_Ros._ And if he should, what then? Why, if he would, He could not harm me—Nay, and if he could, Methinks I’d venture something of a life I care so little for—
_Seg._ Who’s that? Clotaldo? Who are you, I say, That, venturing in these forbidden rocks, Have lighted on my miserable life, And your own death?
_Seg._ Not I; but those that, iron as the chain In which they slay me with a lingering death, Will slay you with a sudden—Who are you?
_Ros._ A stranger from across the mountain there, Who, having lost his way in this strange land And coming night, drew hither to what seem’d A human dwelling hidden in these rocks, And where the voice of human sorrow soon Told him it was so.
_Seg._ Ay? But nearer—nearer— That by this smoky supplement of day But for a moment I may see who speaks So pitifully sweet.
_Ros._ Alas, poor man, that I, myself so helpless, Could better help you than by barren pity, And my poor presence—
_Seg._ Oh, might that be all! But that—a few poor moments—and, alas! The very bliss of having, and the dread Of losing, under such a penalty As every moment’s having runs more near, Stifles the very utterance and resource They cry for quickest; till from sheer despair Of holding thee, methinks myself would tear To pieces—
_Seg._ Oh, think, if you who move about at will, And live in sweet communion with your kind, After an hour lost in these lonely rocks Hunger and thirst after some human voice To drink, and human face to feed upon; What must one do where all is mute, or harsh, And ev’n the naked face of cruelty Were better than the mask it works beneath?— Across the mountain then! Across the mountain! What if the next world which they tell one of Be only next across the mountain then, Though I must never see it till I die, And you one of its angels?
_Ros._ Alas! alas! No angel! And the face you think so fair, ’Tis but the dismal frame-work of these rocks That makes it seem so; and the world I come from— Alas, alas, too many faces there Are but fair vizors to black hearts below, Or only serve to bring the wearer woe! But to yourself—If haply the redress That I am here upon may help to yours. I heard you tax the heavens with ordering, And men for executing, what, alas! I now behold. But why, and who they are Who do, and you who suffer—