(A Battle may be supposed to take place; after which)

ACT IV.

Scene I.—­A wooded pass near the field of battle: 

drums, trumpets, firing, etc.  Cries of ’God save Basilio!  Segismund,’ etc.

     (Enter Fife, running.)

     Fife. 
     God save them both, and save them all! say I!—­
     Oh—­what hot work!—­Whichever way one turns
     The whistling bullet at one’s ears—­I’ve drifted
     Far from my mad young—­master—­whom I saw
     Tossing upon the very crest of battle,
     Beside the Prince—­God save her first of all! 
     With all my heart I say and pray—­and so
     Commend her to His keeping—­bang!—­bang!—­bang! 
     And for myself—­scarce worth His thinking of—­
     I’ll see what I can do to save myself
     Behind this rock, until the storm blows over.

     (Skirmishes, shouts, firing, etc.  After some time enter King
          Basilio,
     Astolfo, and Clotaldo)

     King. 
     The day is lost!

     Ast.
     Do not despair—­the rebels—­

     King. 
     Alas! the vanquish’d only are the rebels.

     Clotaldo. 
     Ev’n if this battle lost us, ’tis but one
     Gain’d on their side, if you not lost in it;
     Another moment and too late:  at once
     Take horse, and to the capital, my liege,
     Where in some safe and holy sanctuary
     Save Poland in your person.

     Ast.
     Be persuaded: 
     You know your son:  have tasted of his temper;
     At his first onset threatening unprovoked
     The crime predicted for his last and worst. 
     How whetted now with such a taste of blood,
     And thus far conquest!

     King. 
     Ay, and how he fought! 
     Oh how he fought, Astolfo; ranks of men
     Falling as swathes of grass before the mower;
     I could but pause to gaze at him, although,
     Like the pale horseman of the Apocalypse,
     Each moment brought him nearer—­Yet I say,
     I could but pause and gaze on him, and pray
     Poland had such a warrior for her king.

     Ast.
     The cry of triumph on the other side
     Gains ground upon us here—­there’s but a moment
     For you, my liege, to do, for me to speak,
     Who back must to the field, and what man may
     Do, to retrieve the fortune of the day. 
     (Firing.)

     Fife (falling forward, shot). 
     Oh, Lord, have mercy on me.

     King. 
     What a shriek—­
     Oh, some poor creature wounded in a cause
     Perhaps not worth the loss of one poor life!—­
     So young too—­and no soldier—­