Bert. For him she loves? 
She named not me; that may be Torrismond,
Whom she has thrice in private seen this day;
Then I am fairly caught in my own snare. 
I’ll think again. [Aside.]—­Madam, it shall be done;
And mine be all the blame. [Exit.

Leo. O, that it were!  I would not do this crime,
And yet, like heaven, permit it to be done. 
The priesthood grossly cheat us with free-will: 
Will to do what—­but what heaven first decreed? 
Our actions then are neither good nor ill,
Since from eternal causes they proceed;
Our passions,—­fear and anger, love and hate,—­
Mere senseless engines that are moved by fate;
Like ships on stormy seas, without a guide,
Tost by the winds, and driven by the tide.

  Enter TORRISMOND.

Tor. Am I not rudely bold, and press too often Into your presence, madam?  If I am—­

Leo. No more, lest I should chide you for your stay:  Where have you been? and how could you suppose, That I could live these two long hours without you?

Tor. O words, to charm an angel from his orb! 
Welcome, as kindly showers to long-parched earth! 
But I have been in such a dismal place,
Where joy ne’er enters, which the sun ne’er cheers,
Bound in with darkness, overspread with damps;
Where I have seen (if I could say I saw)
The good old king, majestic in his bonds,
And, ’midst his griefs, most venerably great: 
By a dim winking lamp, which feebly broke
The gloomy vapours, he lay stretched along
Upon the unwholesome earth, his eyes fixed upward;
And ever and anon a silent tear
Stole down, and trickled from his hoary beard.

Leo. O heaven, what have I done!—­my gentle love, Here end thy sad discourse, and, for my sake, Cast off these fearful melancholy thoughts.

Tor. My heart is withered at that piteous sight,
As early blossoms are with eastern blasts: 
He sent for me, and, while I raised his head,
He threw his aged arms about my neck;
And, seeing that I wept, he pressed me close: 
So, leaning cheek to cheek, and eyes to eyes,
We mingled tears in a dumb scene of sorrow.

Leo. Forbear; you know not how you wound my soul.

Tor. Can you have grief, and not have pity too? 
He told me,—­when my father did return,
He had a wond’rous secret to disclose: 
He kissed me, blessed me, nay—­he called me son;
He praised my courage; prayed for my success: 
He was so true a father of his country,
To thank me, for defending even his foes,
Because they were his subjects.

Leo. If they be,—­then what am I?

Tor. The sovereign of my soul, my earthly heaven.

Leo. And not your queen?

Tor. You are so beautiful,
So wond’rous fair, you justify rebellion;
As if that faultless face could make no sin,
But heaven, with looking on it, must forgive.