — wait, wait. [Exit.] 
 
 Scene. — [In Guido's room. — Enter Silvia.] 
 
 Guido. — What ails thee, Silvia; you look care-worn and 
 pale. Speak; is my child ill ? 
 
 Silvia. — No; in perfect health of person, though her heart's 
 diseased. Alfonso's page, came through the garden gate, 
 close by the marble pier. How he entered unannounced, I 
 know not. Before we well could speak, he was upon us, 
 with a love-note, which he straight did place in Zelia's hand. 
 She, in raptures of delight, reads it o'er and o'er, and presses 
 to her heart. His evil eye, has fallen upon her — Alfonso's 
 won her pure young heart, and she — she loves him madly. 
 
 Guido. — A thousand curses, on this hell-born hound. I'll 
 run him through, with this good sword of mine, before m} 
 child should wed, so mean, and base a thing. I'll send her 
 soul to God while pure — her body to the Adriatic sea. Good 
 Silvia, be well on your guard. Watch every move; we will 
 circumvent this ungodly knave. 
 
 Silvia. — I'll need some help to watch, the garden gate, and 
 intercept these love-ladened notes, and guard the garden 
 wall. 
 
 Gtiido. — All that you can wish for, or want, and money too. 
 for that. [Exit Silvia.] 
 
 Dive deep into this fertile brain, and bring forth a godlike 
 Minerva, fully armed, and panoplied for war. The gage ol 
 battle, has been thrown at my very feet. Between thee and 
 me, Alfonso, a gulf of hate, so wide extends, a thousand pure 
 and white-robed angels, could never pass between. M\ 
 battle-flag floats proudh' o'er my head, black as the raven's 
 wing, with crossed bones and skull. It bodes little good for 
 thee, since the gods so will it, that I have no peace at home; 
 and from this paradise, be driven forth, since plot, is to be, 
 met, by counterplot. I'll give them enough, till they cry quit. 
 Oh, foi" some quiet, sylvan shade, far removed from a city's 
 •sinful ways. What brought my wandering footsteps, to this 
 quaint old town? Since I am here, w^hy here I'll stay, till 
 shadowy-winged death, shall fall upon my soul. Rise, proud 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 21 
 
 ambition, and like a sparkling diadem, sit on this brow. I 
 choose to be the Doge of Venice. The people, bowed down 
 by tax, and poverty, are ripe and ready for a change. Give 
 them a Republic indeed, and not in name. From distant 
 time, a handful of liberty-loving fishermen, came to these 
 scattering isles, and here forgotten by the potentates of earth, 
 they founded the first republic of the world. The people 
 ruled for ages, down to the present time, until b}- ballot the 
 much dreaded ten, now rule this marbled cit}- of slaves. The 
 Republic is no more. I have more nioney, than the Duke 
 himself. I'll use it well — buy up their spies — an easy task, 
 since they already growl; and like some famished wolf, show 
 their white teeth. They have not been paid for months — 
 the longest purse wins with most ease. The Doge is cruel, as 
 relentless fate. The Duke is good at heart, and is basely de- 
 ceived by this thieving Doge, whose vaulted coffers, run over 
 with ill-gotten gains. He has robbed the state, these many 
 years; for what purpose, who can tell? I work secure, for 
 under the crusader's flag, they dare not harm one hair. The 
 church of Rome will bless me, and bring safety to my cause. 
 Down with the Doge and ten — up with Guido, and the Re- 
 public ! 
 
 Zeno. — -KxQ you dreaming, man. I have been at the door, 
 this half hour or more. 
 
 Guido. — Your pardon, Zeno; I was lost in thought — paint- 
 ing mind- pictures. 
 
 Zeno. — Painting mind-pictures? What mean you? 
 
 Guido. — A picture, that Liberty helps me paint — the god- 
 dess I most adore. 
 
 Zeno. — Let me but glance upon it, I will be content. 
 
 Guido. — Thou canst not peer into this mind. The game 
 ■of chess is set, pieces all in place. Who first cries mate? 
 
 Ze?io.— You speak in oracles; I do not understand. 
 
 Guido. — He is wisest, who closest keeps his tongue. 
 
 Zeno. — I thought I was your friend. 
 
 Guido. — You may well believe me, when I say you are. As 
 such, I love and reverence you. Here is my hand; be patient, 
 the time has not come; be astonished at nothing, for you'll 
 see Guido in strange places, at any and all times. Zeno, you 
 have never met my daughter. Y'ou, of all Venice, are the only 
 one, I'd trust, with this sweet child's happiness. I introduce 
 you, as my friend — Guido's friend — and this is saying much. 
 [Rings. Enter Page.] Bid your young mistress come at 
 once. [Enter Zelia.] Zeno, this is my daughter. My 
 daughter Zelia, this is my triend. 
 
 Zeno. — By the distant stars, I blame not Guido, for his dis- 
 creet guard. You would turn the heads of Venice, with all 
 ease. 
 
 Zelia. — My father's friend is mine, and always will be so. 
 You are welcome to our hospitality. 
 
22 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Zeno. — I knew not you had a daughter grown, and must con- 
 fess I was suiprised. 
 
 Zelia. — You must indeed, be father's friend, for never 
 yet, have these eyes of mine, beheld so strange a thing. 
 
 Zeno. — -You go not out much then, and meet but few. 
 
 Zelia. — I am up with the lark — before Phosbus' prancing, 
 neighing steed, their daily course begin. I breathe the early 
 morning breeze, from oft" the Adriatic sea. 'Tis better than 
 the nectar of the gods. 
 
 Zeno. — Thy ver}' lace, would tell as much. I fear me our 
 Venetian beauties, stir not abroad so soon. Like all things 
 else, the human face divine, requires the sun's bright ray, to 
 bring color, to the cheek, and sparkling brightness, to the eye. 
 
 Zelia. — To be one of these belles, the very thing I dream 
 most of. I hate restraint; it is a childish punishment. Had 
 I mi.xed more with these Venetians, I would not now so 
 wish, to be ever on the wing. I dream, and dream again, 
 of all this pleasure seeking throng, until my foolish brain, is 
 all in a whirl. 
 
 Guido. — Zelia, you shall drain pleasure's cup, •^o the very 
 dregs. The prize, we most do seek, when in our possession, 
 becomes a worthless thing. You will be disappointed, my 
 child, my word for it. Are these painted dolls, with their 
 constant round of pleasures, more happy than you? Believe 
 it not. Zeno and I, are at your service, at any and all times, 
 to counsel and protect. 
 
 Zelia. — Half the pleasure of your promise, is gone al- 
 ready. Freedom of thought and action, without restraint, to 
 me, is liberty indeed. 
 
 Guido. — I am afraid to risk, your young and guileless heart; 
 all is rottenness, and festering corruption here — the whited 
 sepulchre, my child. Be ever on your guard — take not the 
 shadow for the substance. Believe not half you hear. Sift 
 well the truth — dissembling hearts, flattering tongues, 
 masqued faces, are all you'll see, though covered by sweet 
 smiles, and velvet clothes. 
 
 Zelia. — I am all eagerness. When shall we go? (Aside: 
 Alfonso, to meet thee, is happiness enough.) 
 
 Zeno. — I shall be proud, to be the gallant knight of such a 
 lady fair. 'Twere well worth a broken lance, to win a smile 
 from such a lovely face, or crack a helmet for my lady's favor. 
 Do you accept, fair Zelia? 
 
 Zelia. — I do, and thank you too. You over-rate the ser- 
 vice much. 
 
 Guido. — We will say good-night. How can I tell thee, 
 of a father's anxious heait? Never forget, your poor old 
 faithful sire; his teachings, and his tender care. May all the 
 saints, in Rome's calendar, preserve thee from this danger. 
 [Exit Guido and Zeno. 
 
 Zelia. — I know what father means — can tell his inmost 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 23 
 
 thought. He hopes by Zeiio, to tlivert my mind, from my 
 Altonso; make me forget, this first love of my life. Never! 
 You little know me, my father. They say, Alfonso's false — 
 his love as fleeting as the smnmer wind. I'll see for myselt, 
 and should he prove untrue, my love would turn to hate so 
 deep, 'twould sink him fathoms, in Pluto's dark domains. To 
 meet Alfonso, the thought is rapture, to my wayward heart. 
 Dream on, and may you never know dispair, the agony of a 
 broken heart. 
 
 Scene. — [In Guido's office.] 
 
 Guide. — [Rings for a page — Enters.] Call all my men 
 from work — the day is done. Bid them come to the oflSce; 
 I have some words for each, and money too. 
 
 Bruno. — We are all here, good master, and would know 
 thy smallest wish. 
 
 Guido. — Bruno, see that the doors, and windows, are well 
 ' barred, and bolted too, and that no one lingers near. I have 
 much to say, and only for your faithful ears, my men. 
 
 Bruno. — 'Tis done, and well done too. We are ready, and 
 all attention. 
 
 Guido. — We have worked long together, and I well could 
 swear, to trust thee with my life, and feel it safe in your good 
 keeping. Speak! Is it not true ? 
 
 Bruno — Long live Guido! It is the solemn truth. 
 Zuido. — Have I not made your happiness, my constant 
 study .^ 
 
 Men. — You have. 
 
 Guido. — I want your help. A plot to overthrow this 
 tyrant Doge, and his base minions, lurkes within my fertile 
 brain, and only needs your stout hands, and stouter hearts, to 
 carry to fiuition. Will you, one and all, stand by me, in this 
 scheme ? 
 
 Alen. — We will. 
 
 Bruno. — Do you count the cost, good master? Are you 
 not afraid of the Doge's spies? Lion of St. Mark, death, 
 and torture on the rack, if you should fail. What would be- 
 come of us — our occupation gone ? We would be paupers in 
 Venice. 
 
 Guido. — Dread nothing; fear nothing. Guido is at the 
 helm. The old Venetian ship, will sail so straight, on her 
 good way, we will be in port, before the storm-king's loose. 
 We will work, while others sleep — be companions for the owl. 
 The blow will fall so suddenly, they will not have time to 
 think. You came promptly at my call, when I was sore 
 beset, by those gambling knaves, on St. Marco's Square. 
 The Duke is kind of heart, and loves not such cruel torture. 
 He is himself, ruled by this thieving Doge. Down with the 
 Doge, I say. Your fathers, and grand-fathers, can well re- 
 member, when Venice was free; the people ruled, and woe to 
 the Duke, or Doge, who sought to overthrow the people's 
 
24 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 will, as you well know, the opprcbSor"s yoke, is on our necks. 
 No baser slaves gaze on the rising sun. Is there no brave 
 hearts, in Venice to-day.^ or has the Inquisition, with their 
 dreaded torture, paled the fires of libert}', that burned so 
 brightly, for your sires, and mine.^ Stand by me, my men; 
 rekindle those sacred fires. We will bring peace and plenty, 
 to this ancient town. This Doge is stealing from the State; 
 his vaults are filled with golden ducats, wrenched from the 
 hands of toil — these idle aristocrats — they bring no wealth to 
 Venice; the)' uphold this council of ten, because it brings 
 them safety from all danger. They can sleep In peace, while 
 poor seafaring men are robbed. Equal tax for all, equal 
 rights for all, protection to the humblest in the land. 
 
 Bruno. — Well done, good master ; our aid, you shall have, 
 though it cost, us our lives. 
 
 Guido. — VV'ell, swear, and bind thee by a solemn oath. 
 
 All.—Wt will. 
 
 Guido. — Then all kneel down; out with your daggers, 
 crossed handles up, and follow me. By this red cross I 
 swear, by the blood in our veins, by the cross of our dagger's 
 hilt, by the hopes of our eternal lives, by the shadow of 
 gloom and of death, by the grave, and its secrets well kept ; 
 we swear to be true, and be brave, and the cord, and the 
 dagger, for him, who betrays, and so, we solemnly swear; all 
 kiss the cross. Arise, we are a band of brothers. I name 
 thee. Knights of the Red Cross. And now with my plans; 
 with the cunning of the fox, we will add the courage of the 
 lion; we must buy their spies with gold, which will be easy 
 done. A set of shiftless knaves, who would serve the devil 
 for a song — approach them cautiously, and not in haste, for 
 this of all requires your greatest tact. A glass of wine — gain 
 their confidence ; shake well filled purses in their faces — the 
 thing is done. I wish them not, to leave the Doge's service; 
 this would ruin all our plans, draw pay from both, the 
 secrets of the council, will be ours, and they will know noth- 
 ing, of our plans — all the advantage will be ours. I'll get the 
 nanic of every spy. They must never be admitted to our 
 council. The Doge's secretary, will give me these names. 
 J^'ivide Venice into districts, and each one work his field; it 
 will not look well, to meet in one place, so large a gather- 
 ing would not escape, the Doge's evil eyes. Tell these good 
 people, of their wrongs, our object, and our plans; select 
 some secret places; get thee thither, one by one; work silently, 
 and well, prescribe this oath you have just taken; tell them 
 who their leader is, and also that we can work in safety, for 
 a crusade to the holy land, will disarm suspicion. I will at- 
 tend to this — see these good fathers, and by the powerful aid 
 of Rome, we will be protected, in our scheme. Meet here 
 two weeks hence, at this self same hour, and remember well, 
 Guido's life is in thy hands. [Exit men.] My plans work 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 2$ 
 
 well. I'll at once to these good fathers, and la \ before them. 
 my crusader's plans — ask their blessing, and protection on 
 our good work. This will disarm suspicion, from the powers 
 that be — the church upon my side, the power of Rome is all 
 supreme; they make, and unmake kings, at will. 
 
 Scene — [In Alfonso's house. Enter Page.] 
 
 Alfonso. — -Well, good Page, the answer to my note, from 
 Guido's daughter. 
 
 Page. — 1 have no note; she bade me tell thee, she would 
 send one soon. 
 
 Alfonso — How received she the note.^ 
 
 Page. — In ecstasy, she read it o'er and o'er^ devoured every 
 word and line, and like a famished wolf, she picked the 
 bones, pressed it to her heart, kissed and fondled it as some 
 precious thing. (I wish I was that note.) 
 
 Alfonso. — Out upon thee for a knave, and was it not to her, 
 some precious thing.^ 
 
 Page.—\ have gone so often, on such love-ladened errands, 
 and so oft, have seen the self-same scene, I long ago have 
 felt, your love is no precious thing. (Rather j^romiscuous. ) 
 
 Alfonso. — Insolent; I'll lay this good blade well on your back. 
 
 Page. — At the same time, good master, I wish you'd la} 
 some past due wages, in my purse. Where is fair Mario, 
 whose form, and face divine, charmed your fickle soul awhile? 
 Have you thrown her oft'^ as some oldglove.^ 
 
 Alfonso. — It matters not to thee. I have not seen her 
 these three good months. I would tire of an angel in a week. 
 
 Page. — Where is Lucretia, then? — a stately dame, as ever 
 trod the marbled paves, of proud old Venice, a very queen of 
 most royal bearing; 'twas long the citadel of her heart, with- 
 stood thy heartless siege and yielding all, gave heart and soul 
 to thee. 
 
 Alfonso. — Don't call up these foibidden ghosts, of former 
 times, the> make me feel uncomfortably. 
 
 Page. — Mario, will not let thee oft' so light; one false step, 
 will bring a thousand more. When she finds, you love 
 her no longer, and even now, dote on this Guido's daughter, 
 her four brothers, will make short work of thee. Then Guido, 
 as fierce as any buccaneer, who sails the Adriatic sea; how 
 will you parry his rapier thrust? A foot of shining steel, 
 through thy loving heart, would soon tire, the angels of thee 
 — (I mean fallen ones.) 
 
 Alfonso. — 'Tis at my risk, not thine. I'll be the scabbard 
 that receives the blade — my blood, not yours will flow. 
 
 Page. — Good master, before all this happens, I'd like to 
 have my pay; many days have passed, since I received one 
 ducat, from thee. Signio, the friend of thy bosom, makes 
 sport of thy fat purse. Wins all thy wealth — drugs thy very 
 wine, for ought I know, and then good-by ducats, and Al- 
 fonso's luck. 
 
26 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Alfonso. — You have ieen a faithful Page, and prompt to 
 do my bidding; other Pages fare no better; all the glitter, 
 and the show, for the outside world, stint, and poverty, at 
 home, a breakfast, on a crust of bread, a drink of stale, bad 
 '.vine, that we may amble forth in gay attire, and people call 
 us rich. 
 
 Page. — Give me my dues, good master, and I leave. Rats 
 desert a sinking ship. 
 
 Alfonso. — I have it, not, to give; my luck has forsaken me, 
 at present. It will return; PU borrow from the Jews — pawn 
 my diamonds. I cannot let thee go. 
 
 Page. — Say one week hence. Pll give thee that much time. 
 
 Ludovico — Good morrow; you look worried and pale; what 
 goes wrong with thee? 
 
 Alfonso. — Everything, Ludovico, evervthing. I have no 
 luck at cards ; mv servants cry for pay, and will not be quiet. 
 Should they all leave at once, not a corner in all Venice, but 
 would hear the cause; the masque would drop, my creditors, 
 would seize everything. Harrassed by debt, I know not what 
 to do. 
 
 Ludovico. — Marry some rich girl. She will mend thy 
 broken lance; give thee another tilt, with the ever-fickle 
 goddess — dame fortune. 
 
 Alfonso. — I distrust these rich girls much, perhaps like my 
 good self^ they exist only, for the outside world — poverty at 
 home. Who knows, they are rich; the people so say, and 
 do the people know? They have rich ways, that's all. 
 
 Ludovico. — One half the world, lives on the other half, and 
 will be so, for all time to come. Keep up your dress, and 
 above all, your sweet address. If that smooth tongue of 
 thine, wins not a wealthy bride, I am done. Where shall we 
 meet to-night? 
 
 Alfonso. — Any place, you say, will suit me. Oh! for some 
 good, good wine, to drive away, these wretched thoughts. 
 The ducal ball comes off, a few days hence, I must prepare. 
 I'll meet you at any place, to-night. 
 
 Ludovico. — This ducal ball, will be grand, indeed; all Venice 
 will be there, and well she may, for Venice pays the payer. 
 Meet us at Signio's to-night, and better luck, next time. [Ex- 
 it both.] 
 
 Guido — [Scene in the old Cathedral.] (Enter.) 
 
 A solemn awe, steals round my heart, in this holy place; 
 those sculptured saints, call back forbidden thoughts. We 
 all must die, and lie forgotten in the gloom of death. All 
 prepare to live — few prepare to die. Mad ambition, crowds 
 out these heavenly thoughts — the world moves on. I'll to the 
 Monkish quarters in the rear (music plays), their sol- 
 emn chants break faintly on my ear. Pll follow the sound. 
 [Knocks. Some one within says enter. Scene changes; 
 room in monastery — Monks in place.] 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 2/ 
 
 Francisco — First Monk. — What, would \ ou have my son? 
 The peace, the world, can never give. 
 
 Guido. — Thy hlessing, good father, then I'll speak of that, 
 which brought me here. 
 
 First Monk.— You have our blessing; speak, for life is all 
 too short — eternity before us, and never ending. Time it- 
 self shall be no more. 
 
 Guido. — You know my calling, do you not.'' I am a dealei, 
 in that which kills the body, and sets the spirit free, to find 
 eternity — the armorer---Guido by name. 
 
 First Monk. — Your name is well known, within these walls. 
 My son---not for tljy worldly trade---but, for the good deeds 
 you have done. I like not your calling; 'tis a brutish one. 
 Life is sweet to all---even to the lowest of God's creation. 
 Why take this precious life? 
 
 Guido— 'M.o^x. true, good father, but for these same good blades, 
 that let the life's blood out, thy heavenly calling, were not 
 worth a fig. Men think not of death, till this dark angel, fans 
 our fleeting breath. 'Tis yours, to smooth the rugged path of 
 life, to make us more content, with what we have, sooth sor- 
 rowing hearts, and when the eye is glazed in death, to fold 
 our hands across, our storm-tossed breasts, and pray for the 
 departing soul. 
 
 First Monk. — So thott sayest, my son, and by my faith, it 
 is all wrong, that God's created things should suffer so. 
 Think of the valiant hearts, that face the foeman's steel, and 
 as the waving ranks sink down, all trampled, in the gloom of 
 agony and death, can man be God's own image, and shed 
 blood so? 
 
 Guido. — We prepare them, for their Godly calling; 'tis 
 doubly sweet, to smooth the pillow of the dying — bind up 
 the shattered limb, and lave the fevered lip. 
 
 First Monk. — We will speak no more of tnis, it makes my 
 blood run cold, to think man's such a cruel thing. 
 
 Guido --One question more, and I am done: What think 
 you of these goodly knights, who risk their lives, to regain 
 the Savior's tomb? 
 
 i'/rj/ J/t»«^.-- -The prayers of the church, are with them, 
 my son, for 'tis a holy cause, and one most just. 
 
 Guido. ---Do they not need good swords, and true, corselet, 
 helmet, battle-ax, and spear, to crush these unbelieving 
 Turks ? 
 
 First Monk- --''Tis in the service of the Lord, and therefore, 
 just. God commands, and we obey. 
 
 Guido.- --Then, to my business, at once. It is my wish, to 
 lead an army of brave knights, from proud old Venice. For 
 very truth's sake, it is a shame, that we have lagged so 
 long, in this good cause. 
 
 First Monk.- --God will bless you for this, my son; death, 
 would be sweet in such a cause. 
 
28 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Guido. — Your counsel, I would seek, good father — as yon 
 well know; 'tis fraught with danger, in Venice. Our worthy 
 Doge, by ducal decrees, permits not the assembling of so 
 great a throng---no secret meetings, 'tis at the peril of my 
 life. How am I to proceed, in this good cause? 
 
 First Monk — We will study up, some plan. 
 
 Guido. — Could you not obtain the Pope's permission, and 
 good wiU---safety to my person, and my men, a decree pro- 
 tecting us from the Doge's spies, and torture? I could then 
 work, with hands untied. As it is, a dungeon, or the block, 
 would be my sure reward. 
 
 First Monk. — Never! while the Church of Rome is free ! 
 It shall be as 3'ou wish. Our good father,*the Pope, will up- 
 hold your cause; and who will dare, to harm one hair? The 
 curse of Rome will surely fall, on King, Baron, Dodge, or 
 Duke. I will despatch a messenger, this very night, and 
 have the papers nere, one week hence. I am proud to think 
 so brave a heart, dwells in sin-polluted Venice. 
 
 Guido. — How can I thank you, enough, good father, for 
 your priestly offices, in my behalf? And, now, to work. 
 When will the papers come.'' When shall I call? 
 
 First Monk. — Say one week, hence. I'll post a messenger, 
 this very night. 
 
 Guido. — I crave pardon, good fathers, that I did disturb 
 your solemn services. And now, farewell. [Exit.] 
 
 [Scene — changes to the Cathedral aisle.] 
 
 Guido. — Poor, humane hearts, that weep, for very woe, 
 because blood flows, and, men are killed! They bless the 
 cause, that sweeps them off, by thousands, in this holy war. 
 They seize, by force, that, which, belongs not to them. The 
 sad, sad, heart, of some fair maid, who waves a long farewell, 
 from some old castle wall; mothers, and sons, with streaming 
 eyes, fond, and, may be, last embraces; brave hearts, in 
 casques of steel — and, with their waving plumes, ride on, to 
 death, through leagues of sea, and land, to right a childish 
 wrong, an empty dream — not worth a single thought, though, 
 it serves my purpose, well — gods! how ^ood thou art. A 
 rupture, between Church, and State; and, with the papal 
 decree, in my possession, I am safe. Can hurl defiance, in 
 their very teeth. There are older heads, than thine, good 
 Guido, but, none, more fertile to conspire. 
 
 [Scene: — In Guido's garden. Alfonso climbs over the 
 garden wall, followed b}' page.] 
 
 Alfunso. — Softly, good page, softly! We tread on danger- 
 ous ground. Should we be discovered, here, Guido, and his 
 brawny crew, would make short work. Are the ladders, in 
 place, and ready, for retreat? Too much risk, by half. 
 Know you, the situation here? 
 
 Page. — While waiting, for the note, I used my eyes, to some 
 good purpose. This way, my master, this way. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 29 
 
 Alfonso.- — Would, that I could meet, this charmer here! 
 'Tis a secluded spot, and, suits well my plans. 
 
 Page. — Wait, here; I'll forward, and see if all is quiet. I 
 know the bearings, well. 
 
 Zelia. — I hear voices; though, it cannot be. Who, should 
 be here, at this hour, but Silvia and myself.? Even Silvia, 
 has gone, within. I am alone. It sounded, to my ears, like 
 brave Alfonso's. Oh, would, that he were here! I cannot tear 
 his image, from my heart; he is with me, in my dreams. And 
 father says, he is a villain. Can this be true? My father 
 must be prejudiced; perchance, he wrongs a noble soul. 
 
 Page — Lady, your pardon! 
 
 Zelia. — What do you here! You came not, through the gar- 
 den gate. Speak! I'll call my father. 
 
 Page. — Softly, my lady; not so much haste. Alfonso's 
 near at hand, and all impatience. Will you see him? 
 Then, follow me. 
 
 Zelia--Y{ow know you, that I care to meet Alfonso? 
 
 Page — My eyes and ears, tell me as much. Did I not see 
 thee, when you received his note? Did I not hear, those 
 sweet, sweet, words, of love, but a moment since ? 
 
 Zelia. — You are a presumptuous page. Lead on ; I'll fol- 
 low. Be still, my poor, poor, heart ; you will break all 
 bounds! To meet Alfonso; the thought is rapture ! There 
 is no harm, in this. What will he think ; what would my 
 father say ? 
 
 Al/onso. — Zelia! The gods be praised, for this. It is a risk 
 to meet thee, here ; the recompense, is adequate. 
 
 Zelia. — 1 do wrong, to meet you, in this secluded place ; it 
 is not maidenly, or right. 
 
 Alfonso. — The risk, is mine. Should this good sire, of 
 thine, find me. in this place, my life, were not worth the 
 saving. 4 
 
 Zelia. — Then, why did you come? 
 
 Alfonso. — The reason, stands before me, and a fair one, too. 
 
 Zelia. — Your tongue's, as ready as your sword. 
 
 Alfonso. — Can we not think, of some good place, where 
 we could meet, in secret — be more at ease? Every mo- 
 ment's, filled with danger, here. 
 
 Zelia. — I'll meet you at the Ducal ball. 
 
 Alfonso. — Oh, rapture! And you, will be there ? My hap- 
 piness will be complete. How will I know you, fair 
 Zelia ? 
 
 Zelia. — By the rosette, on my hat — black, red and blue — 
 pinned with a silver arrow. 
 
 Alfonso .—How can we part, so soon; and, yet, it must be 
 so. Farewell! I'll count the very hours, 'till we meet again. 
 [Exit, Alfonso and Zelia.] 
 
 Portio. — Ha! ha! ha! Walls have ears, and so has Portio, 
 too. Mv new^ found master, will pay me well, for this. Al- 
 
30 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 fonso, I hate you, with a devil's hate. You struck me once. 
 Portio never forgets. You killed my only sister, too. I have 
 waited long; my time has come! I'll shadow thee, with 
 sleepless eyes; you shall not escape me now! I am well paid, 
 by Guido, whom I love. Gold, with my revenge; 'tis good 
 enough. I'll to Guido at once. [Knocks at Guido's door ; 
 scene changes.] 
 
 Guido. — Enter! What have you, to report ? I am wait- 
 ing, Portio. 
 
 Portio. — Much, good master, much. I was on the vvatch. 
 within the garden ; a ladder was placed against the wall. 
 Who should descend, but Alfonso, and Jiis page ! By ni}- 
 faith! had you been there, they would have died with frigiit. 
 They picked their way most cautiously. Alfonso halted, the 
 page advanced, and found your daughter, alone. They met, 
 parted; to meet again, at the Ducal ball. They recognize 
 each other, by a rosette of black, red, and blue, surmounted 
 with a silver arrow, placed upon her hat. 
 
 Guido. — I thank you, Portio; there is a ducat for thy vig- 
 ilance. I will pay thee well. Never let this villain meet my 
 daughter. I have a note to send ; be ready, at once. Know 
 you, where fair Mario lives? 
 
 Portio. — Right well, my master. 
 
 Guido. — I'll write at once. [Writes.] Fair Makio. Be 
 at the Ducal ball, and, for an unknown friend's sake, wear a 
 rosette, upon your hat, of black, red, and blue, pinned with 
 a silver arrow. This will prove Alfonso false to thee. Come, 
 without fail. Be silent, and hear what you will hear. ---Your 
 Friend. Place this letter in her own hands ; watch and 
 wait. Never lose sight of Alfonso. Tell me how he 
 dresses ; also, the Doge, and his good scribe, without fail, for 
 'tis important to know. 
 
 Portio. ---To hear, is to*obey. Fear not; I'll trail him, till 
 you bid me halt. [Exit.] 
 
 Guido.-—Qy all the furies, that dwell in darkened hell, I'll 
 wreck my vengeance on this brute. Calm down, black hate; 
 your time's not come! Oh! sorrow to my heart. To think 
 my only, darling child, is charmed, with this, cursed snake I 
 Heavy, already, are the sins, upon his head. Cursed, 
 doubly cursed, the day that called thee, into existence! Pay- 
 day, will come, at last; and, what a day, for thee! 
 
 Guido.- --V^\\a.X, Portio; back already? You must have 
 used Mercury's wings. 
 
 Portio.--- A.\\ that you could wish. The Doge will dress 
 in a black, velvet suit; a large, white plume, will droop upon 
 his right shoulder ; the buckle of his sword belt will be ol 
 solid gold, with a silver lion's head, in bold relief. 
 
 Guido.- --It is enough. How will his scribe, and treasurer, 
 dress. ^ 
 
 Portio.- --A jester's suit, with tiny silver bells; sword belt. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 3 1 
 
 sky blue; with silver buckle, and huntsmen's horn attached. 
 
 Guido.---Wt\\ done, good Portio; how found you, all this 
 out? 
 
 Portio.- As t^ood luck, would have it, the tailor, who 
 made them, both, was my best of friends. I also delivered 
 your note, to the lady, herself. She will be at the ball ; and, 
 from her looks, the paleness, that o'erspread her face, bodes 
 little good, for my hated foe. 
 
 Guido. — I thank thee, Portio; 'twas a lucky day forGuido, 
 when I called, thee, to my service. Be brave, be true, and 
 ever, on his track. Let not his smallest thought, escape thee. 
 The time, will come, when you shall, be avenged, and have 
 my gold^ besides. Now go, and serve, me well. My deep 
 laid plans, work well. I must prepare, mj^self a dress, and 
 without the aid, of outside help. Too manv spying eves, 
 would spoil, my cherished scheme. My broad-chested, 
 brawny-armed men, bring me good news. Our ranks fill up, 
 with the bone and sinew of the land. Well may this cursed 
 Doge, doubt Guido's plan. His wolfish fangs, once drawn, by 
 the church of Rome, he can only, like some whipt cur, stand 
 back, and growl. I'll call Silvia, at once. ] Rings. Enter 
 Page.] Tell Silvia, I wish, her presence, at once. 
 
 Silvia. — What would you, good master. 
 
 Guido. — I want your help. 
 
 Silvia. — 'Tis yours, to order. 
 
 Guido. — I want a costume, for the ducal ball. What shall 
 it be.' 'Twere best, to represent Mephistopheles. Can vou 
 have it ready, in time.'' Zelia must not know, of this. Tell 
 no one, and be prompt. 
 
 Silvia. — It shall be done. About Zelia. ^ 
 
 Guido. — Zelia must not go — would spoil my work. Let 
 her get all things in readiness, and when she sups, pour this 
 sleeping solution in her wine. 'Tis tasteless, and will do no 
 harm. She will feel no pain. Sleep well, my child, it is to, 
 save thee, from a living death. She will not wake, until 
 the sun, with fiery steeds, has half his journey run. 
 
 Silvia. — 'Tis for her good, and shall be well done. 
 
 Scene. — [In Ducal Place and Garden adjacent. — Ball 
 within.] 
 
 Guido. — 'Tis cooler in this lovely place; I breathe more 
 free. The air within, is stifling. I greatly fear me, they will 
 not come. 'Tis late already; the rooms are filled, and yet, I 
 see them not. Can Portio be false? I will not so believe. 
 Revenge, is sweeter than my gold, to him. I see fair Mario 
 pass this way, and with her .*"our brothers, all in masque. I'll 
 watch her close — by this means, will find Alfonso. I see 
 him now; he presses through, this masquerading throng, and 
 with such eager haste — is by her side, and whispers in her 
 ear. They come this way — I'll step behind this tree. 
 
 Alfonso. — Fair Zelia, you have promised well; and better, 
 
32 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 have fulfilled, the promise. I feared me much, you would 
 not come. 
 
 Mario. — (In a lew voice) — And 30U love me, as you say. 
 Alfonso.? 
 
 Alfonso. — Better^ than my very life. 
 
 Mario. — You have loved others, as much, as you now, love 
 me. I have heard, you once loved Mario; is it so? 
 
 Alfonso. — True, in every word, and line. I soon grew, 
 weary of her love. 
 
 Mario. — How know I, you will not soon tire, of mine? 
 
 Alfonso. — By those eternal stars, that shine so steadfast, I 
 pledge undying love to thee. 
 
 Mario. — Swear not, Alfonso, for thy oath's sake. A broken 
 vow, is like a broken lance — 'tis worthless, only to be thrown 
 away. You hate this Mario then, and for my sake, will cast 
 her image from thee? 
 
 Alfonso. — I swear to you, she is naught to me, and ever will 
 be. I thought her rich, and found her poor — too poor to 
 waste my heart upon. 
 
 Mario. — Perhaps, you thirst, for father's wealth, and love 
 me but for this. 
 
 Alfonso. — When first we met, my heart, and eyes, were 
 dazzled, by thy peerless beauty. Please unmask, but for a 
 moment, and let my heart be gladdened by thy winsome smile. 
 
 Mario. — Be happy then, Alfonso. [Jerks ofl' her mask. 
 Alfonso stares, and staggers back a pace.] 
 
 You seem not so well pleased^ Alfonso. 
 
 Alfonso. — Great gods! Oh!! what a dupe I have been — 
 some devil's hand in this. 
 
 Mario. — What have you now, to say? That false, and flat- 
 tering tongue, for once, is speechless. 
 
 Alfonso. — I have lost my sense, as well. How came you. 
 with that strange rosette ? 
 
 Mario.— You base, and worthless thing. I can call thee, 
 by no other name. Why did you win my love? Why be- 
 tray the heart, that loved you, so well? Why betrav the 
 sacred honor in your keeping, and send me soulless, to the 
 great white throne? A thousand curses, on your guilty soul. 
 May your waking hours, be haunted, by the soul you have 
 lost; your sleep be broken, by the ghost, of murdered inno- 
 cence. God curse you, with his vengeance. Ma3^you never 
 know one happy hour, in all time to come — be cursed, as you 
 have cursed me! with your worthless love. 
 
 Alfonso. — Hold ! ! Silence! ! I'll curse^ and kill you, too. 
 
 Mario. — You killed my soul; now kill my body too. Life 
 is worthless to me — death a blessing. Strike! 
 
 Alfofiso. — Curse you, I will. [Rushes upon her, dagger in 
 hand. Guido sprmgs upon him, and throws him to one side.] 
 
 Guido. — Assassin! Coward!! This is not the first time, 
 vou have done so base a deed. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 33 
 
 Alfonso. — Who are you, in this devil's garb? You had 
 some hand in this. 
 
 Guido. — God be thanked, I came in time, to save this Lidy's 
 life. 
 
 Alfonso. — Who are you? I'll tear the mask from your satanic 
 face. 
 
 Guido. — Now go; begone, you will never knov*-. I know 
 thee well; and silent as the fallen leaf, I have tracked, you in 
 your wild career. You have done base deeds enough, to send 
 thee to a dungeon deep; and thought no eyes but thine, did 
 see those hell-born ac*:s. Begone, vile wretch; out of my 
 sight. 
 
 Come, fair Mario, the air grows damp, and chill. This is 
 no place for thee. Danger lurkes, in every bush, and flower. 
 We will go, within, and find your brothers; then you will be 
 safe. 
 
 Mario. — Please tell me, who you are, kind stranger. You 
 seem to know us all. A mask is no protection. [Exit.] 
 
 Alfonso. — Foiled, by heavens, and my secret's in this stran- 
 ger's hands. I'll wait without, and when he comes, send this 
 keen stiletto blade, deep into this plebeian's heart. [Exit.] 
 
 Guido. — [Returns.] And now for my other game. I'll 
 soon run them down. The shot at random, went straight to 
 the mark. The cowering wretch, will try the assassin's dag- 
 ger, [Looks all around.] No lurking foe, the coast is clear. 
 I'll wait the coming of the Doge. He comes, without. 
 
 Doge. — How pure and fresh — this air, brings vigor to my 
 lungs, pent up in those close rooms. It is a gorgeous 
 pageant, and worthy of the Duke 
 
 Guide. — And worthy of the Doge, as he seems well pleased, 
 indeed. 
 
 Doge. — Devil! for as such you seem. How know you that 
 I am the Doge? 
 
 Guido. — Oh, start not; I know you well. Sooner or later, 
 you will belong to me. I can prove to thee, I know all 
 things, past and present. 
 
 Doge. — Give me the proof. 
 
 Guido. — Down deep in mother earth, beneath your palace, 
 in a darkened vault, in brass-bound chests, you've heaped up 
 piles of gold. How did you get this wealth? You stole it 
 from the Duke, and state. See how your faltering limbs, do 
 trem^^le, and refuse to go. A miser's soul is thine, when all 
 is hushed and still, you hold sweet commune, with your god. 
 Such souls are mine 
 
 Doge. — In heaven's name, do tell me, who you are. I am 
 undone. Come to my palace, and we will take some wine. 
 I will pay thee well, for silence. 
 
 Guido. — I want not your gold; fear naught from me, I am 
 a stranger in Venice, and before to-morrow's sun, shall rise, 
 will be many leagues away. 
 
34 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Doge. — God be praised for this; 1 breathe more free. 
 What brought you here ? 
 
 Giiido. — To see your far-famed balls. 
 
 Doge. — Come to my palace. Why hurry hence? A day 
 would make no difference with thee. 
 
 Guido. — I leave Venice to-night. 
 
 Doge. — I will within. Good-bye then. [Aside. ---I will see 
 that you do not leave.] — Exit. 
 
 Cuido. — And now for the last, and most important. This 
 Scribe, good slave, good master, he comes this way, and now 
 be ready. 
 
 Scribe. — I am tired, and 'tis time to go. I'll rest and then 
 prepare, to leave 
 
 Guide. — Start not; or does the fear of evil deeds, bring th}- 
 future lot, too close, for happiness. You are the Doge's 
 scribe and treasurer.? 
 
 Scribe. — You are mistaken, Davil. 
 
 Guido. — Shall I whisper words, for other ears, that would 
 condemn thee to a prison cell? 
 
 Scribe. — You are a boastful liar, and know nothing, of me, 
 or mine. 
 
 Guido. — You have served your master well; have filled his 
 vaults, with stolen wealth. I can lead thee, to this very 
 vault. A slip, of paper, in the lion's mouth, would stop, thy 
 thieving hand; thy master's, too. 
 
 Scribe. — Spare me, knowing all ; I am, at thy mercy, and 
 humbly beg for safety. What would you, with me? You 
 have a purpose? Speak. 
 
 Guido. — You have a paper, on your person. Give it me, 
 and, my tongue's, as silent as the grave. A list, of your secret 
 spies. 
 
 Scribe. — I thought, you would ask rae, foi' gold. Here, 
 it is, and welcome. 
 
 Guido. — Tell not, your master, of this meeting, and all will 
 be well; you'll hear, no more, of me. I leave, Venice, to- 
 night. [Exit Scribe.] My work, is well, and truly done, 
 and, now, I must, be gone; I want not, the day, to break, and, 
 find me, here. First, of all, I'll throw, this monkish garb, 
 around me. Fools, you will wait^ some time; Guido, is too 
 much, for thee. Your daggers, and vour spies, will never 
 kill, or track me, to mv door. [Steps behind a bush, and 
 dons the garb; steps out.] Solemn step, and slow; bowed 
 head, and meditation, deep; and so, I'll pass unseen. 
 End of second act; curtain falls.] 
 Scene: — In Council Hall; all seated in place.] 
 
 Duke. — What business, of import, brings us to this hall? 
 
 Doge. — Our ever, faithful, spies, find nothing, worthy of re- 
 port, except this Guido, and his crazy crowd of crusaders — 
 
 Duke. — Well, what of him? What* has, he done, that's 
 worthv of the Council ? 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 35 
 
 Doge. — He is working, night and day, to get his squadron, 
 ready, for the march. Well, let him, go; we will, be well, 
 rid of him. I, like him, not; too fearless, of tongue, and 
 bearing high. 
 
 Duke. — By whose authority, is all this, done.'' 
 
 Doge. — I know not; shall we, summon him ? 
 
 Duke. — Let it, be so, ordered. 
 
 Doge. — [Rings a bell.] Page, take this, note, at once, to 
 Guide; and, tell him, the Duke, and Council, wait. 
 
 Page. — He is without. 
 
 Duke. — Admit him; and, stand thou, without. 
 
 Guido. — Most, noble Duke ! As such, I salute you. What 
 may be, your good commands? I am ready, to obey. 
 
 Duke. — Good Guido! We, have been, informed, that you, 
 with intent good and noble, equip a cavalcade, ot knights, 
 and 'squires, for service, in the Holy Land. By whose au- 
 thority, is all this done? Speak! 
 
 Guido. — By all the gods. That face! It haunts me! Who 
 can he be? Or, 'tis some strange resemblance. 
 
 Duke. — Why do you start — turn pale? There's nothing, 
 here, to harm, thee. 
 
 Guido. — ^I fear, not man, be he King, Duke, slave or beg- 
 gar. Your face, recalls, a cherished brother's ; that was all. 
 Pardon, the interruption, noble Duke. My authority, comes 
 from, the Church of Rome; and, under this broad papal 
 seal, I am protected. I have, the privilege, of calling, any. 
 and all men, who wish, to go. I have, a small army, all 
 ready, and, eager, for the march. The knightly calling, and 
 the cause, bring numbers, to my banner. Had I your Grace's 
 permission, to hold, secret meetings, and, without trouble, to 
 your laws, to organize — it would expedite, my plans. 
 
 Duke. — Well spoken, Guido. It would, have been better, 
 to have, asked me, first. The Church of Rome, is, too much, 
 the master, now. It should, not be so. 
 
 Guido. — I crave pardon. Being a holy war, I prt-sumed, 
 'twas of, the Church's ordering. 
 
 Duke. — My subjects to be, butchered, for the Church of 
 Rome ? 
 
 Guido. Your pardon, again; I did not know. If you so 
 
 will, I'll return, this, papal decree, and use yours, instead. 
 
 Duke.—\\. makes, little difference, now. You have our 
 gracious permission, and, so will instruct, our guards, and 
 spies. You are at liberty to depart. [Page, shows him out. 
 Exit.] Guido has gone. My heart, seems strangely drawn, 
 towards him. Noble, brave fellow, that he is! 
 
 Dogt. — Your Highness, like, all others, admires, and loves 
 him, too. I say, beware! The day will come, when he will 
 do, us harm. I, like him not. His eagle eye pierced into 
 my very soul, and seemed, to read, my secret mind, as some 
 
T^6 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 well-fiUeci parchment, open and displayed — would that he 
 were gone, ahead}"; I'd breath more fiee. 
 
 Duke. — What other business, before our gracious presence, 
 and this good council? What, of my last decree? How 
 stands the record, with thee, scribe? 
 
 Doge. — Your Highness, my worthy scribe, will hand, thee, 
 a full statement, of all moneys, received and spent, up to this 
 time. 
 
 Duke. — Have our, worthy councilmen, been promptly paid? 
 
 First Council. — You may well, be sworn, in this respect. 
 We give, no cause, for just complaint. This, is the prime 
 law, of all, governing bodies. 
 
 Duke. — Have our guards, and spies, been paid, in full? 
 
 Doge.—Wc are somewhat, in arrears; though, we promise 
 much, and they, seem satisfied. 
 
 Duke. — What sa\', you all; is it, your wish, that Crusader 
 Guido, and his men, be allowed, to meet, in secret, and or- 
 ganize? What think you, of the Pope's decree? 
 
 Second Council. — Will it weaken, the revenues, of State ? 
 If so, I am opposed. Pope, or no Pope; the Church of 
 Rome, ^should meddle not, in secular affairs. Let them unto 
 their spiritual work, attend. There are souls, enough, to save. 
 
 Third Council — Why should it, not weaken, our tax, per 
 capita? We have been, these many years, trying to see, 
 what else, there is, to tax. We tax, the people, for the very, 
 privilege of allowing, them to live. We tax them, for their 
 own amusement. We tax the Tews, because they, of all 
 others, are the most fruitful, source, of revenue. Any citizen 
 of Venice, W'ho wishes, our permission, to undertake some 
 enterprise, must cross, our palms, with gold. I have, often 
 thought, the Church of Rome, should tribute, pay; be taxed, 
 or saving souls. 
 
 Duke. — If Guido. take not, too many men, I have, no great, 
 objection. We, will reap, the glory; and the Church, will 
 pay. Let it be, so ordered. Ihe Lion of St. Mark ; what 
 has he, to say? No silent accusations; no great conspirators 
 against the State! And does, the Bridge of Sighs, transfer 
 from life, and light, to gloom, and dungeons, deep? Poor 
 wretches, who have, been racked, to tell the truth; and, like 
 Procrustes, and his iron bed, to suit the subject. It is, too 
 barbarous ! I can, only wish, that all, were changed. 
 
 Doge. — Your Highness, dreams, again. A strong, cen- 
 tralized, government, for me. The people have no 
 riglits, we would respect. All power, in our rule. The 
 rack, the torture, and the headsman, give us peace. Fear 
 keeps them down, and always should do so. 
 
 Duke. — Do you not think, the innocent, suffer, with the 
 guilty? 
 
 Doge. — 'Tweie better, to let a thousand, innocent, be pun- 
 ished, than one, guilty one, escape. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 37 
 
 Duke. — V^ell, gentlemen, of the Council, you are dis- 
 missed; and, I thank you, for your attendance. [Scene 
 changes.] 
 
 [Scene: In Guido's shop.] 
 
 Giiido. — Now do the gods befriend; this is more than I 
 could dream of, or could ask ! My little star^ so bright, now 
 pales the noonday sun. Oh, Venice, you are free! I'll 
 knock your fetters, ofl'; lift your galling yoke. Hewers of 
 wood, and drawers of water, you shall be free, to think, to 
 act, to speak, to choose your rulers, as of yore! Guido's 
 crusade, against oppression — Guido. and liberty, forever ! 
 
 Guido. — Sons of Liberty, and the Red Cross, I greet you, 
 one and all; and, with closed doors, we will see how stands 
 the record, and if your work's well done; the summing up 
 will be most grand. 
 
 First man. — The men, we have seen, are with us, soul, and 
 body; and wait, your good commands. They are timid, and 
 afraid to meet. The Doge's spies are everywhere. I can re- 
 port for all. 
 
 Guido. — I come, direct, from this great council, and have 
 much to tell. I have the Church of Rome's broad seal, and 
 full protection, for you all. The Duke, himself, has given 
 orders, ^hat we, be not molested, and can meet, at will. In- 
 struct the men, to talk only of this crusader's plan; when 
 all are in, and doors are closed, see that all, are brothers, 
 and, can give the signs. I give you, here, a list, of the 
 Doge's secret spies. Let each one remember, they can never 
 join. Pay them for their silence. 'Tis all we ask; you can be 
 more bold. Work, with free hands and willing hearts. We 
 will meet again, say. two weeks hence. [Exit all.] 
 
 [Scene: In Guido's garden. Enter Zelia, alone.] 
 
 Zelia. — Why, am I always doomed to bitter regrets! Dis- 
 appointment, sits enthroned, in this poor heart, till hope, it- 
 self, is dead. My dream, has faded, like the morning mist. 
 Oh! that Alfonso stood, before me now! The thought is 
 rapture! When will we meet again? I have no thought, 
 that is not all iiis own. Will this, soft summer air, waft but 
 one sigh to thee, and tell that Zelia loves! 
 
 Page. — I'll be the summer air, and will not have far, to go. 
 Follow me! 
 
 Zelia. — Lead on; I'll follow. 
 
 Alfonso. — Zelia! 
 Zelia. — Alfonso! 
 
 Alfonso. — Be still, my throbbing heart, be still! lest you 
 disturb, this queenlv head, reposing on my breast! Break 
 not the trance, that binds tv/o souls, as one — though severed 
 far bv fate; so cruel and relentless, too. Unclose those 
 lovely orbs, and gaze upon my face. Their soft, and liquid 
 light fills me with untold rapture! My heart is thine, fair 
 Zelia; only thine! 
 
38 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Zelia, — The gentle flower, turns its sweet face, unto the 
 lordly sun. Nighty would be eternal, did not his bright, and 
 gorgeous rays, give life, and light, to all things. I've waited 
 long, to see thee, and ask forgiveness for my broken promise. 
 Was all ready, for the ball, when stupor filled, my thoughts, 
 with drowsy dreaming — sleep, quiet sleep, stole all my sense 
 away, and, like a babe^ a helpless thing, I lay, until the 
 morning light broke, in the distant east. You will forgive 
 me, Alfonso, for my very heart's sake. 
 
 Alfonso. — I am well repaid, my Zelia, for the disappoint- 
 ment, long since forgotten — I am used to such. One happy 
 moment, in thy bright presence, would repay a world of bit- 
 ter regrets. Speak no more, of this; 'tis for the present, we 
 live — we know the past — the future, uncertain. When can 
 you meet me, again, my fair one? Every moment here, is 
 fraught with danger; your father's hate, would ^end my soul 
 to hades, so quick, I'd scarce have time to prav. 
 
 Zelia. — I will meet thee, at any hour, or place, you name; 
 my honor's safe, in your good keeping. As you well have 
 said, we are in danger here. Silvia, mv nurse, may come at 
 any moment. 
 
 Alfonso — Say you will meet me, to-morrow night, in mask, 
 (for I want not this gaping crowd, to gaze upon thy heaven . 
 born beauty), in the shadow of the old cathedral, 'tis a loneh 
 spot, the moon will full, and we be undisturbed. Remem- 
 ber, when the clock strikes ten, you can come home, before 
 'tis late, and not be missed. As the last stroke rings out, 
 upon the quiet air, I'll step within the moonlight — one kiss, 
 from those sweet lips, and I am gone. [Exit.] 
 
 Zelia. — I'll hurry to my room; poor, foolish old Silvia, will 
 be alarmed; I have been absent, an hour, or more, already, 
 Oh I speed the time, Alfonso, when thy loving arms, shall 
 once more clasp me, in a long embrace. What of my poor, 
 poor father? Is this the way a child repays, a loving father's 
 care? I know, and feel the wrong, yet scarce can find a 
 remedy; 'tis fate impells me, with resistless force, to happi- 
 ness, or impending doom — all in the future. Who can tell. 
 the stolen fruit, is most delicious to the taste. The interdic- 
 tion of my love, but fans the spark — adds fuel to the flames, 
 that burns, and scorches, with its fiery breath. Had I known 
 other men, and mixed more with the world, I would be a 
 better judge — why judge^ for love is blind, and with all rea- 
 son fled? If he deceives me, and wrecks my first, and onlv 
 love, my pure and childish hopes, I'd wish this fatal beauty — 
 like the Medusa — had power, with one fixed stare, upon his 
 false^ perfideous face, and with steady, gorgon gaze, would 
 turn him, soul, and body, into stone — a fitting monument of 
 treachery. Why doubt he loves me ; I'll think no more of 
 this. [Exit.] 
 
 Portio. — [Scene number two.] — Ha! ha! I am with thee. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 39 
 
 still, my sweet, and noble Alfonso; one more chapter in the 
 events of time, one more notch upon m}' memories stick. 
 Yon are duped again; the blood hound, is not more sure of 
 trail. I'll to my good master, and report at once. 
 
 [Scene changes to Guido's room. Enter Portio.] 
 
 Guido. — You have some news, my faithful Portio, that 
 much concerns myself. 
 
 Portio. — You are right, good master---very right. Alfonso 
 scaled the garden wall, and held sweet converse with your 
 daughter; the meeting was a tender one. Zelia madly loves, 
 this inhuman villain. 
 
 Gtiido. — Oh ! fatal day, that brought those puppets, to my 
 happy home, and thrice fatal the day, my daughter met theni; 
 my mind has had no peace- --all is unrest. I'll be even with 
 this wolf, in human guise. I wish not his blood, upon my 
 hands — it is too base, and would so pollute them; I'd chop 
 them off, and smile. I have a better plan. Let his life rust, 
 in some deep dungeon cell, where the light, of day, ne'er 
 casts a shadow on its gloomy walls, and with his fit compan- 
 ions---slimy toads, and snakes---he can repent him of the 
 evil done; to sooth the lagging, lonesome hours, the ghosts 
 of murdered innocence can pass in swift review, and may 
 Tisi phone, with her scor))ion lash, bring daily torture to his 
 soul. 
 
 Portio. — You, hate him, for the evil he may do. I hate him 
 for the evil already done. For a wager, he won, my only 
 sister's love---poor, confiding heart---now fills a watery grave, 
 beneath the Adriatic sea. With his own hands he slew her, 
 because she loved him still, and like the faithful hound, did 
 follovv^, da}' by day, his every step, that she might, be near, 
 and lick the hand, that doled out unrequited love. These 
 verv eves, did see him slay, a poor, old, unoffensive, Jew, be- 
 cause he sought, that which he had loaned. Alfonso slew 
 him, and robbed him, of his hoarded gold. 
 
 Guido. — Why did you not report him to the council? The 
 Sion of St. Mark would send him to the block. 
 
 Portio. — He is rich, and I am poor. Halls of justice are sel- 
 dom open, to the moneyless. Broad, bright gold, would clear 
 the basest criminal in all Venice. He is noble---I am plebe- 
 ian-born. I work through you, and you, alone, can give me 
 my revenge 
 
 Guido.—Wexft is my hand, and with it, hate enough to 
 set the world on fire. The torture would be heaven to him, 
 should he harm, my onl}' child. 
 
 Portio. — Thanks, good master---but for mv report. They 
 have agreed, to meet, beneath the shadow of the old cathe- 
 dral, upon the stroke of ten, to-morrow night. 
 
 Guido. — Enough! Portio, find Antonio, and send him 
 straight to me. [Exit Portio.] Now, for some counter-plot 
 ---one worthy of my brain. If I can keep my daughter 
 
40 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 from this villain, for a little while, I'll place him, where he 
 will do no further harm. Lucietia, shall stand in Zelia's 
 place. I'll write a note, and send by my page, at once. [Seats 
 himself and writes.] Noble Lucretia, Alfonso bids me con- 
 vey to thee, his tender love, and wishes for thy presence--- 
 can you meet nim to-morrow night, upon the stroke of ten, 
 beside the old cathedral? He has much to tell thee; come 
 without fail. [Rings. Page enters.] Take this note to Lu- 
 cretia; find Bravio, the gondolier, he will take thee straight 
 to her. Deliver this note to herself alone. Now go. 
 
 An foftt'o.-- [Knocks. Enters.] It has been many days, 
 since these old eyes of mine, have seen thy face; it seems 
 changed to me; deep furrows of thought, have plowed the 
 surface, till I scarce would know thee. What do 3 ou wish.^ 
 
 Guido. ---To save my daughter, from the fowler's snare ; 
 have thy gondola, close by my garden wall, and near the 
 water-gate, on to-morrow night, at nine, or half-past nine; 
 my daughter will wish thee to convey her to the cathedral of 
 St. Mark. Go everywhere, but avoid this place, and say 
 you lost the way. Bring her back safe, and here is a ducat 
 for thy trouble. Now, go, and fail me not. [Exit.] 
 
 Z^no.-- -Here, is my hand, friend Guido. I have not seen 
 thee for an age. How fares thy conquest of the holy land? 
 
 Guido. — I have been most fortunate, Zeno, and can al- 
 ready count my followers by the hundreds. I want more 
 men— am greedy, as you see; my plans work well. 
 
 Zeno. ---You seem changed to me---restless as some vvan- 
 dering spirit. 
 
 Guido. ---M.y preparation, my plots, and counter-plots, to 
 keep Alfonso at bay. Zeno, I have lived a lifetime, in the 
 last few weeks. If my plans succeed, you will be well re- 
 membered. If I fail, you will drop a tear for friendship's 
 sake, upon my lonely grave. 
 
 [Scene on St. Marco's Square. The Doge and soldiers ad- 
 vance.] 
 
 Guard. — Stand aside, all! Caps off, I^ere comes the Doge. 
 
 Guido.. — What said he, citizen? Why these guards? Does 
 he fear a tumult, in the street? 
 
 Citizen. — Take off your cap, and stand aside, to let this 
 royal cortege pass; or the guards will cut you down. 
 
 Guido. — Do I dream? Are my eyes wide open! Can it be 
 then; the souls of men in Venice, have become so servile, as 
 to bow down belore this Doge! Or do they fear the rack, 
 and torture? There is no law for this! 
 
 Citizen. — You must be a stranger here, to speak, with so 
 bold a tongue. 
 
 Guido. — My tongue is bold in the cause of right ; and ever 
 will be so! No clownish, thieving. Doge, shall ever fetter 
 my free thought---bind up my liberty of speech! God gave 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 4I 
 
 US both. There is no ducal decree that says men shall 
 not speak! And bow down their ciaven hearts, to this small 
 servant of a people, who once were free! 
 
 Citizen. — ^They come, this way, and if your sword's, as 
 biave, as your bold speech, you are a man indeed. 
 
 Guard. — Why stand, you notaside? — the Doge, would pass. 
 
 6^«/(^<9.^Then let the Doge, pass around; the streets, are 
 free to all. A little brief authority, has turned, his empty 
 head. 
 
 Doge. — Stand aside, I say, and make thee obeisance, to our 
 worthy self; we wish to pass. 
 
 Guido. — There is no ducal decree, in proud old Venice, 
 with its hoary-aged laws, that makes men, cringe and bow to 
 thee, for very fear, lest they oftend, thy greatness. 
 
 Doge. — So glib a tongue as thine, belongs alone to Guido, 
 or I greatly err. 
 
 Guido. — You have well, and truly, said, and God be 
 praised, my heart, and mind, are free as this pure air. Who 
 are you, that men should fall down, and worship at thy feet? 
 A little power, hath turned, thy giddy head. 
 
 Doge. — Down with him, guards. Such insolence, deserves 
 sure death. [Guards advance — Guido draws his sword.] 
 
 Guido .- •-'$)tAwi\ fast. The man who makes, but one little 
 step, I'll run him through and through, with this good sword 
 of mine. The street is broad; let him pass around. 
 
 Doge.---'Qy all the furies, why do you not advance---a single 
 arm defies thee. 
 
 Guido. — Advance yourself, and be a man. Shield not your 
 craven heart, behind those hearts of oak. Thy guilty soul 
 should tremble, in the presence of this good people, you have 
 so toully wronged. Take ofl'tliy cap, or by this good sword, 
 we will throw you in the seii. 
 
 Citizens. ---Y)o'^\\ with the Doge! Guido, forever! Oft' 
 with his cap. 
 
 [All advance upon the guard.] 
 
 Guido.- --Yio\<S., good fiiends, one and all; stand back; obey 
 the law, and let no blood be spilt. Now, get thee to thy 
 palace, and remenber well, a citizen of Venice, is always 
 free. First came wealth, and with this wealth, these titled 
 nobles; and with these titled nobles, came this despotic Doge, 
 and Council. Turn back, old father time, thy swift, revolv- 
 ing wheel, and give us good old times, when freemen ruled, 
 and kings were slaves. 
 
 Citizens. — -i^\x\(\o, forever! Down with the Doge! 
 
 [Scene changes.] 
 
 [ScENE---In Guidu's House. Men assemble.] 
 
 Guido.- ■-'^q\\ does our sky look bright, and the pathway 
 to the gods' abode, all clear.'' or do the clouds, obscure their 
 twinkling brightness.^ Will the storm, break upon us, and 
 our lives, be blotted, from this ever-changing world.'' 
 
42 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Fi/si man. — The sky is clear, and all is well. Our nup-'bers 
 have increased, so fast, we will soon outnumber the ducal 
 guard, 
 
 Guido.---Iia\-e you bound them, with the oath? and know 
 they the sic;ns? Be cautious and be bold, for kingdoms have 
 been bought and sold. We will strike, a sudden, heavy, 
 blow. Be on the watch, and ready for my call. To day, on 
 St. Marco's Square, this worthy Doge, would have struck 
 me down, forsooth, because I bowed iiot, mv head, ar.d stood 
 aside, that he might pass. The people, on my side, bore 
 down upon, his guards, and scattered them, like sheep. But 
 for my presence, his saintl}' soul, would be among the things 
 that were. They dare not arrest, me openly. I have dis- 
 obeyed, no law. They would, in secret, drag me before, this 
 dreadful ten. Some tlungeon, 'neath the palace, woidd be, 
 my fearful doom. Let a detachment, follow me, and guard 
 well, the leader, of your cause. Be sure, the red cross, is 
 well displayed, that I may know, my men — and may not, 
 Phaeton's fate, be mine; though, like him, my aim was high, 
 my fall, be great. 
 
 [Scene. ---In Mario's House.] 
 
 Afarto.---^y very soul, is crushed, with this weight of woe; 
 my heart is crazed, and bowed with grief, to think Alfonso's 
 false to me. Would that his dagger, had pierced my heart, 
 and I were dead. I gave him love, and honor too, and now 
 my guilty heart must hide, its shame. My noble brothers, 
 suspect me not, and wonder, at my listless eye, and pale, 
 wan cheek. I fear to tell them all; fear, lest T, lose their 
 love---be an outcast, scorned by my sex. jeered by the men. 
 Would that the earth, could open wide, and hide, or give 
 oblivion. Oh, for one draught, from Lethe's Plutonian river. 
 
 Claud. — Crying again, my noble sister. What ails thee, of 
 late? Be bright, and smile, the same old "^mile, that made 
 your brother's heart so glad. 
 
 Mario. — Winter's white mantle fades, the bright roses of 
 June, that pale and die before its icy breath. Am 1 not, a 
 blighted flower.'* I feel like one. 
 
 Claud. — In heaven's name, what ails thee? Mario, my 
 sister, speak. You, the pride, of our fair name, the idol of 
 all hearts, the envy of thy fair companions. These young 
 Venetian gallants, have already crowned thee queen; or, do 
 you wish, more finery, jewels, laces? Speak! What would 
 you have? It shall be thine. 
 
 Mario. — I wish for none of these. Would that I ne'er had 
 seen them; I'd be more happy now. Oh! foi the cloistered 
 life, of some poor nun. I wish only for peace of heart. It 
 is the empyrean of earth. 
 
 Claud. — It is thy heart, then, Mario. Some disappointed 
 hope. He showed bad taste, indeed, to prefer another, and 
 look so coldly on thy love. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 43 
 
 Mario. — Oh!! happy would I be, were such the case. I 
 was the foohsh moth, that fluttered too near the dazzhng 
 lig'ht; my wings are singed, to blackness. Would that I 
 could flv, and leave thee in peace. 
 
 Claud. — What mean vou. Mario? I only stur.ible in the 
 dark. 
 
 Mario. — I can tell thee no more. Leave me, good brother, 
 oh leave me. [Weeps.] 
 
 Claud.-- -I will not leave thee, till you tell me all. 
 
 Mario.- -How can my taltering lips, repeat the story of my 
 wrong? You would spurn me from vour very presence, and 
 from my brother's hjve. 
 
 Claud..- -Has some base churl betrayed your love, and 
 trifled with your heart? 
 
 Ma7'io.---'Hoi onh' with my heart, but honor too. 
 
 C laud. -- -Gr e-di god^A it is a crushing blow. Oh, Mario! 
 my sister!! to think that one so fair as thee, has pulled down 
 the honor, of our lordly house, our proud name trailed, in 
 dust, and dirt. 
 
 Mario. — 'Tis true, thou hast, my secret then. 
 
 Claud. — Who is this villain? Speak, that I may slay, and 
 send his soul to hell — the false, perfidious wretch. 
 
 Mario. — He won my love, and then my soul. 
 
 Claud. — His name, Mario, his name! 
 
 Mario. — Al fo n so ! 
 
 Claud. — M\' best of friends. Ah, little did I think, when 
 i^ound some festive board, the wine, and jest, did pass, he, 
 boasting, of bis conquests, and his loves, included thee. Even 
 now. he is on the point, of winning Guido's daughter's love, 
 and openh- doth boast of this, and wages gold, he'll win. I 
 could laugh at him then, but now. 'tis mine to mourn. Oh, 
 hu-iian heart, laugh not at other's woe. The same sad fate, 
 ma\' also be thine. 
 
 Mario. — And now, my n-.jble brother, Claud, I'll spy fare- 
 well, t(i all these happy scenes. I had no mother, to guide, 
 m}- steps aright: to counsel, and protect. I have no claims^ 
 upon my brother's love; no claims to this kind roof, that 
 sheltered me, in childhood's happy day; no claims to your 
 proud name, and high position. I have lost all, and in the 
 losing, lost myself. 
 
 Claud. — Did we not swear, upon the holy cross, when our 
 dear n.other died, to love thee, with a mother's love? to 
 shield thee from all harm? Whatever fate betide, thee, to 
 love, and cherish, still? 
 
 Mario. — You will not, cast me from you, then. Oh, bless 
 your noble heart. You will not despise, so mean a creature, 
 as my broken-hearted self, because I loved him, and with my 
 love, disgraced your noble name. 
 
 Claud. — You are forgiven, my sister, still; we are but 
 human — the sin that finds a brother out to-day, may be ours 
 
44 THE CONSPIRATOR, 
 
 to-morrow, ever ready to cast the first stone, when we oui'- 
 selves, are deeply, darkly, stained with sin — the reason more 
 sin not, because the tempter, throws no snare, to catch the 
 light-winged bird. I swear to thee, my sister, vengeance on 
 the betrayer of your innocence. Time, space, eternity, shall 
 not snatch him, from my grasjo. Kill as he has killed — curse 
 him. Oh, curse the day, that brought him to the world. 
 
 Mario. — Swear not, my brother. Kill not. Oh! promise 
 me, your sister, that you'll harm not, one single hair. Two 
 wrongs, make not one right. Add not his sinful, guilty soul, 
 and life, to my already heavy burden. 
 
 Claud. — I'll to our brothers, Mario, and see, what they will 
 say, and do. How can I tell them this? Oh, fate, nerve my 
 heart, and make it very steel — to save our honor. We would 
 sink, all Venice, and its people too. Good-by, Mario. Thy 
 very misfortune, makes me love thee more. Better loss ol 
 name, and proud position, than a sister's love, be trampled 
 in the mire, of unchristian tongues. Keep close. Tell no 
 living soul of this, and all may yet be well. 
 
 [Scene — Near the old Cathedral of St. Mark. 
 
 Alfonso. — This time, she will not disappoint, this already 
 exultant he?rt, that glories, in its very shame, and gloats 
 upon weak innocence. The devil, must have blessed, my 
 very birth, or was I the preconceived idea, that sprang full 
 armed, from his hellish brain? I have no feeling of remorse, 
 and like the spider, live for prey. 'Tis on the stroke of nine. 
 What makes me feel so timid? my nerves unstrung? I 
 thought I heard a stealthy step upon this marble pave. I 
 was mistaken. How could any sane mind, seek so lone a 
 spot? The very air is heavy, with its solemn stillness. The 
 shades and shadows, play hide and seek, along those pillared 
 walls — fitting place for the ready assassin, with his uplifted 
 dagger. 1 can almost feel the blow. He glides into the 
 deepening shade — one Hfe the less, one crime the more. The 
 world moves on. I hear a gondola's light-splashing blade. 
 She comes, and to my spider's web, I've woven, with most 
 skillful art, ever cautious. I'll step behind this pillar — it may 
 not be Zelia, after all. 
 
 Lucretia, — [In cowl and hood, advances, into the moon- 
 light. Alfonso meets her.] 
 
 Alfonso. — Most welcome Zelia, to my heart, and to this 
 lonely place. Though cheated in our first attempt, we will 
 regain the happy houis, long lost We are alone, and can 
 tell our love, without the fear, of this ferocious Guido — a very 
 tiger, always ready, to spring upon me, for my very love of 
 thee, fair Zelia. 
 
 Lucretia. — And you love poor Zelia, then. 
 
 Al/omo. — As no other living, moving thing. Call it not 
 love — the word's too tame. The very blaze consumes my 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 45 
 
 soul; the fierceness of its flame, would set the world on fire. 
 I madly love thee, Zelia. 
 
 Lucretia. — You have loved me, these many da} s. I like 
 not tiiis l)urninij love; it soonest cools, and turns to ashes on 
 our hands — the very passion love calls forth. You have loved 
 others, as well. Such love as thine, stops not at one. 
 
 Alfonso. — You do but jest, fair Zelia, and would see love's 
 very depth; or, are you jealous of me, then. 
 
 Za'r;r//«.— Where is Mario.'' Where is Lucretia? They 
 tell me, you loved this Lucretia well. Do I speak the truth.'* 
 
 Alfonso. — She was so hard to win. No iceberg, from a Polar 
 sea, in all its towering, glittering grandeur, was more hard, 
 more freezing, or reserved. This same burning love of mine, 
 did melt this freezing mass. 
 
 Lucretia. — And you would cast her off, because she loved 
 thee well? 
 
 Alfonso.---¥ox thee, fair Zelia, I'd cast an angel trom me. 
 
 Lucretia ---[Throws back her hood.] Take then, thy Zelia, 
 to thy heart, and be so happy in your love. Look into my 
 marble face, that once was fair to thee, and see Lucretia's. 
 Take back those cruel words, and say you love, me still; and 
 bid me live---for by yon moon, I swear, my blood shall stain, 
 this sacred marble--- [Here is my dagger. ]---and if you love 
 me not, I'll take this worthless life. VVithout thee, I care not 
 to live. Say you were but jesting, and I'll forgive. Oh, lift 
 this shadow from my heart! 
 
 Alfonso.— -\mcxq\!\a, yon well know, I did but jest, to try thy 
 love. Put up your dagger. God forbid thy blood, should be 
 upon my head. 
 
 Lucretia. ---^\\QX^ have you been so long? I've watched, 
 and waited, for your coming, till my very heart was sick. 
 Your note relieved my pain. 
 
 Alfonso.- --^ly note! oh, ah yes. I have been so engrossed, 
 by worldly care, I had no thought of love. I am sore pressed 
 with debt, until my very mind, is crazed. I am a bankrupt, 
 and belong, to these money-making Jews. Do you wonder 
 at mv absence? You got my note, then. Have you it with 
 }'ou? I would see it. 
 
 Lucretia.- --Here it is. Sweet messenger, I loth to give thee 
 up. [Holds it out to Alfonso. Guido steps from behind a 
 pillar, snatches the note, and glides away.] 
 
 ^^<?/;j-(?.— Hound of hell! Who was it? Gone, and with 
 my only clue. Oh, that I could reach him, with this good 
 sword. He has heard all, and could have slain me, where I 
 stood. I thought, I heard, a step, and was not deceived. 
 Foiled, again. What devil, pursues me, with such hate? 
 [Voice in the distance: Remember Mario, and die.] Curse 
 you, I'll drive you from your hiding place, and make short 
 work of thee. [Voice: Come on, I am still here.] 
 
 Lucretia. ---You shall not go. [Clings to him. Alfonso 
 
46 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 tries to free himself.] I will rouse all Venice, with mv cry, 
 for help. 
 
 A/fonso.-- -Unloose me, Lucretia. 
 
 Lucretia.--\o\.\ shall not go. For my sake- -for your Lu- 
 oretia's sake-- -I pray thee, listen to my voice. 
 
 Alfonso.- --Viwh'&wA me, crirl. [Struggles. Help! helpl! 
 Murc'er. Curtain falls. End of Third Act.] 
 
 Scene. ---[In Alfonso's house.] 
 
 Alfonso.---'Y\\Q\Q is some evil genius, on my track-- -«ome 
 messenger of the gods, whose mills grind slowly, but exceed- 
 inglv tine. 'Tis true I have been a guilty wretch. These 
 hands, that look so fair, are steeped and hardened in sin. until 
 mv verr heart is stone. All hope is gone; the world my foe; 
 on the side of wrong, I fight against innocence and right--- 
 so runs the world. One half prey, on the other half. Eveiy 
 spidc has its fly, and weaves its ample web. I'll be the 
 spider-- -let others be the fly. 
 
 [A knock at the door. Alfonso starts back, and draws.] 
 
 Page.- -Onlv myself, good master. 
 
 Aljonso.---\N\\y callest thou, me, good? 
 
 Page.—\ surprised you, then? 
 
 Alfonso. --■0'!\\)j my thoughts. It is not good to think too 
 much, when one's thoughts, are preserved in alcohol, for 
 future reference. 
 
 Page.---\^o the fires of hell, already singe your guilty soul? 
 Remorse, has come too late, to save thee now. 
 
 .(4 //<?«.f<?. — [Grasps him with both hands, around the neck.] 
 You have betrayed me, to this stranger, who dogs my 
 every step. 
 
 /^«^^.--- Unloose your grasp, or I'll send this dagger to thy 
 heart. You do me wrong. No word of mine, has ever passed 
 these lips, that implicated thee. 
 
 A/fonso.--Forg\ye me, page, I am not myself to-night. 
 What clogs my vigorous mind? I tremble at a whisper. Not 
 a leaf that stirs, or rustles, on "ihe tree, but startles my guilt\' 
 soul. I have been foiled a second time. Twice, as you well 
 know, I have appointments made, to meet this Guido's 
 daughter. Both times my victims stood before me. Who is 
 this silent foe. who works so cleverly, and so silently, deals 
 me out such blows? I had vvorkedall things well; now, they 
 know all, and Venice is unsafe for me. Last night, I was to 
 meet fair Zelia, near the old Cathedral, on the stroke of ten— 
 and in her place, was this Lucretia. We had a stormy time. 
 She had a note from him, and almost in my grasp, when a tall 
 figure, all enveloped in a Monkish cowl, snatched the paper, 
 from her hands, and disappeared in those dark pillared 
 shades. I could not pursue him; for once in that labyrinth, 
 of columns, mv life were not worth a ducat. I met him, 
 though, disguised, at the ducal ball. He told me, of my every 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 47 
 
 deed. He holds my prison key, and only waits, to close the 
 iron door. 
 
 J^age.--'lidve you no clue, to ferret out this foe to all your 
 plans.'* It may be, this brawny-fisted Guido, to save his 
 daughter, from thy, skillful web. 
 
 Alfonso. ---IX. may be, Mario's brothers too, or fair Lucre- 
 tia's friends. Who can tell ? 
 
 Page.---V\\ work up diis field, and in one week report. 
 Give me a week, and give me gold. 
 
 Alfonso. — Forgive me page. Here is my hand; stained 
 though it be. 
 
 Page. — But a moment since, 'twas at my very throat. Well, 
 so it is. How much, do you propose, to pay me, for this job? 
 
 Alfonso. — Fear not; I have the promise of much gold. A 
 well-filled purse, will make thee laugh, and be my friend, 
 once n'ore. 
 
 Page. — Money I Oh, bright coin; golden ducats! My 
 thirst for thee is great. Thou art the oasis in the barren waste 
 of sand, that laves, the parched lips, of agonizing thirst. My 
 soul pants, for thee; no, not my soul — for, such wealth, be- 
 longs to these, good old monks — m}^ body, T would rather 
 say; for, when this life is done, the\' both shall rust, in a 
 graveyard's gloom — return, to mother earth, from whence 
 the}' came. 
 
 Alfonso.— -\ like gold, only, for the pleasure, it brings to 
 me. Easy come; easy go. 
 
 Page. — 'Tis well, to lay in, a golden store of honey, during 
 the shilling horns, of flowery summer. When nature's tlead, 
 the body old, and wrecked, who will uphold your tottering 
 frame — the thread of life, though almost spun.' With gold, 
 your every want, will be supplied. 
 
 Alfonso. — You live, for the future; I'll take the present. 
 There is a still, small voice, within, that tells my soul, old age 
 will never silver, these locks, of mine. My head will fall, 
 before the grain is ripe, and ready, for the sickle; some 
 gloomy dungeon, with its solitude, and clanking chains, will 
 be my lot. Not a bright one, you would say. I'll drain the 
 cup of pleasure, though the draining, lose me my soul. 
 
 Page. — I'll find, thy silent foe; once on his track, he'll not 
 escape. One can learn much, from servants' wagging 
 tongues. See that you pay me well; and money ready, when 
 the work is done. 
 
 Alfonso. — How can I hope to escape, the vengeance, of 
 sweet Mario's four brothers? The truth, will out. Like 
 hounds, they will be upon my track. Lucretia, too, though 
 peaceful, and happy, now, will soon know I am a vidian. 
 The old Jew's dj'ing look, and money bags, are always with 
 me. Poitio's sister, a young, and guileless thing, who followed 
 me in body, and, like the faithful dog, she licked the hand 
 that smote her, now follows with her saintly spirit. Oh, 
 
48 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 guilty conscience; thou art the scorpion-lash, that stings my 
 boul to madness! Oh, god-like wine, I bless tnee! Give me 
 forgetfulness, of the deeds, these hands have done. Drink 
 deep, Alfonso; and now, for my restless sleep, and dream of 
 hell. 
 
 [Scene: In Guide's garden.] 
 
 Zelia. — What ill-timed fortune, has brought me back, with- 
 out A sight, of him, my heart now holds, so dear? The stupid 
 old gondolier— he was the first I saw. I paid him, well, 
 and all for naught. His blind old eyes, did lose the way. I 
 have a broken promise to record. What will Alfonso think 
 of me? It is fated, that we ne'er should meet, to tell our 
 love. Kind fortune, smile, but once, upon your child! I 
 will truly swear to make amends, to thee, Alfonso. 
 
 Guido. — My child, my darling; where have you been, this 
 hour or more? We searched the house, the garden, and the 
 street. It was not wise, to leave us thus. Where have you 
 been? Speak, my child; remember, 'tis your father. 
 
 Zelia. — How you frightened me, dear father. My nerves 
 are all unstrung. I was but riding, in an old man's gon- 
 dola. 
 
 Guido. — Why, this time of night, my child? The days are 
 long; 'twould serve thee as well. 
 
 Zelia. — I am a child, no longer. Why do you keep me a 
 prisoner, within these hated walls? 
 
 Guido. — My, child, you are deceiving me. To think, the 
 idol of my heart, and soul, should kill me, by untruth! You 
 were trying to meet Alfonso,; speak, is it not so? 
 
 Zelia. — You have truly said. I love him, better than my 
 very life. 
 
 Guido. — Better than your poor old father, whose only wish, 
 IS for your good? Think, child, of thy tender years; and with 
 what care, the little hot-house exotic, was sheltered from the 
 rude, wintry blast — nurtured to bloom, into goodly woman- 
 hood — and now, you turn your back, upon my teaching, to 
 follow a fallen star, a reprobate, who would slay thee, soul 
 and body. I've had no thought, but thee; have watched, thy 
 sleeping innocence, with a mother's fond love. Find some 
 one, more worthy of thy heart; not this hardened, sin-corrupt- 
 ing villain, Alfonso. The sigh, of murdered innocence, is 
 sweet music, to his ear. He lures thee, to thy fall. Mario, 
 fair Mario; come to this sweet ciiild of mine, and save her 
 from this awful doom! Lucretia, a martyr, to thy blinded 
 love, come, tell this child, the ruin of thy soul! Poor, old, 
 inoffensive Jew, come, in all thy putrid, mouldering body; 
 tell her, how he sent his dagger, to thy heart, to seize upon 
 thy hoarded gold, that he might win back, in game, the 
 ducats he had lost. Poor little waif of Venice, Portio's sis- 
 ter; come, and tell her, of a ruined life— with what persistent 
 love, you followed, day by day — till tired, he slew thee; and 
 
.THE CONSPIRATOR. 45> 
 
 for thy love. The moan of Adriatic's sea, is all the dirge 
 that wails for thee. Bring up thy ghastly pictures, of his 
 deeds, till she, in horror, shall turn, with loathing, from this 
 sin-stained monster! 
 
 Zelia. — Oh, horror! spare me! I'll hear no more of this; 
 it seethes^ and burns into my brain, until I see your ghastly 
 pictures, one b}- one, in all their huge repulsiveness. 
 
 Guide. — Listen, to reason ; and I'll prove to thee I speak 
 onlv the solemn truth. Give me but the chance; 'tis all 
 I ask. 
 
 Zelia. — Can he be so base of heart? Tell me, my very 
 soul, can this be true? My Alfonso, a bloody-handed mur- 
 derer? Can those soft, liquid eyes that look so straio-ht in 
 mine, be masks for murderous deeds? That calm, and 
 heavenly smile, touched with an angel's white-robed inno- 
 cence, does it but mask the treachery, that like a molten sea, 
 is surging beneath? Tell me, by your hopes of heaven, is 
 this all true? Then, why does he live? Vengeance follows 
 him too slow. 
 
 Guido. — The truth ; only the truth! Let reason sit en- 
 throned, once inore, where it was won't to rule. Drive 
 this fatal passion from thee. Be my child again. Be Guido's 
 child — high born, with proud resolve; and never yield one 
 single inch, of that high-toned honor, that makes gods of 
 men, and places them among the stars. Be prudent, dis- 
 trust his motives niore, and, my true word upon it, he will 
 show his cloven foot; and for that sweet, angelic smile, a 
 baffled demon's glare. 
 
 Zelia. — How could I ever doubt your love for me? I 
 promise, by my sainted mother's memory, to stand steadfast 
 as these rock-bound isles! 
 
 Guido. — I thank you my child, and on my knees could bless 
 thee. But, oh, I fear his false, flattering tongue. 
 
 Zelia. — Stay, my father. Why come so many men, all 
 strangers, too? The other night, I heard some strange, 
 strange talk — not of your crusade, and the Holy Land, but 
 treason, rank treason, to the State. Is this the object of 
 your life? Speak ; I am no child ; can seal my lips to all 
 save thee. 
 
 Guido. — How heard you, all this? 
 
 Zelia. — Woman's innate curiosity. To see them bolt and 
 bar the doors, w "s more than I could stand. I know it all; 
 will keep the secret well. And if you fail? 
 
 Guido. — The headsman's ax will fall; you will be fatherless; 
 and, I will be no more. 
 
 Zelia. — J"*oes this great risk, repay thee for thv trouble. 
 
 Guido. — A thousand times. To wrench all power, from 
 this iron-handed Doge, and his subservient Council, and re- 
 store it to these good people, from whence it came, will be pay 
 enough for me. Be silent, as the grave. My life is in your 
 
50 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 hands. I well can trust it there, and feel secure. Should you 
 betray me, I would wish to die, and welcome death, as some 
 sweet messenger. 
 
 Zelia. — Fear not: I am my Father's child. [Exit both.] 
 
 [Scene: In the Doge's palace. 
 
 Doge. — How like a mountain devil in my heart, is this 
 fieice hate for Guido, base plebeian, that he is. To think, he 
 had the power, before my people, to humble Falero, Doge of 
 Venice, whose proud head, is worthy, of this soft hearted 
 Duke's good crown! I cannot drag him, in chains, before 
 the Council. He has done no wrong, broken no laws; by 
 Ducal command, he'd soon be free. The Church of Rome se- 
 cures his person from arrest. I cannot run him through 
 with this good sword. He is the peer of Venice. How 
 shall my vengeance reach him? I cannot kill him, with this 
 dagger, for his band of stalwart ruffians are ever near. He 
 goes no where. Oh, furies of hell, in all thy huge deform- 
 ity, tell me. oh tell me, of some plan! Calm reason, be my 
 friend. If I could seize him, unawares, and drag him to my 
 dungeon, 'neath the palace^ he would disappear from sight — 
 that's all. Who could say I did it? Happy thought! I'll 
 write a note at once. My Son: We would see thee, on bus- 
 iness that admits of no delay. Meet us near the old cathedral, 
 at lo o'clock, to-morrow night. (Signed.) Fathers of the 
 Church. [Rings for a page.] Take this note to Guido, at 
 once; leave it, and await an answer. 
 
 Alfunso. — [Knocks and enters.] 'Good morrow, Your 
 Highness. How fares Venice, and its Doge? 
 
 Doge. — The very man, of all others, I wished, to see the 
 raost. 
 
 Alfonso. — I would be pleased to serve thee, noble Doge. 
 Speak — what can I do? aid thee in grasping gold? You have 
 enough 
 
 Doge. — Grasping! What mean vou; an insult to my rank? 
 Falero never forgives. 
 
 Alfonso. — I meant thee no offense. Old age nas hardly 
 cooled thy blood; be not so fiery, suits not thy silvered head. 
 
 Doge. — I was thinking of this Guido, a strange, strange, 
 man. One would think he ruled all Venice — bids defi- 
 ance to aU law, and order. 
 
 Alfonso. — I hate him, though he has done me no harm, as 
 yet. I hate him, because he is my peer, in everything, that 
 makes men noble; but 'tis natural^ and therefore human. 
 The shafts of envy, fly, thick as hail, at those who tower 
 above us, and make us seem so small. He will one day rule 
 Venice, or I am no prophet. 
 
 Doge. — The burning desert sand, the sun's fierce heat, the 
 treacherous Turk, and holy land, will be enough for him. I 
 would he were already in the saddle, and leagues away from 
 Venice. 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 51 
 
 Alfonso. — His followers, are thick as bees, upon a sum- 
 mer day. Take good care, you feel not their sting. 
 
 Doge. — How know you this, Alfonso? 
 
 Alfojiso. — Use but thine eyes, and look around, and see a 
 small red cross, upon more stout shoulders, than all the ducal 
 force combined. Guido is master, in Venice to-day. 
 
 Doge. — This bodes little good for Venice, and I marvel that 
 the Duke, did place such power in his hands. But then 'tis 
 done, we will undo all this. He has a daughter fairer 
 than the dreams of youth, and you would possess, this prize 
 in peace; twice have you been foiled in the attempt, to meet 
 this fair damsel. Start not, for thou knowest I speak the 
 truth, well to my point. I would seize him unaware, once 
 in my power; you'll hear no more of him — his very name 
 will be forgotten, and his cause will perish too. I have but 
 this moment sent a message for him to meet these pious 
 Monks, who, with him, are crazed with warrior's dreams. 
 He will, like the eager fish, take in this bait, once on my 
 hook; 'tis jo}-, enough for me. 
 
 Alfonso. — If I understand thee, then, instead of these good 
 Monks, you will have some men at arms, and stout ones, 
 you will need, for b}' my faith, his muscles are only cords of 
 steel. 
 
 Doge. — Half a dozen will be enough, and two to spare. 
 [Knocks witliout.] Here comes my messenger. [Enters and 
 hands the Doge a note.] 'Tis well, he will be prompt; when 
 Guido's mine, you can take his daughter for yourself. My 
 deep revenge would be incomplete without thy aid ; he hates 
 thee with no mortal hate, and taunted with possession of his 
 daughter, the rack and torture would be elysian pleasure com- 
 pared to it. Will you help me, and more gold is thine, than 
 thou canst well loose thee in a year, by reckless play. 
 
 Alfonso. — You may count upon me, for by the gods such luck 
 comes only once. Here is my hand, good fortune attend. I 
 can well fathom Falereo's hate. 
 
 Doge. — I hate him, because he humbled me, before my 
 people. 
 
 Alfonso. — How mean you, noble Doge? 
 
 Doge.— K\\ Venice rings with the story of my shame. With a 
 dozen, or more, of my brave guards, we walked the Square, 
 as you well know, we came upon this Guido. All gave way, 
 doffed their caps, but this ill-mannered churl, he gave not 
 one inch, and stood as firm as any oak. Words followed ; I 
 ordered the guards to hew him down; the people on all sides, 
 pressed us close, beat off my guards, and would have thrown 
 me in the sea, but for this Guido, who, with his single arm, 
 dispersed the crowd, and saved me from a watery grave. 
 
 Alfonso. — And for, this, you hate him, most worthy Doge. 
 
 Doge. — Not for the saving, but for the humiliation. Falereo 
 is master in all Venice, and death to him, who dares offend. 
 
52 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Come take some wine, we'll drink to this fair maid, and a 
 bumper to my hate. 
 
 Alfonso. — Wine, women, and gold, we will drink to thee. 
 
 Doge. — Throw in :nj hate, and with my hate, success. 
 [Both drink.] 
 
 Alfonso. — In heaven's name, how learned you of my passion, 
 for this lovely girl? The very danger, gives zest to keen de- 
 sire, and only when the prize, is well within my grasp, will I 
 believe I have but little luck. T count not gain beforehand. 
 Oh! how some one has duped me, and so cleverlv; twice 
 have I made appointments to meet my unsuspecting prey, 
 both times my old loves stood before me; you can well 
 imagine the scene that followed. The gous, in making man, 
 and with Promethean lire, (which was a heavenly theft) en- 
 dowed him, with reason. Woman, Jove's great gift to man. 
 What shall I say? It is enough to say, he gave her a tongue, 
 and a will to use it, too. I retired, badly beaten. 
 
 Doge. — And you know not, who this silent worker is? 
 
 Alfonso. — I can surmise, but have no proof, he covers well 
 his tracks. It must be Guido, to save his child. 
 
 Z)<?g'^.---'Twere easy for him, to challenge thee, to mortal 
 combat, and the tale soon told. 
 
 Alfonso.- --'Y\\2i\. is the mystery. At a seciet meeting, near 
 the old cathedral, as my second love, was in the act of 
 handing me a clue, (his letter), some one stepped from be- 
 hind its pillared walls, and snatched it from my outstretched 
 hand. Had it been Guido, he could have stabbed me, with 
 all ease, and saved his daughter's honor, too. 
 
 Z?^^^.---Wlth my good aid, you can unearth this wiley fox. 
 
 Alfonso.- --It may be too late. The grain is ready for Nem- 
 esis and her mill. 
 
 Z>^^^.-- -Look not on life's gloomy side; cheer up, the day 
 will surely come, and bring thee sunshine without stint. 
 
 Alfonso.-- -So may it be. I greatly fear, me, we will be 
 foiled again ; you know not, neither have you felt the power of 
 Guido's fertile brain. I am reckless in pursuit ot love, and 
 gold, and yet, an unknown dread, is ever with me. The 
 sword of Democle's suspended by a hair. The blow will 
 fall, but when? A coward dies a thousand deaths, in dying 
 one. 
 
 Doge. — Thy ill success hath made thee doubtful, in this 
 good cause. Throw doubt behind thee, press on, and reach 
 the goal of mad desire. To the victor, belong the spoils, and 
 such spoils too. Remember, gold, and thy desire. 
 
 Alfonso. — You underrate the obstacle, most worthy Doge, 
 You know not the man. [Page enters with Guido's note.] 
 
 Doge. — Here is his answer: 
 
 Reverent and Holy Fathers — I am ever at your service. 
 You can count upon my presence. Gi/tdo. 
 
 It is enough. Once in my power, you will feel, this heavy 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 53 
 
 hand. The insult, must be avenged. Falereo, Doge of 
 Venice, is master. 
 
 Alfonso. — I'll sav farewell, and with these eager ears, will 
 listen for some news. Send me word at once. [Exit Al- 
 fonso.] 
 
 Doge. — Well, Alfonso has gone, though not without my 
 blessing. Oh, the thought, the inspired thought; oh, happy 
 thought. Be still, my heart, lest you disturb this brain. Ven- 
 geance for the insult, and so soon — in such a way. I'll lac 
 erate his heart, until the very drops of blood, shall cry out 
 in agony. The key is mine, and woe, to Guido and his child. 
 [Rings. Page enters.] Summon the captain of the guard 
 to me at once. I will select this Deppo — the very man to do 
 my bidding. He has little heart, and much less conscience, 
 and many times has served me well. [Enter Deppo.] 
 
 Deppo.-^KX. your command, my master. 
 
 Doge.—V\c\\. me from the ranks, six strong, and stalwart, 
 men. Be ready at a moment's notice. I have a secret ser- 
 vice to perform. Look well to your arms, for by my faith, you 
 will need them. Meet me at the old Cathedral to-morrow 
 night, at ten o'clock. 
 
 Deppo. — It shall be as you wish. 
 
 Doge. — And mark you, Deppo, if we succeed in bringing • 
 down this game, I'll cross thy pahns with gold, and a flagon 
 of old Flemish wine, for your good men. Be on hand, and 
 without fail. You are dismissed. 
 
 Deppo.- — To hear, is to obey. [Exit.] 
 
 Doge. — As Alfonso well has said, he will be troublesome. 
 I'll stand well to one side — I like not such danger, and am- a 
 man of peace. [Exit.] 
 
 Scene. — [Near the old Cathedral. Enter Guido.] 
 
 Guido. — The note said ten. I am early, and well 'tis so, 
 as it gives me vantage of my foe. I'll place my men — my 
 ever faithful ten. [Places his men.] And now, I am ready. 
 I could well fathom, his little plotting mind, intent on seizure 
 of my person. He fears to arrest me openly, and would in 
 secret, load me with chains, and send me to some dungeon — 
 with my cause, chains, and self, to rust, and pass from mem- 
 ory. You know not Guido, well. I hear steps, and more 
 than one. I'll step behind this pillar — 'tis as I thought. 
 
 Doge. — He has not come yet. Deppo, place your men, 
 well in the shade. Keep well together. When I raise both 
 hands, spring upon him, all at once; disarm, and away with 
 him. I hope he will not disappoint me. 
 
 Gicido. — Fear not, Falereo, Doge of Venice. Guido, keeps 
 his word — even unto death. 'Tis more than I can well say 
 for thee. Why this decoy ? 
 
 Doge. — Put up your sword friend Guido. I like not its 
 shining blade, and point, too close. I wished to meet thee, 
 and for the state, I have much to say. Down with your 
 
54 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 rapier point. I mean thee no harm. Since thou wilt not, 
 then know, thou art my prisoner — and my revenge is sweet. 
 You are mine — your daughter Alfonso's. 
 
 Guido. — Ha! ha I! ha!I! Craven — coward — come take me. 
 [Doge raises both hands. The guards advance to seize him.] 
 To the rescue, my men. [Ten men advance and confront, 
 with drawn swords.] Come, take me Doge. Foiled, by 
 heavens! [Tableaux.] 
 
 Scene. — [In Guide's garden. Enter Silvia and Zelia.] 
 
 Silvia. — Why that downcast, saddened look ? You are not 
 happy, Zelia. Tell me what ails thy heart, and mind. 
 
 Zelia. — This world's so strange, and things are not, what 
 they seem. All is unreal. To think Alfonso so base, at 
 heart, I cannot so believe. His smile is innocence itself; 
 his words most fair, and father says, a villain of the deepest 
 dye. 
 
 Silvia. — It is too true. If you desire the proof, why, proof 
 you'll have, until your cup runs over. Try and forget him, 
 for a more worthy heart. You cannot wreck your happiness, 
 upon so base a churl. 
 
 Zelia. — I will demand the proof, and meet them face to 
 face. I am no child, to swerve me from my love, because my 
 father, and yourself, like not my choice. The proof I'll have, 
 though it break my heart. I cannot believe him, to be so 
 false. 
 
 Silvia. — Think, child, of thy noble sire. Did he ever tell 
 thee falsehoods? Has he not told thee of this man? 
 
 Zelia. — He knows it not himself. 'Tis all from hearsay. 
 
 Silvia. — You are mistaken, child. With his own eyes he 
 saw, and so believes. 
 
 Zelia. — I demand the proof, and would not then believe 
 him false. Though other heai-ts be broken, he will be true 
 to mine. 
 
 Silvia. — And when the day does come, your heart's re- 
 jected, as a worthless thing, you will then believe. Love 
 has blinded, and your reason's clouded, by this fatal passion. 
 You shall have proof, i->ut if this proof convince thee not — 
 why take the time, and trouble too, if you will not believe? 
 We will be most glad, to furnish all you wish. 
 
 Zelia. — So let it be. I do not say, I'll cease to love. That 
 can never! never! be, until this heart is dust. 
 
 Silvia. — If your father finds no other way, to save thee 
 from this man,, he'll throw down the gauntlet, and a mortal 
 combat will decide for both. 'Tis easy told, for no sword 
 in Venice, can parry, your father's thrust. 
 
 Zelia. — You mean my father will murder him, good Silvia? 
 Then by all the gods, I'd murder him, should he harm, one 
 single hair of Alfonso's head. My father's blood, is in my 
 veins. He dare not do so base a thing. Let him beware. 
 
 Silvia. — You are mad — your reason's gons, to speak so of 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 55 
 
 your sire. In heaven's name, what ails the child? A fathers 
 blood upon thy hands, and cursed by man and God. Oh, 
 horror!! such words, from those fair lips. Pray, my child; 
 kneel down and pray, that God forgive, that murderous 
 speech of thine. 
 
 Zelia. — ril not believe, until the truth falls from his lips — 
 and should those fatal words be spoken, then I'd pray to die. 
 
 Silvia. — God grant, my child, you may be spared, this 
 pang. 
 
 Zelia. — I do not believe him false to me. Though others 
 be cast ofl, my heart's as true, and steadfast, as the needle to 
 the pole. Come, Alfonso, come, and plead thy cause. Thou 
 art sore beset. We will speak no more of this; it is worn 
 threadbare already. 
 
 [Enter Page. — A lady waits without, and would see thee.] 
 
 Zelia. — Gave she any name? 
 
 Page. — She gave none. 
 
 Zelia. — Show her to this place, good page. 
 
 Mario. — Pardon, fair la.Iy, for this intrusion. %Iy name is 
 Mario. I came to see the face, Alfonso loves so well. You 
 are fair indeed. I blame him not. Men's hearts are in their 
 eyes. Once my face was fair as thine — no pallor on these 
 sunken cheeks; no restless, weeping eyes. I have grown 
 old, and in a month. Look upon my face, and see the fate, 
 that will be thine. Where ever his evil eyes do fall, the 
 thing is blighted, withered, dead. I have four noble broth- 
 ers, the souls of honor, and of truth, with sorrowing hearts. 
 They mourn a sister, though living, already dead. I was 
 stubborn in my love for him. Advice fell heedless, on my 
 unwilling ears. I came to warn thee, ere it be too late. Be- 
 ware ot Alfonso's love. I say, beware! 
 
 Zelia. — Thy pallid, suffering face, is an index of a broken, 
 plighted faith. I cannot believe him so base as this. I could 
 love thee myself, for thy very beauty, that still lingers, 
 though thy color, has faded quite away. Thou art a very 
 Niobe in thv silent grief, and would melt a heart of stone. 
 
 Mario. — I did not melt his heart, on my very knees, bowed 
 down with woe. I told him of my wrongs, pleaded as only 
 a broken heart can plead, that he would make amends — and 
 for an answer, cold contempt. And were not for thy 
 father, he would have slain me, where I stood. Why did not 
 the blow fall, and let old mother earth open wide her arms, 
 and receive her erring child. 
 
 Zelia. — My heart is touched with sorrow, for thy unhappy 
 lot. You look faint; wouldst have some wine? Be seated. 
 
 Mario. — I have no time, and will be well repaid if I have 
 saved you, from a fate so sad as mine, and if he wrecks your 
 too trusting heart, let him not sink your soul, in deep-dyed 
 sin; hold on to honor, though all else be lost. Kiss me upon 
 this marble brow, and now_, good-by. Will you show me out? 
 
$6 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Zelia. — Poor, suffering woman that thou art; my heart goes 
 out to thee. I'll heed thy lesson, it has made me strong. I 
 thank thee noble spirit, your work's well done ; fear not. 
 
 [Scene in Guido's office. Enter Mario's four brothers:] 
 
 Guido."-Qou\Q, gentlemen, be seated. How can I serve 
 you? 
 
 First Brother. — We are Mario's brothers, and if we have 
 no listening, tell-tale ears, we'd like to have your powerful 
 aid. You know our sister, Mario, do you not? You know 
 Alfonso, too; he has stained the honor, of our fair name, 
 and faded life, and light, from Mario's heait. 
 
 Guido. I know all this, and more. If I can help thee, 
 speak; I am with thee, soul and body, in this cause. In 
 saving Mario, I save myself. This scoundrel, loves my 
 daughter, too. What do you propose? I am silent, and will 
 listen. 
 
 First Brother. — We wish to lay some plan, that we may take 
 him without spilling blood, bind, and force him, to marry 
 Mario, that we may save her, from dishonor. 
 
 Guido. — It can be done, and with all ease; heie's my hand 
 upon it, we will bring the game to bay. 
 
 First Brother. ---V^e propose to watch for this game. Hefre- 
 quents Signio's rooms ; we'll wait, without, and seize 
 him, bind his mouth, convey him to our heme, have a priest 
 in waiting, and force his marriage with my sister, and with 
 your help, 'tis done already. 
 
 Guido---V\\ be on hand. What day, or rather night, shall 
 all this be? 
 
 First Brother.-' Say three nights hence; the moon will 
 darken then; we will have a gondola in waiting, and now 
 we'll take our leave, and thank you, as only hearts like ours 
 can thank. 
 
 Gtiido. — Alfonso as a married man, my daughter, will 
 awaken from this horrid dream. The snake, the groveling, 
 slimy reptile, has charmed this bird of mine. I know not 
 what to do; sweet soothing sleep, has fled these tired eyes, 
 and well racked brain. If I can keep him, from meeting 
 her a little while, she will be safe, and free to make a nobler 
 choice. The cloud now gathering, o'er his wicked head, will 
 break in torrents, of righteous retribution, and the devil call 
 his angel home. Your time is coming, Alfonso; you will 
 haA^e no power^ to injure innocence and truth; you'll feel 
 Guido's heavy hand. 
 
 [End of fourth act. Scene near Signio's rooms.] 
 
 Guido. — 'Tis dark as erebus, and you were right, to be most 
 sure, I'd see thy faces. Here is one little ray of light, that 
 comes from that cursed robber's den. Each one pass into 
 the light, and I will do the same; 'tis well we know each 
 other, and now to work. Alfonso is within as usual, squan- 
 derins: his ill-gfotten erains; as 'tis on the stroke of two, he 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. * 57 
 
 will soon pass out, and then, we'll seize him, throw this 
 cloak ovei" his head. Is the gondola in waiting. I secured 
 old Antonio's, he'll be discreet of tongue. 
 
 First Brother. — I will glance within, and let you know. He 
 is flushed with wine, and seems in greatest glee, is winning 
 from this Signio, who keeps this place, he rakes the ducats, 
 in his leathern purse, and now prepares to leave. Be ready 
 and in your places. [Alfonso steps without.] 
 
 Alfonso. — The air from off the Adriatic, cools my wine- 
 flushed face. By all the gods, dame fortune smiled to-night; 
 my winnings were immense. Good luck attend me as well, 
 in all my other schemes. 
 
 [All advance, and seize him, throw a cloak over his head, 
 he struggles, is overpowered, and dragged to the boat; said 
 just before stepoing 6n board, cloak off".] 
 
 Giiido. — Fair Alfonso, we have need of thee, in fact, thou 
 art the central figure o.^ the group. You should feel most 
 honored, to find yourself in this good company; the ride will 
 not be long, and mark thee well, should you tr\- escape, from 
 us , your life were not worth, one thousandth part of your 
 base winnings. 
 
 Alfonso. — Curse you, plebeian Guido. I curse you, with 
 the little breath still left, and curse you for all time, to come. 
 
 Guido. — Calm yourself, villain. Your curses ascend no 
 higher, than the wicked head, from which they emanate, and 
 fall flat to earth. You can curse no one, but yourself, and 
 now be silent. All hands on board. [Make their ex't. 
 Scene changes to a room in Mario's house. Alfonso and 
 crowd enter. 
 
 Guido. — All safe and well, so far. Remove the covering 
 from his head, and now Alfonso, I'll introduce fair Mario's 
 brothers. You see us, one and all; five daggers glitter, and 
 thirst, for your cursed blood, a thousand lives like thine, can 
 never atone for the wrong you've done sweet Mario. 
 
 Alfonso. — Would you murder me in cold blood, and with 
 the assassin's dagger, too? 
 
 First Bruther. — Foul murder, is too good for thee, or thou 
 hadst been dead some time. We cajx scarce keep our dag- 
 gers, from thy heart. 
 
 Alfonso. — What would you then, since the wrong is done, 
 what do yqu propose to do? 
 
 Guido. — To make Mario some amends, we propose for 
 thee to wed her, and this very hour. 
 
 Alfonso. — Spare me this. I have wealth, and will give 
 it all. 
 
 Guido. — Base dog, to offer wealth for shame! You are de- 
 graded, indeed; you thought not of this, when you won her 
 heart, and honor, with yoi-r lying tongue. You are steeped 
 in crime and murderous deeds, until your heart is stone. The 
 fate of Tantalus were too good for thee, and didst thou en- 
 
58 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 ter death's domains, old Pluto, with iiis shadowy host, would 
 stop and gaze in wonder, on thy sin-poluted soul. I have 
 this marriage contract, to be signed by thee. It is a royal 
 one — no marriage bells ring out, their glad refrain; no happy 
 bride, in robes of lovliness, and with flowers, strewn upon 
 the alter of her hopes, as they take the vow, that binds them 
 for all time; no marriage feast, and dancing feet, to wish 
 them all the happiness, the world can give. A pale and 
 broken-hearted bride, whose wedding dress, is sombre as the 
 gloom of night — no faith in man — distrustful of the world. 
 This is the biide I bring. 
 
 First Brother. — Is Mario ready, and also the priest? 'Tis 
 well, let them enter. [Mario enters.] 
 
 Guido. — Fair Mario, will you pardon, your brothers and 
 myself, for this sad trial of your heart. ♦ 'Tis cruel, 'tis tor- 
 ture, but will soon be o'er, 
 
 Mario. — My heart is numbed with grief; nothing hurts 
 me now. The joyless days, they come, and go, unheeded. 
 Would that I could sink from sight, and be forgotten b}- ail, 
 or in some cloistered cell, prepare my soul for death, 
 
 Guido. — Take not thy lot so hard, suffering purifies the 
 soul, and time will heal the wound. Be not cast down, for 
 joy, follows grief, as surely as the day, the night. Come, we 
 but waste these precious moments, and the bridegroom, is all 
 impatient, to be wed. [Lays the contract on the table.] Come, 
 Alfonso, sign this writing. 
 
 Alfonso. — Without reading? 
 
 Guido. — Yes, dog, without reading! 
 
 Alfonso. — I will not sign it, then. 
 
 G^?<;/^<9. ---We'll read it afterwards. 
 
 Alfonso.-- -^QdLQi. or no. read, I will not sign. 
 
 Guido.- --Th^ix^ is the good confessor liere? Down on your 
 knees, for your time is short. [All draw their swords.] By 
 old charons-crowded boat, I'll give thee just five minutes, if 
 you sign it not then, we'll rid the earth of a monster, who 
 should have perished at his birth. 
 
 Alfonso. — Give me the pen ; it is by force, and therefore 
 roid. 
 
 Guido.- -\We will see to that. We ask not thy money, 
 bought by the blood of an inoffensive old Jew, nor thy base, 
 inhuman heart, but for thy, hand, we sue not with honeyed, 
 words, but with bright blades. Come, sign, your time is past. 
 
 Alfonso— ^\^SQt^\.i himself and signs.] Well, 'tis done, what 
 next? 
 
 Guido.- -Good father, advance, we are ready. I pray your 
 pardon, that we have delayed so long. 
 
 Afario.--\low can I! This is terrible, and yet it should be 
 so. I pulled down the honor of my house, and should be 
 willing to rebuild. Give me strength, to stand side, by side, 
 with Alfonso to-night, and speak the words, that death alone 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 59 
 
 can break. Welcome shades of death, Fd be thy willing 
 bride. [Advances slowly.] I am ready. 
 
 [Alfonso advances. They stand before the Priest.] 
 
 Priest. — Join hands, my children; and be assured, that the 
 All-Seeing eye looks down from heaven, and pities thy great 
 woe — pours balm upon thy troubled heart, and bids thee live 
 anew. And by the joining of these hands, I pronounce you, 
 man and wife. 'Tis done; and well done, too. And now, 
 good night! I'll to my home, and sleep. [Leaves; all bow.] 
 
 Guido. — And, now, Alfonso, we have no happy wishes for 
 your future state — no banquet, of rich wine. Get thee hence; 
 you are odious in our sight. 
 
 Alfonso. — Hate, never-dying hate, surges and boils, within 
 this breast of mine, until it would pass all bounds. I swear 
 to live for vengeance. And, for thee — I'll dog thy footsteps, 
 day and night — will strike thee, where the blow falls heaviest, 
 and curse thee, with my latest breath! Curse you; oh, curse 
 you! ! [Dashes out.] 
 
 First Brother. — How can we thank you enough? Without 
 thee, we had failed. This stubborn wretch defied thee, as it 
 was. We would have killed him, and our dearest wish un- 
 gratified. All is well! Come, sister Mario; lift up your 
 head; smile again, and be the light and sunshine, to our 
 happy home! We care not, for the world's cold sneer. The 
 wagging tongue of slander comes not within these walls. 
 Are you not glad, my sister? Come, speak. 
 
 Mario. — Good Guido! On my knees, I thank you. Not 
 for myself, but for my brothers, who, with the Christian 
 mantle of charity, covered all my sins, and cast me not into 
 the street, a vile and worthless thing. God bless them ! 
 Not like the world — the woman is condemned already, while 
 the man is free, and stainless from all guilt. 
 
 Guido. — Arise, Mario. It is little that I have done — de- 
 serving no such tribute from thee — and now, I'll say good- 
 night — or rather, morrow, for the day breaks, already in the 
 east. 
 
 [Scene: In the Council room.] 
 
 Duke. — All in your places, and with despatch to expedite 
 the work, that comes before you ! What has our worthy 
 Doge to say? You are at liberty to speak. 
 
 Doge. — I have much, to lay before your Highness, concern- 
 ing this Guido, and his band. Go where you will, in Venice, 
 from the Rialto to St. Marco's Square, you'll see the red 
 cross everywhere. They outnumber our entire force. Not 
 a gondolier, that plies the shining blade, but wears the cross. 
 The high and low, the rich and poor, alike. It has a squally 
 look for us, and we should trim our sails to meet this breeze. 
 
 Duke. — Suspicion and distrust pervade thy being, till little 
 else is left. What do you fear? They are our loyal subjects; 
 and, for the glory of Venice, they split a turbaned crown. 
 
60 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 What have we to fear? Or, are you, then, jealous that it is 
 not yourself, that leads this mail-clad host of warriors to the 
 Holy Land? 
 
 Doge. — God forbid! My province is not blood and slaugh- 
 ter. I am a peaceful man; and hope, at peace, to live and 
 die. 'Tis for thee, good Duke, I fear; and for thy reign. 
 What should hinder this bold, and fearless soul, to place him 
 in thy stead? He has the men and means; besides the 
 Church his cause befriends. Look thee to thy laurels, your 
 Highness, or you'll lose your crown! 
 
 Duke. — An idle dream of thine, my worthy Doge. I fear 
 not for my crown. You look upon these good people, as 
 ever ready for revolt. No truer subjects dwell in any realm. 
 
 Doge. — Your Highness has^ without doubt, already heard of 
 the rude treatment I received, on St. Marco's Square, by this 
 knightly hero — an insult to my proud position that merits 
 deepest damnation ! 
 
 Duke. — My worthy Doge, you were in the wrong — law 
 and justice, all with him. When you can prove to me, he is 
 a base conspirator, against our ducal crown, and laws, I'll 
 be the first to place his head, upon a pole, without the pal- 
 ace gate, that those who see. may tremble! My hand 
 falls heavy, and with a crushing blow. Were he my brother, 
 pleading at my very feet, I'd close these ears with wax, and 
 sail by the syren's isle. 
 
 Doge. — I'll prove to thee, he is a conspirator, and plots 
 against the State. 
 
 Duke. — Where is your army of paid spies, with argus- 
 eyed vigilance; or has some Mercury chopped ofT his head, 
 to adorn a peacock's tail, and yoked to Juno's car? 
 
 Doge. — They have nothing to report. I gave them ex- 
 press commands to watch this Guido well. Suppose we 
 do; how will you arrest him? His men outnumber the ducal 
 force, by odds of two for one. We would have to watch 
 and wait our chance, like thieves, at dead of night. 
 
 Duke. — He will soon sail; and then m.y faithful Doge will 
 feel at ease. Have we aught else, before this Council? No 
 one speaks. Then I dismiss you, to meet again when we 
 may need your further counsel. 
 
 [Scene: In Guide's office.] 
 
 Guido. — The sun has set; and, with the close of day, call 
 all hands up. Bolt and bar the door; place a man without; 
 let no one approach. All present? 'Tis well ! What of thy 
 work? Like good and trusted harvesters, your graineries run 
 over with a wealth of golden grain. 
 
 First Man. — As you can see, our work's well done. The 
 red cross floats upon the breeze; you see them everywhere. 
 They, like the grain, were ripe and ready for the harvest — 
 needing some bold heart, like thine, to lead. You should be 
 cautious, and not expose yourself, too much; for, did you fall, 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 6 1 
 
 our holy cause were lost. We'd be the most abject of slaves. 
 Guido. — Fear not; they do not even dream of danger; and 
 know not the sword hangs o'er them, suspended by a hair. 
 Their spies have been well paid by us, and close have kept 
 their tongues. They know nothing of our plans. The time 
 has come to strike for liberty, and right! On this day, week, 
 as the old Cathderal clock, strikes twelve, and the shadows 
 lengthen to the west, let each one, with his brave, and si- 
 lent band, march forth, and meet me at the Doge's palace. 
 We'll surprise the guards, and seize the outlets, without loss 
 of life; make a prisoner of the Doge, and his most able 
 scribe and secretary. Mark you, without loss of life, it can be 
 done. When all have arrived, and each one in place, I will 
 direct your movement. Bring scaling ladders. Are you 
 all well armed.'' We will guard the arsenal with two de- 
 tachments. How many men do you muster, all told? 
 
 First Man. — Five thousand, good and true! 
 
 Guido. — Well done. We are the masters of all Venice! 
 While one half arrest the Doge, I, with the other half, will 
 seize the royal palace, and make the Duke, himself, a pris- 
 oner. We outnuber thme royal force, at least two for one. 
 The populace, who are not with us, will not oppose; and 
 when the day does break, upon proud Venice, we will be 
 rulers, and dictate good terms. The Duke is kind of heart, 
 and loves not the cruel hand of oppression. Five thous- 
 and men, in Venetian eyes, will be enlarged to twenty. Re- 
 member, all in your places; and, as the solemn stillness is 
 broken, by the brazen-throated, clanging bell, it will be the 
 signal for attack, let each one head his detachment. Move 
 quickly, and with noiseless feet. Place yourselves to com- 
 mand, each entrance to the palace. The last stroke of 
 twelve will be the signal for attack; and now my heart 
 is overjoyed that proud, beautiful Venice, will be free. We 
 will let the Duke still reign. Down with the Doge — an in- 
 human wretch, whose ears are closed to mercy, and torture 
 delights his cruel heart. The Council of Ten we will 
 disband. These terrible inquisitors shall no more sit in 
 judgment, within those halls, where injustice has reigned 
 supreme. The members of the Council will be voted for , by 
 districts. We'll have two bodies — the upper and the lower 
 — and give, the poorest of our subjects, fair, impartial laws. 
 We will seize the Doge's hoarded wealth, and ease the tax. 
 And, now, be ready; let the men march without their shoes, 
 and with closed lips. Be prompt, and every man in place; 
 remember well, the day and hour; for a failure, on your part, 
 consigns us, to the shades of death. [Exit all. 
 
 Guido. — Souls of departed heroes, who fought, in Free- 
 dom's holy cause, look down, and bless our arms ! Strengthen 
 our hearts for deadly combat, and may our crusade, be 
 crowned with laurels ot success! We fight for no priceless 
 
62 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 treasure — 'tis Liberty, the common heritage of all, be he 
 pi-oiul or lowly born. [Exit Guido.] 
 
 Zelia. — Oh, horror!! What is this, I've heard? My 
 father leader — the chief conspirator of all — against the ducal 
 power! This night, week, at twelve, they seize upon the 
 arsenal. Doge, and Ducal Palace, to be ransacked; and 
 by a mob — my father the leader, too! 'Tis a dangerous 
 power to give these mobs — supremacy. No one can tell, 
 where it will stop. Five thousand armed men, and Venice 
 at their mercy! I'll see my sire, at once, and, on my knees, 
 will plead in tears, to stop this dangerous move. (But my 
 Alfonso's safe— not mentioned in this cause. ) My father's 
 head may fall; yet, if he succeed, how proud I'd be to see 
 him Doge of Venice! His heart's as noble as his soul — and 
 both are God-like in their grandeur. I'll keep my mouth, as 
 close as death — for my father's life is in my hands. These 
 poor, weak hands! They hold the destiny of Freedom's 
 cradle — of life, death, and all most dear to me! Keep thy 
 trust well, good heart, for 'tis a sacred one. I'll to the gar- 
 den — where I can breathe more free, and think more of this 
 plot. [Exit.] 
 
 [Scene: In Gr.ido's garden. Enter Zelia. 
 
 Zelia. — How cool, and fresh, the air doth seem, to this 
 throbbing brow, of mine, that vain would burst, with 
 thought! Poor, foolish head; you know not what to do! 
 [Starts.] 
 
 Alfonso. — Start not, my Zelia; it is Alfonso. I would risk 
 death, a thousand times, for one happy smile of thine! Our 
 love is crossed by fate, relentless fate. We have never met 
 to tell our love. I feel you love me, as none other. I have 
 been reckless, wild, and bad. You can redeem the soul, 
 already singed with Pluto' fire. 
 
 Zelia. — Alfonso, I have heard much of thy wayward life, 
 and scarce could trust, this heart of mine, in thy own keep- 
 ing. You would not be false to me, and leave a broken 
 heart, behind? 
 
 Alfonso. — I love thee too well, for that. Oh, have no fear, 
 my Zelia. I will be true to thee; and in proof, would marry 
 thee, before another sun goes down! We are in danger, here. 
 Meet me on that quiet square, close by the Lion of St. Mark, 
 this night week. The moon is full, and will look down and 
 bless this union of our hearts. I will be in waiting; and now 
 farewell! [Exit Alfonso.] 
 
 Zelia. — I'll within. 
 
 Portio. — I am still with thee, Alfonso ! Why should thy 
 shadow leave thee for a mon-.ent? Another time you're 
 foiled, my angel! I'll to good Guido, and report. [Exit.] 
 
 Guido. — Who knocks? Enter! Well, Portio, you have 
 some news, of course. Be brief, good Portio. 
 
 Portio. — H^ is to meet your daughter, hard by the Lion of 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 63 
 
 St. Mark, this night, one week hence; and proposes to marry 
 her. at once. I am off; good bv! [Exit.] 
 
 Guido. — The inhuman wretch! He seeks revenge. Mar- 
 ried, ah-eady; he would dishonor my lair name! I'll kill this 
 slimy reptile, and be free---! am tired of this close watch--- 
 and rid the earth of so vile a thing Who comes, again? 
 Enter! 
 
 Guido. — Zeno, bv all the gods, the very man, I would have 
 dispatched a messenger for thee. I have much to say. 
 
 Zeno. — It seems an age, since we have seen each other. 
 Here is my hand. 
 
 Guido. — Be seatetl — draw nearer. First, let me be sure, no 
 ears but ours do listen. All is well — and to my subject. As 
 you well know, I have this crusader's plan on foot. Five 
 thousand men, all told, are marshaled for the foe. Is it not 
 a goodly array? and one I can well be proud of ? 
 
 Zeno. — Granted already, Guido; but why so secret, in your 
 organizing ? 
 
 Guido. — You come well to the point. All this array of 
 knights, is not for the holy land. 
 
 Zeno. — In heaven's name, what are they for? 
 
 Guido. — To free all Venice, from the Doge's rule. 
 
 Zeno. — Great gods! Can this be true? It will strike them, 
 like Jove's tliunderbolt, and from a clondless sky. They 
 dream not, of the danger. 
 
 Giiido. — So much the better, then. You have sworn to be 
 my friend Does the oath still bind thee, as of yore? 
 
 Ze7io. — It does, and till life itself shall end. 
 
 Guido. — I ask thee not (for friendship's sake) to follow my 
 fortunes, in this fight. If I should fall, I'll not drag thee 
 down to Hades, and its gloom. Therefore, I have not told 
 thee of this plot. I seek not, to overthrow the Ducal throne. 
 I aim at the Doge, and his base minions. In fact, I'd be the 
 Doge mvself, to bring about reforms, so much needed in the 
 affairs of state. Start not. The Doge, for ten long years, 
 has robbed his Highness, and drained j^oor Venice, till she 
 stands, a shadow of her former self — a fit abode, for Nep- 
 tune and the gods. Our ships, they sailed on every sea; 
 our streets were thronged with Moors, Arabs, Greeks, and 
 Jews. The wealth that Titan Atlas, bore upon his shoulders, 
 was heaped within our stores. Where has all this gone? 
 Down deep, in the Doge's palace vaults. Chest after chest, 
 is filled, with glittering gold — grown rust with age — while 
 Venice groans, beneath a tax that kills her commerce, and 
 her trade. The wavelets idly wash, against her palace walls. 
 The Rialto's dead, and Venice, too, for that. Rouse thee, 
 Venice. Be free, and fearless, as of old. The peerless gem 
 of Adriatic's sea, shall yet regain her sceptre, as ruler of the 
 sea. I seek not blood to shed — not one single drop, shall 
 flow. It will be a great surprise to all. 
 
64 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Zeno. — I marvel, that you did escape the pryhig eyes, of 
 this Doge, and spies. You have been silent, as the lips of 
 death. Suspicion sleeps within the ducal breast. 
 
 Guido. — But to the theme — that's nearest, to this poor old 
 heart, of mine. My daughter, only child, what would be- 
 come of her, should ill befall my cause. The thought un- 
 mans me. A woman's weakness, shrouds my nobler self. 
 She would be adrift, and at the mercy of this cruel world, 
 that asks, and gives, no pity. 
 
 Zeno — Mine be the charge, to keep this child, by the 
 shades, of my kinsmen, I swear, to guide, and guard well, 
 this treasure in my keeping. God grant success to your 
 brave arms, and cause, and then, you'll have no need, of my 
 true services. 
 
 Guido. — Should this head fall, beneath the keen edge, of 
 the headsman's ax, you'll tind my papers, all arranged, and 
 with regard, to mv great ^wealth, I'll trust it to thy keep- 
 ing, and for my only child; there is enough for both. And 
 now, a load is lifted from my heart. Come weal, or woe, I 
 am prepared. This night week, as the last stroke of twelve 
 rings out, upon the midnight air, five thousand noiseless feet, 
 will climb those marble stairs; will fill those marble halls; 
 v^ ill clamber o'er those balconies, and if all goes well, not 
 one drop of blood, be shed. 
 
 Zeno. — Can I not help thee, noble friend ? My soul, it 
 burns, to lead with thee, this little band, of heroes, in the 
 cause of right. 
 
 Gtiido. — If I am sore pressed, you then, can come. And 
 now, good-by, Zeno. friend of my heart; good-by. When we 
 meet again, all will be changed. Free Venice, or a traitor's 
 doom. Farewell! 
 
 Scene. — [Near the Lion of St. Mark. Enter Alfonso, 
 cautiously.] 
 
 Alfonso. — Why did I select, this quiet place? The lion of 
 St, Mark, sits crouched, and ready for a spring. 1 shiver 
 M^ith unknown dread, and feel his fangs, already at my throat. 
 Well, may we fear thy vengeance, for like his lordly prey, 
 torn and rent in pieces, and thirsting for more gore, he 
 waits in grim repose, his wealth of evening prey. Fear of thee, 
 chills my very blood, and freezes the marrow in my quaking 
 bones. Would that Zelia were here. This cursed lion 
 makes me thoughtful, and fills me, with evil presentiments, 
 for the future, and something whispers softly, to my soul : 
 this will be your last night, on earth— for good, or ill. Shake 
 off, my soul, this lethargetic sleep; let not this cursed lion, 
 throw his evil eyes upon me. Hark! I heard a step, lighter 
 than the rose leaf's fall. It is [Enters.] my Zelia, by all that's 
 good. Welcome!; fair one, to this lonely spot. The sunshine 
 of your presence, floods my despondent heart, with cheerful 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 05 
 
 life; thaws the frozen ice, with whicli thi.s dreaded Lion of St. 
 Mark, has bound my spirits with. 
 
 Z^//a.— Alfonso, press nie nearer to thy lieart, and tell to 
 me, the love, that finds an echo, in my own. Tell me again. 
 of the vows you made. I am ready now, to wed thee, though 
 my father's curse be on my head. 
 
 Alfonso. — Your love is worthy, of a better fate. Come, 
 then, as you so will it — I am ready. 
 
 Guide. — Unhand my child, base villain, or I'll pin you to 
 the earth. I have had enough of this. Draw, and defend 
 yourself. 
 
 Alfonso. — I am ready. [They fence. Zelia passes between.] 
 
 Zelia. — Hold, madmen, hold! Stop, this foul murder. I'll 
 shriek, and rouse, all Venice, with my cry. Father!! spare 
 my lovei. Alfonso! spare my father. 
 
 Guido. — Stand aside — I'll make short work, of this scoun- 
 tlrel !— villain! murderer! 
 
 Zelia. — Hold, father. Although I love thee, with a daugh- 
 ter's fond 'ove, if thou harmest, one hair of Alfonso's head, I 
 swear to you, the Lion of St. Mark, shall tell thy secret, to 
 the Council, and thy head will fall. 
 
 Guido. — You are jesting — 'tis an idle threat, my child. 
 Come, villain, defend yourself. 
 
 Zelia. — Stay your hands; let not blood be spilt. I have 
 sworn, and will keep my oath. This paper tells them all. 
 Now stop. I command you, in the name of peace, and jus- 
 tice, forbear. 
 
 [Thev fight on. Zelia staggers to the Lion, and slips the 
 paper in his mouth. A bell clangs — both stagger back 
 aghast.] 
 
 Guido. — And thy hand, my daughter, has done this thing. 
 The little hand, so often nestled in mine, from childhood to 
 this hour, is stained with thy father's blood, and for a per- 
 jured villain, who wins thee to destroy. He is married 
 alread}-. 
 
 Alfonso. — Your father, speaks the truth, i have no more 
 love for thee, than for others, as fair, and would have 
 dishonored, thy fail- name ere this, did not this hell- 
 hound, Guido, thwart my every chance. I am revenged, 
 shades of the furies. I thank thee, for this meeting; and 
 now fair Zelia, your father's head will fall, and by your 
 hands. Revenge, is sweet to me. I'll see his trunkless head, 
 a foot-ball for the rabble. 
 
 Zelia. — Oh, righteous heavens, strike me with your ven- 
 geance. Thunderbolts of Jove — oh! slay me where I stand, 
 and let me sink, beneath the Adriatic sea; and let oblivion, 
 cover me, with all its silent blackness. Why was I born? 
 Oh! that I could crush thee with a look, and send thee to 
 hell, where you belong. Why did you^scape, from its 
 sulphurous flames, to curse this earth, withThy foul presence? 
 
66 THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 Had I but ;i dago^er, I would sink it into tliis heart, and die, 
 
 Gnido. — The blow has killed me. Welcome, death, in any 
 shape. I am ready for the execution. Welcome, death, a 
 thousand times welcome. Farewell, to this high ambition, 
 that would have made Venice free, and grand. Farewell! 
 mv comrades, who stood by my side, with armor buckled on, 
 readv, to die for me. All hope is lost. 
 
 Zelia. — Can you forgive me, my father, for this deed? 
 
 Guido. — I have nothing to forgive, my daughter. You have 
 been deceived, and loved this villain more than myself. The 
 cruel blow is struck. Nothing, now, can save me from this 
 fate. Before to-morrow dawns^ my head will fall, and with it, 
 Guido's hopes. 
 
 [Enter Ducal guards, and bear him off.] 
 
 Zelia. — Here I stand, rooted to this spot by horror, at the 
 deeds these hands have done. Arise, rny father's spirit, and set 
 my blood on fire. Be ready for brave deeds — I'll rouse all 
 Venice. He shall be saved, though Venice be in flames. 
 Out of m)- pathway, reptile. Venice to the rescue! 
 
 Alfonso. — You stir not one foot, till all is done. 
 
 Zelia. — Help! oh, help!! Save me from this villain. [Portio 
 slips up and stabs Alfonso. Falls.] 
 
 Portio. — Revenge at last! I waited long. 
 
 Alfonso. — Curse you, Portio! oh, cur — ! [Dies.] 
 
 Z^/zVz---. Portio, for the love of God, find Zeno, and tell 
 him of this arrest; we have no time to lose, the hour is at 
 hand. Haste thee to the cathedral, they will stop the bell. 
 Let it ring out upon the midnight air. Fly for your life, I'll 
 mingle with the men. Oh ! happy thought, he shall be 
 saved. 
 
 [Scene in council chamber; all seated in their places, the 
 headsman with his ax and block; all in robes of black and 
 masked.] 
 
 Z>?/^^--- Stand forth, illustrious prisoner. What hast thou 
 to say.'' Give us all the truth, will save thee from the rack. 
 Speak. [Scribes all write.] 
 
 Guido. ---Your Highness, nothing, but the truth, will pass 
 these lips. I have little now to live for, and welcome death, 
 as some good friend, who stops an aching heart. I am the 
 leader, upon me let your vengeance fall. Spare my humble 
 followers, who, with blind faith, did follow me. Our pur- 
 pose was a good one; for long years, proud Venice, Adriat- 
 ics queen, has groveled in the dust of poverty, under this 
 Doge's rule; you have been misled- -deceived. 
 
 Doge-- Off with his head. Axman, do your duty. 
 
 Z>//^^.--- Softly, good Doge, I am ruler here; let the pris- 
 oner speak. 
 
 6^?«^^.---In on#of the Doge's vaults, beneath his palace, 
 well secured bv bolt and bar, in brass-bound chests, you'll 
 
THE CONSPIRATOR. 6/ 
 
 find gold enough, to ransom all the kings of earth. If I 
 speak not the truth, let me but meet Sapphira's fate. 
 
 Doge. ---I am not well, Your Highness, and will ask your 
 Grace's permission to vvithdraw. 
 
 Duke— No one leaves the room, until this thing be sifted 
 well. Let the prisoner speak. 
 
 Guido.---! thought to displace him, and with your Grace's 
 permission, to take the place myself. I know the people's 
 wants; they love Your Highness, but detest and hate, this 
 cruel, iron-handed Doge. We intended no harm to Your 
 Highness; not a drop of blood to spill. As a conspirator, I 
 am condemned, and calmly wait my death. See, I will undo 
 my collar- -bare my neck; be ready for the blow. 
 
 Di/ke--'H.ovvors of hell!---that birthmark. What strange, 
 unruly fate, hath drifted Guido to my shore.? Whence came 
 you prisoner.? Speak. 
 
 Guido.— From the mountain side, where storms, and light- 
 ning-, smote the summer sky; the very air, was filled with 
 freedom, and this heart, untrammeled breathed the sweet name 
 of liberty; my brother, and myself were happy then. One 
 day a boyish quarrel— a struggle--! fell too near the brink, 
 and all was darkness then. After months of careful nursing- 
 I was strong again. My brother fled; I've sought him long, 
 in vain. 
 
 Duke.— hook in my face. I am thy brother. Oh! joyous 
 (lay, that we should meet again---embrace me. I roamed 
 the earth, with a murderer's guilty soul. The scorpion lash of 
 conscience, smote me night and thiy, and now to meet, and 
 thou condemned, before the law. Is there no help? 
 
 Guido. — I ask none; I am prepared to meet my death; 
 you may kill the life, the soul of man is free. 'Tis cruel fate, 
 to think my brother's hand, and daughter's too, have robbed 
 me of my life. 
 
 Duke. — What say you, noble council, shall the prisoner die? 
 
 Council. — Let the law be done; we want no conspirators in 
 Venice, to hatch foul treason, while we sleep. 
 
 Duke. — I wash my hands, of my only brother's blood, as 
 God is my judge. 
 
 Council. — Let the prisoner prepare for instant death. [Mes- 
 senger comes in.] There are some pious Monks without, who 
 wish to prepare, the prisoner's soul for death. 
 
 Duke.--- K^\w\i them, we cannot refuse so just a boon. 
 [Monks all file in, and circle around the prisoner. The organ 
 plays.] 
 
 Council.- --"Qc quick, good Monks, your time is short; save 
 his soul---a traitor's soul. He needs your prayers. [Shouts 
 without. ] 
 
 Fage.---yA\\ rush in.] The palace is stormed by thousands, 
 who clamber over the walls, like bees. They have forced the 
 guards. they beat them back. All Venice is at our doors. 
 
68 ' THE CONSPIRATOR. 
 
 [Monks all throw off, their cowls and cloaks, draw their 
 swords, and raise them on high.] 
 
 Zelia. — Saved my father! saved---. [Rushes into his arms. 
 They Embrace. More servants rush in,] They fill the pal- 
 ace; Every soldier is a prisoner; we are at the mercy of this 
 mob. They cry for Guido everywhere. They come this 
 way; their torches flare in every room. 
 
 Council. ---Oh, Jesus! save us from this mob. Guido alone 
 can save. All kneel down to him. 
 
 Duke.---My brother, show yourself, and then they will be 
 content. Make the Doge a prisoner. Oh! happy day for 
 both. You shall be Doge, indeed. A royal one you'll be. 
 [The people cry for Guido behind the scenes. He goes out. 
 Renewed cheering, then comes back.] 
 
 Kind f'-iends, remember well, in free Republics the peo- 
 ple's will should be the nation's law. They should closely 
 guard, their rights as freemen. Let not party prejudice, or 
 sectional hate, cause thee to lose God's gift, to man. Oh! fires 
 of liberty, burn brightly, as of yore. Peace and plenty will 
 be thine. 
 
 [Tableaux. The end.] 
 
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