Act V
Scene I.—The Inside of the Temple of the Sun—at the Back, the Image of the Sun upon an Altar raised some Steps above the Ground. The High-Priest, Xaira, and several other Priests, the latter of whom are employed in the Back Ground in burning Incense, and preparing the Sacrifices. The High-Priest advances to the Front of the Stage with Xaira.
High-Priest.
Yet one word more, Xaira, ere, by pronouncing a hasty sentence, we profane the sacred name we bear. Are we not ministers of the divine favour?
Xaira. And of the divine vengeance.
High-Priest. Vengeance!—Can we suppose that the merciful God seeks vengeance on his creatures?—No, if this principle has been encouraged to awe the vulgar, we who are initiated into the mysteries of a purer doctrine, may speak to each other without reserve.
Xaira. For what purpose?—and why at this moment?
High-Priest. Because an error committed at this moment, may draw after it an eternity of misery to us both.
Xaira. My conduct is the result of my conviction.
High-Priest. Then surely that cannot be just. God created man weak and liable to err, a truth on which your conviction should be founded. This earth is imperfect, so is every thing that lives and moves in it, and will not that God who suffers the tyger to mangle the harmless lamb, look down with forbearance on frail man when he listens to the voice of nature.
Xaira. But we men slay the tyger, and we do right,—we punish the faults of man, and we do right.
High-Priest. Yes, if by his weakness he produce disorder in the state.
Xaira. And is not that the case in the affair before us?
High-Priest. No!
Xaira. No?
High-Priest. Your own designs have been solely to avenge the gods.
Xaira. And would you then sanction the licentious conduct that must inevitably ensue, should indulgence be shewn in the present instance?
High-Priest. At the source of a clear stream, we do not think of the mud by which it may be contaminated in its course. I entreat you, let us be true to our vocation, let us resemble the god whom we serve, whose rays diffuse light and heat over all! let us acquit Cora!—It will then lie in the king’s bosom to act as he shall judge right, either by confirming, or reversing, our sentence; and should it be reversed, we shall, at least, have done our duty, in shewing a disposition to clemency, while the hapless victim will breathe her last sighs in gratitude for our intended mercy.
Xaira. What would you require of me?—You speak as if the decision of this point rested upon me alone. Are not you High-Priest?—do not the duties of your office demand that you lay the case before the whole assembly of the Priests, in which I have but a single voice.
High-Priest. You know well, that in representing this affair to the assembly, I am forbidden by our laws to employ any persuasions of eloquence,—what I am to say, must be expressed in the fewest and the simplest words, and I am therefore precluded from the power of influencing the auditors. You, it is true, have only one voice, but you are the oldest of the order, next to me, and successor to the high-priesthood at my death. To you therefore all the young Priests look up, and will incline which way soever they shall see you inclined.
Xaira. This case may be rightly stated as to what concerns yourself, but it is otherwise with the Inca who has always power to grant a pardon.
High-Priest. But when has this power been exercised?—Has not every Inca, from father to son, for centuries past, uniformly confirmed the sentence of the Priests?—will Ataliba, think you, venture to deviate from the practice of his ancestors?
Xaira. No more!—It is equally inconsistent with your duty to endeavour to extort from me the sentence I shall pronounce, as with mine to listen to such entreaties. (Turns away from him)
High-Priest. Well then, their blood be upon thee!
Xaira. (Coldly.) Yes, their blood be upon me!
High-Priest. Hither ye Priests! (The Priests assemble round him) I already read in their gloomy countenances the sentence I am to expect! (Aside.—After a few moments pause, in which he endeavours to assume resolution, he proceeds) You know the criminals and the crime—we wait your decision.
Xaira. What say the laws? (The High-Priest remains silent) I ask you what say the laws?
High-Priest. (After a conflict with himself, in suffocated voice) Death.
Xaira. (Solemnly and audibly) The laws pronounce sentence of death upon Cora and Alonzo.
All. Death!
High-Priest. (After a pause, and in a tone of resolution) I cannot give my sanction to this sentence, my opinion inclines to mercy; I feel that I am myself a mortal liable to error. Search your bosoms, my brethren, prove well your hearts, and if they in a low and gentle voice whisper mercy,—then join with me and cry aloud mercy!—mercy!
Xaira. What say the laws?—Death to Cora and Alonzo.
All. Death!
High-Priest. Then it must be as you decide.—Oh thou unknown God, look down upon us, observe that none of this blood stains my hands!—Bring hither the unfortunate victims of your blind zeal. (Exeunt two Priests on different sides) The rest of you lay the sword and a fresh branch of palm upon the altar. (They do as he directs) Now, Xaira, follow me to the king. (Exit, accompanied by Xaira)
SCENE II.—Cora and Alonzo are brought in on different sides. During this and the following scene, the Priests walk backwards and forwards, and are busied about the altar. Alonzo appears a few minutes sooner than Cora.
Alonzo. I am struck with awe!—This temple, it is true, is only dedicated to the worship of an idol, but God is every where; even in this place, where he is adored under the image of one of his own works. This temple I have profaned!—I am brought hither as the murderer of an artless woman—as the murderer of a venerable old man who never wronged me—as the murderer of a gallant youth, one of the destined supports of his country—as one who has disturbed the peace of a liberal nation, among whom he has been received with unbounded hospitality!—Oh earth! earth! open wide, and swallow at once this monster with all his crimes!—may no grass ever grow upon his grave!—may it never be moistened with the dew of Heaven!—may no wanderer ever repose his wearied limbs upon the sods, and may they never be trodden by the innocent feet of children, in their harmless sports! (Cora enters.) Ah, Cora! how blest did the sight of you once make me!—how miserable does it make me now!
Cora. Alonzo, this cannot be uttered from your heart!—Have you not often declared, that if you could not live with Cora, you would die with her; and Cora has always thought the same in respect to her Alonzo. Yes, we will die together, that we may live together hereafter!
Alonzo. Oh that hereafter!—It is the haven of rest to the virtuous, but for me, an evil conscience accompanies me to the grave.
Cora. Do not think so!—we have neither of us done wrong!—we loved each other—we could not avoid loving; was it in the power of either to repress our mutual feelings? Can either of us then be criminal?—Chance, or perhaps our God himself, first brought us together—all is of his appointment, and I am resigned to my fate. Even man is kind to us, since he facilitates our union. As a Virgin of the Sun I could not have become your wife, but in death we shall be united. Resume your fortitude then, oh Alonzo!—How often have I sprung with you over the rugged stones at the breach?—Death is no more than a spring over a few rugged stones; and these once passed, we shall find love and freedom waiting to receive us on the other side.
Alonzo. Amiable creature!—thy guiltless soul can look with composure both towards the past and future.—But for me!——
Cora. How, if I can prove that you may more justly look with composure towards futurity, than Cora?—Your mother is far hence, and should she hear of you no more, will believe that your days were ended by shipwreck, sickness, or some common disaster, and this idea will console her for your loss; while her maternal fancy will see in her son nothing but what was fair and good, will frequently recur with transport to the noble actions he has already performed, and form to itself a thousand charming images of what he would have achieved had his life been longer spared. But I!—I have a father, at present, indeed, in a remote province; but who will soon learn for what offence, and in what manner, his daughter died. It is that thought alone which makes death dreadful to me!—He is so good, so venerable, and loves me so tenderly!—Were he to witness this scene, it would break his heart.
Alonzo. (Aside) Oh Heaven! then she knows not——
Cora. Within the last hour I fell upon my knees and prayed most fervently, that some calm and easy death might snatch my father from the world, before his daughter’s fate could reach his ears. Suddenly a sweet serenity was diffused over my soul, as if the mild rays of a new sun had fallen upon me; and I hoped this was an assurance that my prayer was heard. My remaining wish is, that what I must suffer may be over quickly, lest solemn and protracted preparations should excite my rebel senses to mutiny, and shake my fortitude.
Alonzo. Oh it is the thought of what you have already endured, and must still endure, which alone oppresses my soul.
Cora. Let not my sufferings oppress you; believe me, I am resigned.