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THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 [Aii Rights Reserved.'] 
 
THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL FIELD, 
 
 Author of " Callirrhoe and Fair Rosamund." 
 
 Hontion : 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, 
 York Street, Covent Garden. 
 
 eiifton : 
 J. BAKER & SON. 
 
Second Edition. 
 
 CALLIRRHOE: 
 
 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 By MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
 iLontion : 
 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, 
 
 York Street, Covent Garden. 
 
 GTItfton : 
 J. BAKER & SON. 
 
 -Mc apiNi0Ng '^ 0F ^ jppE -f PREgg -^ 
 
 ON THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 From the ' ' SA TURD A V RE VIE W." 
 
 "It is many years since we have read a new poem so instinct with the 
 immutable attributes of poetry, so free from current cant and trick, and 
 animated by an inspiration so warm and native and unfailing. The 
 drama, though classic in subject, is modem in form, and almost de- 
 nuded of lyrical ornament. There is no chorus and there are no 
 experiments in Greek metres. Still more characteristic is the interpola- 
 tion of certain humorous scenes conceived in the wanton spirit of the 
 Elizabethan drama ; and, underlying all, runs an eccentric vein of fate- 
 ful irony, which affords the most individual expression of the author's 
 genius. . . . This bald outline of the action of course only indicates 
 the leading motif of the drama, the virtue and power of love's sacrifice ; 
 it must be left to the reader to enjoy the skill with which the dramatic 
 conduct is evolved, the beauty of the conception of the drama, the 
 strength and purity of the language, and the brilliant distinction and 
 consistent development of the chief characters. In 'Fair Rosamund' 
 are several scenes worthy of comparison with the most striking in 
 ' Callirrhoe,' though the drama is less comprehensive in projection ; not 
 less certainly than the latter does it prove Mr. Field to be a poet of 
 notable endowments and distinguished powers." 
 
 » A 
 
 O 
 
 5202-12 
 
II 
 
 From the "SPECTATOR." 
 
 "These poems are poems of great promise ; ... we have found 
 a wealth of surprises in the strength, the simpUcity, and the terseness of 
 the imaginative feeling they display, that convinces us of his power to 
 do much more than he has here done, — though even that is no trivial 
 beginning. ... If that has not the true poetic fire in it, — dramatic 
 fire, too, as well as poetic — the present writer must be destitute of all 
 discernment. To him it sounds like the ring of a new voice, which is 
 hkely to be heard far and wide among the English-speaking peoples," 
 
 From the "ATHEN^UM." 
 
 "The writer undoubtedly possesses the two quahties absolutely es- 
 sential to all dramatic writing — those of being able to create and to 
 make the creations express themselves with the terse and vivid expression 
 which, by a happy epithet, at times lays bare an entire condition of 
 mind. . . . Very striking, despite a false note or two, and showing 
 something almost of a Shakespearian penetration into a half-human 
 nature, is the scene between Machaon and the Faun." 
 
 Fro7n the "ACADEMY." 
 
 " Mr. Field is very clear as to his message. He sings the glories of 
 enthusiasm, and preaches the gospel of ecstasy to an old chiller-minded 
 world. It is not often, in modern English verse, that we light upon a 
 book so genuinely romantic. The scorn of bourgeois common-place, the 
 naif yoMTig hatred of 'the lame creature, custom,' the urgent battle 
 waged against routine in these plays, with their fresh poetic ring, belong 
 to another age than ours. . . .It will be seen that here is a young 
 writer, with plenty of convictions and plenty of courage. In addition, 
 we may credit him with a fresh gift of song, a picturesque and vivid 
 style, as yet without distinction or reserve." 
 
 Frotn "The TIMES." 
 
 ' Will Mr. Field become a poet in the sense in which the title is 
 rarely granted? Perhaps — ' // fic faut plus qieun pas; mais c'est Id oii 
 je i' attends.' " 
 
HI 
 
 From the " DAILY NE WS. " 
 
 " The Author is to be congratulated on the promise, and even to a 
 great extent on the performance, of ' Callirrhoe.' One cannot read the 
 book without saying, ' This is poetry in places, and every^vhere is far 
 above the level of the verse maker." ... It will be very interesting 
 to watch the future literary fortunes of ' Michael Field.' " 
 
 From the "PALL MALL GAZETTE." 
 
 "Mr. Field's first and lohgest play . . . is by no means the 
 best, though it has merits. The second, ' Fair Rosamund,' has real 
 power. The scenes in which Eleanor encourages the dissension and 
 disobedience of her sons, are more like the work of the minor Eliza- 
 bethans than the similar work of any recent writer, except the late Mr. 
 Home. ... A man who can write as follows ought to do some- 
 thing : — 
 
 Now I can see their scrimped kirtles green, 
 And swinging beads of dew about their necks, 
 They've not the pretty caps of midsummer, 
 Poor midges — only cowslip bells, o'er- young, 
 That fall at every jerk ; and dirty cups 
 From acorns of last year. 
 I'll make my tiny peaked bonnets red, 
 And see if they will pick 'em from the twigs. 
 
 We do not think Drayton would have refused to sign this. Indeed, the 
 whole piece is very interesting, especially if compared with Mr. Swin- 
 burne's too little known juvenile work on the same theme. Mr. Field 
 has a less original and masterly command of verse than Mr. Swinburne 
 then showed, and much less splendour and variety of diction ; but his 
 work is, perhaps, more directly human, and therefore more dramatic in 
 interest, and his touches of nature are more spontaneous, and less 
 weakened by dwelling on them." 
 
 From the "SCOTSMAN:' 
 
 " A WORK not only of remarkable promise, but of notable performance 
 as well. ... In ' Fair Rosamund ' Mr. Field has chosen a theme that 
 has become hackneyed in dramatic poetry. Yet the airy freshness and 
 
IV 
 
 bloom, which are the great charms of his classic play, are as noticeable 
 here ; and it also exhibits not less his strength in character drawing and 
 his facile management of blank verse metre. In both poems there is 
 that ethereal quality that distinguishes what is poetry from what is not ; 
 and they will raise keen expectation regarding what else their author 
 may have to offer to the world." 
 
 From the "YORKSHIRE POST." 
 
 ' ' ' Callirrhoe and Fair Rosamund ' , . , are powerful, unique, 
 and such as an author may be heartily congratulated upon, but they 
 give us the impression of buds rather than full blooms. The man who 
 wrote these two poems vdll yet write more fully and adequately for the 
 complete rounding of a theme — at least we hope so ; or his own work's 
 good promise will be broken. With more freedom, more fulness, with 
 better form, . . . the author, we are sure, could adequately portray 
 tragedy either for the stage or the study." 
 
 From the "LIVERPOOL MERCURY r 
 
 "Birth-marks of the tragedist — so conspicuously absent from even 
 such masterly works as the Laureate's 'Harold' and 'Queen Mary,' 
 are unmistakably visible in these two short and in many ways imperfect 
 poems. ... A great altitude of passion is scaled in this scene. . . . 
 The Queen is conceived in somewhat Marlowesque fashion. She is 
 not of humanity, but of the Eumenides. ... A really imaginative 
 creator . . . will often make his dialogue proceed by abrupt starts, 
 which seem at first like breaches of continuity, but are in reality true to 
 a higher though more occult logic of evolution. This last characteristic 
 we have remarked in Mr. Field, and it is one he shares with Shakespeare." 
 
 From "HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
 "Mr, Field has a voice of his own, whatever his sins of literary 
 omission or commission, ... a style which certainly possesses the 
 rare merit of striking one as original and poetic." 
 
 And numerous letigthy and favourable reviews in other Journals. 
 
THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 " Poscia, piu che il dolor, pot^ il digiuno." 
 
 Dante. Dell' Inferno, Canto xxxiii. 75. 
 
 " . . . . who die really of hunger, in 
 common language, ' of a broken heart.' " 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 When a child, the author read the history of Robert III. in 
 Sir Walter Scott's Tales of a Gra?idfather. Even in those 
 early days he felt an intimation that he was consecrated and 
 condemned to hold up the mirror of ideal presentation to 
 the actual pity and terror of that history. The time came 
 for the fulfilment of his task, and he spared no trouble to 
 gain from chronicler and historian the veritable facts he 
 would reflect in his tragedy. 
 
 Wyntoun (from whose rhymed vernacular chronicle the 
 character of Rothsay is drawn), William Bower, the con- 
 tinuator of Fordun's Scotichronicoji (on whose narrative the 
 drama is mainly founded), Boece (who supplies an incident 
 of Act IV.), Lord Hailes (who first printed the Remission 
 given to the Duke of Albany and the Earl of Douglas), 
 Tytler, Pinkerton, Burton, all lend authority to his work. 
 Those who have studied the obscure reign of Robert III. 
 will observe, without anger, certain deviations from authority, 
 where the freedom of imagination claimed its rights. Sir 
 Walter Scott himself, in his romance, The Fair Maid of 
 Perth, has treated many of the incidents of this reign with 
 a boldness that well-nigh obliterates historic outline. 
 
 If it be thought that the author is stern in showing Misery 
 
 3 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 her own feature, Weakness her own image, and Hunger his 
 form and pressure in the glass of this drama, his best de- 
 fence is the self-suggested epitaph of the man who is its 
 protagonist : — 
 
 " Hie jacet Pessimus Rex et Miserrimus 
 Hominum in Universe Regno." 
 
 November 2&,th^ \ZZ^. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 They who would lift the heavy tragic pall 
 Upon the groaning shoulders of their Muse 
 Have ever warned the light and easy-soul'd, 
 Who shun the joyless truth in human things, 
 To fly her pitiful, dread company, 
 And seek some sister with leaf-knotted lyre, 
 And garments gaily dancing in the wind. 
 So be they warned ; for on the sheer descent 
 And downward of this father's destiny 
 Is scarce a ledge for Hope the chmber's foot 
 To cling to, trembling at the chasm hoar. 
 Who, peering, pass that brink are travellers 
 To a mid-gulf of misery from whence 
 There is no looking back : when parents err 
 Nothing avails ; there is no comforter. 
 
Scotch 7iobleinen, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 
 
 Robert III. (John), King of Scotland. 
 
 David, Duke of Rothsay, ) . r^- 
 
 James, Earl of Carrick, 1 ''^'' ^' ^'"^ ^'^'''^- 
 
 Robert, Duke of Albany, brother to King Robert. 
 
 Archibald, Earl of Douglas, 
 
 George Dunbar, Earl of March, 
 
 The Earl of Orkney, 
 
 The Earl of Buchan, 
 
 Sir William Lindsey, 
 
 Sir John Ramorgny, 
 
 Walter, \ 
 
 Randolph, > Boon companio7ts to the Duke of Rothsay. 
 
 Ralph, ; 
 
 A1.1.PLN, faithful servant to King Robert. 
 
 A Prior. 
 
 An old Lunatic. 
 
 Marjorie, daughter to the Earl of Douglas. 
 
 Elizabeth, daughter to the Earl of March. 
 
 Emmeline, ati annourer's wife. 
 
 A Country Woman. 
 
 Hostess of a Tavern. 
 
 Councillors, women, citizens, monks. 
 
 Scene. — Stirling; removed during the action to Falkland 
 Castle and neighbourhood, Edinburgh, and the Castle of 
 Rothsay in Bute. 
 
THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene \.— -Stirling. A Courtyard. Enter King Robert 
 
 and Allan. 
 
 King Robert. A sunny day ! 
 
 Allatt. Rain will be dew to-night. 
 
 King Robert. A prophet with a voice blows no man good ! 
 How sweet the sunshine presses on my brow, 
 Gently rebuking wrinkles ! There's the warmth 
 Of a young hand in 't. Here is company— 
 My brother ! 
 
 \Enter Albany^ Prior^ Councillors. Allan withdraws^ 
 
 Albafiy. Grant us private audience. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. I think I hear your words within your face, 
 It says displeasure plainly. Some new lapse 
 O' the reckless boy ? 
 
 Albany. Would he had ne'er been born 
 
 To pay dishonour as the price of life 
 He drew from regal loins. His folly grows 
 To sinful ripeness. 
 
 1st Councillor. Which we cannot check. 
 
 King Robert. You who are strong and wise ! 
 
 ind Councillor. In vain, my liege, 
 
 Are strength and wisdom ; for the prince whose charge 
 And government you laid upon our love, 
 
 9 
 
lO THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Is hard against our influence, and rears 
 
 Against our slightest check ; mocks at the vow 
 
 That pledged him to our guidance ; in our sight 
 
 Is boldly riotous and full of jest, 
 
 Railing derision, scorn unsuitable. 
 
 No pow'r on earth can bend him to the grace 
 
 Of honest manners and sobriety. 
 
 Prior. No pow'r on earth ! True, true ! But from the 
 heavens 
 Stream counsel and a strength ineffable ; 
 These have been uninvoked. My gracious liege, 
 Your son is left unfostered by the Church, 
 A heathen and a heretic. 
 
 King Robert. Your words 
 
 Astound my conscience, prior ; on my soul, 
 He goes with me to chapel oft and oft. 
 
 Pfior. To mock his God with wandering eyes and lips 
 That whisper Belial's accents, or the sneers 
 Of anti-Christ. His thoughts are deadly, vile 
 With most pernicious modern heresy. 
 
 King Robert. I cannot take his thoughts upon my soul ; 
 His deeds too much afflict it. I must speak 
 At every moment words of reprimand 
 That shake my courage ; I must ever dread 
 Some new occasion for my wearied blame ; 
 Oppose reproof to laughter ; beat my ease 
 To hateful effort ; tear from off mine eyes 
 The hood that Love hath made to darken them 
 From sight of his offence. I cannot take 
 The other burden of his lawless mind. 
 
 Prior. You are unworthy then to bear the name 
 That ties the young man's fate upon your care. 
 You put his education in the hands 
 Of these strong barons and grave councillors, 
 Because you fear'd the weakness of your love 
 Might prove his ruin. Ill you thought ; for fear 
 Prepares not for calamity. These men. 
 
THE FATHER^S TRAGEDY. -II 
 
 Of sober worthy living, gracious rule, 
 
 And rigid will, confess their discipline 
 
 Is brought to scorn, and wherefore ? O my liege. 
 
 You gave away the office and command 
 
 That's natural to your paternity 
 
 Through dread, which brought as its accomplishment 
 
 The very harm you imaged ; for your son 
 
 No longer bows to that revered control 
 
 Which is the father's blest prerogative. 
 
 King Robert. Was I to blame ? His wild, defiant youth 
 Was motherless, and I, bereft of wife, — 
 I could not draw stern prompting from her grave 
 Who loved him with a sacred gentleness 
 That won his wayward years to her sweet rule. 
 Our children are her monument, the sign 
 That once she lived, her epitaph that's writ 
 On the fair living tablets that she wrought. 
 My love's memorial and effigy. 
 
 Prior. Keep pure from stain of schism and of sin 
 These relics — these inscriptions to your love. 
 
 King Robert. I have, I have ! 
 
 Prior. But duty, like the sea, 
 
 Flows not away, but ever back returns. 
 Set to the same attempt. 
 
 King Robert. I would the boy 
 
 Were like his brother ! 
 
 Albany. Pooh, that does not help. 
 
 King Robert. We call our children ours — yet in my son 
 There's something of a stranger, and 'tis hard 
 To play the host ; he is so much unlike 
 All that I ever was. I think you spoke. 
 
 Albany. My duty speaks his folly and offence. 
 Else were I gladly silent. 
 
 King Robert. Albany, 
 
 I knew it ; 'twas your love and vigilance 
 That roused my tardy fears. 
 
 Albany. You have an eye 
 
12 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY 
 
 Too kindly, of too dove-like quality, 
 
 To see where carrion stinks ; less fortunate. 
 
 There's eagle in my ken. 
 
 King Robert. Ah, when you spoke, 
 
 I found I knew my son but in a mist. 
 What's to be done, unless we put his case 
 Into fair hands ? 
 
 Albany. Ha ? 
 
 King Robert. Then you've never thought 
 
 Of marriage ? 
 
 Albany. No. 
 
 King Robert. 'Tis thither that I look 
 
 With confidence for help, and I am bent 
 On seizing all within the realm of Hope. 
 You doubt a last success ? 
 
 Albany. I do. Ah, well ! 
 
 You've found the woman t 
 
 King Robert. No ; I lack advice. 
 
 Albany. Leave me to choose ; I have a keener sight 
 For that in human beings over which 
 Flow action and expression like a stream — 
 The veiled and solid stuff. 
 
 King Robert. Let's go within— 
 
 The sun is hot ! — and talk of this at length. 
 David is so unlike me ! \Noise witJiont. 
 
 Albany. There's his laugh ! 
 
 Oh, every fool has bells within his mouth ! [Exeitnt. 
 
 [Enter Rotksay, Ramorgny, Walter^ Ralph, Ra7idoiph, and 
 others J Huntsmen carrying a stag before t/iem.'\ 
 
 Rothsay. I'm hungry. Let us dine ! 
 
 Bear forward to the cook, mine honest friends. 
 I'll lie upon this golden cloth of light 
 The sun has thrown upon the ground, and wait 
 Your festal summons. [Exeunt Hunts jnen. 
 
 Walter, couch you here. 
 Ramorgny here — for every one a place. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 1 3 
 
 Now is it not delightful to be young— 
 The friend of every element ? Old age 
 Faints under heat, and trembles in the blast, 
 Withers with cold, and aches with rainy air ; 
 But sun and wind and ice and storm to us 
 Are Nature's boon companions. While I think 
 Of other blessings, Walter, do you praise 
 King Youth with opening buds about his crown. 
 Walter \sings\. 
 
 Who hath ever given 
 Cupid's head white hair, 
 Or hath put our roses 
 Under the snow's care ? 
 
 If such fool there be, 
 
 We'll cry him God's mercie ! 
 
 Ralph. Bravo ! 
 
 Rothsay. Good Walt, thy merry voice is dry — 
 
 A stream that suffers drought. Let's have a stoup ; 
 We need not wait for dinner. 
 
 Randolph. Nay, I'll go. \^Exit. 
 
 Ramorgny. Ha, ha ! Now speak your praise. 
 
 Rothsay. Right joyfully, 
 
 For everything is joyful when we're young, 
 Immediately, fully. To old men 
 There's no direct and steadfast joyousness 
 In flow'rs o' spring ; they ever see them fade, 
 Not sharing with them, as we do, the time. 
 The freshness, the astonishment. In vain 
 The tide of vintage strives to loose and float 
 Their moor'd and creaky passions ; emulous, 
 We dip elastic prows in seas far off. 
 Their bond of friendship is grey Memory ; 
 But ours is golden Hope, which gathers up 
 A large companionship among ourselves. 
 And all things in the world, which be it night 
 Or winter have assurance of the day 
 
14 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Or spring to come : this crabbed sires forget, 
 And dispraise Nature with their melancholy. 
 
 \Re-enter Randolph with wine.'] 
 Rajnorgny. Here come the beakers ! 
 Rothsay. Let us drink to Youth ! 
 
 We're mortal in this world when it is gone, 
 Immortal Youth ! 
 
 Walter. I pledge your dark hair and I pledge your light ; 
 Down with the parti-colour'd and the white ! 
 Rothsay, Here's to your hairless chin ! 
 Ramorgny, To yours, and yours ! 
 
 [ They drink. 
 Randolph. We've magpies in yon elm that tops the wall ; 
 One ! 
 
 Walter. That's ill-luck, my stars ! 
 
 One, two, — no, three ! 
 Ralph. A marriage ! that's of merrier import. 
 Ramorgny. Ugh ! there's a fourth ! 
 
 Mercy ! a burial ! 
 
 {Re-enter Albany ?\ 
 
 Rothsay. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Walter. Ho, ho ! 
 
 Albany. What are you doing ? 
 
 Rothsay. Sitting i' the sun. 
 
 Who'll be a dog to lend my uncle eyes ? 
 It seems he hath infirmity of sight. 
 
 Albany. 'Tis that way lies your weakness. You I see 
 Couch'd here amid a litter of low churls. 
 Swilling untimely wine, whose place is set 
 Scarce lower than the throne by Scotland's voice 
 Calling you Regent, and endowing you 
 With pow'r unnatural to thwart the will 
 Of your anointed king and natural sire. 
 A senseless boy, you think to drive the steeds 
 Of sovereignty and never hold a rein ; 
 Nor will you listen to the words of those 
 
THE father's tragedy. 1 5' 
 
 Whom Age hath taught — the folly of stiff youth 
 That will not work its lessons by our lips. 
 
 Rothsay, Now look you here, friends, and I'll tell you 
 this, — 
 Poor Youth was never yet judged by its peers ; 
 Such have no judgment, and its case is left 
 To elders, who once shared its thoughtlessness, 
 But now look on with sharp intolerance. 
 And brand it to the world. 'Tis true enough 
 That summer recks not of the winter^s cold. 
 But winter's store would ne'er be harvested 
 Save for the fiery sunshine of past days. 
 And so with your experience, wise-head ! 
 
 Albafiy. Hum ! 
 
 Float to destruction ! I have done my part, 
 Nor can be pilot to unyielded bark ; 
 Run on the reefs I know and breast the waves 
 That draw you to a whirlpool in my chart ! 
 I've done with you. 
 
 Rothsay. Dismissal to us, lads ! 
 
 You 're strangely still — 
 
 Come, let me hear your lips ; come, make a noise, 
 And raise the cur's-tail droop about your heads ! 
 His tongue will lash no more. Get up ! There's Meg 
 Calls us to venison and smoking cheer. 
 Lass, I must meet these heralds. \Kisses her. 
 
 To the feast ! \Exeufit. 
 
 Albany. And such a bubble of humanity 
 Must keep me from the throne and float between 
 Me and the Regency ! He lives a life 
 Blown out of pleasure's mouth and woven all 
 Of ardent feebleness — the chosen stuff 
 On which the senses paint their fickle will 
 In colours of the rainbow. I've a storm 
 Within could burst this gay impediment 
 Should it but reach him. Time will settle that. 
 Now to the point ! He must be married — so ! 
 
t6 the father's tragedy. 
 
 I'll have his full price in the treasury 
 Before I see him husband. Many lords 
 Would buy his hand for daughters of their house 
 With offers of much gold. Who offers most 
 Shall have the worthless goods. 
 
 {Enter the Earl of March.'] 
 
 Greeting ! You're brief, 
 And conversation is an enemy 
 For sword-cuts of your tongue. I'm not a man 
 Who loves a marshall'd troop of many words, 
 Hence will I strike the very eye of aim. 
 The king — this know I from his private speech — 
 Seeks for his son a bride ; but since his chests 
 Are ebbing in their golden property. 
 He cannot deck a marriage with due pomp 
 And suitable festivity. I pray 
 Your counsel in this matter. 
 
 Eart of March. 'Twould be worth 
 
 Some paltry gold to have a future king 
 For son-in-law. I'd give it. 
 
 Albany. No, you jest. 
 
 Earl of March. I'd give two thousand pounds. 
 
 Albany. Well, well ! 
 
 Earl of March. You mark ? 
 
 Two thousand pounds to heap the treasury. 
 You understand me .'' 
 
 Albany. Yes. We need no words. 
 
 Lady Elizabeth is queen to be, 
 As I am Albany and she your child. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The same. A Room. Enter Douglas. 
 
 Douglas. Shall March be grandsire unto future kings, 
 And Douglas carry no emblazon'd fruit 
 On any of his branches ? Question vain ! 
 For Douglas in his issue shall be crown'd 
 Maternal ancestor of royalties. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 1 7 
 
 Proud March, secure in fancy of his prize, 
 The money for its purchase in his clasp, 
 Shall find himself outwitted by mere gold, 
 When offered by my hand and double-heap'd. 
 The heir of Scotland mated to his house ! 
 Not so ! I'd rather beg my weary bread ; 
 At March's doggish portal show my scars ; 
 Shoot out my lips in kisses to the foot 
 Of his new-honour'd daughter. By Saint Bride, 
 This gold — sun-counterfeiting coin, with stamp 
 Of sovereignty, the even round of Heav'n 
 Is bare of — this shall turn her day to night, 
 And wrap her pride in heavy lethal shroud. 
 \_E?iter Marjorie Douglas.'] 
 This is your dowry. 'Tis a mighty pile ! 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. My father, who hath sought my 
 hand.? 
 
 Douglas. No man. 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. Then, prythee, wed me to no airy 
 boy. 
 That giggles at his mistress and his clothes, 
 His foolish quips, the serious round of things 
 He takes for jests of God to move his sides. 
 Beseech you, spare me that. 
 
 Douglas. Lo and behold 
 
 Your suitor in this gold. 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. I take it, sir. 
 
 I'd rather clasp it than a tricksy hand 
 That's current with all maidens. 
 
 Douglas. You divine 
 
 It is the Prince of Scotland you must wed "i 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. David of Rothsay — sweet and young 
 and fair, 
 Cunning in literature, a seemly form 
 And able head, they say ; but unto me 
 No more than the cold vision of a dream. 
 
 Douglas. To-night he'll be your husband, and your arms 
 
 C 
 
1 8 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Fold as warm guardians round no chilly shade 
 Or distant apparition. 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. On my knees 
 I pray you save me from the keen disgrace 
 Of being called his wife. He never looks 
 With any favour on me, who is free 
 Of loving graces to all lovehness. 
 My father, I should hate to be his bride ; 
 Yea, loathe it to the centre of my soul. 
 
 Douglas. My daughter shall obey me. Never yet 
 Hath woman of my house been obstinate 
 Against a father's life-controlling will. 
 
 Marjorie Douglas. In all things I obey you, for my blood 
 Instructs me in that duty. Yet my veins 
 Are now the scene of struggle 'tween your will 
 And mine that is against it. You are old, 
 A warrior, a parent, and you win. 
 
 Douglas. Go, get you dress'd, for I must seek the king. 
 Put on your best array, nor set your lips 
 To such a bitter aspect. Get you back. 
 
 [^Exit Marjorie Douglas. 
 I'll move the will of Albany ; that done. 
 
 The king is willing and the prince my son. [Exit^ 
 
 \_E7tter 071 the other side Lindsey and Rainorgny!\ 
 
 Ramorgtiy. I note that you are sad. 
 
 Lindsey. How else, i' faith ! 
 
 My daughter, my Euphemia, is dead. 
 The prince once bound him to her gentle love, 
 Forgot it or was turn'd by force of State 
 From truth and honour. Sweetly hath she died, 
 Love's flower that when the fost'ring sun withdraws 
 Dies patiently uncolour'd of its joy. 
 
 Raniorg7iy. Alas, a careless freak to dim her life ! 
 He thought she had forgotten him, nor slipt 
 One gleam to where she pined. I never dreamt 
 She held him bound. 'Twas but a passionate 
 First fancy of his boyhood. 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. I.9 
 
 Lindsey. These are words. 
 
 No injur'd breast is home to loyalty. 
 But I forgot you're of his company. 
 I bid you straight good morning. \_Exit Lindsey. 
 
 Ra7norg?iy. So it is. 
 
 I'll treasure his offence among my store 
 Of hoarded secrets ; like a bunch of keys 
 Such dangle at the belt of policy. 
 I'd move the prince against his uncle, such 
 My present plot, for I am dear to him ; 
 And if his youth could crush down Albany, • 
 
 I should be foremost in the rank of men. 
 What could incite him more or fiercelier 
 Than traffic of his choice in marriage ; this, 
 They say, is sold from March to Douglas, sold 
 By Albany for treasure — so the men 
 Of Douglas whisper, and I'll raise their voice 
 Until it reach the boy's dishonour'd ears. \Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Coimcil-chamber. King Robert^ Alba?iy^ 
 
 and Douglas. 
 
 Albany. My lord of Douglas offers to the state 
 Twice March's sum to have a marriage tied 
 Between his daughter and your son and heir. 
 
 Kifig Robert. How, brother ? when my son is fast 
 betrothed 
 To March's daughter and his holy vows 
 Beyond a shameless purchase ! \_Aside.'\ Oh, I fear 
 That furrow in the black earl's heavy brow 
 Where cuts the plough-share of an iron wrath. 
 
 Douglas. My lord the king . . . 
 
 Ki?ig Robert. Good earl, I am distraught, 
 
 Nor fully know what you would have me do. 
 
 Douglas. Sanction another marriage for your son 
 With one who springs from truer loins than his 
 Who hath forestall'd my offer — from a house 
 
20 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Most tried and loyal, with the purple dye 
 Of regal blood superb within its veins. 
 The faith of March is but a fungus growth, 
 A recent wat'ry issue of his lands. 
 The increase of a day, the slipp'ry spoil 
 Of tardy, smiling favour ; but my truth 
 Is rooted on the centuries and fed 
 With ancient honours and continued grace. 
 
 Albany. My lord of Douglas, I will plead your case. 
 You know, my liege, the prince's hand was bound 
 T6 March's daughter on a promise rich 
 Of treasure to the sore-impoverish'd State. 
 Now comes my lord of Douglas, fired to join 
 With sacred bond his dear paternal love 
 And cherish'd loyalty ; in lavish mood 
 He gives a double treasure to our chests 
 For sake of that which sluggish March obtains 
 With half this eager offer. Shall we starve 
 The gaping treasury and cheat the thin 
 And lacking realm thro' terror of a knot 
 But tied with words t Nay, rather we must stab 
 The empty heart of language — a mere vow, 
 And rend it into nothing. 
 
 King Robert [aside]. O my soul ! 
 He ever reasons conscience out of me 
 With higher goodness than my frailty owns ! — 
 You urged me thus to move the highland clans, 
 Chattan and Kay, upon the Inch of Perth, 
 Before my face, in midst of festal pomp, 
 To fall upon each other like wild beasts, 
 And tear the crimson hfe as trophy out 
 Of eight and fifty corpses. Albany, 
 Through all the years until my dying day, 
 Mine eyes will see the sight they sicken'd from 
 Even to blindness. God hath planted it 
 Before the steadfast mirror of my soul 
 That cannot blink : so there is no relief. 
 
THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 You said it was for safety of my land. 
 
 Albany. Ay, so I said, and so it proved, my liege. 
 Your lowlands lie in rip'ning repose, 
 And harvesters, with sickles round the neck, 
 From brown lips bless my counsel. 
 
 Khig Robert. Christian deeds 
 
 Are said to lay a peace upon our souls 
 Like hush of snow : the virtue which you preach 
 Tears like a howling tempest, sharp and foul. 
 One falls a blessing, and one roars a ban ; 
 Yet both are righteousness and both of God ! 
 Help me, ye heavenly pow'rs ! 
 
 Albany. Alas, on earth 
 
 The choice is often between good and good. 
 Not good and evil ; hence a struggle scars 
 The upright, tender conscience that must turn 
 Its back upon some part of righteousness 
 To face a fuller portion. So a king 
 For sake of those he rules must bear a strife 
 Between the holy teachings of his heart 
 And holier duties of his crowned head. 
 
 King Robert. Yes, you are right. The gold upon my brow 
 Hath often bought the voice within my breast. 
 Proceed ! This contract split, do you not fear 
 The wrath of March .? Methinks it might so rage 
 Our coffers would be emptier than ere 
 Lord Douglas filled them, and we broke our word. 
 There lies the pinch of conscience. 
 
 Douglas. Choose your foes — 
 
 The fickle March or staunchest Douglas ! Choose 
 To tie me closer to your love, or break 
 The bonds of fealty my injured pride 
 Would burn to carry. 
 
 Albany. Think of it, my liege — 
 
 Lord Douglas is the pillar of the realm ; 
 His pow'r the very dais of your throne. 
 
 King Robert. Good cousin Douglas ! 
 
2 2 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Albany. Brother, I have urged 
 
 The harsh and stinging duty of a crown ; 
 A sweeter reason waits for utterance, 
 Private, paternal. Ofttimes have we mourn'd 
 The free, immodest hving of your son ; 
 We dreamt of marriage as a bond to clasp 
 His vagrant love and fancies wandering. 
 For this the woman of our choice should bear 
 A firm and constant nature, little touch'd 
 With fickle luring passion and mere grace 
 Of colour'd beauty. Such are threads of silk ; 
 We seek for chains infrangible and sure. 
 Slender and soft is March's daughter, trick'd 
 With cloying charms ; but strong and proud of heart, 
 Solemn in years and grave in countenance 
 Is Marjorie of Douglas, framed to curb 
 Ill-mannerly approach, and turn to shame 
 The levity of green unbridled youth. 
 
 \E71ter Rothsay^ 
 
 King Robert. David ! I shrink to meet his glance. 
 
 Albany. How now, 
 
 Lord Regent, that you break upon us thus ? 
 We rarely see you at the council-board. 
 Your seat is yonder. 
 
 Rothsay. In the market-place 
 
 Slaves stand for sale. I will not sit ; I'll stand 
 In purchasable shame before you all 
 Who bargain for my manhood ; stand and watch 
 My father sell the birthright of my flesh ; 
 Yea, stand and bear a sacrilege my youth 
 Must damn itself to credit. 
 
 King Robert. David, peace ! 
 
 Rothsay. God ! I am faint with insult, and the thought 
 I had of my own self is sick to death ; 
 I'm wounded in a place no tears can wash, 
 Outraged beyond the surgeon's knife of speech ; 
 I cannot lift the colour to my face, 
 
THE father's tragedy. 23 
 
 For shame is so ashamed that she has fled. 
 Hucksters ! 
 
 King Robert. Oh, silence ! 
 
 Rothsay, Nothing glorious 
 
 Is marketable — fame, nor love, nor deeds 
 Of any virtue, youth nor happiness ; 
 Nothing, oh nothing, but the meanest things 
 Of which I am the meanest. On my soul, 
 You drag me in the dirt and there Til lie 
 And dash it in your faces ; \to King Robert] ay, in yours. 
 'Tis well you are my elders ; if you were 
 My age, I hardly think that I could bear 
 To leave you living. 
 
 Albany. Wherefore all this noise 
 
 And rampant passion ? We would understand 
 The tossing cause thereof. 
 
 Rothsay. Speak it ! Oh no ! 
 
 Twould want an old and worldly merchant, one 
 Who has a counting-house. I'm still a prince 
 About the lips, nor know your tricks with coin. 
 Your sales of man for woman, your low truck 
 And miserable frauds. You've ruin'd me, 
 And thrown my youth down to the bottom step 
 Of Pride's high stairs. I'll never climb again. 
 
 Douglas. Now by Saint Bride . . . 
 
 Rothsay. Prate not of brides to me in holy terms. 
 Ye cursed purchasers of manhood's fame ! 
 A bride ! A mistress owning whom she serves, 
 The handmaid to her lackey hired with gold ! 
 A sanctified and blessed state, my lords ! 
 
 King Robert. David ! It is not so. . . . At least- 
 
 Rothsay. It is. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. For your sake and the country's . . . 
 Rothsay. I must wed 
 
 The vvither'd lass of kind Earl Archibald. 
 Douglas. Sir David, Duke of Rothsay . . . 
 Rothsay. Bear her tongue. 
 
24 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Which nips the meanest bud that Love can grow. 
 
 Albany. Nephew, these words are childish ; this the 
 rage 
 Of young and milky feeling, when the tough 
 And unfamihar bread of this world's life 
 Forces soft inclination from its pap 
 And diets it on dry necessity. 
 Those of your birth must ever pay such price 
 For their high station. 
 
 King Robert. And their people's good. 
 
 Alba?iy. Thus hath it ever been and so must be 
 With you as princely others in all lands. 
 
 Rothsay. Elizabeth was fair ! 
 
 Albany. And Marjorie 
 
 Is noble. 
 
 Rothsay. Balanced cunningly ! Ha, ha ! 
 
 Albafty [aside]. He's dropp'd to levity and lost his case, 
 Now I can handle him. — [Aloud.'] There is no way 
 But that you yield, and with untroubled mind 
 Enjoy such freedom as your birth allows. 
 
 Kijtg Robert. Brother, what do you say ? 
 
 Albany [aside"]. The honey — hush ! — 
 
 Commending to young lips the medicine. — 
 [Aloud.] Use charily the privilege. 
 
 Rothsay. Not I ! 
 
 Oh, write your contract, for it joins my life 
 To snaky-headed Sin, in whose hot breast 
 I'll know what pleasure is. Call forth your priest — 
 He's but a pander in the guise of Heav'n. 
 Let Hymen's torches flare — they smell of pitch 
 And sulph'rus fever of contemn'd desire ; 
 Ring from your steeples — 'tis the curfew bell ; 
 Prepare your bridal veil — 'tis hiding night ; 
 Present your hateful bride to pulseless arms — 
 And Lust receives the harlot in its clasp. 
 
 King Robert. Mine ears have never yet unclosed their 
 doors 
 
THE father's tragedy. 25 
 
 To words of viler passion. 'Tis the fiend 
 
 Of wrath and opposition in your soul 
 
 That rages in such speech. Your headlong sense 
 
 And reinless fury well deserve more curb 
 
 Than marriage with a noble woman, one 
 
 Whose touch is conquest and whose presence peace. 
 
 Your land requires the sacrifice, if such 
 
 You hold the sacred tie ; and there you stand 
 
 With selfish tumult on abandon'd lips, 
 
 Disgraced by Reason's flight. You cannot know, 
 
 Thus senseless, if you love . . . 
 
 Rothsay. Love ! Speak it not ! 
 
 It is a glorious word whose ecstasy 
 Opens the soul to morning ; a sweet bird 
 That sings along the tangled forest ways 
 Of Impulse and Enchantment. Name that name, 
 rU lock it in your throat. 
 
 Kin^ Robert. Son David, hold ! 
 
 You have forgotten in your frowardness 
 To whom you speak. 
 
 Rothsay. No surely — 'tis my sire 
 
 Who puts me up to auction ; that the face 
 My mother chose. Forget ! My brain is clear 
 To take such recognition, keep its brand 
 Till death unkin me. That the hoary frame, 
 Whose flesh inherited ties down my life 
 To bondage till the worms unloose the web. 
 Work out your pleasure ; use me as you will ; 
 I do not care ; I'm yours to mar or make. 
 Marry my hand, turn all my heart to gold, 
 The filthy gold that's damn'd me ! Walter, Ralph, 
 Ramorgny, to the tavern ! \Rushes out. 
 
 King Robert. Woe is me ! 
 
 There is my own blood in that flashing face ; 
 I feel it stir the currents of my life. 
 
 Albany. You must be firm. My lord of Douglas bends 
 A raging brow that dooms unless assuaged. 
 
26 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. Cousin, forgive my son his thankless mood. 
 He's restive against bridle ; his free youth 
 Chafes at the sound of bondage, tho' the reins 
 Be in a woman's hand. 
 
 Douglas. Fear not, my liege. 
 
 The priest shall rivet marriage with my house. 
 
 Albany. Lord David's rash offence will soon dissolve 
 Beneath his nature's lightness. 
 
 KiJig Robert. Think you so ? 
 
 When roused, he hath a stubborn petulance 
 That swells above control. 
 
 Alba?ty. A song or dance 
 
 Open safe floodgates to his giddy fume. 
 
 King Robert. Ay, so it seems ; but in his bitterness 
 There is a sly tenacity that coils 
 Within the coloured vestment of his mirth, 
 Cold as a snake and ready for the hiss. 
 
 Albany. Youth, youth — mere youth ! 'Tis ever harsh and 
 sweet, 
 Honey and gall, the zephyr and the blast, 
 The union of jarring opposites. 
 
 Kmg Robert. He never has forgiven me, forsooth, 
 Because I gave his training and control 
 To certain grave and pow'rful councillors, 
 Who cut him off from growing wantonness, 
 Unseemly conversation and light sports. 
 He seem'd with whole and gracious heart to bend 
 To this my wish and swore obedience ; 
 By healthy counsel braced, conform'd himself 
 To their direction and good mastership. 
 But ever and anon a shaft was sped 
 From scorn-bent lips that pierced my fair content ; 
 And when his mother died, he rush'd away, 
 As if a noose were broken, from restraint 
 Of agM wisdom, gave himself afresh 
 To lightness, and no force can bend him now 
 To gravity of manners. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 27 
 
 Albany. Save a wife 
 
 Of noble mould and calm austerity. 
 
 King Robert. So have I dreamt. I shall be glad when 
 peace 
 Commends this business ; when I lay my hands 
 In wonted blessing, often gently ask'd, 
 On David's head. To feel the golden curls 
 Is richer than a gilded treasury ! \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — An upper room. Enter Elizabeth Dunbar and 
 Wo7nen with flowers. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. This is a chamber where our pleached 
 blooms 
 Will never summer-sicken, till they crown 
 My wedding. Fah ! How damp is the gay store ; 
 Ere I unseat this rose, shake forth its dew. 
 
 \st Wo?nan. 'Twill fall. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Then let it. Ah, 'tis gone, fair cup ! 
 But I will have no weeping. 
 
 2nd Woman. None at all ? 
 
 Why, lady, every blossom is in tears. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. It shall not be. Go, take them to the 
 fire, 
 And lay them in the comfort of its light 
 Until they laugh. 
 
 27id Woman. 'Twill wither them. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Take all ; 
 
 ril have no mourners. Would that I were safe. 
 
 {^Exeunt Women. 
 As future queen ! queen ! Oh, to think of it ! 
 To be the dimple on the cheek of state, 
 The centre of all smiling and all grace ; 
 This hand a httle silver shrine to bless 
 All lips that seek it, and about my head 
 The glory of the sun in all his pow'r. 
 They call me fair and gracious ; even now 
 
28 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 I am the pride of opportunity. 
 Then every moment will be on its knees 
 A servant to my charms. — I'm public. Ah ! 
 Visited royally ! 
 
 {Enter King Robert and Albany?^ 
 I wait my maids 
 To bring me floVrs to wreathe. My lords, the dawn 
 Had made them goblets of bedewing grief 
 I set the flames to sip. 
 
 Albany [to King Robert\ Speak ! 
 
 King Robert. Nay, not now. 
 
 Albany. Lady, the king hath somewhat he would say. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Speak, sire ; attention kneels. 
 
 King Robert. Such winsome smile s ! 
 
 Oh, lady, but I would not have them win 
 Sorrows as do the sunbeams, which receive 
 The damps and mist of earth. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. A riddle, sire ! 
 
 King Robert. I may not dare to give you what of ill 
 I, shamed, have begotten ; tho' the words 
 Wring all the father in my heart. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Your son ! 
 
 Oh never fear but I will turn him to 
 Some sunrise transformation, give him gold 
 And purple of new manners. 
 
 King Robert. Albany, 
 
 Speak ; I beseech you speak. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. I am betroth'd ; 
 
 You dare not break that vow. 
 
 Albany. We've weigh'd the risk. 
 
 And needs must run it. Think you we dare lay 
 Upon the recent homage of your sire 
 The burthen of the shame that drags our house 
 Down to the very dust ! It cannot be. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. I'll move him — plead with him. 
 Albany. In any case, 
 
 The realm hath not assented. The Estates 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 29 
 
 In Parliament assembled have not said 
 The binding word. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Oh, sire ! 
 
 Albany. It shall not be. 
 
 King Robert. I pity you as only those can do 
 Who say of any grief 'tis not the first. 
 
 Albany [to Kitig Robert']. Wilt please you to withdraw ? 
 
 King Robert. Yes, yes. [To Elizabeth.'] One frost 
 Hurts not the spring. Be comforted ; my son 
 Were an abiding blight. 
 
 Albany. We'll straight descend. [Exeunt. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. They cast across my hopes the black- 
 est shades. 
 The storm must come. But now there's vacancy 
 Before all grief and anger. I believe 
 That I shall never hate, nor weep, nor know 
 All that has happen'd till I fly this place 
 W^here suddenly my fate hath caught me round. 
 Escape I must. — I never thought of it — 
 That I was trembling. . . . Oh, I dare not yet 
 Think of the downward steps. 
 
 [Enter the Earl of March.] 
 
 Earl of March. My daughter ! God ! 
 
 Her wraith ! — I come to find the king. — Art sick 1 
 It cannot speak. She's mad. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Fath — er. [Falls on his neck. 
 
 Earl of March. My child, 
 
 What is 't ? Oh, tell me you are sane, not sick, 
 Nor supernatural. I feel your tears 
 Scalding from life's red fires. These raging drops ! 
 Oh, what an ocean swells ! — You'd have mine ear .? 
 
 Elizabeth Dujibar. Re — ven — ge me ! 
 
 Earl of March. That I will, and to the death. 
 
 On whom ?— Not yet ! I'll wait. Within her throat 
 The child of anguish labours. 
 
 [Re-enter Women with flowers.] 
 
 Elizabeth Du?ibar. Oh ! [Faints. 
 
30 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Earl of March. She'll die. 
 
 1st Woman. Go to the well in haste. \Exit 2nd Woman. 
 
 Earl of March. Her poor lids gape, 
 
 Like the wild gates of a surprised town. 
 
 \st Woman. Lady, you know me ? I am Kate. 
 
 "^rd Woman. Look up. 
 
 Poor lady, are you better ? 
 
 Earl of March. Hold your peace. 
 
 Elizabeth Dwibar. Send them away, and all the blossoms 
 too. 
 The storm abhors them. . . . Just one rose to crush, 
 Red as his life. 
 
 {^Re-enter 2nd Woman."] 
 
 2nd Womafi. O sir, it cannot be ! 
 It is not true, it never can be true ! 
 They say the prince . . . O Kate ! . . . he's turn'd 
 
 her off. 
 And chooses Marj'rie Douglas for his wife. 
 
 Earl of March. Begone, you women folk. \_Exe21nt. 
 
 Elizabeth Du7ibar. On Albany 
 
 Revenge me ; on King Robert and . . . 
 
 Earl of March. Within 
 
 This fleshly scabbard I'm all sword. I'll break 
 From execrable homage, bear my wealth, 
 My armies, and my anger to the king 
 Of England. 
 
 \_Enter Duchess Marjorie.] 
 Woman, will you dare to flaunt 
 Your triumph in the eyes of her defeat ? 
 Her father . . . 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. O Elizabeth, believe — 
 This ring, this bond, first link upon the chain 
 That fetters all my days, should clasp your flesh 
 If I had will to work it. But you see 
 My honour 's in this circle ; this cold spell 
 Hath bound it in a sleep that Merlin's fay 
 Could whisper to no freedom. 1 have sworn 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 3 1 
 
 'Fore Heaven to keep the hateful marriage-vow 
 Through all the burthen'd years, who have within 
 The rigid mind of chill virginity, 
 And am less wife than you whom bright desire 
 Hath thriird with promise. By your eyes I see 
 You will repay. Forgive me ! Vengeance fall 
 Where it is due — upon the guilty heads 
 That hatch'd this treason. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. I shall never know 
 
 If you are faithless ; but I hate the sight 
 Of your black face — the raven to my heart 
 That's dying at your sounds. 
 
 Ea7'l of March. God's light ! You lie, 
 
 Cursed brat of Douglas, lie before my face, 
 That's lightning-furnished for the vengeful doom. 
 How came you married in this shameless haste, 
 Without a prick of liking .'' 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. There is none. 
 
 No spirit haunts with heavenly surprise 
 Our wedded veins. My husband at the shrine 
 Took with averted head my idle hand. 
 
 Earl of March. You would befool us. Hence, nor mock 
 our wrath 
 With feign'd propitiation. Traitoress, 
 You come to buy our peace toward him you wed 
 At price of your own womanly reserve. 
 We spurn the secrets of your doorless breast. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Henceforth 'tis shut for ever. Hell's 
 black key 
 Nor Heaven's golden instrument shall e'er 
 Withdraw its bolts. I'll rust in sufferance 
 Cold as my heart and icy as my pain. 
 If you revenge 
 
 Earl of Mai'ch. You'll join in our revenge ? 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Never. Declare my rancour ! — I'll 
 be true, 
 True to the faithless boy, who even now 
 
32 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Hath broken plight. I am a wife in name ; 
 That name I'll keep as white as is the band 
 On a nun's forehead. 
 
 Earl of March. Get you to your pray'rs ! 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. Oh, I am cold ! 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. • I'm sharper than the frost, 
 
 And silent too. If ever I forgive, 
 Spring will be come. \Exit. 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar. My crown, my crown ! 
 
 Earl of March. I'll pour 
 
 The scorching embers of my roused ire 
 On the king's head. Thou'lt marry Percy's son, 
 The gallant Hotspur. We'll to England straight. 
 Cover your eyes, and lean upon my arm. \^Exeu7tt. 
 
ACT II. 
 Scene I. — A Tavern. Enter Wright^ Selkirk^ and Hostess. 
 
 Wright. Hi, hi ! The mastiff crack'd your little cur. 
 Fine bloody sport ! 
 
 Hostess. As I am woman born, 
 
 Rascals, you set him on. 
 
 Selkirk. Ho ! The last grip 
 
 Was none of our contriving. Merry game 
 To have 'em tug and tear while we could fill 
 Our cans an' watch 'em bleed. The mongrel ! Ho ! 
 They tore like devils. 
 
 Wright. Sweet to hear the yells 
 
 O' the small beast. They told me how 't would end, 
 An' fed my comfort. 
 
 Hostess. Oh me ! Bess, my Bess ! 
 
 You are no men, you lubber patches you ! 
 All who have man about them love fair play. 
 'Tis only demons crow to see the weak 
 O'ermatch'd by brutishness. Begone ! My house 
 Is built for human creatures with a thirst 
 For harmless wines, and not for cruel blood, 
 Tho' 'tis a beast's poor drops. Off ! off ! 
 
 \Enter Rothsay, Ramorgny^ Walter., Ralph, etc.^ 
 
 My lord, 
 They've killed my coddling favVite, yellow Bess. 
 They loosed the mastiff on her. 
 
 Wright. Heart ! She raves ! 
 
 Rothsay. Dastards ! Go kick them to the brinded beast, 
 
 D 
 
34 THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 
 
 And let them taste his jaws. You growl at me, 
 Sirrahs ! 
 
 Wright. Ugh ! *' 
 
 Selkirk. Heigh ! 
 
 Rothsay. They're drunk. Lay on your feet. 
 
 And send them sprawling to the kennel there. 
 Poltroons ! 
 
 Wright {aside\. I'll — venge, revenge ! 
 
 Selkirk [aside]. I'll pay you, dog. 
 
 [Exeunt, dragged out by Ralph and Randolph. 
 
 Rothsay. Varlets ! — Be comforted. I'll send thee Blanch. 
 You know her, Walt — a toy to ease your grief. 
 Sweetheart, a kiss ! Go, fetch us cheer. [Exit. 
 
 My lads, 
 She's true and pretty, young and fanciful, 
 Free to be kiss'd, free to be left alone. 
 Warm as a May noon, merry as a kid. 
 Heigh-ho ! [Re-enter Ralph and Randolph. 
 
 I am not thirsty. How your faces fall ! 
 Pray me to speak of marriage. 
 
 Ramorgny. I for one. 
 
 Walter. And I. 
 
 Ralph. And I. 
 
 Randolph. And I. We pray you speak. 
 
 Rothsay. I will. 'Tis slavery, and round my heart 
 Is the vile collar of my servitude. 
 Marriage ! It is a bond of ice that ties 
 My passion's stream ; it is the grappling — ay, 
 Of hostile vessels ! , , . 
 
 Walter. Now, friends ! 
 
 [Re-enter Hostess.'] 
 
 Rothsay. Fill, wench, fill. 
 
 Let's pledge the newest beauty. What coy nymph 
 Hath listened to thy tongue, my soothing John .'* 
 
 Ramorgny. Faith, there's a merry dozen down the street 
 As wide awake as nightingales, with eyes 
 That are a flock of stars. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 35 
 
 Rothsay. We'll follow them 
 
 Soon as the Court's asleep. Here's to their light ! 
 Pah ! Wine hath lost its flavour and its joy. 
 I drink it, but 'tis dirt across my lips. 
 The more I thirst, the more I loathe the cup, 
 Which yet I clasp the more. Sun, exercise, 
 Laughter and song, all that was happiness 
 And close upon my life hath faded back 
 And fallen to illusion. 
 
 Ramorgny. Here's a change ! 
 
 I've often heard you swear that no such thing 
 Was in the world. Illusion ! How you storm'd 
 And vow'd it was the filming of the eye 
 In stricken age. 
 
 Rothsay. And so it is, my friends. 
 
 Only Time strikes much sooner than I thought, 
 And falsifies our nature. My true youth 
 Is gone, the morning-red, the dew, the notes 
 Of soft dawn's youngest confidence — all gone ; 
 And that immortal gift of gaiety 
 That flies with the approach of deathly years 
 Of knowledge and experience and age. 
 
 Ra77iorgny. Ho ! You're a frosty day-spring ! Search 
 his poll ; 
 Is there a thread from Winter's distaff on 't ? 
 
 Ralph. Yellow intact, I'll swear. 
 
 Walter. All gilded yarn. 
 
 Rothsay. When once regret has breathed upon our days, 
 Youth is a bird that flies. 
 
 Walter. I'll springe the lark ! 
 
 \Enter a Councillor.^ 
 Who's here? A grey-beard, with the very stamp 
 Of Age's silver currency. 
 
 Rothsay. A fool, 
 
 A spy on my morality. Good faith, 
 I'll give him whiffs of nether smoke to save 
 His search from disappointment. 
 
36 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Councillor. Do mine eyes . . . 
 
 Roths ay. Or does your nose — ? 
 
 Walter. Or do your ears — ? 
 
 Rothsay. Or tongue— ? 
 
 They are offending senses. Exile them ! 
 If you are present but one moment more, 
 We'll bleed our casks and drown you in the tide, 
 Till Age is red as babyhood. — The cur ! 
 
 \Tosses wine in his face. Exit Councillor hastily. 
 
 Ramorgny. Your uncle sets them on. 
 
 Rothsay. I know. 'S blood, 
 
 Ramorgny, how I hate to see him rule 
 My country and my father and my king. 
 He is as false as sin, himself his god. 
 And I the rebel he must damn to reign. 
 
 Ramorgny. Comrades, withdraw a moment. I have words 
 Occasion bids me utter, which must rest 
 Alone within the ears for which they rise 
 On my reluctant hps. 
 
 Rothsay. Withdraw, withdraw ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Ratnorgny. There is a road, a dark and narrow way 
 The dagger opens for our enemies. 
 
 Rothsay. John, zx^ you speaking ? or are these the words 
 Your evil angel forges on your tongue ? 
 
 Raniorgny. My very words, as I shall answer God. 
 Your uncle seeks your life, and his own blood 
 Must shield you from the loss ; he seeks your rights ; 
 His power o'erthrown must pay the penalty ; 
 Or mark my words, your life and rights will Hne 
 His ruthless feet, thus shod for monarchy. 
 
 Rothsay. You're false as he. 
 
 Ramorgny. Nay, true and politic. 
 
 For Friendship is a Janus, double-faced ; 
 Truth to the right, to the left policy. 
 
 Rothsay. I'll have no friend who looks not straight before ; 
 I'll have no devil in my bosom-faith, 
 Tempter to unimaginable sin. 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 Upon a sudden darkness of my brain 
 
 Glares with hell-lighted letters Murderer ; 
 
 You'd brand it there for ever ! Fiend, begone ! 
 
 I hate my uncle, but within the bounds 
 
 Of honourable nature and just deed. 
 
 Oh, I rejoice to tear the hood of lies 
 
 From off the naked face of his self-love. 
 
 But tear the garment of his flesh away 
 
 With stab of secret malice ! God forbid ! 
 
 My own soul too forbid ! I've done with you 
 
 If you're for plotting ; and your orat'ry, 
 
 Matchless in praise of beauty, music, verse, 
 
 Hath in it the wasp's sting, no honey-tongue 
 
 Free-feeder 'mong the sweets. Curse policy ! 
 
 My marriage was a plot, a gross deceit. 
 
 ' Twould be a merry world if senses ruled, 
 
 And brains were fettered from their craft and lies. 
 
 I'll not betray you, wretch. I scorn the tongue 
 
 By which you thought to pull me to your depth ; 
 
 How dare you dream it ! \Exit. 
 
 Ratnorgny. To a lower depth, 
 
 As low as drops the coffin shalt thou sink. 
 Mine honest fool. That yellow sheaf of hair 
 That's ripe upon his brow, — I'll beat it down 
 Beneath the flail of Misery ! My tongue. 
 That hath procur'd him Pleasure by its guile, 
 Shall wheedle Death now to attend on him — 
 A mistress fitted to his moral mood ; 
 She shall be tedious. \Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — A Hall. Enter Albany^ Lindsey^ and Douglas. 
 
 Albany. Government ! 
 
 There's no such thing in this forsaken land. 
 To look upon the Earth and think of Heav'n 
 Might raise the doubt that God is still enthroned. 
 
38 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Douglas. Yea, in all things of state there is a blind, 
 Discomforting, wide chaos. 
 
 Albany, There's no power, 
 
 No issue of a will ; — merely the thoughts 
 Of unestabHsh'd brains. Draw nearer, friends. 
 My brother is a saint, emasculate ; 
 His son a random boy ; the sentinel 
 Is lacking in each nature. 
 
 Douglas. 'Twas our woe 
 
 That you were e'er unseated. 
 
 Lindsey. To my mind 
 
 It was Perdition's warrant to the State 
 "Which all time since has served. 
 
 Albany. Control the breath 
 
 Of this our intercourse. An enemy ! 
 I know the hobble. 
 
 \Enter Kmg Robert and Prince yames.] 
 Brother, are you well ? 
 
 King Robert. Sickly inclined to-day. 
 
 Lindsey. For that we grieve. 
 
 King Robert. Do not. 'Tis scarcely pain j autumnal 
 drought 
 I' the sap of life. 
 
 Albany. I'm sorry. 
 
 \_Enter Attendant.'] 
 
 Attendant. One without 
 
 Chafes for the royal presence. 
 
 Albany. Bring him in. 
 
 Attendant. Another stands with chain'd and savage 
 mouth. 
 
 Albany. Him also. \Exit Attendant. 
 
 King Robert. Shall I hence ? 
 
 Alba?ty. No. \Re-enter Attendant with Messengers.] 
 Speak you first. 
 What is your business "i 
 
 ist Messefiger [to King Robert]. Thus doth Henry say, 
 Your liege-lord, to his vassal : — Since you bar 
 
THE father's tragedy. 39 
 
 Your lips to homage, he will come in arms 
 And force it from your tongue at Edinbro'. 
 
 King Robert. I owe your king no enmity. 
 
 Albany. His words 
 
 Are proud. With open arms at Edinbro' 
 We shall receive him ; yea, surround his pride 
 With murderous embrace. 
 
 King Robert. Stay, brother, pause ! 
 
 Beneath these words is war conceived ? 
 
 Albany. It is ; 
 
 The marriage of two enemies to raise 
 Seed to themselves of strife. 
 
 King Robert. 'Tis rashly done. 
 
 Albany. On England's part. \To \st Messenger?\^ Begone! 
 Speak you. 
 
 7.nd Messenger [to Kiftg Robert]. I'm sent 
 By March, your liege man, till you tore the cords 
 Of loyalty in twain ; — from the great earl 
 Who hangs upon the margin of your land 
 His storm of wrath, from the insulted peer, 
 The outraged father, the determined foe, 
 I bring the declaration that no peace 
 Will ever tend her olive in his heart. 
 Till he have wreak'd on you the injury 
 Fourfold that you have wrought. 
 
 [Cries within of Place for the Duke of Rothsay. 
 
 Albany. Take breath, poor soul ; 
 
 You drive away the very air you need. 
 All Scotland knows the fickle loyalty 
 Of him who blows his shame from out your throat, 
 Our recreant vassal. 
 
 [Enter Roths ay. "] 
 
 2nd Messenger [to Albany]. Who are you to speak .-* 
 
 Rothsay. Ay, who ? Address me. 
 
 2nd Messenger. From the Earl of March 
 
 I bring defiance. . . . 
 
 Rothsay. To the Earl of March 
 
40 THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 
 
 Take back defiance, louder in its mouth, 
 At heart more fell, in purpose far more deep, 
 And servant of an anger that will last 
 Till all my hearth of life is crumbling heaps 
 That naught will re-illume. I have no glove 
 To cast before him ; this will do as well 
 
 {^Flinging a handful of coins to the Messenger. 
 For bargain-drivers and such merchant-souls 
 As he whom you call master. Take the gold 
 And let it chink my hatred in his ears. 
 Yet sooth I should be just. Here's gold for you ! 
 
 \_Flinging some coins to Douglas. 
 What do you say to it. Lord Douglas ? 
 
 Kiftg Robert. Peace ! 
 
 David, you're mad ! Be still. 
 
 Douglas. I think the prince 
 
 Might keep himself more princely in his speech 
 And royal in his manners. 
 
 Albany [aside]. This offence 
 
 Hath given me all Douglas to my use 
 Against the speaker. 
 
 Rothsay [to Messenger."] Sirrah, to your trade ! 
 
 [£xit 2nd Messenger. 
 Douglas. Farewell, my liege, and you, my lord [to 
 
 Albany], and you [to Lindsey\ 
 Rothsay. Old Insolence ! [Exit Douglas. 
 
 Albany. You've trodden on a mood 
 
 May sting you i' the-heel. 
 
 Rothsay. He injur'd me 
 
 With highest-brow'd contempt. 
 
 King Robert. You cannot know 
 
 All that you do enraging such as he 
 With childish taunt and sneer irrelevant. 
 I tremble for your folly ; yea, my care 
 Grows pale and quakes ; — yet vainly do my words 
 Knock at the ear of reason ; such a gate 
 You've fasten'd from your father. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 4 1 
 
 Albany. He's a boy 
 
 Who wants the method of the schoolmaster. 
 
 Rothsay. Now hear me ! I'll not suffer such affronts, — 
 The wormwood sour old Age with envious hand 
 Mixes in Youth's red cup ; — the privilege 
 To deal indignity where honour grows 
 With freshest keen ascent and feels each blow 
 To the soft pith's new core. Oh, all the shame 
 You've struck into my being will be there, 
 When it is open'd to its secret depth 
 Before the Judgment-seat, and lo ! old men 
 Will answer for the sins that they have done 
 Across the years to those in backward Time's 
 Most lovely season. Spring has bhghts and winds 
 Of killing tooth ; but early manhood's plague 
 And desolating frost is cruelty ^ 
 And white-hair'd check of pert decrepitude. 
 
 King Robert. Son against father ! 
 
 Albany. Let him mock unheard. 
 
 We'll turn to weighty matters. We must call 
 Our armed trains together, and on walls, 
 In tow'r and fort invincible ensconce 
 Our primest courage. Nephew, since you're styled 
 The governor of Edinbro', your place 
 Will be its flinty hold. 
 
 Rothsay. Oh, war, war, war ! 
 
 Its thrilling course thro' slow and wretched veins 
 Is godlike in its triumph. All is great 
 I' the instant ; all is rapturous and new. 
 There's twice his wonted fervour in the sun, 
 A hundred times more quickly moves the air, 
 The world is changed at every trumpet-blast 
 That sounds to arms, changed, changed from old to young ; 
 From lameness into leaping ; from the doze 
 Of chimney-corner to a fiery-eyed 
 And sleepless energy ; from palsied fears 
 And calculated dangers to firm heart 
 
42 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 And unforeseen adventure ; from smooth ease 
 To tumbled hardship ; from long days to short ; 
 From talk to action ; from cold blood to hot ; 
 For all the world is young. — My love-lorn wife, 
 
 \Enter Duchess MarJo?'ze.'\ 
 I'm going to the wars. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Indeed. 
 
 Rothsay. Indeed ? 
 
 Ay, to be kill'd, to find a merry grave, 
 Where I shall lie with earth-worms. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. You've not said 
 
 With whom you fight. 
 
 Rothsay. The devil ! I don't care. 
 
 I'll turn this common questioner to you 
 More patient elders. On my very soul, 
 Warfare is trite, familiar in her voice 
 As all things in the world. So stale a tongue 
 Would make Spring, Autumn ; Joy, Satiety ; 
 Creation, Death ; and Heaven damnable. 
 \To Prince James^ Jamie, you like to fight .'' 
 
 Prince James. Oh yes, I wish 
 
 I were a man ! 
 
 King Robert. Here, James ! 
 
 Rothsay. I'm leperous ! 
 
 You shall not draw the child away like that, 
 As if I breathed corruption ; make me feel 
 My bodily presence a reproach and taint. 
 It is a lie, past all endurance false. 
 I'll have him with me. Come and see me arm. 
 You're not afraid to come ? 
 
 Prince James. David ! 
 
 Rothsay. Hurrah ! [Ex-eunf. 
 
 Albany. Lindsey, support the king. He's wan and ill. 
 
 King Robert. I'm weary. 
 
 Albany. Then we'll guide you to your rooms. 
 
 King Robert. And bring me James. [Ji.veunt. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. For that old man, I own, 
 
THE father's tragedy. 43 
 
 ♦ 
 
 I'm sorry. \Re-enter Douglas^ 
 
 Douglas. Daughter Marjorie, a word. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. What is it, father ? 
 
 Douglas. Does that saucy whelp 
 
 Use you with honour as his wife .'* Come, come ! 
 No stubborn face ! 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. We rarely speak or meet. 
 
 Douglas. Comes he at nights ? 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. We rarely speak or meet. 
 
 Douglas. That's repetition. Answer as I ask. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. He drinks the night out. 
 
 Douglas. He shall quaff a draught 
 
 Of vengeance. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. What the good ? 'Twill nothing mend. 
 I pray you do not move against my lord 
 Merely for my poor sake. Time ever goes 
 With steady patience. 
 
 Douglas. Albany returns. 
 
 Go. 
 
 {Re-enter Albany and Lindsey. Exit Duchess Marjorie.'] 
 
 Albany. Hump ! Your son-in-law is insolent. 
 At heart he is your enemy. 
 
 Douglas. The same 
 
 Am I to him, the graceless libertine ! 
 
 Lindsey. I too. 
 
 Albany. We'll make this matter for our speech. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A Room. Enter Rajnorgny. 
 
 Ra?norg7ty. Still doth he use me, but vnth. doubtful eyes, 
 A voice of friendship with its strings untuned. 
 And hands that shrink from juncture with my flesh. 
 I never shall regain my ancient place 
 In his frank bosom. That he uses me 
 Without the grace of liking is his doom. 
 
 {Enter Alba?ty at a distance^ 
 
 Albany [aside]. There is a rude fidelity about 
 
44 THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 
 
 His foolish troop ; they'll not report on him. 
 But were Ramorgny flattered ! Ah, he droops 
 As if his brains lack'd opportunity. — 
 You are not for the revel ? 
 
 Ramorgny. It lacks zest. 
 
 Albany. You are not for such mates. It flatters you 
 To serve the prince ; his uncle holds the realm. 
 When you are tavern-prison'd or in camp, 
 Would it not give a purpose should you note 
 Actions of int'rest to the chronicler, 
 Shameful to the accomplice ? Bring but word 
 How leaks the ship ; Til put it out to sea. 
 I know no other man for this intrigue, 
 And counsel you as you would rise in place 
 But as historian to attend the prince ; 
 And then concert with me how you may take 
 His birthplace in my favour ; he is wreck' d; 
 My son a slothful bookworm, Robert's child, 
 Methinks, in disposition. There is none 
 In whom I can detect the faculty 
 To sway the eddying people to the flow 
 Of his will's current, save yourself. Sir John. 
 
 Ramorgny. Your grace, I hate the prince, for injuries 
 My tongue would bleed to tell. 
 
 Albany. We first must turn 
 
 With plaints and tales the father's idle mind 
 Against his son. 
 
 Ramorgny. I'm popular, your grace, 
 And can be daring. With the prince none else 
 Can take my place ; his temper and his loves, 
 His pleasure and his study — all are built 
 Upon my service. 
 
 Albany. Good, divide it, friend ! 
 
 Ramorgny. I will. 
 
 Albany. Your hand in parting. David, now 
 
 I've set your evil genius to work ! \^Exii Ramorgny. 
 
 All is in train for ruin. I'll to arms, 
 And if he need my help, I will not march. [Exit. 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 45 
 
 Scene IV. — Stirling. A Courtyard. Enter Allan^ Prince 
 y antes, and an old Lunatic {regarded as Richard II. of 
 England, who was starved at Pontefract). 
 
 Old Man. He, he, he ! Via. poor and naked. Naught 
 Of empery in any of my limbs. 
 My knees ! — Here's carpentry ; I pray you look. 
 I am a little humble man. 
 
 Allan. Alas ! 
 
 A pretty monarch once ! 
 
 Prince James. I thought all kings 
 
 Had beards of holy silver down the breast, 
 And bland, sage brows, and comfort at the heart, 
 Such as my father ever shows us. 
 
 Allan. Ah ! 
 
 Prince Jajnes. Why do you sigh ? 
 
 Old Man. Not Richard ! I am Dick. 
 
 He, he ! — the foe of God the King. 
 
 Allan. A fool 
 
 That envieth at Heaven. 
 
 Old Man. God the King 
 
 A' sits so safe up i' the sky and reigns — 
 I crawl, crawl, crawl ! 
 
 Prince yames. Nay, Allan, lift him up. 
 
 We will not see a monarch grow a worm. 
 
 {Enter King Robert and Duchess Marjorie.'] 
 
 King Robert. O Allan, hath no messenger arrived 
 Through all the day ? No word from Albany .? 
 Why doth he hang his tented warfare up 
 Beyond the reach of David's utmost need 1 
 Why doth he linger when round Edinbro' 
 The English fasten with a brazen clasp .-* 
 'Tis strangely done, unnaturally done. 
 To leave the lad to perish ! 
 
 Old Man. He ! you're great ! 
 
 Dost think of change ? 
 
 King Robert. Oh, do not put my tongue 
 
46 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 On such a question's rack ! 
 
 Old Man. Go, make a grave ! 
 
 'Twill change as you change, low when you are low, 
 But make it great and high the while you live. 
 
 King Robert. Old bitter king, I'll build no haughty tomb 
 Who am a wretched worm and vilest sinner. 
 I'd lay me for sepulture among clods, 
 So might I purchase rest unto my soul. 
 
 Prince James. Father ! 
 
 King Robert. Quick, Allan, run ! I hear a horn. 
 
 \Exit Alla?i. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. You heard aright. They come. 
 [Re-enter Allan with Rainorgny and Walter^ 
 
 Walter. 'Tis victory .! 
 
 Kifig Robert. He's safe ? 
 
 Walter. Oh, bless you, sire, as glad as day. 
 
 Pouring out wine to match the deathly flow 
 Of the great toper War. 
 
 Ramorgny. The ruffian foe 
 
 Wrench'd at our city's girdle, but within, 
 Our hearts were high and though in desperate case 
 Supreme o'er insult. Through ungarnish'd streets 
 Grey Famine dragg'd her bones, yet every man 
 Did feed on steaming courage. 
 
 King Robert. And the prince . . . ? 
 
 Ramorgny. Was brave and headstrong. Softly be it said 
 He sent a challenge to the English king 
 To pick him out a hundred Englishmen 
 To meet our countrymen to that same tune, 
 And on the issue of the combat stake 
 The freedom of our nation. 
 
 King Robert. God above ! 
 
 Has he no reason, is he lunatic, 
 A simpleton, a blusterer, a child, 
 To play such hare-brain'd antics on a foe ? 
 Anxieties perplex and choke my thought ; 
 Fear in the cage of my close heart doth pant 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 And flutter its weak plumage. These mad pranks 
 Will dig my grave. 
 
 Ramorgny. 'Tis but a pleasant tale 
 
 Among the soldiers. 
 
 Walter. By my troth, Sir John, 
 
 Why did you take it from the common mouth 
 To misbecome your lips. The merry faults 
 Of friends are ever sacred to their band, 
 Or woe is me for all good fellowship ! 
 
 Ramorg?iy. Nay, Walt, no treason ; 'twas the marvel of 't 
 That rush'd from off my lips. 
 
 King Robert. Does Albany 
 
 Know of this shameful frolic ? 
 
 Walter. No, sire, no. 
 
 He hath not stirr'd his arms from Caldermoor. 
 
 Kifig Robert. What will he say ? How shall I bear his 
 eye 
 Who have begot this son ? — A crowding noise ! 
 
 Allan. Of shouts and songs and triumph. 'Tis the prince. 
 \E71ter Rothsay with marshal array.'} 
 
 Old Man. Eyes — eyes of jailers. I must hide from eyes ; 
 They make me king again, and treat me ill, 
 And capture me. I'll creep behind this cloak, 
 This furry cloak — warm prison ! 
 
 \_Hides under the King's long mantle. 
 
 King Robert. Fated boy ! 
 
 I'm glad he's safe at home ! 
 
 Rothsay. Well, Father, James ! 
 
 Ramorgny, jolly Walter ! Duchess, there, 
 You've not a forward welcome. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. To a back. 
 
 And so you conquer'd '^. 
 
 Rothsay. Laurels ! That I did ; 
 
 And March is beaten back. I never knew 
 What life I carried till the flinty days 
 Of peril struck it out — a joyous blaze 
 That lit my blood to gold. What ho ! A check ! 
 
48 THE father's tragedy 
 
 Something amiss — a frost about your air 
 That's just blown in upon me with a hurt 
 That rankles in my joy. You stand like men 
 O' snow. What is it, father ? 
 
 King Robert. Your rash deed. 
 
 Rothsay. What deed ? 
 
 King Robert. Your wicked message to the King 
 
 Of England, whereby, as I understand, 
 You staked upon the issue of a joust 
 The freedom of your country. 
 
 Allan [aside]. Sire, not now. 
 
 King Robert. I am surprised and pained that you should 
 stoop 
 To such a jester's action. Do not flush 
 And start away ; I speak it out of love. 
 
 Rothsay. We'll go elsewhere for welcome. Not enough 
 The empty doorways and the cheerless board, 
 The dull and tardy greeting — with your words 
 You set a canker to the triumph, joy, 
 That rioted in blossom at my heart. 
 You've made for me no welcome — dearest word, 
 The home that language raises by the voice, 
 That the eyes light, whose doors are open hands ; 
 None of you built me that — not one of you. 
 Only I pass the bare unfeeling walls 
 Behind which I was born. 
 
 King Robert. Your talk shoots off 
 
 From my direction, which was gentle blame 
 Of a grave wrong. — Tears ! 
 
 Rothsay. Come, friends, 'tis forgot 
 
 We saved our country by determined arms 
 And empty mouths. I think within the streets 
 We'll find a younger memory. Come on ! 
 
 [Exit with Followers. 
 
 King Robert. O God, the thought of him is ever near. 
 The person ever bitterly apart ; 
 Yet 'neath Thy will did I beget his form. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 49 
 
 Which is the barrier to all my love. 
 'Tis well his mother lives not. 
 
 Allan. Ah, 'twere well 
 
 She were not dead. 
 
 Khig Robert. What, sirrah, do you mean ? — 
 
 [Aside] They would not let me rule the land as John, 
 My name, because 'twas ominous and sad. 
 They calFd me happy Robert. Ah, the name 
 Is nothing ; fate is deeper-set than words. 
 
 Old Man. Starved ! 
 
 King Robert. What a cry ! Art cold ? 
 
 Old Man. Some folks alive 
 
 Would keep a body breadless, and that's cold ; 
 For breadless, cold, and dead are all one thing. 
 They tried to starve me in a prison once. 
 You'll never starve a-body ? 
 
 King Robert. Dreary sport, 
 
 This play on starved / — No, never. Come within. 
 The rain drips sulkily. Another horn 
 Blows out a new arrival — Albany. 
 I'll go to meet him, and unload my grief 
 Of its unshared burthen, which is great. [Exeunt. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room. Enter Albany^ Douglas, Lindsey, 
 and Ramorgny. 
 
 Albany, The measure must be sudden and severe, 
 A storm that breaks not lowers — else the mild 
 And easy breath of our good king will blow 
 The righteous cloud of pending chastisement 
 Far from its destined quarter. 
 
 Douglas. God forbid ! 
 
 Vengeance no more can wait within my soul. 
 The prince is ready, ripe to be cut down. 
 Full-dyed in sin ; his shamelessness outspread 
 In riot and a license beyond speech. 
 He spends his days and nights in daUiance 
 And sensual delights. He stops at naught. 
 Before mine eyes and in my daughter's sight 
 He dares salute his lemans. Insolence 
 Profanes his royalty, and his graced rank 
 Stoops to the reveller's corrupt degree. 
 
 Lindsey. Since our last war he rages in excess, 
 Flaunts in gay silks, is rash and mettlesome, 
 Hungry as hawk, and lavish. 
 
 Albany. But I've turned 
 
 The key of the exchequer with a will 
 Not easy to unlatch. He shall not seize 
 The wealth I've purpose for to buy him drink. 
 Fine clothes, and base enjoyments. I have griped 
 His father's childish mind as in a vice, 
 
 50 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 5 1 
 
 And hold it firm 'gainst prodigality 
 And spendthrift rage. 
 
 Ramorgny. Your grace, he's desperate ; 
 
 Swears that you starve his pleasure, which must feed 
 On golden pieces as its honied store. 
 Or perish. 
 
 Albafiy. Let it perish ! 'tis a drone, 
 A slavish grasper of the yellow hoard 
 It never gathered. 
 
 Ramo?-g?iy. He's infuriate. 
 
 And in his passion cuts from every belt 
 The purse well-filled or ertipty ; from the poor 
 He takes his mite, from the rich citizen 
 His cumbrous weight of merry-sounding coin. 
 Will they or nil they, each must render up 
 Their gilt provision for his potent need. 
 This does he every night. 
 
 Lindsey. Audacious deed ! 
 
 Good Albany, we pray as Justice spoke 
 That sudden end be put to such offence. 
 
 Albany. Do not entreat ; the need I recognise, 
 And only wait for opportunity 
 To fling apart her doors in circling time 
 For entrance of my deed. — Fellow, your hest .'* 
 \E7tter Attefidant.] 
 
 Attendant. The Bishop of St. Andrews died last night 
 At cock-crow. 
 
 Douglas That's i' the dawn. 
 
 Albany. A fat divine, 
 
 With lands to match the breadth of his good paunch, 
 And gold his body's weight. How died the whale ? 
 
 Attendant. 'Twas apoplexy. 
 
 Albany. Perished by the neck. 
 
 As Death were but a hangman ! Bear your news 
 To the king's pious ear. \_Exit Attendant. 
 
 My brain is quick ; 
 Suggestion leaps within it, as a child 
 
52 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Unborn, but stirred. The bishop, as I said, 
 Was rich beyond belief, and where he goes 
 Can nothing follow ; therefore is his wealth 
 Where he hath left it — in St. Andrews town, 
 Which town, I pray you note, is reached by way 
 Of wild Strathtyrum — mile or so to left 
 Of Falkland Castle, which is mine — a hold 
 Safe as the brow of councillor to hide 
 The secrets that it spans. 
 
 Douglas. How points this speech } 
 
 Albany. Ramorgny, is the duke at feast .'' 
 Ramorgny. He is. 
 
 The tavern roared as I went by. 
 
 Albany. You're due 
 
 Among the boon companions ? 
 
 Rajnorgny. Ay, your grace. 
 
 Albany. Then go and spread report of this man's death, 
 Drop hints of wealth, of satisfaction bright 
 To bold adventure : say the enterprise 
 Is perilous and promises much gold. 
 Do this, Ramorgny, with familiar voice 
 And stimulating laugh. Go speedily. \Exit Rajnorgny. 
 
 Friends, will you hence ? Design with chaos strives 
 In this mine orb ; I pray you solitude. 
 Douglas. And may it be of moment to the land. 
 Lindsey. Amen, as I'm a patriot. [Exeunt. 
 
 Albany, 'Twill work ! 
 
 I'll prison him before the week is out, 
 And then ! . . . That cobweb, how it draws 
 My inattentive eye ; I cannot turn 
 My glance from its magnetic central point 
 Of all imagination. — It is said 
 That mighty Bruce, my famed progenitor. 
 Learnt lessons from a spider — patience 
 Through oft-retarded enterprise. — Yon fly 
 With the tight wings ! — 'Tis held and then . . . destroyed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 Scene 1 1. — A Tavern. Enter Rothsay, Walter, Randolph. 
 Ralph with a bound felon. — Apart Wright and Selkirk. 
 
 Rothsay. Here, Ralph, your knife and cut these cords 
 from him. 
 Another slash — they're gone ! — Oh, give it me, — 
 You hesitate — half-hearted ! 
 
 Ralph. Well ! 'tis this : 
 
 He is a parricide. 
 
 Rothsay. The very sin 
 
 For which I loose him. 
 
 Ralph. You have gone too far ; 
 
 There's terror in this prank. 
 
 Rothsay. What, see him killed 
 
 Before my eyes for self-defence from blows 
 Of an old tyrant, whose first tyranny 
 Was in begetting him — initial wrong 
 To be atoned for — how ? By lording it 
 Over the wretched body and crushed soul .'' 
 Then is paternity a monstrous crime 
 Blind justice cannot see. 
 
 Randolph. Hear him ! 
 
 Rothsay. I speak 
 
 My very heart. This fellow shall not die 
 For guarding life, when he who filled the flask 
 Would empty it. Oh, shame ! You're free ! 
 
 Ralph. He's dumb ; 
 
 Death's muzzled him. Untie his mouth with drink. 
 
 Randolph. Ay, fetch a can ! 
 
 Walter. A can, a can ! 
 
 Rothsay. Hey there ! 
 
 {^Hostess brings wine. 
 
 Walter. Down with it ! Ha ! it tastes like very life. 
 It is the blood of amity ; we're friends 
 Who share in this red tie. 
 
 Felon. Too much, too much ! 
 
 Walter. Of comradeship and wine .^ 
 
54 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Randolph. The ass ! 
 
 Rothsay. You fools ! 
 
 He's dazed. Just think ! he's touched the hem of Death, 
 The inner shroud that wraps all sense and breath. 
 How felt you, knave, so near the dismal end .'' 
 
 Walter. Oh, search his feelings now he's near to life 
 And clinking glasses. 
 
 Rothsay. Yet it fascinates 
 
 The skeleton, while flesh is full and young ; 
 Its beggary when purple state is kept 
 In every vein ; its dolesomeness when joy 
 Flouts summer's passing clouds ; its cynic stare 
 And disenchanted mouth's rigidity, 
 When eyes desire and lips have troth and kiss ; 
 Its ancient chalky tinct, when red is up 
 And dawn a-crowing in the face and limbs ; 
 Its dry and famished orifice when feasts 
 Bubble with wine ; its impotence when strength 
 Heaves as a sea the sinews. Oh, it shows. 
 Far dusty goal, how long will be our course. 
 
 Randolph. We'll talk of sepulchres and tipple, lads ! 
 Corruption and long draughts ! 
 
 Walter. Hey now, boys, drink ! 
 
 Rothsay [to Hostess']. Pour here, pour all! Courage ! 
 We'll talk of death 
 And dying. This professor we'll elect 
 To the top chair. Here, gown him in my cloak; 
 The ermine is scholastic. Ha, la, la ! 
 
 Wright [aside to Selkirk]. A felon. 
 
 Selkirk [aside to W?'ight\ H'm ! Best wine for him, 
 
 and kicks 
 For us ! — 
 
 Wright [aside to Selkirk]. Mum, mum ! They'll give you 
 to the dogs. 
 
 Selkii'k [aside to Wright]. No drink for us. 
 
 Wright [aside to Selki7'k]. They'll duck you. 
 
 Selkirk [aside to Wright]. Damn the crew 
 
THE father's tragedy. 55 
 
 Felon. My soul ! — 
 
 Walter. No, man, your body — that's the theme 
 
 To which we're merry pupils. 
 
 Randolph. Here's to it ! 
 
 Ralph. Here's to your carcase ! 
 
 Roihsay. Tell us how you felt 
 
 When Death was on a moment's other side. 
 
 Felon. Oh, nothing much !— but rather tight . . . 
 
 Roths ay. As if 
 
 The body hugged its kernel — ghastly clip ! 
 Here's the first instance that our master gives 
 From the last art of all. 
 
 Walter. Cheerly, my lads ! 
 
 A health to each. 
 
 Rothsay. Right heartily. — How else 
 
 Felt you, good master ? 
 
 Felon. Eh, sire ? 
 
 Rothsay. You are safe. 
 
 How felt you dying 1 
 
 Felon. Why I cannot say — 
 
 But like as you must pass a ghost. 
 
 Rothsay, He's raised 
 
 A most delicious shiver. On my soul, 
 There's magic in 't, — impossibility 
 In death ! — a lure that never will draw us, 
 A wonder that will never be, a dream 
 Cast o'er our being from the world without, 
 And in us but a fragment dim, distraught. 
 Of what we do not know and cannot learn. 
 A place of marvel too forlorn for us. 
 Where old men seek their losses, an event 
 Which we with our new breath can never cause ; 
 A something, which is nothing to the dawn, 
 The bud, young man or maiden . . . 
 \Enter Ramorgnyi\ 
 Ramorgjiy. What of them ? 
 
 Walter. Can't die, can't die ! 
 
56 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Ramorgny. The wine hath made a way 
 
 To Reason's spring. \Clamour without. 
 
 Rothsay. The townsfolk at our gates ! 
 
 Up, up ! They'd seize our prisoner ! His eye 
 Is like a hound-caught hare's. A fight, a fight ! 
 S^Enter Citizens.^ 
 
 1st Citizen. We'll have the monster ! 
 
 2nd Citizen. Tear the parricide ! 
 
 Rothsay. Strike at the numskulls that hold fathers dear ! 
 
 1st Citizen. The prince, the prince ! 
 
 yd Citizen. Cry shame on him ! 
 
 \st Citizen. Young lord, 
 
 Fie on this prank ! 
 
 3n/ Citize?i. Justice ! 
 
 Rothsay. Protect the weak ! 
 
 {They fight. Exeu7it Citizens., dragging off the offender. 
 Traitors, you'll suffer ! Rebels, on my word 
 I'll deal it to you heavily for this ! — 
 He's precept and example too, poor wretch ! 
 My blood is up. 
 
 Ramorgny . Then have I news for you. 
 
 The Bishop of St. Andrews died last night. 
 
 Rothsay. Mercy ! You'd have us get to church and pray 
 Our hot blood out for him ! 
 
 Raynorgny. Rash gaiety ! 
 
 Ho, ho ! I'd have you seize his earthly goods, 
 And leave immortal baggage to himself. 
 
 Walter. Ay, that's our cue ! 
 
 Rothsay. How, how ? 
 
 Ramorg?ty. Why thus. At dawn 
 Ride to St. Andrews, claim the bishopric, 
 And hold it while it serves you as a purse. 
 
 Rothsay. Your speech is a divining-rod ; my thought 
 Digs to the bright event. I'll start at dawn. 
 And ride alone. Gold, gold, my cronies, gold ! 
 
 Walter. Let's go in company. 
 
 Rothsay. I'll ride alone. 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 For this great robbery shall be my own. 
 Waiter. Look yonder through the door ! 
 
 Rothsay. What is 't to see ? 
 
 Walter. A flare of light. 
 
 Randolph, Look, look I 
 
 Walter. It trails along 
 
 Its hairy length of sanguine shining rays, 
 And seeks Aquilo with terrific sweep 
 Of baleful triumph. 
 
 Ralph. Wonderful to see ! 
 
 Rothsay. Mathematicians say, as I've heard told, 
 When comes this comet 'tis a sign of death 
 Or downfall to some prince ; or to some land 
 The symbol of destruction. 
 
 Walter. So 'tis said. 
 
 Rothsay. Ho, la ! — it hurries fiercely to its work, 
 The rufous minister of starry fate ! 
 'Tis ardent in the service of despair 
 And death — a flaming presence with the torch 
 That Ate, as our chronicles relate. 
 Waved over Troy in bloodthirsty despite. 
 How must the doomed wretch be sunk in woe 
 Who feels that skiey sword within his breast. 
 And all his power beneath the withering breath 
 Of yon proud exhalation with hot train 
 Of fiery vapour ! 'Tis a gallant slave 
 To spindle-turning destinies ; they are 
 Witches to own familiar such as that 
 Bright demon of the clouds. We'll pledge it, boys, 
 Hold up red wine to its more red success ; 
 No matter who goes up nor who goes down. 
 Here's to 't ! 
 
 Ramorg7iy [aside]. The sybil knows another's fate — 
 Is silent of her own, howe'er she prate. 
 
 [ They go on carousing. 
 
58 - THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Scene 1 1 1. — A Room. A portrait of the Ktftg over the fire- 
 place. Etiter King Robert^ Albany^ Douglas^ and Lindsey. 
 
 King Robert. I cannot. Oh, you push my fatherhood 
 From its old chair beside my heart's red fire 
 It's sat by many a year. Imprison him ! 
 Close him from light to which I called him forth, 
 And send him back to unpaternal Night's 
 Most lone possession ! Tell me what the sin 
 Can merit such discharge ? 
 
 Albany. Be calm. Our words 
 
 Have carried tempest, and their urgency 
 Hath told like cruel blast. Good brother, calm ! 
 I'll speak again and not belie our scope. 
 
 King Robert. Do, I beseech you. 
 
 Albany, Listen with your mind, 
 
 Nor let your heart once hear. 
 
 King Robert. 'Tis deaf, 'tis deaf. 
 
 Albany. The evil that is held and never spilt, 
 Though deadly in its essence, doth no harm ; 
 Being disseminate with its advance. 
 It spreads its venom. So my nephew's sins, 
 When privily enacted, hurt but him 
 In his dishonoured self. Now are they poured 
 Upon the woeful land ; for every night 
 He robs the various, darkling travellers. 
 His license grows ; his amorous intrigues 
 And shriftless dissipation fill all mouths 
 With scandal and amaze. 
 
 King Robert. And he's my son ! 
 
 He might have been unlawfully begot, 
 He's put me to such shame. — Forgive the wrath, 
 My buried queen ! who gav'st him that bright hair, 
 With all a cornfield's promise in its hue 
 When looked on by a beggar. 
 
 Albajiy. Patience ! Hear ! 
 
 He's but a boy, and childish in offence ; 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 59 
 
 So would we have him punish'd with the dark, 
 Straight, frighting walls and sudden privacy. 
 
 nd this but for a space, that in his pride 
 The simple lesson may be fixed as deep 
 As is his alphabet in memory. 
 
 King Robert. But prison ! — Oh, I feel his sun might set 
 If plunged in darkness, and I cannot think 
 That he'd come out like morning ; he would hate, 
 As Rhadamanthus, that grim judge of Hell, 
 The father who condemned him to the gloom. 
 I'll never do it. 
 
 Albany. Yet in days of old, 
 
 You shut him, a scared child with wauling mouth 
 And passionate limbs, in pitchy, cramped space 
 Of a lock'd closet. Punishment should grow 
 As grows the stature and the mind of those 
 It chastens. Storms to break the forest's will 
 Must sweep not as they dealt with seedlings ; so 
 The narrow chamber that confined the child 
 Must be a dungeon when he grows to man. 
 The chastisements are similar, degree 
 Being proportioned to the years they curb. 
 
 Kiiig Robert. True, true ! But doth a fathers power 
 enlarge 
 With life's expansion in the youth he's reared, 
 That he dare punish after that same form 
 That served him for the boy .'' 
 
 Albany. Thus Heaven does. 
 
 The chastening of conscience pricks the sense 
 Of infancy but as uneasy thorn ; 
 Manhood it fixes with the spear-like thrust ; 
 In kind, the same — in measure, different. 
 
 Douglas. We pray you listen, for we trust you grant 
 The prince deserves some check. 
 
 King Robert. Oh, sirs, I do. 
 
 \Enter Ramo7gny^ 
 
 Albany. How now? 
 
6o THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ramorgny. I've but a moment's very chink 
 
 In which to speak. I must be back e'en now, 
 Or smart among my comrades. List ! the prince 
 Is bent on holding in rash, lawless grasp 
 St. Andrews' bishopric. He starts at dawn. 
 
 King Robert. An impious thought. 
 
 Ra?no7g7ty. But there is worse behind ; 
 
 He's loosed from death, and eaten at the board 
 With one who slew his father. 
 
 Kifig Robert. He forgets 
 
 The chain that life hath locked with heavy key 
 About the child and parent, unto which 
 They must be slaves, or bear the lash of God 
 Until they perish ! He forgets all this ! 
 
 Ramorgny. I must away. 
 
 Alba7iy [aside to Rainorgny\ And bring me privily 
 The men you praised last night. \Exit Raniorgny. 
 
 [To King Robert 7\ Now you will grant 
 
 Necessity was prophet thro' our lips. 
 So, so ! — Good brother, you're persuaded now ? 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. As to the state. But, Albany, the lack 
 Of duty and respect to fatherhood ! 
 O Albany, there is no darkness — 7io7te, 
 I'd put him in for that. Another judge 
 Must sentence it. I'm partial, Albany. 
 
 Alba7iy. But for the state ? 
 
 Ki7tg Robert. Bid Allan fetch my son. 
 
 Leave me. — Yes, yes ! I know it is in vain ; 
 But let me try to touch one chord in him 
 My nature strung. I'll see you presently. 
 
 [Exeunt Albany, Douglas, and Lindsey.'] 
 The attributes of God, when bound on man, 
 Are cruel to the flesh ; His charity 
 Doth not oppress, He never craved an alms ; 
 But a king's mercy weighs on him as guilt — 
 And punishment ! Oh, there is very lead ! 
 To judge, to punish ! — And the judge is frail 
 
THE father's tragedy. 6i 
 
 And stain'd ; the punishment is hurt and shame 
 To one who shares with him a heart that aches, 
 The changeful cheek, and the tomb's last disgrace. 
 
 execrable burden ! God, O God ! 
 
 Why did'st thou bow Thy creature of an hour 
 To carry what omniscience alone 
 Should strike with and eternity confirm? 
 Fm crushed ; the'iron power is on my soul, 
 And on the body that begot my son. 
 Whom I must punish. — Nay, I'll win and save. 
 Oh, I will speak with searching mildness, reach, 
 Like the soft rain, where there is seed in him 
 The rough blast could not touch. If I am calm 
 Perchance . . . But hark ! a door was thrown ajar. 
 'Twere well to sit. — That comes from his young throat. 
 Rothsay \within^ singing]. 
 
 The devil is a sinner, 
 Ha, la, la,— la ! 
 But none can hit him fair ; 
 For who would be the winner ? 
 
 Fa, la, la, — la ! 
 Ay, who would be the winner, 
 When the devil does not care? 
 
 [^Ettters.] 
 Good even, father [lifting his cap]. 
 
 Ki?ig Robert. David ! Ah, 'tis well 
 
 You make some show of reverence. 
 
 Rothsay. I'm framed 
 
 To courtesy as morning to the light. 
 
 1 could not with a covered head insult 
 The meanest roof. 
 
 King Robert. You show me courtesy 
 
 By instinct, and yet wrong its very source ! 
 You've sinned against that name with which your birth 
 Did christen me, by taking the vile part 
 Of one who broke his origin and mould 
 That fashioned forth his life. 
 
62 THE father's TRAGEDY 
 
 Rothsay. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Because one parent has abused his state, 
 Would we dethrone all others ? By your leave, 
 You can't have a good conscience, father. 
 
 King Robert. That 
 
 I have toward you. I ever loved you'dear 
 As sunshine or as life ; have ever striven 
 To do my part toward you ; it came like joy. 
 David, that look across your lips ! [Aside.l Oh, that 
 Curdles my love as some malicious sprite 
 The moon-pale milk ! — Pve ever been to you 
 A father just and merciful. 
 
 Rothsay. Most just. 
 
 O bitterest sarcasm my life can frame ! 
 Just — and you sold me to a loathsome thing 
 You call my wife ! . . . and merciful ! You cut 
 My happy youth away as the green shoot 
 That carried summer in illumined growth 
 Ere tyrant March dissevered. Just, you say "i — 
 Who made me man and snatch from me the rights 
 That consecrate my sex. What ! merciful .? 
 And you have driven me beyond the door 
 And threshold of your favour ! Is it just 
 To breed me to my station and deny 
 The means to keep it .'* Merciful to trust 
 Backbiters' malice, comments of dislike. 
 And your own icy age ? Just ! Merciful ! 
 
 King Robert. The woman you have married was the 
 choice 
 Of Albany, your uncle ; and he said 
 'Twas for the best, and he is mostly wise. 
 
 Rothsay. Why did you trust such matter to his will 
 If you so loved me ? Your deed's eloquent 
 Of love that's mighty little ! 
 
 Kitig Robert. Oh, unkind ! 
 
 'Twas for your good, and that it failed is due 
 More to your humour and unchecked caprice 
 
THE father's tragedy. 63 
 
 Than to the harmless matron. 
 
 Rothsay. Thank you ! 
 
 King Robert. Son, 
 
 I'll bear no insolence — as if you'd been 
 Aught but a thankless prodigal. 
 
 Rothsay {drawing his dagger']. We're quits. 
 Ki7ig Robert. David, put down that dagger. Do you hear ? 
 Obey me, put that dagger down. 
 Rothsay. Ha, ha ! 
 
 King Robert. Now, David, I will be obey'd in this. 
 As in the prohibition which I make 
 To what you purpose — seizing on the wealth 
 O' the Bishop of St. Andrews. At your peril 
 You dare to touch it. 
 Rothsay. I'll not touch, but hold. 
 
 Ki7tg Robert. 'Tis at your peril. 
 
 Rothsay. Threats are dangerous — 
 
 To children. 
 
 Kifig Robert. And to disobedience 
 Is due a childish punishment. You look 
 Merely a stubborn boy deserves the whip. 
 Do as I tell you. 
 Rothsay [stabbing his father's portrait]. Now I've got a 
 sheath. 
 Obey you ! Never, never, never, never ! [Exit. 
 
 King Robert. He's torn the painted breast that cannot 
 bleed, 
 While this is heaving to let out its tides 
 By any ragged cleft. O David, David ! 
 
 \_Re-enter Albany, Douglas, and Lindsey.] 
 Albany. Hand me the water, Douglas. 
 Kitig Robert. There, there ! — there ! 
 
 It must be done. 
 
 Albany. Lindsey, the warrant, quick ! 
 
 And pen and ink. \_Exit Li?idsey.'\ He passed us with an 
 
 oath 
 Fouling his mouth. 
 
64 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 King Robert. Look there ! 
 
 Douglas. A wanton deed, 
 
 Outrageous and contemned. 
 
 [Re-enter Lindsey with the warraftt.'] 
 
 Albafty. Your signature, 
 
 And all is done. Here is a pen that's wet. 
 
 King Robert. Where must I write ? 
 
 Albany. Just there. 
 
 King Robert. The ink is black, 
 
 As if it mourned for him ; and here's the seal 
 That shuts him from the sun and closes him 
 In primal night. Fm thinking, Albany, 
 The mother from whose lightless womb he came 
 Will ne'er forgive this writing. 
 
 Albajiy [to Douglas\. Take it hence. 
 
 [Exit Douglas. 
 
 King Robert. In Falkland Castle ? 
 
 Albany. If he rides that way. 
 
 Ki7tg Robert. Yes, toward St. Andrews. 
 
 Albafty. Falkland Castle, then. 
 
 [Re-enter Douglas.'] 
 
 King Robert. I'll go to bed. — Well, gentlemen, you see 
 Fm not a dotard, though I love the boy. — 
 Bid candles to my chamber — it is dark. — 
 Oh, oh ! — One other question, Albany : 
 What is the dungeon like ? 
 
 Albany. Most merciful ; 
 
 No rocky pit and hold of tainted air 
 Or unclean life — merely a narrow room 
 Whose grated window from a passage black 
 Draws in the constant wind. 
 
 King Robert. Well, well ! — Once more 
 
 He'll sleep in his own bed, within the room 
 Where as a sunny lad I've seen his face 
 Smile, though 'twas night. I'll leave you, gentlemen. 
 
 [Exit ivith Douglas. 
 
 Albany. All's working to our end. Go, Lindsey, fetch 
 
THE father's tragedy. 65 
 
 Hither Ramorgny and his comrades. Needs 
 I speak with them in private, and meanwhile 
 Have horses ready ; boot and spur yourself 
 For momently departure. 
 
 Lindsey. With best speed. [^Exit. 
 
 Albany. All is not done : as if a prison killed 
 The nature it has fastened ! He'll come forth 
 In all the passion of galled liberty, 
 And lord it o'er me with tumultuous spite 
 And mischievous demeanour. I must hear 
 His voice no more — never ! Yet gossips say 
 Blood cries aloud against the murderer. 
 Such call were ruinous. I'll spill no blood ; 
 He shall not have a crimson advocate 
 To make the airy vault resound his part, 
 And rouse the common earth to plead for him. 
 No blood, no blood ! But he shall simply die — 
 Die as old men do from the life worn out ; 
 Die, not by violence, but slow degrees ; 
 
 {Enter Ramorgny, with Wright and Selkirk, 
 Not broken like a glass with all its wine. 
 But emptied, whole and flawless. Selkirk, Wright ! 
 
 \They approach. 
 This good observer says you hate the prince 
 For insults and neglect. I ask you, friends, 
 To hate him for this gold ; ay, more than this — 
 By handfuls as you pile your hatred up. 
 I see you have no tongues that you can use 
 Before a gentleman. I therefore ask 
 But simple "Yes" or " No" — two Httle words — 
 The longer, wealth ; the shorter, poverty. 
 With my displeasure coupled. Say your say. 
 
 Wright. Yes, I'll do anything. 
 
 Selkirk. Yes, so will I. 
 
 Albany {giving gold^ An earnest for you each. And 
 which of you 
 Knows Falkland Castle ? I am lord of it. 
 
 F 
 
66 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Wright. I've known it from my cradle. Over there 
 Against Strathtyrum. 
 
 Albany. Ay, and there you go 
 
 This very night, for ere another falls 
 And closes in the world, the prince will lie 
 In more enduring darkness. 
 
 Wright. Prison ? 
 
 Albany. Ay, 
 
 And tomb to be, for you will make it so 
 By holding from the belly and the throat 
 That which keeps life. 
 
 Wright, Clem him ? 
 
 Albany. Your word is right. 
 
 Take them away, Ramorgny ; give them all 
 The circumstances of time and place and how. 
 Bid Lindsey to me, and return anon. 
 For you must start at midnight. 
 
 [Exeunt Ramorgny, Wright, and Selkirk. 
 When all's done. 
 Ended and over, I will give it out 
 He died of wasting fever, such as oft 
 Is shut a phantom with the prisoner 
 To house together. 
 
 \Re-enter Lindsey?^ 
 
 Lindsey. Here and at your will. 
 
 Albany. To horse at once, the warrant in your pouch. 
 I heard him call his servant ; he's a-bed. 
 And we must get the start. 
 
 Lindsey. Long ere he comes, 
 
 We'll own a briery ambush. 
 
 [Re-enter Ramorgny.] 
 
 Albany. Here's Sir John. 
 
 Come to my private chamber, and tread soft. [Exeunt. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 67 
 
 Scene IV. — Courtyard. Dawn. Randolph in a drunken 
 sleep. Allan and Walter. 
 
 Walter. The lie-a-bed ! 
 
 Allan. I halted by his room. 
 
 Lord, he was snoring ! and when thus he sleeps, 
 He cries out when he's waked. 
 
 Walter. I'll watch no more. 
 
 This time o' day puts sickness into me. 
 The air is strange and empty, as just left 
 By mouldy ghosts and all the crew o' sprites. 
 
 Allan. A purple, sodden dawn. 
 
 Walter. That's overdrunk 
 
 Of water. 
 
 Allan. Is he coming? 
 
 Walter. Heigh-ho ! heigh ! 
 
 Allan. A step ! You hear 'em far off at this hour. 
 Hist! 
 
 Walter. He's a very sluggard. 
 
 \Enter Rothsay.'] 
 
 Rothsay. Where's my horse ? 
 
 Allan. Beyond the archway yonder. But, my lord, 
 I could not find your bridle. 
 
 Rothsay. Here it is. 
 
 I took it to give Jamie, for he rides 
 This morning his first charger : give it him ; 
 He likes its fashion, and he loves me. There ! 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha ! I'm making no bequest. 
 Cheer up, old Allan. 
 
 Allan. This is food for you, 
 
 Some scraps of dainty meat such as you love. 
 
 Rothsay. The early cold will make me hungry. Thanks. 
 How solemn Walter looks ! 
 
 Walter. 'Tis a queer hour. 
 
 That makes you sink within and flap your lids. 
 Heigh-ho ! heigh-ho ! 
 
 Allan. 'Tis five o'clock. 
 
68 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Rothsay, St. Andrew ! I am late.— 
 
 Give me the food. — See, 'tis a heavy sky. — 
 Farewell, farewell ! I'll make your pockets bright. 
 Bid Randolph watch for me to-morrow night. 
 
 Walter. God speed ! 
 
 Allan. God keep you ! 
 
 Rothsay. To you from my heart ! \waving\. 
 
 Father, I'm going ! \Exit. 
 
 Allan. Walt, I cannot think 
 
 Why he's so under cloud ; a little wild, 
 But that's youth's wont, and most affectionate. — 
 He's turning now. A thousand shames say I. 
 
 Walter. Oh, 'tis his uncle's doing, and the stiff, 
 Grave set o' the king's virtue. Let us feed, 
 To make sure we're not standing in a dream. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — Strathtyrum. Enter Lindsey, Ramorgny, 
 Wright^ and Selkirk. 
 
 Lindsey. Crouch ! and I'll be your watchman. 
 
 Ramorgny. What sound's that ? 
 
 Li?idsey. Some bird. 
 
 Wright. The plover. 
 
 Lindsey. Oh ! ^ 
 
 Ra?norgny. Lie close. — Down here 
 
 The shade grows dull. Is 't clouding more 1 
 
 Litidsey. Ay, fast. 
 
 Ramorgny. A horse's neigh ! 
 
 Lifidsey. Some peasant over there 
 
 Lading his heavy beast. 
 
 Wright. 'Tis peat for fires. 
 
 Li7idsey. You call it so ? — A shower ! 
 
 Wright. Bo ! a flood. 
 
 There's water in all parts about your head. 
 'Twill fall for many a day. 
 
 Lindsey. Truly. 
 
 Wright. A bet ! 
 
THE father's tragedy. 69 
 
 Ramorgny. There's something like the dumb show of a 
 blast. 
 
 Lindsey. It comes before a tempest. 
 
 Ramorgny. I am chill. 
 
 Lindsey. 'Tis he — at least a man who loops his reins 
 Over a thorn, and throws his gaze about 
 As looking for the way. Now, now ! He turns 
 Direct to us. All ready ! 
 
 [Enter Roths ay ^ ascending a slope."] 
 
 Rothsay. Oh the joy 
 
 Of being quite alone with land and air, 
 Freedom, and Youth, and Day, — 'tis otherwise 
 With Night, but I shall reach the town ere dark. 
 I've not enjoyed a solitary ride 
 Till now, when I've the throbbing fellowship 
 Of Resolution, with unhindered space 
 Before me 
 
 Lhidsey. You're deceived. In the king's name 
 
 I apprehend your person. [They surround him. 
 
 Rothsay. Do you know 
 
 I am the Prince of Scotland ? How is this ? 
 Sir William Lindsey, and Ramorgny too ! 
 You're come to fetch me back ? I'm one to four ! 
 
 Lindsey. Grip ; hold him firm ! Secure his sword. Sir 
 John. 
 
 Rothsay. Ha ! You're a pack of dastards. 
 
 Lindsey. Got it ? 
 
 Ra7norgny. Yes. 
 
 Lindsey. Fellows, a rope. 
 
 Rothsay. I will not suffer it. 
 
 You make yourselves my enemies. 
 
 Lindsey. And such, 
 
 Young man, we are. Draw back his wrists. 
 
 Rothsay. God's sake ! 
 
 You will not bring me home in such a guise, 
 Before the gaping street .'* 
 
 Lindsey. No, certainly. 
 
70 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 RotJisay. What will you do with me ? 
 
 Lindsay. Convey you straight 
 
 To Falkland Castle. 
 
 Rothsay, Where ? 
 
 Li7idsey* Your uncle's hold 
 
 Hard by. 
 
 Rothsay. Oh, take me home ! Do anything 
 But take me there. I do not mind the street. 
 Oh, take me back ! I'm ready. 
 
 Lindsey. We must keep 
 
 Our orders. 
 
 Rothsay. Let me see the warrant. 
 
 Lindsey. Here. 
 
 Your father's name and writing. 
 
 Rothsay. Put it up. 
 
 I hate him ! — John, they cannot mean me harm 
 If you are here. 
 
 Lindsey. Ramorgny, go and fetch 
 
 Yon peasant's hack. We must proceed. 
 
 Rothsay. My horse 
 
 Is yonder. 
 
 Lindsey. We shall want it. You must stride 
 The work-horse that he'll bring. 
 
 Rothsay. What does this mean ? 
 
 Lifidsey. How heavily it rains ! The streams will flood ; 
 'Twere best to move at once. Come, David Stuart, 
 These men will be your warders. 
 
 Rothsay. Do not go — 
 
 Not leave me all alone with them. Good sir, 
 I never injured you. Be merciful, 
 And take me with you, — take me home. I'll ne'er 
 Offend again. Indeed I will not. 
 
 Lindsey. On ! 
 
 Ramorgny brings the beast. ^ 
 
 Rothsay. This fellow caught 
 
 My cloak. I'm drenched. 
 
 Lindsey. They '11 tie yon peasant's rag 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 7 1 
 
 About your shoulders. 
 
 Rothsay \to Ramorgny\ Will you suffer it ? 
 Oh, you are changed to owner of this brute, 
 Vile traitor ! 
 
 Rainorgny. 'Tis a jest ; they mean no harm. 
 
 Rothsay. . . . Ramorgny, loose my sword ; 
 You swashing blackguard, 'tis not for your use. 
 
 \Ra7Jtorgny slinks off. 
 Lindsey, you still look like a gentleman. . . . 
 
 Lindsey. As such condemn the thief : see to him, keep 
 To the letter your instructions. 
 
 Wright. H'm. {Exit Lindsey. 
 
 ■ Selkirk. Greenhorn ! 
 
 An' so you do not love our company ? 
 \To IVright.] Drag him along. Sir John has skulked 
 
 away, — 
 Speckles the distance ; — now you're left to us, 
 Two merry knaves. 
 
 Rothsay. I am forsaken — lost ! 
 
 What shall I do ? — Good fellows . . . 
 
 IVright. Gulp your lies, 
 
 And dine off 'em. 
 
 Rothsay. My men, how far is it ? 
 
 Wright. Five miles, sweet boy. 
 
 Rothsay. You look good fellows . . . 
 
 Selkirk. Ay, 
 
 So says a throat that's almost stiff with fright. 
 
 Rothsay. No, no ! 
 
 Selkirk. The liar ! Hold your tongue, and come. 
 
 {Exetait. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Cotirtyard. Enter King Robert^ Albany, 
 Douglas, and Soldiers. 
 
 King Robert. No peace ! Still fret the Borders. 
 
 Albany. March is up, 
 
 The English sway'd to northward. 'Tis for us 
 This time to give them battle on their ground, 
 Nor let them ravage Scotland. 
 
 Douglas. Trust my arms. 
 
 Your grace, I'll drive them to their scarped peak, 
 And plunder every homestead. In an hour 
 We start. 
 
 Albany. You're swift, Lord Douglas. Heaven grant 
 As sure as swift ! 
 
 Douglas. You doubt it .'' 
 
 Alba?iy. Nay, my lord ; 
 
 But fortune is a wheel. 
 
 Douglas. Douglas the spring 
 
 And axis of its going. Fare you well. \^Exit with Soldiers. 
 \^E?iter Lindsey.'\ 
 
 King Robert. Lindsey ! 
 
 Albany. Black, travel-stained ! 
 
 King Robert [aside]. I will not ask — 
 
 Not blab my weakness nor express my shame. 
 A question would command my blood to rise 
 Unkingly to my face ; my voice is rough. [Goes apart. 
 
 Albany. All done ? 
 
 Lindsey. He's safe. 
 
 72 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 73 
 
 King Robert [aside]. That's well. 
 
 Albany. And lodged within 
 
 The castle's dungeon ? 
 
 Lindsey. Yes. 
 
 King Robert [aside']. There must he stay 
 
 Till, chastened by the rod of discipline, 
 He learn to know himself. 
 
 Aibajiy. Good jailers — ay ? 
 
 Lindsey. Yes, excellent ; such do their duty welL 
 
 King Robert [aside]. The father must not kiss his son 
 henceforth, 
 But painfully chastise. I scarce can bear 
 To look into the face of any man 
 With honest children of a fair repute. 
 
 Alba7iy. How yielded he ? 
 
 Lindsey. In passion and in fear. 
 
 King Robert [aside]. I'll leave this list'ning. It will move 
 my love 
 To force the bolt I've strain'd my will to plant 
 Across the door of Mercy. 
 
 Albany [to King Robert]. You would hence ? 
 The matter of the prince's durance waits 
 But time to fructify in glad event. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Falkland Castle. A Dungeon. Rothsay, 
 
 Rothsay. I cannot tell if it is night or day — 
 How many nights and days have gone outside, 
 And I been hungry here. 'Tis all one night, 
 One dream of anguish. I can only think 
 Of bread, bread— bread ! — the pulling hot desire 
 That ever strains to seize upon the thought 
 And eat it into nothing. Oh, without 
 Are many cornfields — and the river ! God ! 
 I scarcely can remember anything 
 But the white floods, and the last scrap of meat 
 I emptied from my wallet. Once I fed, 
 
74 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Could drink at will, and all the lads about 
 
 Laughing together. Past all things, 'tis strange 
 
 That once I laughed. Would I had ne'er been born ! 
 
 I'm nothing but a heap of crying bones 
 
 And maddened flesh. Oh that the earth would gape ! 
 
 Would it were famished too ! — The holy bread, 
 
 They give it to the dying . . . and the taste 
 
 Would make me live. But I'm forgotten clean, 
 
 As I had lived a thousand years ago — 
 
 Mere unrequiring dust — and every atom 
 
 Is grasping like a murderer ! I'll lie 
 
 Flat on the ground, for then my hunger's less, 
 
 It pities my submission. On my face ! 
 
 They put them with it upward in the grave 
 
 That they may rise ; but I would fall and hide 
 
 Where life can never come. The other way 
 
 Is hope — the proneness of my head despair. 
 
 [ Throws himself down and sobs. 
 
 Selkirk [withotit.'] The dog is still. 
 
 Wright [without.'] Contented with his bones. 
 
 Selkirk [withotit.'] Ha, ha ! good wit — a very lively wit ! 
 [They enter.] 
 
 Rothsay [springing 7ip.] You're bringing me some food ? 
 
 Selkirk. It's here within. 
 
 Rothsay. Give it me ! give it me ! 
 
 Selkirk. Take it from me, then. 
 
 Rothsay. Where is it ? I would rather look on it 
 Than sun or anything that eyes can see ! 
 
 Wright. Ho ! it's about him ! 
 
 Rothsay. Where ? I shall go mad 
 
 With thinking of its nearness. Give it me. 
 
 Selkirk. If you can take it from my stomach's grasp, 
 You're welcome to it. 
 
 Rothsay. Oh ! With hands, knees, lips, 
 
 I pray for bread ; and if 'twill move your grace, 
 I'll press the floor with brow as well as knees. 
 
 Wright. King Selkirk ! bless us ! 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 75 
 
 Rothsay. As you're men, and made 
 
 In this poor fading image ; as you have 
 Lips — flesh that fails, as fire at curfew-time, 
 Unless 'tis fed ; as you have appetite, 
 That struggles like a lion in his net 
 Till the first mouthful frees it ; as you've blood, 
 That is a river dried by famishment ; 
 As you have teeth, tongue, stomach, all the parts 
 That give us glad renewal ; if you've known 
 Faintness and hollow suffering and thirst ; 
 If you have seen the table spread, have drunk 
 Your fill with friends, have tasted the cold brook 
 Or seen the harvest grow, pity my want, 
 My pain, my tortured memory. 
 
 Selkirk. How fine 
 
 We talk for belly's sake! As to your feasts, 
 I've seen you with your swinish company 
 Rocking the bench from which you thrust us out 
 To the mastiff i' the yard. 
 
 Wright. We'll cast you now 
 
 Back to your barking stomach. 
 
 Rothsay. Pity me ! 
 
 I am so young — so young in my desire 
 For food — so strong, so helpless are my pangs. 
 Have you fed children ? — I am scarce eighteen. 
 I've all their need. If you will fetch me bread, 
 I'll love you better than my father. 
 
 Selkirk. Ay, 
 
 That were small love, and scarcely worth a kick. 
 \To Wright.] Come, we'll begone ; our dinner's on the air. 
 'Twill taste the better — la ! — for this lean talk. {Exeimt. 
 
 Rothsay. Bread, bread ! The mocking stones ! 
 
 [Flings hi7nself on the groitnd. 
 Would I were old. 
 With one weak thread to crack and so to die ; 
 But, oh ! the mighty cable of my youth 
 That knots me to despair ! — I ever thought 
 
76 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Death was a shadow. — I myself am Death. 
 
 I fed and never knew it ; now I starve. 
 
 Here is the skeleton I've seen in books ! 
 
 'Tis I — the knarled and empty bones. — Here, here — 
 
 The grinning dints ! I thought Death anywhere 
 
 But near my life ; and it is in the pith 
 
 And centre of my body. Horrible ! 
 
 I was conceived, shaped in Mortality's 
 
 Own ribb'd and ghastly image ; but the bread, 
 
 The bread that is denied me, hid the thing 
 
 I am — it clothed me. I am naked now. 
 
 Its clothes I want to dress this skeleton, 
 
 And wrap it from my sight. Death is not dead ; 
 
 O God ! he lives in me — in me must die ; 
 
 And I must watch him with these burning eyes, 
 
 Like candles set aflare upon my corpse. 
 
 Hell? Hell itself to this were Paradise, 
 
 For there there is no waiting for an end, 
 
 Heart-wringing expectation of a term 
 
 To madden'd vigil. Would I were in Hell, 
 
 Immortal and contemned. Ah, torturing fires. 
 
 They're in my brow ; come out and circle me. 
 
 So only I may burn with you, nor stop 
 
 To all Eternity. — A sound outside ! 
 
 Out in the blessed world where there's the sun. 
 
 The fresh-grown wheat, the wild carousing wind, 
 
 Man's gay, habitual intercourse, the chime 
 
 Of frequent laughter, happy wonted sleep. 
 
 The daily meal. Bread, bread ! I cannot starve. 
 
 Grow strange to all that gave me joy. O Earth, 
 
 Sprout me some strangled grains here in the dark ; 
 
 For see ! I die because I have no bread. — 
 
 Bread, bread ! Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Woman \without\. Now prythee hold thy peace ! 
 A cur at midnight has not sharper throat. 
 Peace, peace ! 
 
 Rothsay. They're starving me. . . . 
 
THE father's tragedy. 77 
 
 Woman. Then come this way. 
 
 I've got some tiny oaten cakes. But mind ! 
 No yelping ! — Lord, to have it follow you ! — 
 Now thou'lt be still ? 
 
 Rothsay. As death, if I may live. 
 
 Where are . . . ? 
 
 Woman. Here, here ! Til slip it through the bars. 
 Caught it ? . . . Nay, honey, do not eat so fast. 
 My word o' faith ! It is a youngster — this — 
 An' thin as trees i' the winter. 
 
 Rothsay. More — one more ! 
 
 Woman, There — gently ! 'Tis so dim. His poor pinched 
 sides 
 Have known some soft embraces. Hey, to think 
 He is not in his coffin ! 
 
 Rothsay. What t 
 
 Wo77ian. Nay then — 
 
 Rothsay. Another one ! 
 
 Woman. I'll put thee all I have. 
 
 Rothsay. But you will come again — not let me die, 
 Go to that other prison, where the worms 
 Cling like a second famine, and the walls 
 Are built as firm as these, but have no bars 
 Where comfort can slip in. 
 
 Woman. I'll come, poor lad. 
 
 What is thy name ? 
 
 Rothsay, David — Prince David. 
 
 Woman, What ! 
 
 Our bonnie wicked prince ! — our madcap prince. 
 Of whom they tell such tales ! The Lord above ! 
 How came you here, my liege ? 
 
 Rothsay. I cannot tell. 
 
 My father sent me. 
 
 Woman Good King Robert ? 
 
 Rothsay, Yes. 
 
 Curse him ! 
 
 Woman, Hush ! hush ! 
 
7$ THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Rothsay. It is a father's deed. 
 
 I thought to foster was his very charge ; 
 Even the beasts do that. But you are come, 
 And have so kind a voice. Is 't possible 
 To let me have some water ? 
 
 Wojuan. How, my lord ? 
 
 There is no jug will pour between the bars, 
 Nor any vessel. 
 
 Rothsay. I shall die of drought ; 
 
 And the bread makes it worse. My lips are stiff 
 As clay in August. I can eat no more. 
 There, father, to your face ! [ Throws down a cake. 
 
 Woman. Patience, my lord, 
 
 I cannot think he knows. 
 
 Rothsay. He's cast me off, 
 
 Prey to the thirst and hunger he has chained 
 Within me from my birth ! He's slipped the leash ! 
 Help me ! 
 
 Wofnan. I'll do the utmost woman can. 
 [Aside.] There's Emmeline the armourer's wife. — Be sure 
 I'll help you if I can. 
 
 Rothsay. Then I shall live. 
 
 Live and be young again — perchance escape. 
 I will be patient — there's the sound of life 
 Within your voice ; it wakens me. You've seen 
 The sun to-day, and I shall see 't again. 
 You've brought me hope. — I cannot talk. 
 
 IVoman. Nay, nay. — 
 
 Bless me ! His eyes still ask ! — I'll come anon. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Another part of Falkland Castle. Enter 
 
 Emmeline. 
 Emmeline [sings\ 
 
 Death hath ta'cn my child to nurse, 
 
 Yet he keeps his shrill small cry ; 
 Death would choke him in his hearse, 
 
 Pat of earth his lullaby ; 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 But my baby cannot rest 
 
 While the milk leaps in my breast. 
 
 Death must come wnth famish'd mouth, 
 
 Draw the bubbling draughts away, 
 Ere he still the baby's drouth, 
 
 Turn the pucker'd hps to clay ; 
 While the white drops trickle down, 
 Death will ne'er uncrease his frown. 
 
 Come, then. Death, and dig a grave 
 
 At my heart's spring, ere it burst 
 Its twin-brimming fountains brave 
 
 At the wailing of his thirst ; 
 Quiet in your arms he'll stay, 
 If you drain his life away. 
 
 [Enter Cotmtry Woman. 
 Wojnan. Now sweet good soul . . . 
 Emineline. I must not speak with you. 
 
 Wojnan. 'Tis pert for such as I to say a word ; 
 But answer me one thing, good mistress, one, — 
 Have you not heard strange cries ? 
 
 Emineline. I thought the birds 
 
 Were noisy ; but 'tis clearer and distressed. 
 I've heard it many times. 
 
 Wo7nan. 'Tis not the birds, 
 
 But a poor soul that's caged. 
 
 Erninelme. A prisoner ? 
 
 Woman. Ay, mistress, an' they're clemming him to death. 
 If you could see him, mistress, look on him ! 
 His hair is tattered like the yellow fern 
 On our December wolds ; his cheeks — nay, hear I — 
 As snows in thaw are dwindled, an' he weeps. 
 He's but a youth, and, mistress, he's our prince. 
 Emmeliiie. Then let us help him. 
 
 Wojnan. I have ta'en him cakes — • 
 
 You know how fine we make 'em, an' 'twas well 
 The prison-bars are close. I fairly quaked 
 To see his greed. But he is thirsty still. 
 Emmeline. We'll take him drink. 
 
8o THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Woman. Alas, the bars are close 
 
 Beyond all hope, poor soul ! 
 
 Emmelme. Can we do naught ? 
 
 Woman. I cannot, mistress . . . but — 
 
 Emjneline. You think I can. 
 
 I'm ready. 
 
 Wofnan. But you never will forgive 
 That I should tell you — 
 
 Emmeline. Do not frighten me, 
 
 Or say to me aught I must never hear. 
 What can I do ? 
 
 Woman. Give what you gave the child . . . 
 
 I speak it not in lewdness . . . but your milk 
 Is all the charity that God will grant. — 
 I'll go away. 
 
 If you should wave your handkerchief, I'll come 
 An' take you to the place. [Exit. 
 
 Emmeline. He is not pure. 
 
 None mention him with honour, and the woman 
 Who pleads for him hath lost her holy fame. 
 It may be she'd beguile my innocence, 
 And draw me into sin with pity's net. 
 But still it was not in her look or words ; 
 For falsehood leaps not thus within the eyes. 
 Nor from the mouth springs forth ; it ever comes 
 With tardiness and caution. She is true, 
 And then . . . O woman's shrine on which God lays 
 A husband's faith and a babe's confidence, 
 White altar for Love's consecrated gifts, 
 Could Pity desecrate the pale retreat 
 Of modest wedded peace and motherhood .? — 
 The milk is throbbing in my breast, to stay 
 The grief of hunger. Oh, I must not close 
 The fountain of God's mercy with rough pride, 
 For He will keep it holy, and the eyes 
 Of misery are pure. In our dread times 
 Of war and woe, too many are the veils 
 
THE father's tragedy. 8 1 
 
 Raised from our easier days that I should shrink 
 To stir my clinging wimple. I will go. 
 He had a mother once, and as her child 
 ril think of him and go. — My handkerchief. 
 \Re- enter Wo in an ^^ 
 Woman. The saints be with you ! 
 
 Ejnmelitie. Take me where T go. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — The same. A Dungeon. Rothsay and 
 Etnmeline. 
 
 Rothsay. Do not leave me yet. — 
 
 Emmeline. I'm called. 
 
 Rothsay. You must not put me from the milk, 
 And leave me. God ! I'm fed with innocence, 
 And like a baby fall upon my sleep. 
 Keep close ! 
 
 Emjnelijte. My lord, lie down upon the ground ; 
 It may be you will rest. 
 
 Rothsay. Ay, if you watch. 
 
 I cannot sleep alone. 
 
 The very air is starved and shrieks at me 
 For the want of human breath. Oh, let me feel 
 The succour of a voice. Put me to sleep 
 With some soft cradle-words. 
 
 Ennneli7ie. My memory 
 
 Is crazed ; I cannot think of them. 
 
 Wojnan [without\ Oh, fly ! 
 
 Mistress, be quick, there is the sound of steps. 
 
 Rothsay. Unless you watch me, Slumber will not come. 
 For I should be too secret to be found 
 Of one so blind. I cannot lay my hands 
 On any of my senses ; all's confused ; 
 All's lost. . . . 
 
 I've got one little cake within my vest — 
 I shall forget where I have hidden it, 
 
 G 
 
82 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Unless you watch. It's growing dizzy now, 
 And you keep drawing back. 
 
 Einutelijie \turning away]. Lie down, my lord. 
 It's rest you need. 
 
 IVoman \withoiit\. Oh, mistress, we are lost ! 
 
 Rothsay. What ! You are come again ! 
 
 Einmeline. To bid good-night, 
 
 And settle you to sleep : you'll say your prayers? 
 
 Rothsay. I have no prayers ; I'm back now to the 
 child. . . . 
 It's a land of milk and honey. ... Oh ! I drowse. . . . 
 Don't stir ! 
 
 Emmeline. He's breathing heavily ; he's gone. 
 
 Woma7i [without]. They're on us ! 
 
 Einmeli7ie. He's asleep. 
 
 Now may I 
 
 [Enter Wright, Selkirk, with the Country Woman.] 
 
 Selkirk. Hang ! 
 
 Woj/ian. For pity's sake, save her ! 
 
 She's kind and young : 'twas I that forced her come 
 With story of the pain in yonder cell. 
 She came not of herself. 
 
 Wright. Nor by herself 
 
 Shall feel the noose. The gallows carries two. 
 Old nurse of Satan ! 
 
 Woman. You are beasts, and worse 
 
 Because you look like men, to starve the child 
 Within there— pinch his bonnie youth and wring 
 Tears from his royal eyes ; and then to hang 
 This dearie. . . . 
 
 Wright. Ho ! a cord ! She'll deafen us. 
 
 Sly harlots ! 
 
 Selkirk. He's spent everything on such. 
 
 Now 'tis your time to pay. He's bankrupt, lass. 
 
 Emmeline. These insults worse than kill me. 
 
 Woman. Hold your tongues, 
 
 You savaucs ! 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 63 
 
 Selkirk. Old watch and bawd ! 
 
 Emmeline. Ye heavens, 
 
 Make haste to end my hearing ! 
 
 Wright. Off with them. 
 
 The deil ! He's gone to sleep. Spite o' the bars, 
 You've charmed him. 
 
 Einmelirie. When he wakes . . , and oh ! we're dead 
 I must not think. 
 
 Woman. He will not wake again. 
 
 Heaven bless you ! he will wake in Paradise. 
 Ye murderers ! you'll have it hot in hell. 
 God's mother, curse you ! 
 
 Einmelitie. Hush ! we will not speak. 
 
 Let us die still. 
 
 Selkirk. Cords ! cords ! 
 
 Wright. Then gurgle out 
 
 Your devil's threats ! 
 
 Einmelitte. Oh! . . . if my Henry comes, 
 
 He'll find me dead and learn about my death; 
 He will not like it here ; but when he's taught 
 A little of the angels, he will smile 
 And take me to his arms. I'm ready now. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — Kifig Robert.^ and Prince James on the hearth, 
 Albany^ and the Duchess Marjorie. 
 
 King Robert. The wind is raging ! it afflicts my head, 
 And stirs it to confusion. 
 
 Albatiy. A wild night 
 
 For those not warmly housed ; of dark presage 
 To our camped soldiers if they couch to rise 
 To-morrow to a battle. As they lie. 
 Their death-shrieks like pale ghosts will stride to them 
 Across the wailing air, and — curse the fools ! — 
 Unman them for the fray. 
 
 King Robert. O Robert, peace ! 
 
84 THE father's tragedy, 
 
 I shudder. — Draw up nearer to the fire. 
 An ingle-nook is gracious at such hours, 
 When all are gathered round it. 
 
 Albany. Truth ! The glow 
 
 Is pleasant, and doth ruddily assure 
 The heart of safety. 
 
 King Robert. 'Tis a black, black night. 
 
 D' you think it cold ? 
 
 Albany. Scarcely for March. 
 
 King Robert. , And yet 
 
 The blaze is welcome. 
 
 Albany. 'Tis a trifle chill 
 
 For those of fearful mind. 
 
 King Robert [aside]. Then he is colci — 
 James, shall you be afraid to sleep to-night 
 In all this noisy darkness ? 
 
 Prince /ames. Father, no ! — 
 
 I'm not afraid. — My noble hound, you've got 
 A comfortable ear. 
 
 King Robert. The dauntless child ! 
 
 Albany. Our army will be routed by the air 
 Before it face the English. May to-night 
 Find it within some guarded vale that's slow 
 To open gates and parley with the storm. 
 There snaps a limb of some aghasted oak ! 
 The Devils make Inferno of our woods. 
 
 King Robert. Hark ! Listen ! [Aside.] Oh, I wonder if 
 he wears 
 The little relic that his mother tied 
 About his neck. 
 
 Albany, I'm speaking of the troops — 
 
 Kiftg Robert [to Prince James]. Will David sleep like 
 you 1 
 
 Pi'ince James. He fears the dark. 
 And, father — 
 
 Albany. James, you're pressing on the dog. 
 
 His sides can scarcely bear your elbow-joint, 
 
THE father's tragedy. 8 
 
 D 
 
 Though willing for your head. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Is he asleep ? 
 
 Prince Jaines. No, no ; not he ! He's listening by the 
 fire, 
 As we are, to the rattle out of doors. 
 
 Albany. Ah, as I told you, when my words were crashed 
 By falling of the oak, our army lies 
 In danger from the weather. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. My poor lad, 
 
 My David, who is fearful of the dark. 
 Would he were here this bleak and scolding night ! 
 He used to throw a cushion on the floor, 
 And lay him down as featly as the hound, 
 His foolish yellow head against my knee ; 
 And so he'd laugh and chat and sing old songs, 
 Or gaily sneer at our last grave debate. 
 Drop sudden crude suggestions that anon 
 Our older counsel ripened into act ; 
 Until for some light word I'd give rebuke. 
 When either with a peal of raillery 
 He'd toss me back a penitent bright face, 
 Or with a shaded humour spring apart, 
 No place from me too far. Good Albany, 
 You would not have our Rothsay longer shut 
 In such grim-tempered darkness .'* 
 
 Albany. Fifteen days ! 
 
 'Tis but a slender punishment, my liege. 
 
 King Robei't. Enough, enough ! The terror of this night 
 Doubles the term of his captivity, 
 And makes of it a month. 
 
 Albany. We'll send for him 
 
 Before the week hath touched its sacred goal. 
 [Aside.'] By this he must be dead. 
 
 King Robert. Why now I'm warm in spirit, which the fire 
 With all the urgent comfort of its face 
 Could not effect ; I'll send for him anon. 
 
 [Albany paces the roo7n. 
 
86 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 How glad I am in soul ! Yet I confess 
 I'm half afraid to meet him. Now all's well, 
 ril think of him no more. 
 
 [^Enter Allan.'] 
 
 Allan. Your porridge, sire. 
 
 King Robert. Put it away, I have no appetite ; 
 The turmoil makes me disinclined to eat. 
 Good Allan, set it on the hearth and stir. 
 Have you all supped? [7b Albany.'] Why do you pace 
 about .? 
 
 Albany. My foot is gone to sleep. 
 
 King Robert. When did you sup ? 
 
 Albany. Like you, I have no stomach for a meal, 
 [Aside.] All that I eat is heavy in my throat. 
 As if I gulped the bait on Hell's own hook. [Reseats himself. 
 This rain will smear our army's pride. 
 
 King Robert. Too sure. 
 
 Yet are the troopers hardy and rough-bred. 
 Trained by strict weather to all skiey chance. 
 And led by one whose buff coat of bull's hide 
 Enfeebles all the water of the clouds, 
 And makes it folly. 
 
 Prince James. Black old Archibald ! 
 
 Allan, he is a mountain, and his voice 
 A waterfall — Give me that oaten lump 
 Upon your spoon. — There, dog ! — another one ! — 
 Mouth open ! 
 
 King Robert. Allan, stir the embers up ; 
 They lay themselves to rest. 
 
 Prince J ai7ies. A blaze, a blaze ! 
 
 Brave ! They put out red tongues, and roar for food 
 Like the big lion. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. But the wind is shrill 
 Above their noise. — What's that ? [Shriek without. 
 
 Albany. What ? 
 
 Alla7t. Some one dies ; — 
 
 Mother of Christ ! — for look you at the dog ; 
 
THE father's tragedy. 87 
 
 He shivers as an ague, an' his whine 
 
 Is like a sinner's, drowning in hell's pitch. 
 
 The Banshee ! Hark ! 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Allan is credulous. 
 'Tis an old story when the wind is sad, 
 And wails about a corner. By the tower 
 I've noted that it cries most audibly. 
 
 King Robert. Ah, Allan ! how you struck upon my fear, 
 And thumped on it as 'twere a crazy drum. 
 Brother, a woman is more rational 
 Than three old men. 
 
 Allan. Well, sire, I know the wind 
 
 Hath got no breast from which such grief can moan ; 
 An' why, sire, should the dog be scared with things 
 That touch not man ? 
 
 King Robert. Nay, nay, but he is still. \Shriek repeated. 
 Again, again ! It is a voice, my God ! — 
 You know it, Albany ; your eyes are cow'd. 
 You cannot lift them, tho' you shake your head. 
 It calls me, calls ! — Allan, you say the voice 
 Is full of death and direful prophecy. 
 O Allan ! do you think you know its tones ? 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. The same the blast makes ever when 
 like Jews 
 It lifts its lamentations by a wall. 
 
 Alba7iy. I think 'tis so. 
 
 King Robert. Think, think ! But is your thought 
 
 The very cause ? or do the elements 
 Speak out what we are deaf to in our souls. 
 And force a hearing ? 
 
 Albany. Should I know? How? why? 
 
 This is mere fooling. Mass ! D' you think of me 
 As privy-counsellor to Doomsday, man ! 
 It may be hurricane ; it may be speech. 
 
 {Shriek third time repeated. 
 
 King Robert. It is his voice ! — Your shoulder, Albany — 
 Open the door ! No matter if I fall. 
 
88 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Will it not open — never? Does it keep me 
 
 Like a tomb's gate eternally at stand ? 
 
 Burst every lock ! [// opetis. 
 
 David, my son, my son, thy father hears ! 
 
 Thou shalt be freed, shalt come to me again. 
 
 Nothing shall hinder — chains, nor bars, nor bolts ; 
 
 Nothing shall dare oppose my tyrant love 
 
 That binds and looses. David, thou art free 
 
 This moment. I have heard thee call, my son. 
 
 And all my soul hath answered thoic artf?-ee. 
 
 Alba7iy. Come in ! The madness of this howling air 
 Hath made you its interpreter. Come in ! 
 Let it rage on in accents of its own. 
 And give it not our language. Come away ! 
 
 King Robert, He calls no more ; his misery is done, 
 For I have promised comfort and release. 
 
 Albany \aside\. This burthen on my shoulder is too much. 
 Brother, you lean 
 
 With desperate w^eight on me. A lighter hold ! 
 Pr'ythee, to save my breath hang not so hard. 
 
 Ki?tg Robert. The very soul of hearing finds no sound, 
 No slightest human sigh in all this wind. 
 Albajiy. Now shall you in with me. 
 Ki7ig Robert. • How dare you put 
 
 My son and I apart ? 
 
 Albajty. The wind convicts ! 
 
 If you give ear 
 
 To a chance spasm in the air to fix 
 On me a guiltiness . . . 
 King Robert [still li5tenifig\. There may be more. 
 Duchess Marjorie. They are possessed. I thought that 
 Albany 
 Had nerve and reason stronger. 
 
 Allan. The king's hair 
 
 Flics round like foam ; his breath is much distressed. 
 We must entreat him back, — an' yet to stir 
 Seems irreligious. 
 
THE father's tragedy. 89 
 
 Prince Jaines. I will go. Stay here, 
 And I'll beseech him shut the door again. 
 
 Kt?ig Robert. Nothing ! 'Tis gone ; and yet I fancy still 
 It bleats upon the air. 
 
 Albany. No j on my soul, 
 
 All's over. . . . 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. Stay ! 
 
 Alba?iy {aside\ I've said it audibly. 
 
 My lips have witness'd 'gainst me. 
 
 Prince James., Father, sir ! 
 
 You're cold and weak to bear this chilly gale. 
 Do not stay longer out. 
 
 King Robert. I will not, boy. 
 
 James ! 
 
 Albany- You are wise to move. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. My child, your hand. 
 
 Albany, shut the door [rettirns to his seat., led by Prince 
 
 James\. And, boy, to bed ! 
 It was the wind that shrieked. \Exit Prijice James. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Well, heard you aught 
 
 But windy fret and uproar 1 
 
 Albajty. If my liege 
 
 Will pardon, I'll go start a messenger 
 To Falkland, that your mind may be at peace. — 
 \_Aside.'\ This wanton blast beguiles me. Conscience is 
 A fool 0' the weather and the time o' night. — 
 I've your authority to send this man ? 
 
 Ki?ig Robert. That of my fatherhood and royalty, 
 Which hand in hand instructs you so to do. 
 
 Ai.lbany. I will ; and if we do not meet again — 
 As I'll retire to rest — good-night, my liege ; 
 And keep your mind from brooding on the fears 
 Absence and Love, with magic craft combined, 
 Both sorcerers, have raised for us this eve. 
 
 Ki?ig Robert. Robin, good-night, if you can shift to sleep. 
 
 {^Exit Albany. 
 Cries in the whirl of night bode . . . ? 
 
90 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Nothing. 
 
 Allan. Death. 
 
 King Robert. I think you are mistaken there — distress. 
 
 Allan. As you will, sire. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. And are they near of blood, 
 
 Or even kin at all for whose decease 
 The air is said to toll ? 
 
 Allaft. I scarcely know. 
 
 But I should say for any fate hath put 
 Near to our int'rest, sire. 
 
 Kitig Robert. Then may this groan 
 
 For Douglas rive the throbbing atmosphere. 
 The army on whose welfare I have set 
 My nearest hopes may, at this very hour, 
 Perish in blood, their leader struck to earth, 
 With none to ring a dirge but senseless gusts. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie [aside]. He almost smiles. Ah ! deepest 
 selfishness 
 That would prefer the doom of honest souls. 
 Led by a great and high-deserving chief. 
 To loss of its own pampered libertine. — 
 My father by the law, you give to fate 
 Him, who by nature is my father's self. 
 I am his daughter ; but I'm blunt in soul, 
 And you so tender-strung that, at all cost, 
 You get you comfort. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. Oh, I'm base indeed 
 
 For such obHvion to cross my sense 
 As hid your dear relationship to him 
 I fancied slain. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Nay, I am used to such. 
 
 King Robert. My girl, forgive me, for you cannot know 
 What it is works within a parent's breast ; 
 'Tis the begetting makes the difference, 
 And so my passion grew. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Your subjects ? 
 
 Ki)ig Robert. Hush! 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 9 1 
 
 This is all talk ; we'll build no argument 
 
 On these disjointed rumours of the storm. 
 
 Your father is not bleeding. Cheerly, lass ! 
 
 All's well. [Exit Duchess Marjoie with a distant obeisance. 
 
 'Tis very quiet out of doors — 
 Unnatural ! — I'll go and look at James. \Exit. 
 
 Scene VI. — Same Apartment. Enter Walter, Randolph, 
 
 and Allan. 
 
 Walter. Nothing from Falkland ? 
 
 Allan. Nothing. 
 
 Walter. From the wars ? 
 
 Allan. Nothing. 
 
 Walter. An empty mouth, an empty mouth ! 
 
 Alla7i. Better than have it filled with bitterness. 
 I look for no good news. 
 
 Walter. Thou croaking man, 
 
 Thou raven, soul of evil augury, 
 Wherefore bad news .'* 
 
 Allan. It is the feeling, man, 
 
 And the dull sky. 
 
 Walter. God bless your sense, I feel 
 
 As merry, ay, as merry as the morn. 
 The cricket, lark, or any earthly thing 
 That figures my condition ; and the clouds 
 From sullen flash to gay as seconds pass, 
 So I can build my humour on the sky 
 As well as you. 
 
 Randolph. You can, my chanticleer ! 
 
 Walter. Marry, as thus : the prince will home again. 
 The king for very love wall give him gold, 
 The gold will give us feast and merriment, 
 And jolly cups and wenches' jocund lips ; 
 All these delights in turn will give us heart 
 To celebrate authentic victory 
 Of Scotland o'er the bragging English hinds. 
 
92 THE father's TRAGEDY, 
 
 {_Eiiter Ralph.'] 
 Ralph. O lads, defeat ! 
 
 Walter. Come, come !— an ugly game ! 
 
 We'll play at victory, if play we must. 
 Victoria ! 
 
 Ralph. All's over, all is lost ; 
 Douglas a captive, with a gored right eye 
 And spouting wounds ; our host but helpless limbs 
 And bleeding impotence that cannot meet 
 The wing'd attack of the mere birds of Heav'n. 
 The English Hotspur and our traitor March 
 Fell on the trustful bands, adorn'd with spoil, 
 And shook them to the nakedness of death. 
 Allan. Where fell the woful chance ? 
 Ralph. At Homildon. 
 
 Walter. Allan, thou wry-faced prophet, I have done ! 
 The prince will next be either churchyard's corpse 
 Or church's convert. I will never speak 
 High-stomach'd language more. 
 Ra?idolph. How went the fight ? 
 
 Ralph. Why thus : — our Douglas, in audacious fit 
 (Foolhardy as his wont), in fated hour, 
 Bore up our army to a topping brow 
 Of moorland, naked, tree-unbonneted, 
 And open to the arrows' swift assault — 
 There held our men a target to the foe, 
 A troop for slaughter ; till a voice arose 
 That thrill'd the pulseless manhood of our host 
 With surgent valour,— high it rose and clear 
 Above the whizzing darts, the foeman's yell,— 
 Higher, as if it scorn'd opposing sound — 
 John Swinton's knightly voice that cried aloft : 
 " Why stand we here as stags upon the hill. 
 Dart-stricken brutes, when down these drenched slopes 
 Naught hinders that we rush upon the foe 
 To fight as victors or to fall as men ?" 
 They wake; they gather with a forward sway; 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 Death is forgotten, ay, and deadly feud ; 
 
 For young lord Gordon, whose good sire was slain 
 
 By Swinton's hand, unmindful of revenge, 
 
 Bow'd down and pray'd for knighthood from the sword 
 
 Proved mortal to his house ; for " ne'er again," 
 
 Said he, " shall I encounter one so brave." 
 
 Amid the surging bands he said the vow, 
 
 Received the hasty stroke ; then with a rush 
 
 The two fair soldiers clave them out a path 
 
 To th' English centre and were overborne 
 
 \Enter Albany and Lindsey.'] 
 
 Albany. With all our host. 'Tis miserable news ! 
 
 [Lindsey draws him apart. 
 
 Lindsey. The streets are full of citizens grim-brow'd, 
 With rancour in their throats. 
 
 Albany. I like it not 
 
 That thus they are incensed ; for in such mood 
 There's not a crime, however strange and black, 
 But they will hang it on their rulers' necks 
 To make a shame at which to point and jeer. 
 
 Lindsey. It carries danger, as your grace conceives, 
 And much I fear what other news may come. 
 
 Albany. Ay, Lindsey, there's the peril's very head. 
 We must be firm and stablish'd in our looks, 
 And in our speech most sad and circumspect. 
 Yon is Ramorgny, and the messenger 
 I sent upon his heels to slay the men 
 Who did the deed that never must be known. 
 
 [Enter Ramorgny and Messenger.'] 
 
 Good news from Falkland .'' When returns the prince ? 
 
 Rafnorgny. Never ! 
 
 Albany. A most impossible, loathed word ! 
 
 [Aside to Ramorgny.'] Colour your ashen cheeks, you 
 
 raving fool ! — 
 What, in my castle do you say he died ? 
 
 Messenger. It was a sort of dysent'ry, your grace. 
 
94 THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 
 
 Rainorg^iy \jiside\. Oh, if it were ! — his face impeach'd 
 my soul, 
 A keen, malignant, bitter, cursing face — 
 
 Albany. Have they yet buried him ? 
 
 Messenger. Your grace, they have, 
 
 With private ceremonial. 
 
 Albany. Where ? where ? 
 
 Messejtger. Lindores. 
 
 Ramorgny. And there he lies with the quick fiends 
 
 Bound in his stony clay — 
 
 Albany [aside']. Tame your wild face ! — 
 
 Fronting this doom I stand so terror-struck 
 That wail and grief are cow'd as childish things 
 Before an elder agitation. 
 The king ! 
 
 Lindsey. I dare not think. — \Advancing to Waller,'] The 
 prince is dead. 
 
 Waller. What, the dear prince ! 
 
 Allan. The kind young prince ! 
 
 Ralph. Our mate ! 
 
 Allan. His spirit pass'd away that stormy night. 
 Did he die hard ? 
 
 Albany. Why ? 
 
 Messenger. No, 'twas short and fierce, 
 
 A feverous infection. 
 
 Allatt. Prison-caught ? 
 
 Oh, the poor king ! 
 
 Walter. Mine eyes are wilful, Ralph. 
 
 I loved him. An' he'll drink a rouse no more. 
 
 Ralph. Our days are over. 
 
 Randolph. We'd best go repent ; 
 
 For there's no liveliness in any sin, 
 Or chink of coin within our company. 
 
 Ralph. I'll treat thee to a flagon for his sake. 
 
 Randolph. An' while our throats are moist we'll pipe a 
 mass. 
 
 Ralph. Nay, pardie ; but we'll give the priest his cup, 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 And set him to the chanting. 
 
 Randolph. Come your way. \Exeuiit. 
 
 Albany. This is the very hour my brother stirs. 
 He will be here anon, and who will speak t 
 
 Lindsey. Not I, your grace. 
 
 Raviorgny. {aside\. Nor I, by my lost soul. 
 
 Messe?ii^er. Nor I, for all the worth of very life. 
 
 Albany, Varlet ! 
 
 Messenger. The torture shall not move my lips. 
 
 Ranwrgny. Death shall not force my tongue to utterance. 
 
 Lindsey. Ruin and exile shall not ope my mouth. 
 
 Alba?iy. Then must I do 't. 
 
 Liftdsey. You must, your grace. 
 
 Ratnorgny. And will. 
 
 Messenger. We humbly pray you. 
 
 Albany {asidel. How my flesh is thrill'd 
 
 And my speech curdles. Let me face the deed 
 One moment and grow strong — then bury it 
 Beneath the soil of consciousness so deep 
 The death-bed quake alone can rive the sod 
 That over-presses it. With this resolve 
 I have built up my fortitude — I wilh 
 \_Enter King Robert^ Prince Janies^ a?id the Duchess Marjorie?^ 
 
 King Robert. O woe is me for a defeated king ! 
 In vain they changed my name from woful John 
 To favour'd Robert — vainly was it done. 
 Ye are all silent. Is it fond respect 
 To hoary shame and vanquish'd royalty .'' 
 No wonder that your brows are black to-day. 
 
 Albany. It is the mournful badge of minds bereaved. 
 
 King Robert. Many the dead to mourn. 
 
 Albany. One more, my liege. 
 
 King Robert. Is my son well ? 
 
 Albany. Ay, as we count it bless'd. 
 
 Kijtg Robert. Not dead 1 
 
 \_Pause ; Exit Raniorg7iy wildly. 
 
 Allan. Sweet majesty, at peace with God. 
 
96 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 King Robert. Dead, dead ! You tell an old man he is dead. 
 I've look'd on in a cradle — who was full 
 Of light and movement — when ? Whom I begot. 
 Help, help ! I'm sinking ! — Whither .? To the depths 
 To find him who for evermore is gone ? — 
 No end to where I sink ! \Faints. 
 
 Albany, A pillow here ! 
 
 Raise up his head — this is unmanly grief, 
 Tho' eloquent for pardon. Chafe his hands. 
 We'll keep a silence till the fit is pass'd. 
 
 King Robert, Oh, I shall never find him. I have gone 
 To deepest depths of Hell and utmost space — 
 For higher there's no warranty to go. — 
 Still he may be at Falkland. 
 
 Albafty. Brother, no. 
 
 At Lindores is he buried. 
 
 King Robert. Put from sight ! — 
 
 God help my unbelief ! 
 
 Allan. Be still. He prays. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. When did he die .'* 
 
 Messenger, The night of the great storm. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Of what complaint 1 
 
 Messenger. A fever. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. And you said 
 
 He's buried ? 
 
 Ki7ig Robert, Stop this catechism ! Stop ! 
 A king's command. She's had. no offspring — she ! 
 
 Duchess Marjo7ie, None. 
 
 King Robert. Allan, ask them if he died a-bed, 
 
 Or on the floor as he had been a dog. 
 Who was my first begotten .^ 
 
 Messenger. There was straw. 
 
 King Robert. Shut his vile mouth ! 
 
 Albany. Control this lawless grief. 
 
 King Robert. How dare you speak who sway'd my 
 anxious love 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 97 
 
 With sly, Satanic counsel ; you who drew 
 The net you forced me spin about his life ; 
 You who, miscaird my brother, art my foe, 
 A murderer, false witness. ^Twas your speech 
 Beguiled my fatherhood ; 'twas in your fort, 
 Your nest of bloodshed, that my son breathed out 
 The last of his short days. Traitor, begone ! 
 I read you through and through. 
 
 Albany. I will not stay. 
 
 My pride instructs me, till this rage is out, 
 To spare my ill-starr'd, guiltless presence. Thus 
 I take my leave, till calmer thoughts shall claim 
 A penitent recall. Be comforted. 
 
 King Robert. A hard-mouth'd, shallow wish ! O Albany, 
 *Tis but the sword's point that is in my heart ; 
 All the long cruel blade has yet to cut. \Exit Albany. 
 
 I know not how to grieve ; but time to come 
 Will find me perfect at it. This is strange, 
 That all my sorrow is but prophecy. 
 
 Allan. Could he but weep ! 
 
 Cries \withouL'\ Curses on Albany ! 
 
 The traitor ! murderer ! our prince, our lord ! 
 
 King Robert. My David, thou wilt never be a king. 
 God lets me put that little strip of balm 
 About my bleeding love. It falls on thee, 
 [^Clasping James] My last, last son, the whelming heritage, 
 On thee, who still art mine ! Here, to my breast, 
 And let it feel possession — carry it, 
 And crush it into permanence ! 
 
 Allan. He weeps. 
 
 The red grief stains his lids. 
 
 King Robert. Thou shalt not go, 
 
 As went thy brother. Oh, to think he's dead ! 
 Within his fair and newly-fashion'd case 
 The pendulum of life ho longer moves ; 
 His face no longer answers to the hours, 
 Marking with lips and eyes their various flight ; 
 
 H 
 
98 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Time has no mirror in his countenance ; 
 There is no voice in him to sound its lapse ; 
 The cunning clock of his mortality 
 Is stopp'd for ever, and my heart hath lost 
 The count of all her days. 
 
 Prince James. Oh, do not weep ! 
 
 King Robert. Not till I have my privacy. I'll go 
 Straight to my inner chamber. Allan, come, 
 Whom I must burthen with this grieved frame. \Exeuiit. 
 
 Walter. Well I believe that Albany is false. 
 He never loved the prince. I've deadly fear 
 That there hath been foul play. Oh, if there has 
 'Twill be reveal'd ; for sin doth ever blab 
 And show the woman thro' its darkest crafts. 
 To think that all our merriment is done. 
 Our youth closed up and seal'd ; our comrade gone 
 To lie beneath the ground where we must go. 
 
 \Re-enter Allan^ 
 How fares the king ? 
 
 Allan, But just beyond the door 
 
 He fell at once into a second faint. 
 And so was borne to bed, where now he lies 
 As if extinct. I am suspicious, Walt. 
 Let's go and hear what rumour holds the crowd. {Exeunt. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Edinburgh : Room in the Mo7tastery of 
 Holy Cross. Eiiter Walter and Allan. 
 
 Walter. His grace of Albany will soon be here ; 
 He comes to be acquitted by the king 
 Of any share in God's prerogative — 
 A natural death. 
 
 Allan. Keep down thy bitter voice ; 
 
 No man creates a fever. 
 
 Walter. Not so sharp ! 
 
 I think thy speech is full as sour as mine ; 
 Man cannot starve his fellow ; he's too soft 
 And pitiful for that. 
 
 Allan. Oh whisper me, 
 
 If you must blab street tales. 
 
 Walter. No fear to speak 
 
 What opes the general lip and blanches it. 
 Think you, mine Allan, that the king hath heard 
 How all men say his elder son was slain. 
 
 Allan. Ay, Walt; he will not eat until we name 
 Prince James ; then shudders through his ancient form, 
 And groans within the hollow of his chest, 
 " Starved, starved ! " I never knew so large a grief. 
 You lose the man within his sorrow's might. 
 
 Walter. Oh, here he comes, as if he'd slept in tombs. 
 Poor royal father ! 
 
 \Enter King Robert^ * 
 
 King Robert, Everything prepared. 
 
 99 
 
loa THE father's tragedy. 
 
 I think my brother will not keep me long ; 
 I'm troubled that I spake so hastily 
 To one of my own blood ; it raises fear, 
 And makes my conscience feverish and ill. 
 To think how I accused him in my wrath. 
 It cannot be ; I ever found him kind. 
 And his high office breeds in common souls 
 Tale-bearing envy. — You once served my son, 
 If I mistake not ,'* 
 
 Walter. Sire^ I loved him well. 
 
 King Robert. Allan/ this knave shall wait on me — ^>'ou 
 two 
 Who both have loved my son. — D' you know, last night 
 I dreamt of him. Within the monast'ry 
 Of far Lindores I saw the straight cold tomb, 
 And the straight form — all the round lines of youth, 
 The full serenity of cheek and chin 
 Cut clearer in the moonlight's marble mould ; 
 The brow a blank page of the whitest peace ; 
 Yet round about twirled a dim company. 
 Grey sprites of Famine, shaking poppy-stems 
 And stalks of corn that wagged their lavish heads, 
 Deriding the lean body underneath 
 Its effigy, that still and satisfied 
 Lay close against the wall. God ! to that tomb 
 My love is pilgrim — with my heart's red drops 
 Telling an awful penance. 
 
 Walter. My dear lord, 
 
 And new kind master, do not ever dwell 
 On such grim churchyard thoughts. We've heaven and bliss. 
 
 King Robert. I cannot yet go further than the tomb ; 
 There lies the ruined body that I built, 
 The fair new city where I sent my hopes. 
 Carrying fire from my own shrine of life 
 To settle and increase. Yet I, even I, 
 Put out the hearth and overthrew the home 
 And pierced the very heart of my desires. 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. lOI 
 
 Allan. His grace your brother comes. You'll take your 
 seat 
 Upon the dais yonder, whereto flock 
 The people of your household ; see ! 
 
 {King Robert seats himself. 
 
 King Robert. I live 
 
 Within this painted nothingness — this world 
 That stares into mine eyes and holds them not, 
 This insolent, vain show. \Covers his face. 
 
 Alla?i. We'll stand aside. 
 
 \E71ter Albany, IJndsey, and other Nobles with their trains^ 
 
 Albany. My liege, I break your meditation 
 For nothing less than honour, for amends 
 To stabbed and bleeding innocence, yourself 
 Have wounded first and foremost. These, your lords, 
 My peers and gracious equals, do acquit 
 My dear renown from stain of that dread crime 
 Whose breath would smirch my whiteness. Parliament, 
 After all due enquiry, strictest search, 
 And earnest fanning of the fearful charge, 
 Hath found it chaff, as these can testify. 
 
 Lindsey My liege, we can. 
 
 Earl of Buchan. There is no evidence. 
 
 We frankly own him guiltless of this sin. 
 
 King Robert. Thus we accept him with our penitence. — 
 O Robert ! 
 
 Albany. Sir, I'd have you quite convinced. 
 I'd be impregnable in pardon. Think ! 
 Without a motive stronger than herself, 
 Would Nature so unnatural become 
 As spill her proper blood 1 That so she would 
 Is beyond all belief. In motive lies 
 Sole credit to my having done the deed 
 That seared me in your favour. First my love — 
 Which, though the chastisement its care advised, 
 Was turned of God to doom, thereby received 
 No taint or flaw in truth — my blood-knit love 
 
102 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Long-shown is strong 'gainst the ambitious thought 
 That I am charged withal. One royal branch 
 
 \Enter Prince James and Attendants^ 
 Clipt from the golden tree of monarchy- 
 Leaves yet another in his crescent bloom 
 
 King Robert [aside]. He's looking at the boy with eagle 
 eye — 
 It is a look of seizure ! — O my James, 
 Come to your father's arms ! 
 
 Albajiy. See where he grows 
 
 From the old noble trunk. Ambition gives 
 No slightest motive. 
 
 Ki?ig Robert. 'Tis enough. You're clear, 
 
 Albatiy. That all my love was mocked by the event 
 Is sore to think on. Who can trammel Death 
 With cords obedient to mortal will ? 
 My castle hath no dungeon that would hold 
 Th' invisible last foe. For his offence, 
 Which God's great judgment-day alone can strike, 
 I as a man must suffer, while unscathed 
 Goes the arch-murderer of hope and joy. 
 
 King Robert. It is most true. I'm sorry in my heart 
 That I accused you from an unchecked mouth. 
 Most true ! Death oft makes innocence seem guilt. 
 Forgive me, Robert. 
 
 Albany. Nay, I have no need. 
 'Twas natural that you should doubt, suspect, 
 Where circumstance so darkly pointed out ; 
 And grief 's a headstrong unenlightened guide. 
 I knew that reason, toiling through the mists 
 Of sorrowful opinion and blind wrath, 
 Would show me white and shine on me again 
 Whom passion over-clouded. I am blessed 
 In daylight of your favour. That report 
 That stirs among the commoners, and sinks 
 Into base hearts against me, that I starved 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. God's sake, no more ! 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. I03 
 
 Albany. That villainous, black tale 
 
 Gains credit from the rumour'd cruelty 
 To England's second Richard. He whom Death 
 With still and sudden handling carries home, 
 Forsooth ! upon the people's oath, is starved. 
 
 King Robert. If you will have acquittal, pardon, grace, 
 Strangle within your throat that awful word, 
 And never freeze the aching man in me 
 With such inhuman, foul suggestion. 
 O God ! that ever such a thing hath been 
 Cries shame upon Thy fatherhood — unless 
 Thou leav'st the punishment of children's sin 
 To devils of the pit. O God 1 O God ! 
 The anguish burns me — shrivels up my soul 
 To whitened ashes and blank lifelessness. 
 
 Li7idsey. The king is moved. 
 
 Albany. Unhappy that I am, 
 
 Pleading for pardon, that my tongue should blast 
 Where it would run to heal. I only spoke 
 To shut your doors of hearing from the sqund 
 Of false alarum to your tender love ; 
 And lo ! I wake the sentries of your soul 
 To naked panic. Brother, dearest liege, 
 Have pity on my lips' mistake — forgive ! 
 
 King Robert. W^hereas I feel that none who shares my 
 blood, 
 Or of my mother drank the gentle milk, 
 Could within utmost limits of belief 
 Descend from man to monster — at this time. 
 Here in this place, I do acquit thy hand 
 Of murder pitiless, thy thought of stain 
 From black, disnatured treason, and thy soul — 
 Go, take it to the certain eye of God, 
 Not to the tear-dimmed vision of a man. 
 Thine earthly king and brother. Nevermore 
 Speak of this matter, — 'tis my earnest pray'r. 
 
 Alba?ty. So much of pain it brands upon my thought, 
 
104 'PHE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Silence alone can cicatrize the wound. 
 
 King Robert. Poor brother — here's my hand ! 
 
 Albany. I kiss it, sir. 
 
 Lo ! the remission for our liege to sign, 
 In Latin writ, which clears my innocence 
 And that of Archibald of Douglas, which 
 Hath suffered slur with mine. 
 
 King Robert. A pen ! \signing\ You're free. — 
 
 Oh ! with a pen I made him prisoner ! 
 
 Lindsey. What counsel would you take with these your 
 lords ? 
 You summoned us to conference, my liege. 
 
 King Robert. I'd not forgotten. It is near our heart. — 
 Leave us, my James ; go to our rooms awhile, 
 Where I can find you presently — my room. — \Exit James. 
 Our words concern our heir and only son. 
 He is a forward scholar and hath learnt 
 All that our northern wisdom can impart, 
 Alas ! but little worth, to Scotland's shame. 
 Learning is not less golden in a king 
 Than his own crown ; and manners grace him more, 
 As he can more display them in his rank. 
 Than those beneath his sway ; we therefore dream 
 Of foreign education for our son 
 In polished France. 
 
 Alba?iy \ciside\ Sooth to my very aim ! 
 My liege, 'tis prudent and well-reasoned. 
 
 Lindsey. Yes. 
 
 Kijig Robert. I'm glad it meets your will. The faithful 
 Earl 
 Of Orkney will attend our dearest son 
 With chosen servants. Ere he sail from hence, 
 We would consult your lordships once again. 
 Now we would have our privacy. 
 
 A!ba7ty. W^e'Il go ; 
 
 And ever study to deserve your love. 
 
 [Exei/nt Albany and Lords. 
 
THE FATHER S TRAGEDY. I05 
 
 King Robert. Oh ! it is done ! 
 
 I've set my little boat upon wide seas 
 To save it from the jealous flames aboard 
 That scorch it for destruction. Allan, fetch 
 The Earl of Orkney hither. {Exit Altan.] Kindly knave, 
 Come tell me, I'm a cruel father ? Ay ? 
 
 Walter. Oh, not so cruel as the circumstance 
 You'd ward off from your son. 
 
 Ki?tg Robert. How ? You are dim. 
 
 I wish men spoke their minds with meaning clear. 
 I'm an old man and my conception slow. 
 
 Walter. I meant that many dangers threaten him 
 Who is sole heir to sovereignty — no more. 
 
 Kiftg Robert. That was not it. — Good fellow, do you 
 think 
 That I shall live to see my son return ? 
 
 Walter. O sire, you're hale in body. 
 
 King Robert. But the heart — 
 
 D' you think that it can hold such space of time .'* 
 
 Walter. With patience, yes ! 
 
 King Robert. With passion — no ! Then there is 
 memory, 
 And all this mourning we must add thereto. 
 
 \E7iter the Earl of Orkney a?id Allan.] 
 Good earl, 'tis settled that you go with him. 
 Thank Heaven that you live whom I can trust. 
 You will be very watchful ; if he die, 
 I am an old and childless man, an end, 
 A mortal Omega, a mere life's term, 
 And ancient monument to Hope's defeat. 
 
 Earl of Orkiiey. My liege, I will protect him, watch and 
 love 
 With upright loyalty and perfect care. 
 
 Allan. Why do you weep so bitterly, my liege ? 
 
 King Robert. O Allan, 'tis a very bitter thought 
 That turns my tears to Marah. O my son ! 
 
 Allan. 'Twill grieve him sore to part with you. 
 
I06 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Kijig Robert. Of him 
 
 I was not thinking. He is true and fair, 
 But very young, and he will soon forget. 
 Storms crush the bearded grain ; 'twill never rise. 
 The tender sprouting blade is dashed, but springs 
 The better for its grief. — Your arm, kind earl. 
 There's much to settle, many things to do 
 Before you start. We'll walk together, earl. \Exeunt. 
 
 Allan. We'll to his chamber, Walt, and gladden it 
 With sun and air and cleansing. 
 
 Walter. 'Tis high time, 
 
 For like a bat's nest hath it been of late. 
 His absence is our opportunity. \Exeii?it. 
 
 \_Re-e7iter Albany and a Servant.^ 
 
 Albany. Go, fetch the prior. 
 
 Servant. I will, your grace. 
 
 Albany. At once. 
 
 I'll wait him here. I cannot sleep at night ; \Exit Servant. 
 Dreams enter when I close my eyes, and stalk 
 Along the silent passages of thought 
 Like ghosts. My health is touched. This must not be. 
 Rest is a precious store I cannot spend 
 On vanities and filmy toys of fear. 
 This prior shall obtain for me from Rome 
 A pardon that will lay my haunting crime 
 With sacred exorcism. Here he comes. [Enter Prior. 
 
 Hail. 
 
 Prior. Benedicite ! 
 
 Alba?ty. So would I were, 
 
 Yet scarcely live I blessed, with dark reports 
 So cast within the mirrors of my soul 
 That she is well-nigh blinded to herself, 
 And takes the dirt that's thrown as native filth 
 And dregs of her impurity. 1 scarce 
 Believe that I am Albany — so vile, 
 Corroded, monstrous, full of subtle sin, 
 My enemies declare me. You have heard 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. I07 
 
 That Parliament has clarified my fame, 
 
 The king declared my spotlessness and health. 
 
 You think I have enough restored my soul ? 
 
 No ; there's the holy Church I grieved with guilt 
 
 Apparent. I would have her pardon, claim 
 
 Exoneration from the weight of crime 
 
 Which those who freely hate me still would heap 
 
 On my bewildered innocence. I ask 
 
 This right, that she establish me in faith, 
 
 In guiltlessness, and loyalty. 
 
 Prior. Your grace, 
 
 Why need you pardon where there's no offence ? 
 
 Albany. To fortify from slander. Those that brag 
 Against my newly washed, unsullied name, 
 As if it once were black, will lose their tongue 
 When they shall find any untoward speck 
 Of former misconception, error, fault, 
 Which no man, by his nature, can escape, 
 Is cleared by holy Church. 
 
 Prior. Your grace takes note 
 
 Too closely of the swarms that sting your name 
 With wounds ephemeral. Such ever fret 
 The ease of reputation. 
 
 Albany. Pardon me. 
 
 I suffer from no pricks, but trenched scars. 
 The brand of Cain, the infamous red curse, 
 Is struck across the brow of my repute. 
 
 Prior. 'Twill blush the more if pardoned. To forgive, 
 Where sin is absent, fills the emptiness 
 With sin's own lurid stain. 
 
 Albany. Not so, not so. 
 
 It is a measure of state-policy 
 To silence evil tongues. 
 
 Prior. To teach them words 
 
 Of stablished calumny. 
 
 Albany. There you misjudge. 
 
 I know men better. Obloquy is dumb 
 
108 THE father's TRAGEDY. 
 
 Before the vindication of the Church. 
 
 I'd have you write to Rome this very night, 
 
 And send a speedy messenger. 
 
 Prior. Take thought. 
 
 If, with a soiled conscience you would steal 
 The balm that heals confession into peace, 
 Great were your condemnation. 
 
 Alba7iy. Priest, you tread 
 
 Too near our honour. Am I not declared 
 By the vox popiili — the voice of God — 
 In parliament, and by my peers, unblamed, 
 Unblameable .'' 
 
 Prior. You are. 
 
 Albany. And by the king 
 
 Acknowledged sinless } 
 
 Prior. Yes, you are. 
 
 Albany. What more 
 
 Desire you ? 
 
 Prior. That your lips should firmly seal 
 
 The clean page of denial with the stamp 
 And image of your soul. 
 
 Albany. You ask for much. 
 
 No Christian dares to say he hath no sin. 
 
 Prior. Your peers declared you sinless, so you plead. 
 Will you accept the declaration .? 
 
 Albany. No. 
 
 Prior. The declaration for the special sin 
 That's laid to your account ? 
 
 Albany. You pry too far. 
 
 Go, write the letter. I disdain to speak 
 The answer to suspicion. 
 
 Prior. I will write. 
 
 I know not if His Holiness will grant 
 The pardon you desire. 
 
 Albany. Nay, urge him to 't. 
 
 As I am rich and great within the land. 
 
 Prior. Not so, your grace, as you arc innocent ; 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. I09 
 
 A bribe would but unsettle the belief 
 That you are pure of murder. The clean hand, 
 Unreddened by the stain of blood, as much 
 Detests the golden taint of proffered coin. 
 Dishonoured is the honour that is bought. 
 
 Albany. You wrong me. I but said that as I'm great, 
 Pre-eminent in riches, which are snares 
 Fate spreads for Envy's watching, it were best 
 . I should be fortified with clear renown 
 And holy recognition. By the death 
 Of the king's son, I'm Regent — at the point 
 And pinnacle of influence. A slur 
 Cast on my faith, looses the bond of trust 
 That girdles monarchy ; — rank treason spreads 
 Among the scattered members, social craft, 
 Domestic infidelity, the guile 
 Of business, and the tricks of usuiy. 
 His Holiness will never thus dissolve 
 The unity of State, and strike the Church 
 With such unsanctified and rude assault 
 To manners and religion. Put this down 
 Within the letter, using choicer phrase 
 Selected by your learning. 
 
 Prior. I will write. 
 
 God knows I'd have your grace unsullied. 
 
 Alba?ty. Write 
 
 This very eve. 
 
 Prior. I will. — Contrition makes 
 
 Appeal far surer than my feeble pen. 
 
 Albany. Your pen be strong ! To-morrow I'll to shrift. 
 Why do you pause } 
 
 Prior. Acknowledgment is grace. 
 
 Albany. Go to ! — I'd have you purge disloyalty, 
 Pardon foul lips, detraction infamous. 
 I would forgive my enemies in thus 
 Securing false forgiveness for myself. 
 Mac Louis ! {Enter Servant. 
 
no THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Show the prior out. Return. [Exz^ Servant with Prior. 
 
 This will establish peace within my breast. 
 
 Oh, may it pacify the corpse of him 
 
 Who cannot sleep at Lindores ! It is said 
 
 That prodigies make eloquent his tomb, 
 
 And call for blood to still the murdered soul 
 
 With slumber of accomplished Nemesis. 
 
 My blood he asks — mine, or my children's blood. 
 
 If not my blood, then theirs ! Not theirs, not theirs ! 
 
 Child of my brother, O avenging ghost. 
 
 As thou wert young, ask not my children's blood, 
 
 And cut not off my seed, though such a doom 
 
 Were perfect justice ! I must wait my time ; 
 
 So must they wait. We know not here nor there. 
 
 How, when, requital comes ; but if besought 
 
 Thus from the bed of stone where murder lies, 
 
 Its coming is secure. And yet I think 
 
 These miracles are old wives' tales — no more. 
 
 Guilt blurs my understanding. Twice to-day 
 
 I stumbled, — when I named my crime aloud 
 
 Before the king, and when I offered gold 
 
 For Church's pardon. Twice the cloud hath swept 
 
 My brain's clear weather. But here comes a gleam 
 
 Of goodly sun— that James is bound for France. 
 
 It promises the mid-day of my fame, 
 
 The perfect shining of my dearest hope. 
 
 I'll sleep on it. [Re-efitcr Servant?^ To-night I'll have 
 
 strong drink — 
 A posset ! Bring it to my sleeping-room. \Exetint. 
 
 Scene II. — A Chamber. King Robert^ Pririce James^ and 
 the Earl of Orkney. 
 
 Earl of Orkney. The convoy waits his highness. 
 
 King Robert. Rather say 
 
 That dangers wait him ; harsh, ambitious seas, 
 And pulseless rocks and unrelenting winds. 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY, III 
 
 The elements are homeless, unallied ; 
 They have no bonds, no sanctities. I've watched 
 All day the West imbrued with sable storm. 
 I think the breeze is higher. 
 
 Earl of Orkney. Nay. I'll swear 
 
 Its freshness hath declined. 
 
 Ki?tg Robert. Good ! Then we'll wait 
 
 Till all the air is motionless and safe. 
 
 Earl of Orkney. Tarry no more, my liege. To slowly 
 part 
 Doth make the rift of parting an abyss. 
 
 King Robert. O earl, I cannot heave up from my heart 
 Its anchor with Farewell / 
 
 Earl of Ork?tey. Yet must you part. 
 
 King Robert. Not yet — not yet ! I cannot loose at once ; 
 With soft persistence must the minutes work, 
 Or I shall die. 
 
 Prince fames. Father ! 
 
 Kijig Robert, My only child ! 
 
 Last leaf of my sere bough, when once I loose 
 Thy bond of dear reliance from my side, 
 Untraversable space cuts in between, 
 And I am bare for ever. 
 
 Earl of Orkney. Come, my liege, 
 
 You speak as journey never had return, 
 And Providence were nought. 
 
 KiJig Robert. A keen rebuke ! 
 
 God has a human family, and I 
 Have but one mortal son. — Oh, let me look, 
 Gaze at your face and see the future in 't. 
 I shall not watch its changes — never seize 
 The gracious steps whereby your favours mount 
 To manhood's comely top. Your brother's face 
 Was far more delicate, the lips more full 
 And chafing, and the brow less wide and free. 
 With less of gentle space between the eyes 
 As frank as yours. It was a face that drew. 
 
112 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 Much love, except when temper blasted it, 
 Or scorn envenomed. You are sweetly tuned, 
 An even nature ; on your forehead dreams, 
 And empire on your mouth. You'll be a man 
 Beneficent and royal. Check those sobs. 
 If I am dead, my spirit will rejoice. 
 
 Prince James. I cannot leave you. 
 
 King Robert. Child, nor I loose you. 
 
 And yet I must, if in the barren world 
 My flesh would still have aught to call its own. 
 Go ! — nay, but wait ! You'll think of me at night, 
 The games and studies done — think how I he 
 And ponder you. To Memory, as God, 
 The darkness and the light are both alike. 
 
 Prince James. FU say "good-night," and leave the 
 southern winds 
 To give it to the northern. 
 
 King Robert. I shall pray, 
 
 And plunge your name into a well of tears 
 To send it washed to Heaven. 
 
 Prince James. I will kiss 
 
 My hand to you ere sleeping. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. And you'll love 
 
 The rude land of your birth, nor jest at it "i 
 
 Prince Ja7ncs. I've got some heath to carry into France ; 
 They say at Paris it is never seen. 
 
 King Robert. A bushy lock dipt from your country's 
 brow, — 
 Join it with this from my white forehead ta'en. 
 Be faithful to the twisted memories. 
 And, James, there is a head as bright as yours 
 That's laid beneath the ground. Remember it ; 
 James, James, remember how your brother died. 
 
 Prince James. I will — when I am king. 
 
 King Robert. I know thou wilt. 
 
 The close lips are an oath. 
 
 Earl oj Ork?ie}\ My liege, time runs. 
 
THE father's tragedy. II3 
 
 King Robert. The hour-glass of my very fatherhood 
 Shows all its moments gone. I cannot say 
 The dire word that bereaves me ; once I signed 
 A warrant ; . . Earl, no torture man conceives 
 Could crush this centre down ; — God has a rack 
 Whereon He breaks some hearts. — I keep you, earl. 
 My child, 
 
 One mighty speechless clasp ! Thus, thus, begot, 
 Thus lost for ever to my arms' embrace. . . . 
 Now falls the stroke — now, now ! 
 
 Prince James. I'll run away. 
 
 King Robert. Settle thy chin nor weep. All's over now. 
 James, send me all the verses that you write ; 
 Your masters' names and how you spend each day ; 
 And who is kind and if the land is fair. 
 
 {Exit Pri?tce Ja7?ies, hiding his face. 
 He's gone ! Good earl, go after ! Shut the door. 
 
 \_Exit the Earl of Orkney. 
 Starved, starved ! Starvation ! David, David ! Son ! 
 It's in my heart the hunger and the want, 
 And from the lenten depths of my own soul 
 I pity thee. And — oh ! — to think of it ! 
 His vivid youth and golden beauty gone 
 To the unloved Obscure, the comfortless 
 Environment of Night. I know they think 
 That I forget him ; for his memory 
 That hke a grave- stone stood against my heart 
 Hath sunk into its substance, and now seems 
 To careless eyes half lost ; but so much more 
 'Tis hidden in my love's dark sepulchre. 
 He gave his lusty years to wantonness 
 And shameful riot. All my being's hope 
 I'd give for his deliverance. And yet 
 I did not train him with strict uprightness ; 
 I gave my precepts with a fearful voice, 
 O'erlook'd his irreligion, made excuse 
 For spotted innocence and growing guilt. 
 
 I 
 
114 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 He died in soul. My brother married him 
 
 With gross dishonour — so he died in heart. 
 
 I left his punishment in other hands ; 
 
 And then he died in body ; triple death, 
 
 Three-fold starvation ! I am judged. Ah me ! 
 
 And yet I send my sole surviving child 
 
 To a licentious court, that I may shun 
 
 His arduous protection. God is just. 
 
 I who have loosed all duties from my neck. 
 
 Shall sometime feel the stone of Sisyphus 
 
 Rolled on to me for carriage. Yet — O God ! — 
 
 The strangers care alone could save my child. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — The same, A Hall. Enter Alb aity. 
 
 Alba?iy. My son and grandsons in a vision bowed 
 Their heads before me, and my phantom-hand 
 Let fall the hungry steel upon their necks. 
 My sin, my sin was executioner. 
 For I myself was dead as midnight ghost. — 
 All this is fever ; yet within the lines 
 Of sane and irreproachable surmise 
 My fear attains to danger j for my son 
 Is feeble, indolent, — a man of peace, 
 Unworthy of my loins ; he'll lose my gain. 
 Drop what I've damned my soul to lay on him. 
 Then is there James. . . . Would he might share 
 His brother's grave ! A like captivity 
 
 Shall wither him 
 
 \E7iter an Attefidant.'] 
 
 Attendant. Your grace, Sir John is dead. 
 
 Albany. Ramorgny ? He hath lived 
 A white and staring life these many days. 
 How ended it } 
 
 Attendant. He hung against the wall 
 Within a dusty corner. 
 
 Albany. Self-undone. 
 
 'Twas melancholia ! — Attend my charge 
 
THE father's tragedy. II5 
 
 Go : bear this letter to the EngHsh king. — 
 Here is a purse. — Rest not, until you lay 
 Its sealM sheet within his royal hand. 
 
 Attendant. My bounteous lord, this opportunity 
 To do you service 
 
 Albany. Speak not ; but begone. \Exit Attendant. 
 
 O Opportunity ! — 
 My soul, self-murdered, rots beneath the stake 
 That pointed her direction. Now again 
 She glimmers on the crooked, deep-cut way 
 Of treachery, and I will follow her. 
 She is the fleeting guide that draws my life 
 Through all its paths of darkness ; she's the star 
 That leads ambition forth ! My letter greets 
 The King of England, tells him how the seas 
 Are bringing James to France, sets down the points 
 Where he will touch on English ground, and when. 
 The lure will take ; my last impediment 
 Find, like my first, a prison. I am blessed. 
 Would that the pardon came, and that I felt 
 Less sick at banquets, and saw less of dreams. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Castle of Rothsay in Bute. A Chamber. 
 King Robert^ the Duchess Marjorie^ Alla?i. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Now that my infamous, false bond is 
 loosed, 
 And death has cleared my wrong, with sweetened thought 
 I tend and love my monarch's broken age. 
 My pride no longer fills my care with gall 
 As when his son was living. — Let me put 
 Your cushion smooth and easy for the head. — 
 Good Allan, help me. 
 
 Alla7t. Blank — no gratitude. 
 
 His ag^d sight is travelling across 
 The limit whence his Hfe will follow it. 
 He listens to our human speech no more 
 
It6 THE father's tragedy. 
 
 Than if his ears were closed. He cannot last 
 More than to learn his son is safe in France. 
 
 King Robert. Ha ! France ! 
 
 Allan. Yes, sire — Prince James is surely safe. 
 
 The wind hath favour'd sailing. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Let me raise 
 
 Your feet, my father, on this other stool. 
 
 Allan. He's gone again. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. A lost, a feeble face 
 
 That makes no terms with Death. 
 
 Allan. Lady, I'm glad 
 
 That I have had no children. It is sore 
 To lose them — see them die like upward sparks, 
 And your own embers burning still to ash. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Yes — and to see them sin and sell 
 their souls 
 To vanity. I'll never give the world 
 More lives to waste. 
 
 Allan, An' yet to have no love ! 
 
 I loved your husband ; I had been forlorn 
 Without his kindly laugh. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Enough ! He died 
 
 In time to save his kindness from all taint, 
 But nothing else. 
 
 King Robert. Look ! Does the weather-cock 
 Still point to south ? 
 
 Allan. Yes, and the day is fair 
 
 And full of shining. 
 
 Ki7ig Robert. Help me to look out. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. You are too weak to move. 
 
 King Robert. I must look out. 
 
 Support me to the window. — Over there 
 Is France, the sunny land, beyond those fields 
 Of wheaten green, beyond, beyond, beyond ! 
 And Where's the east .'' 
 
 Allan. 'Tis yonder. 
 
 King Robert. Over there 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. II7 
 
 Is dark Lindores, beyond the blasted moors 
 That make the distance mourn — beyond, beyond ! 
 Both unattainable ! O heart, too far ! — 
 Now I'll sit down. — Why runs that man so fast ? 
 
 Allan. Perchance he brings us happy tidings, sire, 
 That the young prince is well. 
 
 King Robert {struggling to spea]i\. My tongue hath 
 swooned 
 At presage of his tidings. Haste — O stay — 
 Not more ... I should be stronger tasting death 
 To bear it. . . . 
 
 Allan. Nay, 'tis surely happy news. 
 
 Our gallant prince in health and full of joy. 
 Look ! they are come. What ho ! Prince James is safe ! 
 \_Enter the Earl of Buchan and Walter^ 
 
 Earl of Buchan. He's in an English prison — in the 
 Tow'r 
 That frowns upon the Thames. King Henry hath. 
 Against the laws of knighthood, seized the ship 
 That bore our prince, and vows he'll teach the tongue 
 Of France to Scotland's heir. 
 
 King Robert. He's dead. 
 
 Walter. No, no : 
 
 In prison, and a kindly one they say. 
 
 King Robert. He's dead — he's dead ! They told me 
 such false tales ; 
 David was but in prison, in kind walls — 
 And he was dead. I'm near the grave for lies 
 To much avail you. 
 
 Earl of Buchan. No ; he is not dead. 
 He's well and treated in most gracious ways. 
 
 King Robert. Starved ? 
 
 Earl of Buchati. He is well attended and well kept. 
 
 Even from the royal board. 
 
 King Robert. Away, begone ! 
 
 I'm dying, and you thrust the earth on me. 
 I'm on my way to judgment. Let me face 
 
Il8 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 No witnesses ; — no bleeding chiefs that slew 
 
 Each other, I consenting ; no poor souls 
 
 I've left to evil men ; no innocents 
 
 Condemned by wicked judges I have feared 
 
 To thwart ; no beggars, stripped by greedy lords 
 
 Whose avarice I bore ; no murdered forms 
 
 Whose murd'rers I forgave. No need of such. 
 
 I plead that I am guilty. — Bring them not. 
 
 I'm guilty on my solemn oath, O God. 
 
 Father of men, King of the universe, 
 
 I've sinned in Thy great offices — in both ! 
 
 Bring not Thy witnesses — my people's ghosts. 
 
 Bring not that dear dread witness, with pale hands 
 
 And different keen face and eyes, whose look 
 
 Would fix a root of horror in my soul 
 
 To grow up like a yew-tree from a grave. 
 
 Let me be judged within an empty court ! 
 
 Or, if we're judged together, — when the book 
 
 Is opened, where in lines of red are writ 
 
 The sins of his few years, — 
 
 And he stands far apart in white despair, 
 
 Then shall he answer to a few that fall 
 
 From the accusing lips, but point the sum 
 
 To me for answer. I will take them all 
 
 As blessings : — for a father's sins extend 
 
 Far over his own blotted page ; yea, fill 
 
 With scarlet of damnation many blanks 
 
 His children had left clean except for him. 
 
 Allan. How solemn is this judgment before death, 
 Enacted for our profit. 
 
 Walter. Thus to see 
 
 A soul in flesh corruptible appear 
 Before th' immortal bar. 
 
 King Robert. My God, my God ! 
 
 I wait Thy sentence ; I am self-contemned, 
 Without a word from any human voice. 
 It will not be to flames ! Some writers say 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. II9 
 
 The punishments of hell are nothing more 
 Than change of states— each man his opposite. 
 If so, then I shall be a childless slave, 
 My fatherhood and royalty displaced, 
 Seen in some other, who within my sight 
 Leans his one hand upon a goodly son. 
 The other on a sceptre. Then, oh then, 
 The penal fires would be like Heaven's glow, 
 Their smoke refreshing cloud and covering 
 From the heart-scorching sight. 
 
 Allan. Will none approach 
 
 To hold him up ? 
 
 Duchess Maj'joi'ie. I will. — His eyes are wild 
 With something in the depths. 
 
 Kmg Robert Lost ! lost ! 'Tis done. 
 
 There is no crown upon my head. Oh say, 
 Is nothing on my head "i 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. A little round 
 
 Of sovereign gold. 
 
 King Robert. But I can feel there's naught ; 
 
 And in me all my father's love is sucked 
 Forth by the cruel wind. — What face is that ? 
 I never knew it. Yet the hair — the hair ! 
 But oh ! the eyes — I've never looked on such. 
 Nor known those lips. If it should be my son, 
 I do disown him, disinherit, curse ! 
 Now Hell receive me ! 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. See, the change hath come. 
 Death's ashen tread, before it stoops to take. 
 
 Allan. Gather about him now the strife is done. 
 Peace presses us together. 
 
 King Robert [in a 'whisper\ Prison ! Death ! 
 The cloud of night is rising in mine eyes ; 
 I feel Life turn the key upon my heart. 
 There is no op'ning. — It is dark — I die. [Dies. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. That was the last heave of the broken 
 heart, 
 
I20 THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 
 
 The last breath of the soul. 
 
 Allan. My king, my lord ! 
 
 I never thought thy death would be so strange, 
 With all that pain to end a gentle life. 
 
 [Enter Albany. "] 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. Your grace, the king is dead. 
 
 Albany. How ! — dead ! — the king ! 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. He died upon the news that James is 
 ta'en 
 The King of England's captive. 
 
 Earl of Buchan. Now your grace 
 
 Is Regent, till the prisoner is loosed. 
 Whose chains bind down our restive fealty 
 And tie it to your will. 
 
 Albany. A trust I hold 
 
 But for the regal future. Lift the head ! 
 Died he at peace? 
 
 Walter. Oh no, he mourn'd his son 
 
 Till we could hear no more. 
 
 Albany. Alas ! and this 
 
 Is rule and monarchy— to be like this, 
 Poor, old, unhappy, ignorant, extinct. — 
 [Aside.] For this I've doom'd my soul. What's done is done, 
 I'll use my fortune till I'm even thus. — 
 He had few sins to dread. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. And yet he died 
 
 Most full of hellish terrors. 
 
 Albany. I will send 
 
 A great procession. John, I mourn thy fate. 
 False was the comfort that new-nam'd thy state. [Exit. 
 
 Duchess Marjorie. I'll to a convent's refuge, there to pray 
 For his affrighted soul, and sooth to say 
 For his sake will I join another name 
 To his and never think they're not the same. \^Exit. 
 
 Alla?t. His heart was broken, not by strokes of Time, 
 But thrusts of him who should have propped it. Crime 
 
THE FATHERS TRAGEDY. 121 
 
 Such as dark Albany's is visited 
 
 On the third generation. Raise the dead. 
 
 [^Eftter procession of Churchmen and Lords!] 
 
 His doom was in his gentleness and fear. 
 
 His changed name still brought him to this bier. 
 
 [^Exeunt omties. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 IIpwTov \ikv cvx."!) T-^Se irpecrPEva) 9e<tfv 
 T^v irpwTop.avTiv Faiav 
 
 Euinenides. 
 
 123 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A VISIT to the New Forest suggested this drama. 
 
 On a plot of scanty grass, with few trees about, and one 
 small leafy oak almost touching it, stands a low, triangular, 
 iron-cased stone, which is said to mark the place where the 
 king fell. It is dark, stern, unobtrusive as Fate ; it stands 
 like a mile-stone on the way of Retribution. Here the tree 
 grew from which the arrow glanced as if directed by 
 Nature's anger at the destruction of her food-bearing fields 
 for the insolence of pleasure. Now there are no great trees 
 near, no forest gloom ; it is all soft and healed — scarcely the 
 scar of association lingers. Only the poet, looking on that 
 black memorial in the midst of the "calm oblivious ten- 
 dencies and silent over-growings " of Nature, can reahze its 
 import and history. 
 
 In the matter of accuracy this play is not to be regarded 
 as a study of the Past. While the author has felt the sacred- 
 ness of touching dead character, of which he has striven to 
 bear witness that would not make him ashamed should he 
 hereafter be brought face to face with the personages whose 
 moods and thoughts he has sought to penetrate and repro- 
 duce, he has not scrupled to modify or compress events at 
 his pleasure, holding that the dramatist, in face of chrono- 
 
126 PREFACE. 
 
 logy, may declare, with the imperiousness of Petruccio, " It 
 shall be what o'clock I say it is." 
 
 Again, the playwright is always the contemporary of the 
 age he treats. He moves among living figures in whom he 
 feels an interest too vital to be curious of their accent or 
 demeanour. 
 
 The material he needs is faithful narrative that by its 
 simplicity becomes pictorial Such help the author has 
 found in Mr. Freeman's William Rufus. Regret that he 
 may through ignorance have misused, or through covetous- 
 ness too rashly appropriated the historical treasure of these 
 volumes, cannot restrain him from acknowledging, with 
 humility and delight, the debt he owes to their most in- 
 spiring pages. 
 
 March dth, 1885, 
 
DRAMA TIS PERSON ^- 
 
 William 'R.vyvs^ King of England. 
 
 The ^theling Henry, brother to Rufus. 
 
 Anselm, Abbot of Bee — afterward Archbishop ofCaiiterbiiry. 
 
 Randolf Flambard, Chancellor and ftisticiar. 
 
 William of St. Calais, Bishop of Durham, 
 
 Walkelin, Bishop of Winchester. 
 
 GUNDULF, Bishop of Rochester. 
 
 John de Villula, Bishop of Bath. 
 
 Walter of Albano, Papal Legate. 
 
 Walter Tirel, ^ 
 
 Robert Fitz-hamon, 
 
 - Norman nobles. 
 
 Gilbert of Laigle, 
 William of Breteuil, 
 Robert of Meulan, 
 Gilbert of Clare, 
 
 EADMER or EDMER, ) /. .^r^ / ,. -zj . A j' 
 
 T, T-^. ^\r.,, ( faithful disciples to Anselm. 
 
 Baldwin of Tournay, S -^ -^ ^ 
 
 GODRIC, Dean of Twynha?n. 
 
 PURKIS, a charcoal-burner, 
 
 'S,'EO\N\]'LF, father to Purkis. 
 
 Harold, \ 
 
 LEOfric, \ sons to Purkis. 
 
 W^ilfrith, ) 
 
 An Old Man. 
 
 Bishops, servants, peasants^ citizens, etc. 
 
 Scene : — The New Forest and Winchester — retnoved during 
 the action to Gloucester and Hastings, 
 
 U7 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The New Forest: by a charcoal-fire. Beowulf 
 a?td Wilfrith. Leofric i?t the distatice. 
 
 Beowulf. They turn our bread-lands to a pleasant ground. 
 Nature will never bear it : the fierce earth 
 Will rend the foreign, sacrilegious hands 
 As a great mastiff, humble to his lord, 
 Is fatal to the fondling wayfarer. 
 Where now I sit there was a sound of bells, 
 The sight of curling smoke from cotters' roofs ; 
 I feel the undergrowth above my chin 
 Where there was browsing common. All the wood 
 Is savage, rank, o'ergrown, pestiferous. 
 Depopulate of man, and teeming with 
 The rampant, wild, unprofitable beasts 
 That forage on him. Ah, there is a sound, 
 A merry, merry horn, a laughing cry ; 
 Let's wait. 
 
 Wilfrith. Grandfather, you should trust in God. 
 
 Beowulf. It's the earth I'm trusting to, I've planted it ; 
 It feels the tie of blood down to the pith ; 
 It will not fail. 
 
 Wilfrith. But Bishop Wulstan says 
 
 That we should love our neighbours. 
 
 129 K 
 
130 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Beowulf. So I do ; 
 
 I love them so, I'd sniff about their graves 
 If they were here. How can we love the dead 
 That drop forgotten, and just rot in soul 
 And body, cut away from burial 
 And peace-endowing prayer ? We must avenge. 
 
 Wilfrith. We are so helpless. 
 
 Beowulf. You have eyes and youth. 
 
 Age in despair is weaker than a child ; 
 Its weather-beaten hope is mightier 
 Than any fitful ferment of the blood. 
 From the first moment of the rimless dark 
 In which I wake, slumber, and feel the sun, 
 A hope struck root, I felt it in the soil 
 Of my blocked brain, where thought went burrowing — 
 A tedious mole — and sense writhed underground. 
 The fibres of this hope took hold of me. 
 Pierced, ramified my subterranean life ; 
 Now it has heaved out to the upper light 
 And spreads I know not whither. — I am blind. 
 
 Wilfrith \_asidc\ He frightens me : it's like one in the 
 grave 
 Who can lie quiet till the judgment-day, 
 Brooding his wrongs. \_Alond.'\ But must we not forgive .-^ 
 The Conqueror 
 
 Left our king Harold's body on the beach 
 In his great battle-fury. Afterward 
 He buried it at Waltham, penitent. 
 
 Beowulf We must submit, be penitent, forgive ! — 
 But that's to change your mind ; I never thought" 
 That God changed His. — I thought within myself 
 The seasons were not surer than the Lord, 
 You might depend on Him. It's altered now ; 
 He's God of Battle Abbey ; ... on the beach 
 He let them huddle up King Harold's bones, 
 He's strewn our prayers as ashes to the wind. 
 Suffered such resurrection of men's bones 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I3I 
 
 As modest Death cries shame of. — He repents, 
 His past is not prophetic of to-day ; 
 But at the breaking-places of the wave 
 All keepeth constant to its habitude ; 
 There is no change of custom in the air ; 
 Yon oak drops acorns ; I am comforted. 
 The earth is English still ; the soil gives suck ; 
 It will not rear strange children. 
 
 What's that noise ? 
 I hear a whistling and the splint of wood. 
 Art sharpening arrows ? 
 
 Leofric. Why, they have an aim. 
 
 I'm carving, grand-dad, could you only see ; — 
 Here is that leering abbess to the life. 
 Oh, I'll shoot from the gargoyles and not miss. 
 I'm moulding such a lot of funny curves 
 About the mouth — not wrinkles — it's more soft. . . . 
 The change is gradual as youth to age. 
 Look, Wilfrith ! . . . here's a soul forgets itself, 
 Popping an eager face from out the cowl, 
 A blaze of curiosity. Can guess } 
 
 Wilfrith. Not Uncle Godric. It's the curious dean 
 That frighted Twynham's canons ere his rule, 
 And longed to build. Why should you mimic him .'' 
 He gave you learning. 
 
 Leofric. Bless your mother-wit ! 
 
 Mock him, you numbskull !, 'Tis the very life. 
 It's clear that he got thwarted yesterday 
 By the drawn brows : clear too he'll overcome. 
 By this huge, dominant, aggressive chin. 
 I've caught the very moulding of his smile ; 
 Smiles have so many shapes. 
 
 Beowulf. Where's Harold, lads 1 
 
 Leofric [aside]. Ah me, it's bitter seeing with the voice. 
 The half-blank, blundering visage overgrown 
 With sorrow, all the faculties shrunk down 
 To pollard, and a fevered ignorance 
 
132 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Writhing the sightless gaze. If I might notch 
 
 Those wrinkles [Carves. 
 
 Wilfrith [to Beowulf\. Harold will be here anon, 
 Dear grandfather. \To Leofric.'] You have no shame at all 
 To hew a blind man's face from out that block. — 
 [Enter Harold^ followed by Piirkis.'] 
 He's here, and looking sullen. Who's behind ? 
 Why, father ! 
 
 Ptirkts. By your looks you have not seen 
 
 What's lying underneath the splintered fir. 
 Now, grand-dad, clap a great fist to your ear 
 And take the news. ... A Norman 's dead, 
 I found him lying stiff down in the glade ; 
 And it's a prince, his cloak all broidered o'er 
 Thick as the May-buds, and that blasted red 
 Streaking his golden hair. 
 
 Leofric. Where does he lie ? 
 
 Purkis. Up higher half a mile. Don't start, ye fools ; 
 No meddling with him. One might feel him o'er 
 As if he were a dog ; when we are dead 
 We are all peasants, churl and prince alike. 
 Except they carry us to Winchester. 
 And yet I dare not touch him for my eyes. 
 [Old dad, they gouged yours out ; I had to keep 
 You grumbling through a night of twenty year.] 
 We must not smell about a fallen stag ; 
 Just let him wither like an autumn leaf. 
 I think he died by nature, sort of struck. 
 [To Beowulf^ Ay, chuckle, grand-dad, there's an eye in 
 
 H eaven 
 Peering at loophole, though our chinks be bunged. 
 [To hijnself^ He finds a sort of comfort in it like. 
 To feel there's some one scanning ; for my part 
 This staring at misfortune in the way 
 It pleases Providence to practise, — well, 
 It's like the cattle ; they'll stare by the hour — 
 They never move : the watching simply galls. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 33 
 
 If there's no heave of rescue in the eye. 
 But all the same I'm pleased this happens pat 
 To cheer the old man up. [Aloud.] A pretty lad, 
 We think it's young Prince Richard. 
 
 Harold. Half a child, 
 
 And, curse him, such an innocent young face, — 
 Out ravaging ; he could not understand. 
 
 Wilfrith. Should we not bury him ? 
 
 Beozuulf. Are there no beasts 
 
 To feed on him, no rain, nor loosening wind 
 To help him to mortality ? Forbear ! 
 We may not touch the quarry. 
 
 Leofric. I must go 
 
 See him myself. 
 
 Purkis. You have a cunning eye 
 
 That copies like smooth water ; go your ways, 
 It's early yet ; but come back stealthily. {Exit Leofric. 
 
 [To Harold.] Harold, you're in the sulks. 
 
 Harold He looked so helpless and so innocent 
 I could not hate him. Could we rise in hordes 
 And storm their castles ; but to cut one off 
 
 Beowulf. Is it the work of any native hand ? 
 
 Harold. No ; there are hundreds who would gladly do 't 
 For lack of something nobler. 
 
 Purkis. Bide your time. 
 
 Come, you are gossiping like wenches ; work. 
 I soon shall have to keep you, dad, and all. 
 Three sturdy lads, these faggots still to stack, 
 And that old waster trunk to hew away. 
 Come, Harold ! I find Wilfrith on his knees, 
 Praying our Lady with his tools before ; 
 And Leofric gets out a curious knife 
 And peels the bark ; — not one can deal a blow. 
 
 Ha7'old. Firewood to warm mere slaves, to be put out 
 At curfew-bidding. Oh the weariness ! 
 There is no choice 'twixt murder and the tools; 
 No soldier's part, no fearless happy death, 
 
134 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 No hope of honourable home and love. 
 
 I have seen trees cut down for building ships, 
 
 The bonnie waving branches overhead 
 
 Straightened to twigless timber. Father, if 
 
 I could so perish for the land's defence, 
 
 All wantonness of youth I'd put away, 
 
 All sap of pleasure, all sky-peering pride. 
 
 To be a seasoned keel, an implement, 
 
 A common plank for Freedom's foot to tread ; 
 
 I will not see my manhood's goodly powers 
 
 Rated with monkish imbecility. 
 
 Wilfrith may saw the wood and say his prayers, 
 
 I'll do some mischief, and so earn my death. [Exit. 
 
 Purkis {looking after hi7n\ The devil, ah ! 
 Ne'er misdirected to a gallows. If 
 The boy will turn from wholesome work and prayer 
 And live on curses, I shall find him caught 
 Like Absalom up yonder in the bough. 
 My son, my son ! — I laugh when my heart aches ; 
 Like stretching out a weary stiffened leg, 
 The change of posture brings a little ease. 
 
 Wilfrith. Father, hear ! 
 Let me set out for Twynham, tell the tale 
 Of the young prince's death ; these holy men 
 Will bring a litter, bear the corpse away, 
 And no suspicion. 
 
 Purkis. Make an end of it, 
 
 A decent end ; I do not grudge the child 
 Some pretty burial chaunting and a mass. 
 Keep God in thought ; He's haply hereabout. 
 Grand-dad, I'll leave you by the charcoal-fire 
 To watch ; there's nothing else that you can do. 
 
 Beowulf. Nothing at all ; I'm best here by the fire 
 Hid in the turf, the oven where the wood 
 Is packed, and all is changed by patience. 
 There's nothing else to do. 
 
 Purkis [lookiftg back at his father']. Sometimes he'll sit 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I 35 
 
 Seven clays and nights in the thick oozing smoke, 
 
 Noiseless as clay, and on his countenance 
 
 A fiery revolution. Nothing comes 
 
 Peaceful across ; his passions harry him, 
 
 And from their ravaged homestead in his eyes 
 
 Flee to make murderous havoc on the brow. 
 
 He'll not recover ; like the Yorkshire wolds 
 
 He's scarred effectually, — no hope of corn 
 
 On the once pleasant uplands of his face. 
 
 All's bleak and desert. . . . Poor old rambhng dad, 
 
 They think he is a prophet ! [Exz/. 
 
 Scene II. — Twynham.^ The Priory Cotirt. Enter Godric^ 
 Gallons, ajid Wilfrith. 
 
 Godric. Alas, Prince Richard lies beneath the trees, 
 His May o'erlaid with death's untimely snow. 
 Much will Duke Robert mourn his lusty son, — 
 The second Richard whom the hunt hath slain. 
 So learn we how sin works the vengeance 
 That's properly its curse. A father spread 
 A net of tangled boughs to hold the deer 
 He loved as they were children of his bone ; 
 Therein his royal issue is entoiled, 
 Slain with the arbalest. Woe dogs the pride 
 That took the people's earth in lust of sport, 
 And banished God from the deep forest-glades. 
 
 \st Ca?zon. An awful deed to burn each holy church ! 
 
 2nd Canon. But shall this child receive no sepulchre 
 Because his fathers sinned 1 
 
 Godric \to Ca?io7is\. Go, get a bier, 
 
 And Wilfrith shall be guide to where he lies. 
 He took not up with conscious blasphemy 
 His race's wickedness. To Winchester 
 He shall be gently borne. \Exeiint Canons.] Wilfrith, your 
 heart 
 
 * Christchurch. 
 
136 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Hath some petition. Speak it openly. 
 
 Wilfi-ith. I found you fishing in the shallow streams 
 That spread a purity about these meads, 
 And glass the sky which you have vowed to serve. 
 Your lips were moving happily : methought 
 You lay in shelter of a lovely peace 
 I sigh to enter. Here the weight of life 
 Is taken from the shoulders of the world. — 
 Oh, might I join your dedicated band, 
 And share their simple days 'mid lowly scenes 
 Beyond the forest's hateful witchery. 
 
 Godi'ic, My son, your heart hath heard the heavenly call ; 
 Be patient. You are bidden and will come 
 Soon as the time is ripe. 
 
 Wilfrith, rd live and die 
 
 At this sweet place, in your sweet company. 
 
 Godric. In God's good time ! {Re-enter Canons?^ There 
 come the brothers back. 
 
 1st Canofi. All is prepared. 
 
 Godi'ic [to Canons]. Go, four of you, to lift 
 
 With song and suppHcation the fair prince 
 To mistimed funeral. My blessing ! 
 
 Wilfrith. Give 
 
 To me peculiar benison. I go 
 To living death in yon accursed bounds. 
 
 Godric. Hope and religion purify your heart, 
 And keep it ready ! Benedicite. {^Exeunt. 
 
 I'll work that he may join our humble Church. 
 But who comes here.? 
 
 [Enter more Canotis.] 
 
 2trd Canon. O father ! woe is me ! 
 That man of wrath, that spoiler of the Church, 
 That dark blasphemer with the fiery name, 
 Flambard, is at our gates. 
 
 Godric. Now Heaven help ! 
 
 He means the house no good. 
 
 [Enter other Canons.] 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 37 
 
 4/// Ca?ion. Alas, sweet Dean ! 
 
 He enters with a proud and dancing eye, 
 That inventories all it looks upon, 
 And smirches all it sees. 
 
 5/// Cano7t. Each door and chink 
 
 Draws his observance, and he marks each man 
 As he would buy him into slavery. 
 His mouth commands as doth a trumpet-blare, 
 By clamour brazen-voiced ; his ruddy face 
 Burns like a beacon prophesying strife ; 
 His stubborn form is irresistible ; 
 The weak air flies before it. . . . 
 
 /^th Canon. A low churl, 
 
 A hag-begotten priest. 
 
 ^th Ca?ton. We'll never bow 
 
 And cringe beneath his trampling insolence. 
 
 ^th Canon. Never ! 
 
 Godric. God give me strength and soldiership ! 
 
 4M Canoft. Listen ! His voice along the corridor 
 Crashes the covered silence. 
 
 Flavibard [tuithin']. Where's this dean, 
 
 This Godric ? 
 
 \Enters with other Canofts.'\ 
 
 Godric. Here. 
 
 Flambard. I come to claim my own. 
 
 Godric. Then no man who is just may hinder you. 
 
 Flainbard. Sense in a churchman ! Wonderful ! The 
 king 
 Hath granted me the church and convent. 
 
 ^th Ca7ion. Lord ! 
 
 Flambard. Ay, so I am thy lord, thou tonsured fool. 
 The church is mine ; the priory too is mine, 
 And mine, ye shivering souls, the revenue. 
 'Tis all at my disposal, and I will 
 To build me a new church of richer stones, 
 And ampler stretch from sacred East to West, 
 With higher roof and more exalted tow'r. 
 
138 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Godric. I'll tell you of the building of this church. — 
 In ancient days upon St. Cath'rine's hill 
 The workmen laid foundations ; every night 
 Beneath the moon a thunder moved the air ; 
 The stones were scattered, and then lost to sight : 
 But soon as morning trod with silver feet 
 Upon the shining pavement of the streams 
 Meadowy Stour and Avon, on a strip 
 Of land, a cape of river-laved earth, 
 The builders found their blocks. So every night 
 The new foundation on the lofty hill 
 Was carried by still influence away 
 To the low bed of waters. The command, 
 Thus clearly issued, was at last obeyed ; 
 The builders plied their craft ; but every day 
 A Stranger came and bore the heavy hours. 
 He never broke the necessary crust. 
 Nor stayed for payment when the sun went down, 
 And on the day of consecration none 
 Could see Him near nor far. — They named the church 
 Christ Church. . . . You'd give His finished work to 
 
 men. 
 Throw down the walls He spent Himself to build, 
 Whose corner stones He laid .'' 
 
 Flambard. Our modern ta,stes 
 
 Judge such a hole unworthy as the home 
 Of the angelic King. 
 
 Godric. Ye judge for Him 
 
 Who gave His judgment — fools ! 
 
 Flambard. Chain up thy tongue. 
 
 Old man ; its surly bark 
 Must back to kennel. 
 
 Godric. The unhallowed witch 
 
 Who bore thee to the devil, trained thy tongue 
 Thus to detraction and malignity. 
 
 Flambard. Beware, vile Saxon ! If I catch that laugh 
 Sneaking about the corners of your face, 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I39 
 
 I'll fire it like a fox from every hole 
 
 Of eye and mouth. Sir Dean, you shall not eat 
 
 My bread till you are humbler. 
 
 Godric. Never fear ! 
 
 Your meat I will not taste. 
 
 \st Canon. Alas, he raves ; 
 
 We cannot face the desert. 
 
 2nd Canoji. We must yield 
 
 With sad submission. 
 
 Flambard. Will ye ? 
 
 All. Yes, alas ! 
 
 Flambard. Then certain moneys shall ye put apart 
 To keep you, and all fasts shall be observed. 
 The rest of your good treasure I shall hold 
 For sake of the new church that I shall build 
 To cover you with beauty. Well, Sir Dean, 
 Will you not rule the dinner I provide 
 For modest stomachs ? 
 
 Godric. No, I'll never touch 
 
 Hell-offered bounty : rather will I go 
 To yon wide shades, where corn and apple-tree 
 Are exiles, and the beasts have treasured limbs 
 'Tis death to roast. 
 
 Flambard. The king would blast your sight 
 
 For such a speech ! You, canons, I forbid 
 To seek to turn him from his foolishness. 
 My wrath will burst its sides if longer kept 
 In fume. We'll drink. Draw forth your choicest wines 
 And parchments of the priory, the key 
 Of every store and coffer. While I feed 
 I'll cast the sums up. Then I'll say adieu, 
 And pass the gates, and shut them, dean, on you. \_Exeimt. 
 
140 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Scene III. — Malwood Lodge, in the New Forest. Enter 
 Walter Tirel^ William of Breteitil, atid Robert Fits- 
 ha?non. 
 
 Tirel. 'Tis strange he loves the forest with a lust 
 The green leaves wake to madness ; yet its shade 
 Hath been a brother's hearse, a nephew's doom : 
 Fate spins beneath its beeches. 
 
 Breteidl. True, the king 
 
 Pants with ungoverned joy within its ways. 
 He loves to scent the honeyed, sylvan air, 
 To break the greenwood holly with a cry 
 That peals above the comely-headed trees. 
 And pierces the remote and quiet deer 
 Before the dart is through them. 
 
 Fitz-hamo?!. 'Tis a weald 
 
 For royal pleasure. 
 
 Tirel. Doubtless ; yet methinks 
 
 About the silver trunks and mossied paths 
 There is a noiseless awe, an influence 
 That passes to the heart and sits within 
 Unasked, unwelcome, irremovable. 
 
 Fitz-hamon. Our Tirel is besprited in the glades. 
 'Tis said they swarm with magic shapes and sounds 
 That make the Saxon chatter with dismay 
 And superstition. 
 
 Tirel. Well, our Norman woods 
 
 Are sunnier and sparser and more soft 
 In entertainment to the traveller 
 Than this gigantic forest. I am strange 
 To such dense multitude of vaulted boughs 
 As keep the healthy sun from entering. 
 
 Breteidl. We hunt to-day. To-morrow we take horse 
 For distant Gloucester where the Council meets. 
 God grant we get a primate ; for the king 
 Still holds the sainted visitor from Bee, 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I4I 
 
 Sweet-featured Anselm, prisoned in the land, 
 And will not let him sail. 
 
 Tirel. 'Tis strange, most strange ; 
 
 The king is unmoved in his blasphemy 
 And pride against the Church, and yet he keeps 
 Its brightest jewel by him. 
 
 Fifz-hamoii. Hark ! the horn. 
 
 The press of dogs, the steed's uneasy pace, 
 The burly prickers and the merry knaves ! 
 \They e?iter singing^ 
 
 Song. 
 
 To the forest, ho ! 
 Where the tall deer run, 
 
 We'll go, we'll go, 
 
 And every one 
 Shall bend his duteous bow. 
 
 To the forest, heigh ! 
 Where the green oaks stand, 
 
 We'll ride away, 
 
 A jolly band, 
 With, ho ! for a greenwood day ! 
 
 \Enter the King with boisterous following.'] 
 Rufus. Here I breathe free ; here am I over-lord 
 Of man and wold ; here the subservient soil 
 I privilege, or starve to barrenness, 
 As my caprice resolves. I punish here. 
 Ha, ha ! Here am I absolute. I roar 
 A lion through the woods, and fugitive 
 Slinks the unmaned and offenceless herd ; 
 Or scans me with a trembling constancy,. 
 Too much appalled for flight. My will is law, 
 Fair Forest-Law, — that is my perfect will. 
 It dooms the poacher to the swinging bough, 
 The hound to cringing service, and the deer 
 To the large liberty of wide confine. 
 I'm generous here to my brute prisoners, 
 Yielding them charters with a liberal hand, — 
 
142 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 License to lord it on this noble vert 
 
 At the ki7tg's pleasure — the condition. — Ah ! 
 
 The Church herself must hold her revenues 
 
 As ebbs and flows my treasury's yellow tide. 
 
 I am the source of all munificence. 
 
 When I confer a primate on my realm 
 
 The halo will be beaming on his brow, 
 
 And he in saintliness excel as far 
 
 As I in sovereign empire. [ The King's horse is led in. 
 
 Noble roan ! 
 This master-stirrup, fitted to my foot, 
 Confirms my pre-appointment to excess 
 In natural dominion. I am stout 
 In body and gigantic in desire 
 Of sport ; the meagre meshes of this wood 
 Chafe me ; its dwarfish pleasures mock my pride. 
 I will afforest more ; there shall be dark 
 Through flawless umbrage of serene arcades 
 From dawn to sunset, ere my hunter's lust 
 Confess satiety. Mount, gentlemen ! \Exeimt. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Forest, Leofric carving a piece of wood. 
 Wilfrith digging. 
 
 Leofric. A horn ! 
 
 Methinks the forest hath another use 
 These precious hours of morning, when the world 
 Is at some process of its perfecting 
 'Twere well to learn the trick of. Wilfrith toils. 
 Tearing yon fibre from the ground a-sweat 
 With effort ; while for me ! — my eyes are full ; 
 I have no want ; the world is excellent ; 
 There is no prickle in the holly wrong. 
 How bossily it clusters ! Fool to try 
 Reckon its notches ; — a few sturdy twists 
 With strength of mid-rib chronicles the type — 
 The burly spread of the wall-building tree, 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 143 
 
 Its bristling leaves compact, well to the fore ; 
 Behind, the rampart's azure secrecy. 
 Well, Wilfrith, are you satisfied ? 
 
 Wilfrith. If now 
 
 I might go in hot from my work and pray. 
 O brother, tell my father of my need. 
 I'm bidden to the cloister. What is wrong 
 Is in our souls ; we suffer for our sins, 
 And must atiflict ourselves. 
 
 Leofric. Oh, do not think 
 
 We travel so untreasured in resource 
 We needs must earn the bread of every joy 
 By sweat of soul. If life 's a desert — ah ! 
 There's manna in the waste ; it lies about, 
 And the wise idle soul is satisfied. — 
 Wliat is't ? An adder curled upon the bough ? 
 You stare and shake. \A specti'e passes. 
 
 Wilfrith. Brother, you saw it pass . . . ? 
 
 A mist with bony outlines . . . and an eye 
 Cross'd by a bloody streak, 
 
 Leofric. Such often glide 
 
 About the coloured stems or twist around 
 The blank tree-shapes of midnight. 
 
 Wilfrith. Oh, we live 
 
 Within accursed bounds ; the insolence 
 Of pleasure hath unsanctified the Church, 
 Unbuilt the home, ungirdled field from field. 
 And made this tract an uncouth wilderness 
 Where demons jeer and sooty spectres hunt 
 With flamy-visaged hounds. I must escape ; 
 The very air is sinful. 
 
 Leofric. In God's time 
 
 I'll range the dirty faces of these ghosts 
 About His tow'r, that men may see their foes 
 And know them. So I'll turn to righteousness 
 What poisons you. There's one that's half a cat. 
 With human eyes and howling fringe of teeth 
 
144 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 About its monstrous yawn ; one, rough and plump 
 As knarl upon an oak, is animate 
 With jollity ; one hangs his fiendish jaw 
 Demure and lustful ; one through chink of lid 
 Gloats on the holy sky. I've learnt them all, 
 And men shall see them in eternal stone, 
 And fear and watch. — Here wend no sprites of Hell, 
 Our uncle and our father. 
 
 {Enter Purkis and Godrzc.'] 
 
 Wilfrith. Grave and slow. 
 
 Godric. My sons, my sons, the very Church herself 
 Gives but uncertain shelter. I am cast 
 Forth from my house of Twynham, sent to find 
 A strange asylum for my aged grief. 
 
 Wilfrith. Never ! 
 
 Godric. Alas ! 'tis wicked Flambard's will, 
 
 That torch of God that brands on us our sins 
 With flaming judgment. 
 
 Wilfrith. How my heart is sore ! 
 
 There was sure healing in the holy place 
 You kept in righteousness across the bounds 
 Of this sin-blighted purlieu. 
 
 Godric. Comfort lies 
 
 A placid child on every sorrow's breast ; 
 It wakes to laugh us into hope again. 
 All will be well with me. I have no fear. 
 The homeless in their land are ever watched 
 By ministers of Grace. Take heart, my son. 
 At my entreaty, as my parting charge, 
 The new dean will receive you to the peace 
 And blessedness of holy brotherhood. 
 
 Piirkis. Ay, Wilfrith, never quake and hang your head. 
 For shame ! Become the monk, lad, like a man. 
 
 Wilfrith. I am unworthy. . . . 
 
 Purkis. Pooh, it was thy wish. 
 
 There's no brave muscle in that puny thought 
 That makes a man unworthy of his aim. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 145 
 
 Wilfrith, I cannot speak : good uncle, come to me ; — 
 The ruined chapel — there I will give thanks. \^E^if. 
 
 Godric. They think my church is mean ; they have proud 
 souls 
 That will not stoop in pray'r nor rise in chant 
 Save under mighty column and jagged arch. 
 
 Leofric. The church to be re-built ? 
 
 Godric. And you are named 
 
 To work its stones to shape of beast and plant, 
 To twist the column, to endue the wall 
 With dragon's flinty scales. 
 
 Leofric. I will transplant 
 
 The forest and its phantoms to the church. 
 I'll make our ivy's locked and solid stems 
 Grip and o'erspread the pillar. 
 \E?iter Harold a7id Beoiuulf from another part of the Jorest?^ 
 
 Purkis. Grand-dad comes, 
 
 Half-fog, half-thundercloud his poor blurred face. 
 Why, Harold, you are hot. 
 
 Harold. There's feast to-day 
 
 At Minstead ; the good buck that Malf may carve 
 Once in the year is served. Heav'n choke the churl ! 
 
 Ptirkis. He ever loved good dishes. Have you heard 
 Flambard is lord of Twynham ? 
 
 Leofric. And the church 
 
 To be re-built. 
 
 Godric. The canons dispossessed 
 
 Of the revenue. 
 
 Beowulf. There they christened me — 
 
 In the old church of Twynham. It's washed out. 
 
 Harold. Grandfather, do not mind your christening. 
 Edwin and Aldric both are dead 
 For shooting at a stag, like I^Jalf, who now 
 Is chewing at his savoury haunch unhurt. 
 I loved them. Oh, the sweet, big, comely boys ! 
 Such giants they were growing. 
 
 Godric. Let us go 
 
 L 
 
146 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 And learn if we may bury them. 
 
 Purkis. Kind soul ! 
 
 \Exeunt Godric, Piirkis, and Leofric. 
 
 Beoividf. The air has been a-milking ; it smells sweet 
 As a lass fresh from the udders. The young trees 
 Shoot up ; the king grows over-fond of it, 
 The fatal mazy place, Prince Richard's grave. 
 Ay, there's a noise of tears. What, Harold, lad ! 
 \^Feelmg him.'] His sturdy hair. 
 
 Harold. I'll take to woman's work. 
 
 To be a man has no significance. 
 
 Beowulf. Eh ! But there's change of weather in your 
 voice. 
 Who suffers ? Are they mutilated 1 
 
 Harold. What ! 
 
 You have been deaf and imbecile ? You're dull. 
 I've heard you eloquent. 
 
 Beowulf. These troubles, lad, 
 
 Are over-pressing me ; I'm like an old 
 O'erladen cart that cracks beneath the sheaves. 
 They put too much upon me. In the wood, 
 Under the oak-boughs they are hanging them ? 
 
 Harold. Oh, you have mighty memories to climb ; 
 Away in the great passes you are safe. 
 There's no remembrance in my youth's routine, 
 No sweet denial for fair freedom's sake. 
 No passion-hoarding for the prodigal 
 Spendthrift fulfilment of a great desire ; 
 No fine asperities of hope, no thrill, 
 Awe, and exhilaration of a joy 
 That toils a-hung'ring towards its blessedness. 
 You cannot know the pang, the helpless love 
 For my own England that has cast me off, 
 That will not have me live or die for her. 
 What is one's country } The sole woman-child, 
 Rosy and prattling daughter of a Past 
 Too winnowed in experience, too grave 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I47 
 
 For blood's desire to mix with reverence ; 
 
 While shc^ in tender prime, no grace of youth 
 
 Awanting to her, ravishes the heart, 
 
 And teaches wisdom in the ecstasy 
 
 Of nuptial consummation. Oh, to breathe 
 
 The name that she hath taught with her own lips, 
 
 To know it is the Norman's heritage, 
 
 To know that she herself will change ! Before 
 
 She plays the harlot, I will seal my soul 
 
 From agony ; the beasts in spotted heaps 
 
 I'll slay, and cast their corpses o'er the fence 
 
 Of Malf, the Saxon guardian of the deer. 
 
 I'll rot before his eyes, hung on the oak 
 
 That branches toward his door. I'll spoil the edge 
 
 Of his slave's appetite. Minstead no more 
 
 Shall cook and eat its mess of felon's meat ; 
 
 There shall be some recoil. {Breaks through the boughs, 
 
 Beowulf. He'll put it down, 
 
 This fattening on the people's provender. 
 There's nothing done except at cost of life. 
 My lad . . . 
 
 His voice rang free, a bird upon the wing, 
 The lark's victorious pinion in the trill 
 Of his young note. The linnets on the twig 
 Jar me with insect twitter. By-and-by 
 I'll sit beside the gallows ; I've the time. \Exit^ 
 
 Scene V. — Gloucester. A Room. Enter Bishops Gundulf 
 Walkelin^ and others; Robert Fitz-hatnon^ Robert of 
 Meulajz, and other Nobles. 
 
 Gundulf\showmg a petition\. From holy Anselm comes 
 this blessed leaf 
 Of healing and assuagement to the land 
 Fevered with ulcerous sore. Pray Heav'n this balm 
 Soften the rancour of the royal heart. 
 
 Fit2-ha?non. I fear me it will irritate : the king 
 
148 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Hath heard on th' instant that by traitors' hands 
 His Ralf is put to sea. The storm on 's face 
 I fled from : there was hghtning in its clouds, 
 And they were ranked for vengeance. 
 
 lValkeli7t. He hath heard 
 
 Of this petition, and will doubtless sign. 
 He blesses even now in secrecy 
 The tranquil abbot hither journeying. 
 Beheve me. . . . 
 
 {^Enter the King?[ 
 
 Rtifiis. Where is Ralf? The rumour goes 
 
 He is arrested and borne over sea. 
 Now listen, gentlemen, by Lucca's face, 
 rU throw that torch still hissing from the wave, 
 A brand shall set your bishoprics in flames. 
 My churls ! — it shall be worse for them ; I'll throw 
 A rope across the land,— whether it yield 
 Or not, it shall be taxed. I'll make myself 
 The heir of every benefice, — the monks 
 Shall starve— the 
 
 Fit2-hajnon. We, my lord, are ignorant 
 
 Of any misadventure. 
 
 Gundulf. But, if Heav'n 
 
 Deign to chastise a base misgovernor, 
 Beseech your Majesty in holy fear 
 Receive the dreadful warning and repent. 
 
 Walkclift. My liege, there is another raging sea 
 Waits to engulf us all— the people's hate. 
 This See of Canterbury . . . 
 
 Rufus. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 You jest. Sir Bishop. I will walk this sea 
 In royal progress. 
 
 Gundulf. Stay that reckless tongue, 
 
 Ere for its sin a sudden leprosy 
 Snow-like envelop your affrighted soul. 
 
 Fits-hamoti. Here comes a messenger ! 
 \_E/itcr a Mcssc/igcr.^ 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 149 
 
 Riifus. With dripping clothes. 
 
 A mariner. How now ! 
 From the whale's belly hast extracted him, 
 The mighty woe-pronouncer on you all, 
 My pious lords ? 
 
 Messenger. Sir Ranulf greets his liege, 
 
 Bids me report — from great calamity 
 Being delivered, to the castle gates 
 He journeys swiftly. 
 
 Rufiis. Give him welcome, lords ! 
 
 Escort him to the presence. Bishops, go ! 
 
 [Exeujtt some of the Bishops and Lords, 
 Ha, ha ! They shall receive their ravisher 
 As the chief nurse and pastor of the flock. 
 He's chuckling with them now. 
 
 Guftdulf [aside']. Heav'n save the king 
 
 From a deserved chastisement. 
 
 Fitz-hamo7t. He hath 
 
 Some ground for his displeasure. 
 
 Rufiis [ascending his throjte\ To my throne ! 
 Place for the chancellor beside. Make way. 
 
 [E7iter Flambard and Bishops."] 
 What ! back again, 
 
 My peerless chancellor, my jovial Ralf ! 
 My sometime kitchen-clerk, my jolly priest, 
 Most scrupulous financier, and lord 
 Over God's heritage — the virtuous way 
 Of estimating to an ounce the fleece, 
 The silky-hided revenues that 'long 
 To my fierce crosier-bearing royalties. 
 Art wet, storm-frosted, naked and despoiled .'* 
 The murderers ! Had they extinguish'd /^z^. 
 My fire-brand to the foxes, my gay flame, 
 My t — t — t — or — ch, my 
 
 Flajnbard. Stop that stuttering, my liege. 
 
 'Twas I outwitted them. To see the fools, 
 When they had made me captive, fail to fix 
 
150 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 How to despatch me ; — should they drown or slay ? 
 I recommended that the prisoner 
 Should, by compression of the thumb to throat, 
 A bloodless corpse, resign his rich attire 
 Unsulhed to his capturers. They laughed, 
 Fell to the survey, and grew quarrelsome, 
 While friendly winds rose higher. In the gale 
 My seamanship [is there, my liege, a craft 
 Of which I am not master?] awed the men, 
 Coupled with just a sly, malicious, half- 
 Retaliating, pious hint of how 
 They were delivered to my hand, and must 
 Cry mercy / would I pray them into port. 
 At landing, I had pow'r to pack them all 
 In prison for the hangman's courtesies ; 
 But plucked them by the beard and bade them drink 
 Health to my body and their damning souls. 
 So blessed them and departed. What's the news ? 
 
 Rufiis. Why, Ralf, a pray'r, a loyal loving pray'r — 
 Ha, ha ! — that I should strictly give command 
 The people shall entreat the Lord to change 
 My heart. . . , Sweet Ralf, here is my signature 
 With laughter's palsy somewhat tremulous. {Signs the pa^er. 
 Conceive it ! ho ! a thousand muffled mouths 
 To change this heart and force me cast you off. 
 I warrant they would sweat at it. Ho, ho ! 
 
 Flambard. Good jest, i' faith ! 
 
 Riifiis. And since ye now have warrant for your knees, 
 Committing you to fasting's penury, 
 And much hard labour of the lips, I pray 
 Begone! [Waving his hand. 
 
 While I await the issues of this war. 
 This sally, this celestial enterprise. 
 Like a good tow'r I stand, resistant, firm ; 
 Seek ye to undermine me with your pray'rs, 
 Who bootless batter my thick-walled will. 
 Ay, but I swear, by my own mother's soul, 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. ISI 
 
 Tho' you should summon the great Overlord, 
 To quadruple your forces in this siege, 
 You will not . . . 
 
 Flambard. Leave them threatless to their pray'rs. 
 
 Beseech you give me an hour's audience ; 
 Embrace me as your new-restored heir. 
 Let us make merry. 
 
 Rufiis {to Attendants], Pack the churchmen off ! 
 And you, my lords, the council is at end. {Exeunt Bishops. 
 Some two hours later and we meet at hunt. 
 My Ralf, your king himself shall slay the deer 
 That with full, feastful Norman courtesy 
 Confirms your welcome at our board to-night ; 
 The rich and savoury meat of your return. 
 IMeanwhile I feed on gluttonous. {To Lords.] Retire ! 
 
 {Exeunt Lords. 
 What knitting still your handsome brows ? Uncrease ! 
 Let us to laughter. 
 
 Flambard. They betake themselves 
 
 To pray'rs, the beldam's refuge. Nought to fear ; 
 We may retain the See of Canterb'ry. 
 I have no further scruple — that is — dread. 
 We may to work. 
 
 Ruftis. My pretty Publican, 
 
 Too rigorous in sooth you rate the dues 
 And issues of this action to enjoy 
 Its perfect rustic innocence. Conceive 
 This heart, this prodigal, rapacious heart, 
 This wine- warmed bosom, this gold-hardened breast. 
 This bubbling fount of life that feeds and fills 
 Must be dried up to dribble of the monk ! 
 Let's cut our ruddy curls and grow austere 
 As pious Lanfranc, for whose soul I pray. 
 Being so affluent in his revenues. 
 My rosy Ralf, let us resemble him. 
 And love these hinds and give them liberties, 
 And pray that we may think upon the Church, 
 
152 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 And lay our jewels 'mid be-sainted bones. 
 Oh, let us pray that this may come to pass, 
 And show our humbled faith in miracle. 
 They have permission ; let them pray their best, 
 While I perform my worst. — What didst thou say 
 Of this vile Purkis and his more offence 
 Against our forest-laws and honest Malf, 
 The guardian of our deer ? 
 
 Flambard. He slaughters them. 
 
 You know there is a custom that the lord 
 Of Minstead claims with every summer's sun 
 A stately buck or doe at Llammas-tide, 
 Provided only that, if either fall 
 Within the forest-bound, he leave a haunch 
 To show the antler'd beast's true overlord. 
 This Purkis, chafing one of Saxon blood 
 Should servile eat our royal venison, 
 Heap'd Minstead-tracks with gory haunch and head. 
 And, breaking all restraint, defiantly 
 Dared Malf to meddle with his sport. 
 
 Rufus. A dog 
 
 To be unclaw'd ! Hot-irons ! Torture, man ! 
 Don't trust to the ordeal. God's no judge 
 Of forest-laws ; He never followed deer. 
 A cord about his throat ! Within my bounds, 
 My b — b — b — ou — nd — s ! 
 
 Flambard. My lord, you grow too sudden red. 
 Chafe not so angrily. — He's in a fit. 
 
 {Beckons and luhispers to a Servant 
 Name but a forest-treason to this House 
 It foams i' the mouth half-limatic. How now ? 
 A rope shall perch the medd'ling clown tree-high 
 From further mischief. 
 
 Rufus. It — it drives me mad. 
 
 I will have every inch of earth ; — the half 
 My realm in hands of priests, and my fair woods, 
 My noble deer ! . . . I will be absolute 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 53 
 
 While there is any breath 
 
 Left in my body : no competitor 
 
 Shall rival me. King WiUiam shall be sole 
 
 Archbishop — Anselm they are praying for — 
 
 Cur — cur — se him ! — of Canterbury. 
 
 Flambard. Tut, my liege, 
 
 We'll bleed you of these humours. You're perverse. 
 
 \E7iter Johri de Villula.'] 
 Good my lord bishop, help me raise the king ; 
 He's stiff and speechless. 
 
 De Villula. Short, too, i' the neck ! 
 
 These sudden cholers . . . with profanity. . . . 
 Heav'n looks not kindly on the arrogant. 
 A little water. Ay, ay ! he revives ; 
 The Lord looks on his people. . . . This is sent 
 Doubtless in mercy to admonish him. 
 
 [Exeunl, bearing Riifus. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Dusk: a windy cleared place. Harohfs body 
 bleaching o?i a gallows : 7iear it Beowulf. 
 
 Beowulf. I feel it's here ; I have no need to see. 
 I'm glad they murdered him, not made him dark ; 
 For now he's dead the Earth will think on him 
 As she unweaves his body bit by bit. 
 She'll have time like the women-folk at work 
 To turn all over in her mind, and get 
 His wrongs by heart. He never trusted her ; 
 He thought her slow . . . she's old, 
 It's true ; and no ambition for herself: 
 When the corpse lies where she has given suck 
 The lusty days stir in her. \E71ter Wilfrith.'] Who is here 1 
 
 Wilfrith. Wilfrith ! I often come to pray for him ; 
 I loved him ; it's like standing by the cross, 
 The thief's — and he my brother ! As a child 
 He pushed me from him ; I was timorous. 
 1 have more reason now to be afraid — 
 He died impenitent. \Aloud.'\ O grandfather, 
 Let us go home ; we can pray better there ! 
 
 Beowulf. Pray ! pray ! Are you a wench to chatter so "i 
 Does not your tongue grow rigid in your head, 
 A corpse to bear that silence company/ 
 Have you no death in you ? Oh, say your prayers ; 
 I will keep mourning in my ruined ears 
 The passing of his voice. 
 
 Wilfrith. But, father, think ! 
 
 154 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 155 
 
 We're praying for his soul, that it may rest. 
 
 Beowulf. Is it a monk? Do we all take to cells 
 In our walled coffins ? 
 
 Wilfrith. Rumour's in the air 
 
 King Harold lingers still a penitent 
 At Chester, wailing sore his people's pride, 
 Whose uncurbed spirit still refuses peace 
 With William, the true heritor. 
 
 Beowulf. How like 
 
 This sounds to the king's voice — in woman's clothes ! 
 Trickle your puny lies. 
 
 Wilfrilh. It may be true. 
 
 They say he frees us from our loyalty ; 
 And bids us tend the land in quietness, 
 Yielding the Church her dues. 
 
 Beowulf. The land, O God, 
 
 The soil ! . . . The people's common earth 
 They trench and furrow for their sustenance, 
 Let fall their sweat in, put away their dead 
 For the cool dark of . . . \Enter Purkis^ But I hear 
 
 a step. — 
 I'll have your lying words put to the sword. 
 
 Purkis. Why, grand-dad, whew ! find you in company 
 Of our young priest to keep the devils off 
 My poor lad's corse ? \Aside^ He'd better keep the crows. 
 Oh, it's insufferable the way he snuffs 
 This carrion, I'm his father ; I have eyes. 
 Harold, my boy, we're hidden in the womb 
 When we're a-making. Faugh, these processes 
 Infamous in exposure ! S^Aloud^ Come away, 
 And if I catch you sneaking here 
 
 Beowulf. You'll swear 
 
 King Harold lies at Waltham. 
 
 Purkis \aside\ He's confused 
 
 Betwixt the great King Harold and my son. 
 He's growing childish with his long confine 
 r the constant dark ; new trouble 'mazes him. 
 
156 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 [A/o2cd.] Come off, I can't stay here ; there's pestilence. 
 
 Wilfrith \in an t(nderto?ie\. Speak to him, father ; he can't 
 see it right, 
 And if I argue, he's so terrible, 
 My mind is laid like corn ; we shall be lost 
 If thus we break the fences of the law, 
 And harm the unoffending gentlefolk. 
 The sight of him \_pointing to Beowulf^ who walks apari\ 
 
 unsettles all our youth. 
 We lost our Harold through his vengefulness ; 
 He cuts our lads off faster than the king 
 Fulfils his dreadful threats ; we're perishing, 
 The Normans gaining ground. 
 
 Purkis. Oh, never fear. 
 
 We will be masters ; there's the stuff in us ; 
 We're used to the pace of Nature and keep step ; 
 Our habits are not conquered ; like the fowls 
 We flap our wings at eventide and roost ; 
 Breed, too, uncommon fast. We'll grow anon 
 A forest of stout youngsters for the old 
 Plantations they have put the hatchet to ; 
 And force the king protect them tenderly 
 As the pleasure-trees now filling into wood. 
 He will not have a choice. 
 
 Wilfrith \^pointing to Beowulf^ His sinful soul ! 
 
 Purkis. He's damning daily as men reap the corn 
 By armfuls, if a monk should measure him. 
 Heaven clothes itself in our infirmities ; 
 And I, who am his son, make bold to hope 
 That God will take upon Himself those eyes 
 
 [ Turning to Beowulf. 
 To look upon his faults ; — He's merciful. 
 But hold you off awhile ; he's mumbling now ; 
 His tottering lips are haply setting out 
 In age for holy land. 
 
 Beowulf \aside\. I breathe the air ; 
 
 The tongues of free men should inhabit it ; 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 157 
 
 It is infested by the shackled speech 
 Of base petitioners. 
 
 Wilfrith [to Piirkis]. But, Harold, think ! 
 He died without God's body ; all our lives 
 We must say masses for him fearfully. 
 There is a King in heaven we must serve, 
 Or die as traitors. 
 
 Beowulf. Is God called a King.? 
 
 ril never, never trust Him. 
 
 Piirkis [to Wilfrith\ Tut, my lad, 
 
 You're over-anxious ; as I take it now. 
 Our souls were never private property 
 A man might call his own ; — I rather hold 
 Our duty's simply a stupendous fief 
 Our Overlord lets out to us in bits 
 To plod at peaceful, putting armour on 
 When His old quarrel with the devil needs 
 Sword-settling ; but the more part of our days 
 It's produce He requires, not skirmishing. 
 These sins of ours 
 
 Let's put 'em in as muck about our roots, 
 Not fling to waste. Those early Norman years 
 I had a murderous heart ; I plucked it out, 
 Flung to the refuse ; now it's rotted down 
 To just a sturdy holding to my rights. 
 If you ivill put away your baser parts. 
 You'll grow a slender crop. Feed full the field 
 If you desire the hundred-fold increase, 
 I say . . . but you, religious, cannot learn 
 The right use of your sins. It's wasting breath 
 To speak to you. {Exit Wilfrith.'] [Looking at Beowulf.] 
 
 Can't say it's growing dark ; 
 [Aloiid?^ Why stars are all a-throbbing overhead ; 
 Now we may sleep, and safe : Heaven's sentinel. 
 
 Beowulf Send off the youngster to his rushes. Hark ! 
 It has been pouring on my brain ; they found 
 A corpse, a counterfeit ; they buried it 
 
158 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 r the Norman Minster : he is on the beach 
 
 Where the waves join in battle ; in the cairn 
 
 Of England's stones the treasure of his heart. 
 
 The winds blow over him ; he hears them pass 
 
 Fresh from this gibbet, and the mound's aheave . . . 
 
 He's under the great Standard ! . . . 
 
 Purkis \aside\. Prophecj^ 
 
 Is just a leak o' the spirit, drains the head 
 O' the angry, bubbling waters that would lash 
 The afflicted lunatic : he's merry now 
 For come two hours, — a-chuckling at his dreams. — 
 Ay, dad, we'll gather round the Fighting Man. \^Exeuni. 
 
 Scene II. — A Monastery near Gloucester, Anseljn and 
 
 Eadmer. 
 
 Anselm. God gives His bread to children who are sweet 
 With golden faith ; to thinkers and to men 
 Of striving reason He presents a stone, 
 That they should toil and find the heav'nly food 
 The sinews of the brain have strength to win. 
 
 Edmer, when my thought was weak and glad 
 As a young bird that only knows the nest ; 
 When as a child of Italy I lay 
 
 Asleep, the mountains lifted round my home, 
 My spirit wandered from my little bed. 
 And walked upon the heights ; 'twas harvest-time. 
 And maidens paused above the plenteous sheaves. 
 Methought I'd climb to Heaven and complain 
 How slowly they were binding the red corn. 
 
 1 reached the hall of Heaven — it was still ; 
 The Lord and His good butler keeping house, 
 But all the angels were a-harvesting. 
 
 A childish tire was plaintive in my voice 
 
 That told Him of His servants' negligence ; 
 
 He smiled, and bread was brought ; He stooped and put 
 
 A silver-blcachcd morsel to my lips ; 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 59 
 
 'Neath His kind brows I ate, and never yet 
 Have lost the strong renewal of that meat. 
 
 Eadmer, The sweetest story I have ever heard. 
 My pen shall keep it for all future days 
 To learn how Heav'n dealeth with the child. 
 
 Aiisehn. How glorious its dealing with the man ! 
 It gives not, that his reason may attain, 
 And like a casket in possession hard 
 Close round the gem of absolute belief. 
 Faith is the child's gift, and Philosophy 
 The man's achievement. Blessed toil, to walk 
 Where babes are carried past on angel-wings ; 
 To compass Mystery, to conquer Space, 
 Subjugate cunning Time, Eternity's 
 Protean shapes, and changes to illude 
 Man's recognition : in our mind to clutch 
 The veritable Being, force it yield 
 And re-assume itself. 
 
 Eadmer. Too high your thoughts. 
 
 I cannot reach the level of your joy. 
 
 Anselm. Nay, Edmer, hark ! It is Philosophy 
 That knocks at Heaven's gate ; Faith finds the door 
 Wide open — 'tis the hand of Thought that calls 
 St. Peter to his charge ; he opens wide ; 
 And the mind enters with the awful tread 
 Of deep assurance that vast home sublime 
 Of the Supreme Idea, and beholds 
 Th' ineffable Existence. I have toiled 
 And fasted, in the midnight watches cried. 
 Consumed the light within me nigh to ash, 
 And desolated human frailty 'neath 
 The march and stress of battling Intellect, 
 To reach that certain knowledge of my God, 
 Clothed in perfection of reality. 
 
 Eadi7ier. O rare and mighty thinker, and withal 
 A holy, loving saint, I can but write 
 The chronicle of your loved destiny, 
 
l6o WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 That walks along the earth ; when you aspire 
 To God, your pen is sole historian 
 Of beatific life beyond mine eyes. 
 
 Anselin. Dear English Edmer, thy meek, fervent soul 
 Hath often rested where I toil to stand. 
 My life's disciple, we will never part, 
 Till Death give promise we shall ever join 
 In bond that no mortality assails. 
 The King of England holds me in his realm ; 
 But when he grants me passage to my home 
 At streamy, wooded Bee, thou too shalt come, 
 And write the tale of Man for men to be ; 
 And I will follow to its virgin source 
 The soul that makes his being's sacred worth. 
 So will we work in cloister'd peace, no storm 
 Of outward passion piercing our still days. 
 
 \Enter Monks with a Messenger. '\ 
 
 \st Monk. Most holy father 
 
 2nd Monk. Blessed Anselm, hear ! 
 
 \st Monk. This man is from the king, who lieth sick 
 Well-nigh to death. 
 
 Messe?tger. He groans and cries for help 
 
 As he were drowning in the fear of death. 
 
 Anselm. I cannot go. 
 
 Messe?tger. A cruel word to pass 
 
 From lips reputed kind. He sobs for aid 
 Against the demons mocking at his soul. 
 
 A?isehn. I cannot go ; a fear I may not name 
 Stands in the path you show me. There are men 
 Of comfortable spirit nigh the king. 
 Why will you pierce my heart with augury 
 Of doom to all my hopes .'' 
 
 Messenger. Nay, never fear 
 
 He'll give us our archbishop : there he's stiff 
 As yew, and fatal to his people's pray'r. 
 
 Anselin \jiside\ The peace, the wooded monastery. Oh ! 
 My books, my problems, and the lonely strife 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. l6l 
 
 With mystery, the joyous blessing won ! — 
 Seek for another comforter. My fate 
 Is sealed with condemnation if I go. 
 
 AIesse?tger. No other man can save our lord the king 
 From anguish such as makes his dying hour 
 The vestibule to Hell. 
 
 1st Monk. Oh, pity him. 
 
 2nd Monk. Have mercy on his wicked panting soul. 
 
 Anselm. I cannot go — yet, Edmer, think of it ! 
 No soothing, no access of grateful peace 
 As herald of Death's perfect silencing ; 
 All conflict, insurrection, and affright, 
 That put to shame the calm invincible 
 Whose presence stills the threshold. I must go, 
 To shed some dew before the coming night, 
 And make its shade more gentle. 
 
 Eadiner. He is won. 
 
 The stricken king will feel upon the air 
 The benediction of his gracious age. 
 
 Atiselm. The poor aghasted soul. 
 
 \st Monk. Ay, think of it ; 
 
 The terrible, black exit. 
 
 2nd Mo7ik. And the lone, 
 
 Fire-beaconed journey. 
 
 Eadmer. And the final death. — 
 
 Tears make his eyes more precious. He is won. 
 
 Ansehn. The Comforter, the Holy Spirit, draws 
 My feet to carry its sweet messages. 
 I come. — Eadmer, how the future hangs 
 Its chains upon my calling, which is thought 
 And meditation on eternal truth. 
 Thus could I freely serve, and yet my God, 
 I know, will bind my lot to slavery. \Exeu7it. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Scene III. — The King''s sick-room at Gloucester. Round 
 the bed^ William of St. Calais^ Bishop Walkelin^ Bishop 
 Gundidf Bishop John de Villula^ Flambard, Bishops, 
 Nobles, and many Atteftdants. 
 
 Rufus. He has me down ; He's bending over me 
 To give my soul the death-grip ; but I yield. — 
 Good Villula, fling that vile potion down, 
 And pray for me. Your king is perishing 
 Th' eternal way. 
 
 De Villula. Imagination 
 
 Conjures the devil ; 'tis a fatal case. 
 
 Rufus. Fie, fie, the devil ! I could fling him off" ; 
 God's overpressing me . . . and I confess. 
 I sore repent my many grievous sins. 
 Oh, oh ! the sickness strangles me at heart. 
 I will amend. — This cold is damning me. 
 
 De Villula. Put yonder skins about his feet. My lord. 
 This little potion hath a kindly heat, 
 Is cheery against shivers in the blood. 
 
 Rufus. Plague strike you ! you are for the gallipot ; 
 There is no bishop in you. Oh these br — r — ri — bes. . . . 
 Gtmdulf God strikes him in the mouth. 
 Walkelin. His blasphemy 
 
 Brought on this stuttering. 
 
 Gundtdf. To seal your groans 
 
 As those of penitence, dismiss your sins 
 By righteous reparation for all wrong. 
 Set free the captives, with death-chained hand 
 Undo the living fetters. 
 
 Meulan. And forgive 
 
 The debtor. 
 
 Gundulf. Yield her pastors to the Church. 
 Rufus. I'll do all this. Good souls, deliver mc. 
 Gundulf To God belongs deliverance, my king. 
 But dare you lose His mercy by the sin 
 Of keeping in a wailing bondage drear 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 63 
 
 The Church of Churches, Christ's most holy Church 
 Of Canterb'ry ? 
 
 Rufus. I never sold 
 
 De Villula. Forbear. 
 
 The pulse is flapping like to dying wings ; 
 And what an eagle perishes ! — But see, 
 Here comes the doctor to the stricken soul. 
 The good physician, who with holy words 
 Can heal the spirit's ulcer, and refresh 
 With draughts celestial. Holy Anselm, peace 
 And benediction ! 
 \Enter Anselm^ Eadmer, Eustace, and Baldwin of Totirnay,\ 
 
 Ansehn, Doth the king still live ? 
 
 Giindulf. In penitence he toils to breathe his last. 
 
 Ansehn. What counsel have ye dropped into his ear, 
 How made its chest the treasury of grace ? 
 How have ye moved him ? 
 
 Gundidf. 'Tis the might of God 
 
 Hath cleft his stubbornness ; our feeble Hps 
 Have urged confession, reparation, all 
 The duties of the dying penitent. 
 
 Ansehn, 'Tis well. 
 
 Walkelin. Our lips are weak, but thine are strong. 
 Urge thou the only hope, the only means. 
 
 Gundiilf. Lord Anselm, holy father, speak to him. 
 He lies with sickened cheeks and haunted eyes. 
 Speak. 
 
 Walkelin. We beseech thee, speak. 
 
 Flambard. Nay, comfort him ; 
 
 A cup of good red wine. 
 
 De Villula. Inflammat'ry ! 
 
 Damnation ! not a drop. Lord Anselm, speak : 
 He sees you. 
 
 Ansehn. Peace be to the penitent. 
 My king, I have strange hope that you will live 
 And leave this lowly bed of languishing, 
 If with a hearty will you turn from sin, 
 
164 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 And rule your people with mild righteousness. 
 Will your soul promise this ? 
 
 Rufus. All, all. 
 
 Anseljjt. To rule 
 
 With justice and with mercy, to unbind 
 The links of bondage, pardon every debt, 
 Restore its shepherd to each mourning Church, 
 So help you God. 
 
 Rufus. So help me God, I will. 
 
 Renew this promise made in His dread Name 
 To God before the altar. Bishops, go. 
 
 Ansehn. Let the clerks write a proclamation, sealed, 
 Lord Chancellor, by you, to tell the land 
 That deeds will flow from promise unto God. 
 
 Gu?tdulf. There is one other sin upon his soul : 
 He gives the Church no primate. 
 
 Walkelin, Fill the See. 
 
 St. Calais [aside]. Perchance my time hath come. 
 
 Gu7idiilf. Receive our pray'r. 
 
 Rufus. So do I purpose. 
 
 St. Calais. Ha ! 
 
 Walkelin. He will. 
 
 Fla7)ibard. Attend. 
 
 Gimdulf. Laus Deo ! Let our lord the king make known 
 Whom he deems worthy. 
 
 St. Calais. See, he tries to rise ! 
 
 De Villula. 'Tis perilous. 
 
 Rufus. I choose this holy man, 
 
 Anselm. 
 
 The Nobles. O joy ! 
 
 The Bishops. A blessed word ! Praise, praise ! 
 
 Joy, joy to England ! Bring the past'ral staff. 
 Hail, our Archbishop, hail ! 
 
 Eadmer. How wan he grows, 
 
 And shivers like a tree against the axe. 
 
 A?iselm [aside]. 'Tis on me ! I am victim of this hour. 
 Cover me from the conflict ! Clear as si^rht— 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 65 
 
 The silent cloister, and my brazen lamp, 
 
 The vaulting that I look to in my thought, 
 
 The seven ribs that cross it ! {Aloud.] No, no, no ! 
 
 I am not your Archbishop. Peace ! — No more 
 
 Would meditation visit me. — No pow'r 
 
 Shall make me your Archbishop. — And the care 
 
 And conflict. — I am old, unworthy, weak. 
 
 Walkelin. Lay hands upon him. 
 
 Meidan. Drag him to the bed. 
 
 Ansel)?!. I am the subject of another realm ; 
 I owe allegiance to his Grace the Duke ; 
 To mine Archbishop all obedience. 
 
 Walkelin. Fight not the will of God, nor cast aside 
 His choice ; a work is ready to your hands. 
 Abominations breed and multiply ; 
 Christ's holy faith is well-nigh dead and gone 
 From English shores. 
 
 Gundiilf\aside'\. By that man's tyranny 
 
 We, and the Churches that we ought to rule, 
 Fall into danger of eternal death. 
 
 \A.loud?^ Wilt thou, when thou canst help us, scorn our 
 pra/r ? 
 
 Anselm, I may not grant it — never. 
 
 \Valkeli?i. Cruel saint, 
 
 The mother Church of Canterbury kneels. 
 Wilt thou not raise her up ? 
 
 Ansel jn. I am unused 
 
 To worldly business. Let me lead the life 
 And keep the peaceful calling that I love. 
 
 Gundtdf. Show us the way of God, and pray for us — 
 Discharge of business be our humble trust. 
 
 A?zselm. All that ye do and purpose is but naught. 
 
 Walkelin. Our lord the king, the abbot is self-willed 
 And obstinate. We pray you speak to him. 
 
 Rufus. O Anselm, you condemn me to the flames. 
 Recall your faithful friendship to my sire 
 And mother. By that friendship, save their son ; 
 
1 66 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Save, I adjure thee, soul and body. Death 
 For ever will confound me if I die 
 Still holding the archbishopric. O help, 
 Then help me, lord and father ! 
 
 Ansebn. Would to God 
 
 That I might die ! Good brothers, help me, help ! 
 
 Baldwin. If 'tis the will of God that so it be, 
 Who shall withstand His will } 
 
 Riifus. Kneel, bishops, kneel. 
 
 Bishops \to Anseh}i\. You scant his dying breath, fulfil 
 with gall 
 His moments' strait enclosure. All the sins, 
 Oppressions in the land will heap the door 
 Of your most ruthless, closed, and barred heart. 
 Our knees are round its threshold. 
 
 Ansebn. Lo, I fall 
 
 Before you in my soul's extremity. 
 You are a bitter crowd to force my mind 
 Against its inborn judgment that my life 
 Was meant to be a temple to God's thought, 
 A shrine for Truth, who seeks her worshippers 
 Where silence is as marble round the air. 
 I am a still old man. Upon my knees 
 I pray you break not on God's solitude 
 That's reared about my brain. 
 
 Gu7idtdf. He fights with God. 
 
 The king holds out the staff. 
 
 Walkelin. Which he shall take, 
 
 Tho' clenched his hand. 
 
 Meiilan. Raise his forefinger. So ! 
 
 \TJicy force the staff into his hand. 
 
 All. Long live the Bishop ! 
 
 Walkelin. Take him to the church. 
 
 Afiselm. Ye act in ignorance. The king will live. 
 Why will yc yoke an old and feeble sheep 
 With a young bull untameablc and fierce .'' 
 Your joy will sink to sorrow. I shall fall 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 67 
 
 A victim, and the king will trample you 
 Beneath his unchecked feet. Alas, alas ! 
 
 {Exeunt^ dragging Atiselm and chanting TeDeums, 
 De Villula. The pulse is firmer and the breath more sure. 
 
 Scene \Y.— Hastings. A Street. Enter Bishop Gundulf, 
 Eadiner^ and Baldwin. 
 
 Giindulf. Alas ! the dew of penitence is dry, 
 And parched the healed soul. Once more the blood 
 Swells through the kingly veins with shining red ; 
 But in its triumph grace is overthrown. 
 The king is hard and healthy, and his strength, 
 New-knit by God, is braced to threat the sky 
 In horrible revenge. With him I strove, 
 And prayed him cherish in his days of sun 
 His roughly-scattered, precious, winter seed. 
 His visage fired and deepened till the gem 
 Of darkest blood within his crown was pale 
 To the swart blush of fury as he swore : 
 "A good man God shall never find in me ; 
 I have too deeply suffered at His hands." 
 With that he sent to bind about the limbs, 
 Slack with sweet-breathing freedom, the close chains ; 
 His gifts were straight recalled ; each debt was held 
 Due as of old, and all that he had sworn 
 Undone in doing. 
 
 Eadmer. Save the heavy grant 
 
 To our dear master, who hath borne hard days 
 And looks for no relief. 
 
 Gimdidf. How suffers he ? 
 
 Eadmer. The king is bent against the Norman duke, 
 And hath much need of money. To his feet 
 Cometh our master with the ready gold, 
 Which, sweetly tendered, is received with grace. 
 But afterward, thro' lust of wealth, the gift 
 Is scorned as small and sent unkindly back. 
 But he who is a father to the poor. 
 
1 68 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 A most sweet mother to the sick and pinched, 
 Would take no further from his lacking churls ; 
 But poured the spurned gold in the beggar^s lap 
 Compassionate. This moved the king to wrath, 
 Which still sits cloudy on his thankless brow. 
 Here by the sleepy verge of this green strait 
 The ships await the rising of the wind, 
 And holy Anselm stays to bless the fleet. 
 
 Baldwin. The breeze will sleep, while the Court reeks 
 with sin, 
 Monstrous and strange. Our dear Archbishop grieves, 
 Resentful, with armed looks. 
 
 Eadmer. A seraph's zeal 
 
 Is sworded in his eyes ; his stainless brow 
 Is Faith's own shield. 
 
 Gundulf. The people love him well. 
 
 Eadmer. He is their blissful advocate. Our race 
 Ties round his heart its locks of flaxen hair 
 As once they bound the Roman Gregoiy. 
 
 Baldwin. Methinks your king's damnation pains his soul ; 
 Eadmer says that he will seek his side 
 With moving low entreaty. 
 
 Gundidf. Let us hence, 
 
 And see how looks the ocean's sterile plain 
 That with our fair fleet should be forested. 
 
 Baldwin. A wind ! Methinks a tiny brook of air 
 Steals down the parched channels of this calm. 
 
 Gundulf. Too fond a hope ! Let's to the water side. 
 
 \Exeujit. 
 
 Scene V. — Hastings : a Room. The King moodily pacitig 
 to atid fro, and from time to time flinging his head 
 out of the window to feel the wi?id. 
 
 Rufus. Curse the still winds, as huswives they keep close 
 And dare not stalk abroad to work my will. 
 They are for Robert : were they tangible, 
 I would uneye and mutilate the knaves. 
 
^ WILLIAM RUFUS. 169 
 
 I must take ship for Normandy ; subserve, 
 Ye elements ; it will be worse for you 
 If now ye palter with me. I will rule 
 O'er England, Normandy, the stubborn sea. 
 And you, ye lurking cravens. To mine aid 
 
 Or, by the Heavenly Feet [^Looks out^ cursing wildly. 
 
 \Enter A?isel}n.'] 
 
 Anselm. Beloved son. 
 
 Riifiis. Father, you caught me in profanity. 
 This calm 
 
 Anselm. On Saturday you were at prayers. 
 
 I would hold counsel with you : let us sit 
 Together, while I tell you all my heart. 
 \_They sit together.'] You go to war ; it is an enterprise 
 On which you need God's blessing, and He looks 
 Upon a realm that through your wickedness 
 Is left unfenced to Satan. Dare you ask 
 For favourable winds from Him you mock 
 And in each action of your life blaspheme ? 
 
 Rufus. How sayest thou ? Did I not hear the mass 
 At Battle Minster ? Showed I impious ? 
 
 Ansebn. Nay, for in heart you trembled at the thought 
 Of your great sire whose will you reverenced 
 Rearing a church that should confirm his praise 
 For Senlac's fight victorious. I marked 
 The struggle in you ; for the wailing souls 
 We prayed, who on Calixta's awful day, 
 Passed unabsolved to Christ. More bitterly, 
 As one who hath long fasted for your sake, 
 Importunate as widow to the judge 
 Slow in reprisal, I laid hold on God, 
 Firm not to loose Him from the bond of prayer, 
 Till He had blessed me with your penitence. 
 The tears you dropped men said were for your sire ; 
 I, looking up, beheld the angels' eyes 
 Dewy with joy ; and knew the weeping king 
 Was praying for the servant's hire in place 
 
170 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Of the lost rank and nearness of a son. 
 
 Rufus. Lost, lost, yea dam?ted ! If there were any hope 
 I dare not curse. God has a memory 
 For old offences, and they spring up fresh 
 With every vicious phrensy of the blood. 
 Mend me 1 I am incorrigible. Speak ! 
 What remedy is in your conscience ? 
 
 Ansehn. Let me hold synod ere the council part. 
 We will denounce the sins effeminate 
 That spread corruption on this English ground ; 
 And scourge with spiritual whips the slaves 
 Bartering their manhood's birthright-liberty. 
 Help me to stay this curse ; and for your soul— 
 I'd part with all the riches of my faith 
 So I might offer it a precious pearl 
 To Christ the treasure-seeker. Cleanse yourself, 
 Bow in the dust ; then peaceful as a child 
 That waits in patience the authority 
 That honours him with business or command. 
 Pause for the favouring wind. 
 
 Ricfns. And did I choose 
 
 Stir in the matter, what would come of it 
 For you, Archbishop .? 
 
 A7tsehn. Nothing : but for God 
 
 Much, and for you. {Enter Eadmer.'] Edmer ! He brings 
 
 some news 
 Of import, thus to break our privacy. 
 [7(9 Eadmer]. Seek'st thou the king ? 
 
 Eadmer [to the King]. Oh pardon, that I thus 
 
 Present the mariners' impatient prayer 
 For instant embarkation. All's astir ; 
 The sails already flutter as 'twere March, 
 And the sea wrinkles. 
 
 Rufus. Jolly messenger ! 
 
 I was about to get me to my prayers, 
 But find my royal menaces suffice 
 To earn the traitor-winds' submission. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I71 
 
 I Stood and cursed them at the casement there, 
 
 And now they throng with halters round their necks, 
 
 Craving my pardon, humble to fulfil 
 
 I\Iy instant order : — 'tis Embark for France. 
 
 I'm with you. \_To Anse/m.] Good Archbishop, do not stay 
 
 To bless our sail at Hastings. We are safe 
 
 Under the Devil who walks to and fro 
 
 About the earth, and snorts out mighty winds. 
 
 Farewell ! \_Rushes out. 
 
 Anselm. My Edmer, we will quit the court 
 With speed, and {looking after the King] henceforth leave 
 him to his wiU. \_Ex6Hnt. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Dusk : a Glade of the New Forest. E7iter from 
 the shade the King^ Gilbert of Clare, Walter Tit'el, 
 WilliaDi of Breteinl, a7id Attenda7its. 
 
 Riifiis. My horse dead in the hunt ; and you dismount ! 
 It was an ugly omen ; we will leave 
 His carcase in the forest : men will say 
 His rider next will fall, a merry jest ! 
 
 Breteiiil. My liege, I pray you put away this mood ; 
 I am pursued by a fell lunatic, 
 A strange distempered man, who dogs my steps 
 Importunate as sinner for his shrift ; 
 And all his burden — " Woe, woe to the king 
 In the thick shade : — it is the seat of woe — 
 The leaves drop poison on him ; bid him seek 
 His safety in the hall of Winchester." 
 And oft as I rebuke him he grows wan, 
 As if with fearful prophecies withheld ; 
 His silence so appalling me I turn 
 And desperately ravage on his thought. 
 Which yielded dumbs me with its ghastliness. 
 His utterances keep no steady pace ; 
 They flit and flicker as a spirit's form 
 Checked and recurring. Give the omen heed. 
 
 Tirel. I've snapt my bow-string, sure our sport is crest. 
 
 Clare. It's growing dun, and these accursed leaves 
 Thicken the texture of the dark. Our path 
 Is broken into bog ; unless we chance 
 
 172 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 173 
 
 Upon some peasant tramping through the gorse 
 To his embowered cot, we shall keep watch 
 Till season of these apparitions 'rise. 
 
 Ricfjcs. Tush, Gilbert ; you're too often on your knees : 
 These taxes make men superstitious ; 
 Extortion is unsettling to the brain. 
 At cost of a few harmless idiots 
 We'll fill our c — c — o — offers .... 
 
 Gilbert, you are dull, 
 
 You cannot grasp my huge ambition ; 
 
 In kingship I have yet my spurs to win. 
 
 What, king of England, Scotland's overlord ! 
 
 Robert is penniless ; I'll buy his lands 
 
 From these pinched peasants ; I require more coast, 
 
 More land, more races under sovereignty. 
 
 I covet ; and defy the great command 
 
 To earth's horizon : my rapacity 
 
 Knocks at the very gates of Rome itself. 
 
 I'll not be baulked. 
 
 Breteuil. Oh, vaunt at Westminster ; 
 
 But here there is miasma in the air ; 
 'Tis not a spot for blasphemy. 
 
 Rufus. Let's lure 
 
 Our lord archbishop down to bless the place ; 
 And while he makes it wholesome, may the pest 
 Of a marsh-fever blast him ! 
 
 It grows dark. 
 The busy twilight 's weaving bushes now, 
 And all we know of Malwood's vicinage 
 Is that the forest girds it ; and the trees 
 
 \Enter Beowidf.'] 
 Here multiply about us. In a word, 
 I'm hungry, gentlemen ; I'd drink the health 
 Of this wood-genius that is dogging me 
 In a fair flagon. 
 
 Clare. Yonder ! Curb your mouth. 
 
 \Beowtilf disappears 
 
174 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Did you not see a monster? 
 
 Tirel. Hollow-eyed, 
 
 Ghostly about the temples, terrible. 
 \Aside.'\ Heaven will send instruments to punish him, 
 If he thus fronts audaciously the threat 
 Of these dire portents. lAloiid?^ Let us to our prayers ; 
 Hell's habitants are rousing from their sleep. 
 
 Rtifiis. Our prayers ? You shall say grace before we dine j 
 Starving, my lips shall never trudge to Heaven. 
 
 \Re-e7iter Beowulf^ 
 Let's question yonder spectre in the mist. 
 A burly shade ! 
 
 Tirel. He'll trap us to our death. 
 I'll back to horse. 
 
 Riifus. My gallant followers ! 
 
 Bretetiil. We ne'er have been aghasted on the field ; 
 When God draws shapes upon the air, no eye 
 Can look upon the doomful images. 
 
 Clare. It is a fresco from the wall of hell 
 To fright us to repentance. 
 
 Rufiis \approachi7ig Beowulf\ Eyeless knave. 
 Look toward me with your knees ; I am your king. 
 
 Tirel, He's taller than a man ; he's stalking close. 
 
 Breteuil. Now I discern it is some blinded hind, 
 With treason lurking in the hollowed cells 
 Of his orbs' cavities. Keep watch on him. 
 
 {Standing near Beowulf with a whip. 
 
 Beo-uulf. You are my king ? I dare you strike at me. 
 You're out a-hunting .'* 
 
 Riifus. I don't trap my game ; 
 
 You're not for royal sport who cannot run. 
 Come now, mine honest yeoman, I'll forgive 
 That ancient treason that hath cost thy sight. 
 And re-instate thee in my royal love, 
 So thou wilt snuff the track to Mahvood lodge. 
 
 Beowulf [goes a little apart]. It must be here ; your 
 voice has lit the torch 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 75 
 
 Of the very moment ; yes, it must be here, 
 
 Where earth has soaked your curses up like rain 
 
 To feed the swelHng fibres of your fate. 
 
 Here have you planted your malignant sway ; 
 
 Here have you taught us resignation ; 
 
 Here are you absolute. \Breteiiil 'with his whip cuts Beo- 
 
 luulf^s fo7'ehead.'\ It must be here 
 Where your vile hand . . . 
 
 Breteuil. The king hath struck you not. 
 
 / caught my whip across the insolence 
 Of your audacious brow : leave prophecy 
 Or I will lop your lifted hand. 
 
 Riifus. Let be : 
 
 His fearlessness assuages me ; Fm used 
 To threats of holy men. \To Beowulf^ Presage your worst. 
 \Aside?[ I have not cringed to Anselm ; here's a power 
 I would not grapple with ; it's like the town 
 My limbs shook at the siege of . . . just a fit. 
 
 \Enter Purkis.^ 
 Here is another, and a merrier fiend. 
 How now ? wilt fright us .'* 
 
 Purkis \to Beowulf \ You old torment, come ! 
 What has the moon to say to you, i' faith ? 
 Will you not home till curfew 1 {To Attendants.'] Used to be 
 A bell at the little church ; they cut its tongue 
 At time of the great clearing ; doesn't pay, 
 This mutilation, makes us all confused 
 To have to look about for eyes and hands. 
 One needs one's senses pat. \_To Beowulf.'] Old lumber- 
 brain, 
 The frogs are croaking ; I must haul you home. 
 
 Rufus. Stay ! As I am a knight, my merry knave, 
 Your voice hath something of the lantern in 't 
 And promises good guidance. Jovial churl, 
 Your king is tangled in his forest-boughs ; 
 Release him from his toils : direct his train 
 The nearest way to Mai wood. 
 
176 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Piirkis \to Attendants]. Keep the trees 
 
 Well to the left ; the lodge is on the height. 
 [To Ki7tg.'\ My liege, this is my father ; he is old ; 
 And though the dark's indifferent to his eyes, 
 He's open to the chill. By your good leave 
 I'll take him off to roost. {Piirkis retires with Beowulf. 
 
 Rufus. My mother's soul, 
 
 He's a rare son ! This fihal reverence 
 Shall be rewarded. \To Attendants^ Do you know this 
 knave ? 
 
 Attendajits. Purkis, the charcoal-burner. 
 
 Rufus. Let him own 
 
 His bit of blasted ground : he's duteous. 
 \To Atte?idants?\ Convey our pleasure to the churl I'd fear 
 I tell you, gentlemen, to wrong a piece 
 Of so sweet fihal courtesy : let's on. 
 I've laid the spectres ; — nay, that is the moon 
 Smiling benignant on us. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Enter St. Calais^ co7i7iing a parchinent^ and at 
 intervals writing. 
 
 St. Calais. William is Csesar of our island-world : 
 This must be emphasized ; the Scots expel 
 His proffered king, and Wales triumphantly 
 Throws down his barrier-castles. 'Tis the hour 
 When faith is feeble to enforce a creed. 
 The king is Emperor, though evidence 
 Err in defect, and to refuse a Pope 
 Is his prerogative. [Enter Robert of Meulan and Flambard 
 
 conversi?tg.^ Anselm shall bow. 
 Abjure his Urban, or resign the staff 
 / would receive submissive, [Looking up as he perceives 
 
 Robert of Meulan and Flambard?\^ Think ye not 
 Our king doth suffer loss of dignity 
 From the Archbishop's scruple .'' He remains 
 Unconsecratcd till the pallium 
 From Rome invest him. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 77 
 
 Meulan. We are full of it ; 
 
 And come to urge you press the just complaint. 
 
 Flambard. The treasury — the famine of the purse 
 Makes me most secular. A vacant see 
 Would feed it, if the king were pastoral 
 In his authority. 
 
 Meulan. Bold prater, peace. 
 
 Flambard. Nay, but my talents are for candlestick, 
 Not bushel-hiding. I deserve some praise. 
 Know you how grew your truce with Normandy ? 
 Did I not summon troops, — stout Englishmen, 
 Each with the money of his maintenance, 
 Loyal to serve the king beyond the sea, 
 And at the water's edge dismiss the fools, 
 Their good bread-money garnered in my hand — 
 Ten thousand pounds, with which we bribed the French .^ 
 You shall give honour to my arguments ; 
 For reason must express necessity 
 As if she had a choice : it is her art, 
 And I have learnt it. Money we must have. 
 Is there not talk of a crusade ? May be 
 We shall buy Normandy, while Robert fights 
 In Palestine : our king, not covetous, 
 But of fraternal love and piety 
 Must pour his crowns down for the holy cause. 
 This he can do, if Canterbury yield 
 Her due revenues. 
 
 Meulan. Openly, our aim 
 
 Must be devotion to the royal will 
 In everything. [Zb St. Calais.^ Now, my lord bishop, 
 
 come. 
 You are our spokesman, and must presently 
 To our rebelhous primate read a scroll • 
 
 From your own lips that clearly shall present 
 Choice 'twixt submission and stern banishment. {^Exeunt 
 
178 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Scene III. — Rockmgham. A Hall, divided by folded 
 ciu'tains. In the outer chamber, Anseli?i, Eadnier, Bald- 
 wifi, a?id other Monks, Clerks, a7id Layme?i. lVithi?i 
 the prese?ice-chamber, the Ki?ig, Robert of Meidan, other 
 Nobles, a?td Bishops. 
 
 Anselni, Come forth, ye lords and bp'shops. — I will stand. 
 Edmer, my stole is falling ; set it right. 
 Good friend, my thanks. 
 
 [Enter from witlwi Bishop William of St. Calais, Bishop 
 Walkelin, Bishop folm de Villula, a?id other Bishops 
 and Nobles.'] 
 
 Walkeli?t. A seat of easy slope. 
 We're like to be long sitting. 
 
 St. Calais. Peace ! — My lord 
 
 Of Meulan, to the right there's room. 
 
 Ansel m. Attend. 
 
 I fain would take from hands pontifical 
 The woollen scarf, the cross-marked pallium, 
 That sets its final honour to the rank 
 And office ye have forced me to assume. 
 My king denies me, tells me with harsh breath 
 My wish would snatch his crown, and that my faith 
 Plighted to him, and mine obedience 
 To Urban plighted, are as day and night 
 Opposed beyond all harmony. To sin 
 Against that faith and this obedience 
 "Were heavy condemnation. But I hope 
 That you will bring them side by side as friends 
 And linked true associates. I pray 
 Your help and counsel in my strait ; but chief, 
 My brother bishops, help me of your love, 
 For you have laid this strange perplexity 
 Upon my burthened soul in choosing me 
 To rule your Church. 
 
 St. Calais. You are a man of God, 
 
 A lover at the feet of holiness. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 179 
 
 Why ask our counsel ? But if so you ask, 
 Throw yourself wholly on your monarch's will, 
 And we'll essay advice. 
 
 De Villula. But if you plead 
 
 A call on God's behalf to thwart the king. 
 We cannot give you help. 
 
 Eadmer [aside]. The spaniels cringe 
 
 As if the air were parting for the lash. 
 
 [Lookmg atAnselm.] How reverend his face ! his raised eyes 
 Are jewels of God's light. 
 
 Aiisehii. And thus you speak, 
 
 Shepherds and princes, and no counsel give 
 Save as the will of one man shall allow ; 
 Then to the Shepherd and the Prince of all 
 I turn for aid. I unto Caesar give 
 The things of Caesar ; unto God the things 
 Of God. In what is godly and divine 
 I to God's Vicar owe obedience ; 
 To what is earthly in the dignity 
 Of Caesar I yield reverence, and bow 
 My vassal-will submissive. 
 
 St. Calais. Hear ! His speech 
 
 Is traitorous. 
 
 Walkelin. His words are full of pride. 
 
 St. Calais. His gross disloyalty is worthy death. 
 \To A7isel7n.'\ We will not bear such message to the king. 
 
 Anselm. Then will I go, for none will speak my words. 
 
 Eadmer. Dear master, I will bear them to the king, 
 And faithfully uplift them to his ears. 
 
 A?isehn. No, Edmer. Of yon lion I've no dread, 
 Am fearless of his den beyond that bar ; 
 
 \Poi7iti7ig to the arras dividiTtg the Hallfro77i the 
 
 prese7tce-cha7}iber. 
 And none but I shall enter. 
 
 \P asses i7ito the preseTtce-chaiTtber. Ctirtai7ts drawti bach 
 
 Rufus {aside]. Here he comes ! 
 
 Now, by the Face of Lucca, this is good. 
 
l8o WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 To Ansehn.'] Your answer, father ? 
 
 A?tselm. I to Caesar owe 
 
 The things of Caesar ; unto God the things 
 Of God. In what is holy and divine 
 I to God's Vicar owe obedience ; 
 To what is earthly in the dignity 
 Of Caesar I yield reverence, and bow 
 My vassal-will submissive. 
 
 Rufus. Traitor ! b— back ! 
 
 Thou shalt re — re — return with other words. \^Exit Aiisehn. 
 
 Call in 
 My lords and bishops. 
 
 Meiilan. Hither, to the king ! 
 
 {They go i?zto the presence. The a^rtam falls. 
 
 Eadmer. Here is a seat. 
 
 A?2selm. I'll lean against the wall. — 
 
 I am a stranger ! 
 
 Eadmer. Master, though I bear 
 
 An English name, and have an English face. 
 In thee I have a part. 
 
 Ajiselm. Thou hast indeed. 
 
 My life is like a book before thine eyes ; 
 But, Edmer, there are times when men and things 
 Are foreign to the brain and heart and soul, 
 And have no common language and exchange 
 Of sympathies ; yet, Edmer, I am still 
 God's fellow-countryman, and by Him known, 
 And never left, avoided, or reviled : 
 So on the Universal Love I rise 
 Above the dreary severance from man. 
 
 Eadfner. Baldwin, I hear the voices in debate, 
 The king's high stutter and the bishops' whine, 
 And Meulan's serpent-sliding oratory, 
 Ahithophel's own speech. 
 
 Baldwm. How long they stay : 
 
 Yet the discussion waxes. 
 
 Eadmer \_poiniing to Anschii]. Holy sleep 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. l8l 
 
 Is on him. It hath left some infant's brow 
 To nestle to his temples. Such a smile 
 As God would light the lamps of Heaven with 
 Is on his face. 
 
 Baldwm. It is a miracle. 
 Good brother, see ! no dream possesses him ; 
 He is intent on some reality. 
 
 Eadmer. The lids close in their treasuries ; all here 
 Is left untenanted ; he's turned the key 
 On sense, to pace the walks of Paradise 
 Awhile in recreation with his God. 
 
 Baldiui7t. They come. 
 
 \Re-enter from the presence Bishops a?id Nobles. "] 
 
 Eadiner. I'll touch him gently. IMeekest sleep, 
 
 Here come thy brawling enemies. 
 
 Ajisel7)i. How strange, 
 
 Unlovely ! — Edmer ! 
 
 Eadmer. They are coming back. 
 
 Forth from the presence. 
 
 A7iselm. There was golden light 
 
 Before my Judge invisible — the light 
 Was feathered close with wings. 
 
 Eadmer. O master, hear ; 
 
 King William sends them back. 
 
 St. Calais. Your lord the king 
 
 Bids you all other words put by to yield 
 Your more confirmed answer. 
 
 AnseUn. I attend. 
 
 St. Calais. You work to snatch the glor^'' of his realm 
 From off your monarch's brow. Who takes away 
 His dignities and customs, takes his crown. 
 Leave thou the useless service of thy Pope ; 
 Embrace the fruitful friendship of thy king. 
 Be free, and wait the bidding of your lord 
 In all things ; pray for pardon, and your foes. 
 The mockers, shall be put to shame as deep 
 As is your honour high. 
 
1 82 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Ansehn. Unto the head 
 
 And vicar of the Church I will be true. 
 If any man would prove that this my faith 
 To Urban breaks my oath to William sworn, 
 Let him stand forth and I will answer him. 
 \A Knight steps forward.'] 
 
 Knight. Our lord and father, by my humble lips 
 Your suppliant children pray you keep good cheer. 
 Let not your heart be troubled : blessed Job 
 O'ercame the devil on his ashy dung, 
 And thus revenged Adam whom the tree 
 Did snakily beguile. 
 
 Anselm. Thy words are balm. 
 
 Eadmer. Oh joy, the voice of God, the people's voice, 
 Is lifted in our cause. 
 
 Rtifus [withi?i\. Bishops and lords. 
 
 What answer ? {C^irtaiit rises. St. Calais goes to the King. 
 
 St. Calais. Oh, I know not what to speak ! 
 I cannot say . . . 
 
 Rtifus. How now, thou fool, art dumb ? 
 
 Damnation ! not a word 1 
 
 St. Calais. 'Tis only force 
 
 Can put him down ; if he is obstinate 
 Strip off the ring and staff and drive him forth. 
 
 Metilan. What ! Strip your primest vassal of his fief; 
 'Twould loose the pack of troubles from their case, 
 Nor leave one hope of remedy. Your realm 
 Would rage with high seditions. Never think 
 
 Rufus. Will nothing please you ? While I live I'll have 
 No equal in my kingdom. 
 
 Meiilan. All our guiles. 
 
 Close-hanging counsels, like a spider's web, 
 His sleep-refreshc;d lips with single touch 
 Have broken to poor shreds. 
 
 Rufus. What can be done "i 
 
 I'll tell ye, bishops. Go, and to his face 
 Declare that ye withdraw your fellowship 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 83 
 
 And loyalty. Ho, ho ! He will be shamed, 
 And groan that ever he has left his lord 
 To follow after Urban. Hence ! 
 
 St. Calais. We go. 
 
 Eadmer \to Ansel}n\. They come again with nodding 
 brows and eyes 
 That shrink before thy countenance. 
 
 St. Calais. Henceforth 
 
 We no more love nor serve you, and the king 
 Withdraws protection. 
 
 A7iselm. Ye are wrong. Your love 
 
 And service are my right, withdrawn from me 
 Because I yield my love and fealty 
 Where yours and mine are due. I will not deal 
 As ye have dealt. — To you and to the king 
 I'll show a father's love, though you and he 
 Reject me thus. Yet for God's service I 
 Will keep the name, the office, and the power 
 With which ye did endow me, though the press 
 Of outward things is iron on my brain. 
 
 St. Calais. Proud man, we will report thy words. 
 
 Rit/iis [within]. How now ? 
 
 St. Calais. He scorns our harsh rejection, 
 
 Rufus. All he says 
 
 Is clean against my pleasure ; not a soul 
 Shall be my man who chooses to be his. 
 Barons, withdraw from him all friendship, faith, 
 That he may see his gain in holding thus 
 Against my will — 77ty will. 
 
 Mejdan. Our gracious lord, 
 
 We're not his men, we cannot take from him 
 What we have never given. 
 
 Riifus. Curse them — ugh ! 
 
 Meidan [to St. Calais]. Judas ! 
 
 Fitz-hainoji {to Walkelin]. Arch-Herod ! 
 [To De Vilhila.] Pilate ! 
 
 St. Calais. ■ Would to God 
 
184 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 The earth would open ! Shame is in my hmbs 
 That are base shivering traitors to my will. 
 
 Walkelm. Fall, fall the roof and hide me. 
 
 Riifus. Bishops, say ! 
 
 Have ye abjured your whole obedience 
 To Anselm, or but such as he would claim 
 By Rome's authority ? 
 
 St. Calais. All, all, my lord. 
 
 Ri(f7is. Friend, to the place of honour. — Answer thou ! 
 
 Walkelin. I have abjured but such obedience 
 As he by Rome hath claimed. 
 
 Rufus. Go, turn your face 
 
 To yonder corner, till your chastisement 
 Be ready for your back. 
 
 Walkelm. My lord, my lord ! 
 
 Rufus. Hence to the corner you who think with him, 
 And those against him welcome to our side. 
 
 Walkeli?t [aside]. With heavy coins we'll lighten punish- 
 ment [ T/iey talk together apai't in a cor?i€7\ 
 
 Rufus [aside']. I know not how to loose him with the staff 
 Still glued between his fingers. 
 
 \Enter Walter of Albano.] 
 
 Meiila7t. See who comes ! 
 
 The Papal Legate, and a pallium 
 Is like a starry night upon his arm, 
 Black, blanched with crosses. 
 
 Rufus. Hail ! You come in time. 
 
 Place for the Bishop. 
 
 Albafio. Blessings on the king 
 
 Whose might is such that Urban by my mouth 
 Vows that no legate adverse to thy choice 
 Shall cross the English borders. 
 
 Rufus. Ha ! He doth. 
 
 [Aside.] Then I'll acknowledge Urban, and this man 
 Will strip old Anselm of his ring and staff ; 
 And then we'll pack him safely over seas. 
 And be sole tyrant of his trembling Church. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 8$ 
 
 [A/oitd.] We for that grace acknowledge Urban Pope. 
 Clerks, write a proclamation to the land 
 And spread it through my empire's length and breadth. 
 [Asufe to Albaiw^ Gold, flaming bullion, burnished mighty 
 
 mass 
 I'll yearly pay to Rome, if thou wilt take 
 His honour from that traitor. 
 
 Albano. Yon old man, 
 
 The pious Anselm, with his gentle hds 
 Between the world and his own holy thoughts I — 
 His mother Church, I warrant, ne'er will lift 
 One grace from off his years. 
 
 Rufus. By Lucca's Face, 
 
 I have gained nought through my acknowledgment. 
 
 Albano, Peace with the Church, peace with her holy son ; 
 
 \Poi7itmg to Anselm. 
 For now ye are conjoined, and in your hearts 
 Is no contention. 
 
 Meulan. Call him to your love. 
 
 Ru/ns. Cursed be my folly, — execrable tongue 
 That hath betrayed its master ! Fetch him up. 
 
 [Anselm approaches. 
 This holy legate with his honey speech 
 Hath made me Urban's. There is no offence 
 Between us. See, there hangs the pallium ; 
 No weary journey, but a step between 
 Possessor and possession. Of the joy 
 You have in this escape from pilgrimage 
 You'll pay the sum our courtesy hath saved 
 To us who spare you 1 
 
 Anselm. Not a coin, my liege. 
 
 Rufus [aside]. Miser ! damned miser ! — Give me then 
 your word 
 That you'll obey all customs of the realm 
 And guard them from infringement, so once more 
 We'll call you ghostly father, and return 
 The honours of your title. 
 
1 86 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 A?tsehn* I will swear 
 
 According to the service of my God. 
 
 Ru/ics [aside]. Beshrew you ! How I hate the words. — 
 Arise, 
 And sit beside me. From my royal hand 
 You shall receive the pallium. 
 
 Anselm. Not so ; 
 
 The staff I took, for it was yours to give ; 
 The other gift is from his hand who sits 
 In Peter's chair. 
 
 Albano. I'll lay it on the shrine 
 
 Of Christ in your cathedral, and from thence, 
 Dear, saintly primate, with your proper hand 
 You'll take it from Saint Peter. 
 
 People. Yea ! 
 
 Ansehn. I will. 
 
 My king, your friendship is the highest boon 
 God's earth could give. 
 
 Rufus. 'Tis yours. 
 
 Albano. Behold how good 
 
 And joyful is the union of twain 
 In brotherly affection. Peace to all. \Exennt. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Borders of the Neiu Forest. Efiter Beowulf and 
 a ci'owd of Peasa7its. 
 
 1st Feasant. Still they afforest, still they take our land ; 
 They tax us into hunger, and our bread 
 Is in the purse of gold for Normandy. 
 
 27td Feasant. Father, the land is ours ? 
 
 Beowulf. The land is his 
 
 Who finds in it himself — his toil, his time, 
 His hope, his sweat, his sorrow. 
 
 1st Feasant. So he prates. 
 
 I'm sick to death. 
 
 2,rd Feasa?tt. A tombstone of a man ! 
 
 He comforts with big words and prophecies. 
 And thinks he fools our misery. Because 
 His bonnie eyes of English blue were charred, 
 We put our faith in him. He's dark as night. 
 No cheer nor meaning in him. 
 
 1st Feasant. And no aid 
 
 For famine-stricken mouths. 
 
 2.7id Feasa?7t. The ^Etheling 
 
 Will have some heart to help us. 
 
 1st Feasa7tt. Michael's Mount 
 
 Held him in prison. Now he rides the woods 
 With the king's troop and keeps him company : 
 Who loves him loves us not. There is no hope. 
 
 Beowulf Wait without hope. I wait till this mute dark 
 Numbers its doomful hours. No tender fall 
 
 187 
 
1 88 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Of light will dissipate its dull excess ; 
 'Twill break up in the imbecility, 
 Confusion, undiscernment of the grave. 
 So will my blindness end ; I have no hope, 
 I suffer. . . Hope's a maggot eats the heart 
 From the stout timbers of endurance. Starve. 
 
 {Enter Old Man : in the distance Officers measuring the 
 land with ropes. '\ 
 
 2nd Peasajit. There are the officers. Let's bring him 
 word 
 What they are marking off. If it's the land 
 They're hurting . . . 
 
 2,rd Peasant. Ay, he says the Earth's himself. 
 He put his flesh and blood in't, just as if 
 He'd dug a grave within it for his child. {They go apart. 
 
 Old Man. It's sore to see him ; he stands like a tree 
 Infect with autumn. I wdll speak with him. 
 [ To Beowulf.'] Art thinking of the grave ? 
 
 Beowulf. Why, man, your voice 
 
 Minds of the russet-apples that I stole 
 With Edgar in the orchard. Are you he ? 
 
 Old Matt. Ay, ay, your ancient play-mate. Beowulf 
 I fear you're clouded by these ominous 
 Murmurs and threats, and in your suffering 
 Sigh for the humble strewings of a grave. 
 
 Beowulf. I'm not impatient ; if by rotting down 
 One might break earth of her sterility ! . . . 
 As for the rich they're misers of their mould ; 
 No crumb of their corruption will they fling 
 The famished earth. 
 
 Old Ma?i. Nay, nay, you're with the worms ! 
 
 There are tombs clean and dry, though a poor man 
 May not inhabit such, the thought of them 
 Is pleasant ; they arc strong and quaintly cut. 
 One may lie there 
 
 With all one's bravery. 'Tis even said 
 The moth doth not corrupt. Could a man dwell 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 89 
 
 In such a tomb till resurrection-morn 
 He were lodged peacefully. 
 
 Beowulf. I will not rise ; 
 
 I'm used now to the dark ; a flare of saints 
 Would hurt me like the scorch of the hot brass 
 That withered up my sight. 
 
 Old Man. Be comforted. 
 
 The Lord will judge the tyrant. 
 
 Beowulf. How you talk ! 
 
 Do you think the Earth's a thing that makes your flesh 
 Soft for the worms ? — the harvests lie asleep 
 Upon her bosom ; she has reared the spring ; 
 The seasons are her change of countenance ; 
 She lives ; and now^ for many thousand years 
 Hath ruled the toiling and the rest of men. 
 There's none like her for judging the true way. 
 Ouick'ning the weeds, setting the twitch to work, 
 Or blasting with sterility : she'll judge. 
 
 Old Man. In sooth there have been prodigies and 
 dreams. 
 I have had one most marvellous ; methought 
 As I was fishing in the Stour, the tide 
 Grew ruddy, and the milky placid stream 
 Heaved turbulent, while in my weighty net 
 Smirk'd finny demons ; but I drew the haul, 
 Crossing myself, untrembling to the shore. 
 Eh, eh ! I drowned the devils with the sign. 
 Yet Verily these portents show the earth 
 And sea and sky are must'ring for a curse. 
 You do not mis-interpret. 
 
 \Re-e7iter Peasants?^ 
 1st Peasant. All is gone. 
 
 My little plot, my home ; they'll turn it all 
 To forest for the king. 
 
 yd Peasant. And what is left 
 
 To till is taxed where plough can never reach, 
 And spade were choked with furze. 
 
1 90 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 7.7id Peasajtt. We'll beat theoi off. 
 
 An' teach them they're not hunting deer to-day, 
 But men with staves and children. 
 
 1st Peasant. Beat them down ! 
 
 [Exeimt in tumult. 
 
 Old Man. He's sicklied as he were about to die ; 
 The still-born curses hang upon his lips ; 
 Yet I believe he's praying. Beowulf, 
 Do thou make known this matter to the Lord ; 
 He will avenge. 
 
 Beowulf. The Lord ! Oh, He's above ! 
 
 There's something lying at the roots of things 
 I burrow for. 
 
 Old Maft. Good brother, one is down 
 In the encounter and they beckon me. 
 Think on your sins, for I must succour him, 
 And by the pallor of your face I judge 
 Your end is come. [Exit. 
 
 Beowulf [supporting himself against a rock-bound oak]. O 
 mighty in resource, 
 Earth, wilt thou suffer loss of liberty 
 Unquivering ? A rope about the land ! 
 
 [A noise heard : the Officers advance.] 
 
 1st Officer. Make way, you blundering lout. 
 
 27td Officer. Oh, he's a stump. 
 
 Let him be bound'ry ! Trail the cord along. 
 Measure from this blind peasant to yon oak 
 Ten rods. [Lookifig at Beowulf?^ He's unresistent. 
 
 Beowulf [clasping the rock]. Oh, revenge ! 
 
 Scene II. — A Room. Enter Flambard with a letter. 
 
 Flambard. This from my mother. [ReadsT] " I am pelted, 
 stoned. 
 Hooted, bedraggled, cursed at for a witch. 
 Save me, sweet Ralf, bid me come over seas ; 
 Under my son's protection I am safe : 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I9I 
 
 But here in Bayeux, naked, sorrowful, 
 I creep about the corners of the streets, 
 And spit upon the Christians like a Jew 
 From my dark covert." — Ah ! the evil eye, 
 The malice of the woman ! Very like 
 She is a witch. The devil certainly 
 Is my true sire. 
 
 \_E?tter Messe?tger.'\ 
 
 Messenger. So please you, she entreats 
 For money, and due escort, till she touch 
 The land where she may safely walk abroad ; 
 Since by the terror of your name men's tongues 
 Wag circumspectly — this she urged me add, 
 Fearful the penman had not set her plaint 
 As eloquent as from her tingling lips 
 It issued voluble. 
 
 FIambard{giving apaper\. Despatch. I send 
 This paper and these bags. Looked she in health 
 When she dictated this ? I know her v/ay, — 
 Her speech warmed at the embers of her eyes. 
 She never paused till bursting in a laugh 
 To see the scribe with tortoise, toiling hand 
 A-cramp to copy all. \Exit Messenger.'] She's given me 
 My ready tongue. How should a man serve God 
 By his fine wit ? God has no work for him ; 
 Whereas the devil turns to good account 
 All lies, concupiscence, and avarice. 
 He keeps the brain at labour all the day : 
 I like employment ; haply in my age 
 I may take lighter service. 
 
 [Enter William Rufus.'] 
 
 Rufus. Serious ! 
 Now by my mothers soul 
 
 Flambard. Most opportune 
 
 The oath ; both you and I are filial : 
 We can't forget the look in parents' eyes. 
 The victor's triumph and the miser's lust 
 
192 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Softened to such a human coveting 
 
 As empties the brimmed coffers of the eyes 
 
 Rufus. True, my fair Chancellor. I can't forget 
 The Mora bore a figure-head, a boy 
 Vermilion-cheeked, with clust'ring golden hair. 
 My father held me up to look at him ; 
 His kiss rubbed harsh against my pouting lips 
 Agape in wonder, frighting me, — I screamed 
 And kicked, but heard him whisper, pressing close, 
 " This the man-child upon whose head I fix 
 The English royalties — a stalwart son ! " 
 Ralf, my ambition ripes ; 'tis harvest-time ; 
 The Conqueror's prophecy must be fulfilled, 
 Surpassed ; — accomplishment exceed presage. 
 I must have all becomes an emperor — 
 Wealth, vassals, territory to the steep 
 Of mountain ramparts inaccessible ; 
 Where with the pasture fails the shepherd's flock. 
 Be first my name unfrequent. Solitude 
 Ridge my supremacy. How grows the gold ? 
 I must be prodigal ; my nature sweats 
 Munificence ; 'tis healthy to perspire. 
 Come now, let's look into thy register. 
 
 Flamba7'd. Sire, it exceeds belief how priests will rob 
 The churches, melt the consecrated gold. 
 Expose the saint a shamed penitent 
 Stripped to the shirt, and from the skeleton 
 Pluck the loose, dusty ring : they have no awe, 
 And the revenue waxes. 
 
 Riifus. Hoo, hoo, hoo ! \TJiroiuing money on the table. 
 A bellyful of laughter ! Thirty marks 
 I cast down on this table, as my mite 
 Toward the ten thousand owed for Normandy. 
 How thinkest thou I earned them ? 
 
 Flambard. Honestly ? 
 
 Nay, but by pious subterfuge. 
 
 Rufus. A Jew 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 93 
 
 Came to me weeping o'er his recreant lad, 
 Subtle St. Stephen drove to baptism, 
 As Christ the swine to perish in the sea. 
 Would I command the convert to abjure 
 (Here shook the knave his lusty money bags), 
 He would show gr — ratitude. So I professed 
 Compassion, fronted the rebellious boy, 
 And darted on him such a fiery look 
 As half-fulfilled my threat to rend his eyes. 
 He feigned to think I jested. My shrewd Ralf, 
 The youth was shameless in his piety, 
 And would not be abashed. But afterward 
 I claimed, as payment of my royal pains, 
 Half the fore-promised fee ; and Abraham, 
 With his lost child, lost gold, lost impudence, 
 Turned stubborn on his heel. 
 
 Flambard. Sire, I predict 
 
 The heavy Anselm will resign his staff. 
 So groans he at the vast extortion 
 Of the oppressed Church. If he retire 
 
 And leave you wolfish pastor of the flock 
 
 \_Enter Aitselm V7iseen at a distance^ 
 
 Anselm \aside\. Alas ! I'm tired in soul, and for the south 
 I pine to death as winter-stricken bird ; 
 There is the pain of thwarted wings within 
 The care-barred prison of my confined brain. 
 Oh, I must fly to Rome, where comfort, rest, 
 And light would fall as summer on my grief. 
 
 Riifiis. Anselm ! The name offends me. He hath lost 
 My Welsh campaign. The pious gentlemen, 
 His duteous addition to my ranks, 
 Took field more like the drooping garrison 
 Of a surrendered city than a troop 
 Of knights, fresh, emulous, and fair-disposed. 
 His sheep are for the slaughter. 
 
 A?tselm. True, my lord. 
 
 They have a deathly look ; their means cf life 
 
 o 
 
194 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Is swallowed by your officers ; their blood 
 Is shed with their last coins. 
 
 R7ifus. Shut up your jaws ! 
 
 A?tselm. My lord, I come — 
 
 Rufjis. The rot consume your sheep 
 
 Aftselm. To ask a favour for myself. 
 
 Riifus. For you ? 
 
 Anselm. That I may journey for a little space 
 To Rome — the shrine of comfort raised aloft 
 On seven-pillared hills. My native skies 
 Have lately dyed my memory. I long 
 For cloudless sun and heaven-tinctured peace. 
 My spirit fails for counsel and relief 
 Of holy love and guidance fatherly. 
 Thought leaves me, and the level mists of life 
 Envelop vision and distort all truth, 
 Till I am lost and weary, 
 
 Riifiis. Am I mad ? 
 
 Look I insane ? No, by my mother's soul. 
 You shall not leave my billow-guarded shore. 
 No, no, good father. Have you done a deed 
 So black and deadly that the Pope alone 
 Can give you absolution ? By God's face, 
 I never will believe it. Would you ask 
 The Pope for counsel ? You might give him such 
 With far more fitness than receive 't of him. 
 You have no need to go. 
 
 Aiisehn. All pow'r is yours, 
 
 And as you will you speak. Another day 
 What you refused you royally may grant. 
 I'll multiply my pray'rs.— And patience rule 
 The fever of my soul. \Exit, 
 
 Rufus. Ho, ho ! Well heard. 
 
 Ay, now he's sick and shall be penitent. 
 How I will taunt him ! Sick of hearing bleat 
 His hungry lambs, he's off to quiet feed 
 On the green pastures of the Roman slope. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 195 
 
 I will be bitter. Go you after him, 
 
 Say his petition has much moved the king, 
 
 Who threatens worse oppression. \^Exit Flambard. 
 
 It is odd ; 
 I plague this saint and cannot part with him. 
 The company of fiends is tedious ; 
 One must have something holy to torment, 
 And — and ... if fever struck me down again, 
 I should have hunger for the face of God, 
 Though it should damn me. He's a remedy 
 Not to be loosed from hand. I'll make him smart. \^ExiL 
 
 Scene III. — Winchester : a Street^ leading to the Council 
 Chamber. At the door a crowd of Tow?isfolk. Enter 
 Ptirkis, with a cart laden with apples^ accompanied by 
 Godric. 
 
 Purkis. So now they think the world's whole business is 
 being settled within four walls. And they stand gaping — 
 never see it's the harvest, and the harvest-men who break 
 the ground and build fuel that determine things. Can't you 
 gape at me 1 I'm the charcoal-burner ; 'twas a trade before 
 that of the bishop or the tax-gatherer, and is likely to con- 
 tinue, though my Lord Anselm show his whims. 
 
 1st Citizen. It is come to Council ; 'tis the great event. 
 
 Purkis. Ay, whether the Archbishop may take a holiday 
 in Rome. 
 
 'I7id Citizen. Oh, the bishops are with the king, and most 
 of us townsfolk in a wonder one of so gentle a disposition as 
 our Lord of Canterbury should grow restless for his pleasure, 
 while the people endure the bitter onslaughts of calamity. 
 Whom have you here .^ 
 
 Purkis. Why the good canon Godric, my brother. But 
 my lord of Twynham liked not the fashion of his piety, soon 
 as he found his purse needed endowment Out he whips 
 him, tumbles over the stones of the old church, and now is 
 himself dean, patron, architect, and most marvellous mendi- 
 cant in one. 
 
196 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 1st Citizeji. Ay, the men of God are mightily abused. 
 Good father, we hope to see you righted. 
 
 Purkis. There's my boy Wilfrith, never watching the 
 crowd, stuffing his eyes in at the keyhole. So monks and 
 priests misinterpret. All a pother if there's blight on the 
 rose-tree : the smut o' the corn-field never strikes 'em. Well, 
 Wilfrith, what brings you from Twynham .'' 
 
 Wilfrith. Love of the holy man we fear to lose. 
 
 Godric. You have rightly marked him — yet if he fleer at 
 the king's authority he must be punished. He must be an 
 Englishman with the rest of us, drink the air of custom, or 
 as a foreigner he'll suffer our misliking. 
 
 2Jid Citizen. He's for the Pope. 
 
 3n/ Citizen. He's just for his own ease. He's fleeing 
 away from us, as a woman flees from her man when he 
 catches her lad by the shoulders, with a rod in his other 
 hand. She hasn't strength to resist him, nor pity to stay 
 dress the blue stripes of her beaten brat. She'll just to a 
 neighbour's and recover. 
 
 2nd Citizen. For my part I think it's no more than a 
 lunacy. When we're mazed we always want to go back to 
 where we came from. It's natural. But I doubt whether 
 anything turns out well, tried over again. The meat may be 
 the same, but there's age in the appetite. 
 
 Purkis. Right, man ; blue skies are excellent ; one leaves 
 them, has the heart-ache and returns for cure to stare heaven- 
 ward. Our blessings are rarely our remedies. It takes 
 something medicinal in the way of sorrow to restore us. 
 
 Wilfrith. Father, hush ! 
 Here comes good brother Baldwin full of news. 
 
 \Enter Baldwiii from within the Coiincil-clianibcr.'\ 
 
 Baldwin. They have deserted him, he stands alone. 
 His bishops whom he gently did adjure, 
 Choked by the cares of kinship, and the sweet 
 Flesh-woven bands of this entangling world, 
 Refuse to pass beyond the fealty 
 Owed to the king. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. I 97 
 
 2nd Citizen. Good, good ! 
 
 Wilfrith. But the Archbishop will be firm ? 
 
 Baldwi?t. A martyr's constancy is in his eyes, 
 And a confessor's cheerfulness. He sends 
 Word to the king that he will cleave to God. 
 Soon as the messengers again assail 
 His weary ears, I will return to you. 
 Meanwhile, pray for him. \^Exif. 
 
 Wilfrith. That he may be firm. \^Kneels apart. 
 
 Purkis. Now, la ! at a crisis what's the use of one's knees. 
 Muster your wits, man, and leave mumbling. If Father 
 Anselm need a holiday, he should come down to our play- 
 ground, see the king at his royal sports. Oh, it's merry in 
 the greenwood, and dad roaring like a lion when the officers 
 come near his lair. I should like the Archbishop to encounter 
 him. He's disordered, past my management. 
 
 3nf Citizen. He's grown infirm. 
 
 Piirkis. Ay, but not silly, like a dotard — does too many 
 things in 's mind at once, and then sits idle like a huswife in 
 the midst. 
 
 Ofth Citize?i. I mind me of old Beowulf, the lad 
 Who would sit throwing stones into the pond ; 
 We shied them at the birds, the rest of us. 
 And laughed that all he cared for was to see 
 The circles on the water grow and spread 
 All day; by rights he should ha' minded sheep. 
 
 2,rd Citizeji. Well, I can't picture him growing peevish 
 and old. Seemed to me he had senses hidden in himself, as 
 a miser a bag of gold beyond reach. I warrant he'll not sit 
 by the fire and wheeze till bed-time. He's ne'er known the 
 ague. 
 
 Purkis. No : he's not the litter of age — infirmities. 
 Godric, that boy \_poi}iti?zg to Wilfrit/i] can give you tidings 
 of your absence. How fares it? Is it made much of, or 
 slighted ? 
 
 Wilfrith. We are full of hope. 
 Dear uncle, you will be restored to us ; 
 
198 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 I"or, since the Bishop of St. Calais pined, 
 Sickened, and died, our restless overseer 
 Grows discontented with his deanery, 
 Neglects to thwart the canons, and repines 
 Our Church should exercise so slenderly 
 Pow'rs of design that for expression need 
 The wealth and domination of a see. 
 All this is from his mouth ; the brethren smile 
 And nodding whisper, " Fiery Flambard builds, 
 But we shall have our dean to consecrate 
 The beautiful new minster." 
 
 Godric. Can it be 
 
 The bishopric of Durham shall be seized 
 At the king's private pleasure as a boon 
 To Flambard 1 
 
 Purkis. Fortune, imitating Providence, misplants her 
 crops that all in the soil of circumstance may receive the 
 discipline of adversity. This holy man, who in Noniiandy 
 grew like a watered oak, must now look for his aliment from 
 the heavens. English earth is too impoverished for his 
 nurture. 
 
 Wilfrith. Oh, father, by his ghostly help he cheered 
 St. Calais, who so deeply wounded him. 
 Each living creature he includes in love ; 
 England in him will lose the advocate. 
 The single righteous man, who might prevail 
 To stay the must'ring vengeance of the Lord. 
 
 Piirkis. And dost thou love thy country ? 
 
 Wilfrith. Ay, the souls 
 
 It breeds for hell and heaven. 
 
 Piirkis \to Godric]. Brother, you ? 
 
 Godric. Sooth, I love it for what is not, the old worship 
 and the old ways — the Saxon Church. 
 
 PnrJcis. Dad, I think, loves it corporeally, for the very 
 mould's sake ; while I never fret till the babies pule and the 
 young lasses wear the brows of widows. That enrages me. 
 Anything unnatural in the seasons of life : Youth uncom- 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 1 99 
 
 plaining ; Age unqucrulous ; women too weary-like to use 
 courtesy to their dead ; and the only strange thing happen- 
 ing, an encounter with the devil. 
 
 \Re-e7iter Baldwm.^ 
 
 Baldwin. Dear brethren, list ! a joy is in his eyes ; 
 He hears that he may go : the harsh reserve 
 And grasping petty rancour of the king 
 That will condemn him to trudge penniless, 
 He doth not hear : his cheek already glows 
 Ardent, as with the sun of Italy 
 Sooth-tinctured. 
 
 2,rd Citize7t. The good bishop — he will flee ? 
 How said the brother ? 
 
 Codf'ic. Let us be resigned. 
 
 The king will have his way with us, extort 
 Till life is drained away from us : of men 
 There will be dearth for slaughter. 
 
 IVilfritJu Our last hope 
 
 Is gone. 
 
 Piirkis. Nay, lad, look cheerily ; God 's everywhere about. 
 The priest may frighten the crows from the harvest ; it's the 
 Husbandman knows what He put in the ground and what 
 will come out. Let the Italian back to his blue skies ! 
 things will settle, if we've patience. 
 
 Scene IV. — Within the Council-hall. The outer chamber. 
 Ajtsebn and Eadiner. 
 
 Anselm. Edmer, that I should not appeal to Rome, 
 They ask this of me ? I appeal to God 
 To guide me to the threshold of His saints. 
 I must away. . . . It is an agony 
 That urges me. I must behold the face 
 Of Christ's great soldier, hear of holy wars. 
 It is insufferable I should be fined 
 For sorry trim and escort of my troops, 
 Or bear reproach from any over-lord 
 
2 00 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Save Him who may most righteously complain 
 That I have wronged Him in my negligence. 
 
 Eadmer. How bitterly you weep ! — sevenfold your grief 
 Like the dear Mother's. 
 
 Ajtsehn. I must flee the world ; 
 
 Necessity is on me. I will start 
 Barefoot and naked to the holy hills, 
 A penitent, and pray for my own peace. 
 
 Eadmer. The flock, my father, the unsheltered souls ? 
 
 A?zselfn. O Edmer, I went lonely as a child 
 To pour my angry heart out unto Heaven, 
 And the Lord smiled, and set me down to feast 
 Who paused not by the idling harvesters. 
 I must complain to Him. 
 
 Eadmer. 'Tis marvellous. 
 
 You speak of Rome as 'twere Jerusalem. 
 
 Anselm. There God hath left His shadow upon earth ; 
 There is the Bride, the Church ; there shall I hear 
 The Bridegroom's voice delighting over her ; 
 There is the door to the warm-breathing fold, 
 The Shepherd's blessing, and the pasture's peace. 
 
 Ead?ner. Dear master, I am eager to be gone. 
 
 Aiiselm. Nay, but the pang and the extremity. 
 The joy that is too much. 
 
 \Enter Messenger^ 
 
 Messenger. My lord, the king 
 
 Conveys his pleasure thus : — 
 
 Ansehn. My will is fixed ; 
 
 I cleave to God. 
 
 Messenger. He graciously allows 
 
 You leave his kingdom ; in eleven days 
 Be ready at the haven to receive 
 A messenger, who duly shall provide 
 You and your escort for the pilgrimage. 
 
 Eadmer. Then shall we onward ? You are sick at heart, 
 Home-sick for holiness : you languish here. 
 We'll straightway to our quarters, and be glad 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 201 
 
 In happy preparation. 
 
 Ansel 7)1 \to Messe?iger^ pointing to inner chamber\. Is he 
 there, 
 The king ? . 
 
 Messenger. The audience is broken up ; 
 The bishops and the courtiers intermix, 
 And, past the boundary of our monarch's ears, 
 Lament the land's bereavement. 
 
 Ansebn. But the king ? 
 
 Messenger, He is not wrathful ; he sits moodily 
 And meditates beside your grace's chair 
 Without an oath or gesture. I ne'er saw 
 His busy face so still. 
 
 Anslem. Edmer — O God, 
 
 Why dost Thou set my love upon the damned ? 
 Do not I nightly wrestle for the soul 
 Of Osbern, my beloved ? Now in mine age 
 Must I take on my heart the infamies 
 
 Of this blasphemer ? [ To Messenger ?[ I will speak with him. 
 [Aside.] Alas ! how oft 
 He hath broke in upon my happy hours 
 Of contemplation ! Can it be, in Rome 
 I shall forget him ? I will say farewell. 
 
 [He signs to the Messenger to co7idiict him to the Ki?ig. A 
 airtain is drawjt back, an inner chamber discovered 
 The King on a throne ; a vacant chair beside him. 
 At some distance the retiri7ig Bishops a7id Cowiiers 
 are see7i conversing. 
 
 Rufiis [after a long pause\ He shall be banished; from 
 this holy man 
 I will break loose. God is but poorly served 
 In His omnipotence. His hirelings flee 
 Being a-hired, and care not for the flock, 
 I and the devil in duality 
 Will sceptre England, haply Rome itself, 
 And mock this Anselm with his scallop-shell 
 I'll gird him now. He hath stood over me 
 
202 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 (My neck beneath his foot) we have changed place ; 
 
 He shall make restitution and amends 
 
 For this annoyance and the sorry aid 
 
 He furnished me ; and I will banish him. . . . 
 
 True, his dove's spirit lay among the pots 
 
 Of my foul nature, and ne'er soiled her plumes. 
 
 I liked to feel him close : now in his stead 
 
 I'll plant Beelzebub. [To his Clerk.'] You, William, there, 
 
 Meet the Archbishop at the water's marge ; 
 
 Search well his baggage : let the crowd look on ; 
 
 Expose the treasons of the runaway. 
 
 [Aside.] This empty chair . . . 
 
 \_E?tter Anselm, followed by Eadmer.] 
 
 Aiiselm. My liege, I'm starting ; if with your good will 
 It had been better ; even as it is, 
 I cannot part from love of your soul's health ; 
 And now as ghostly father to his son. 
 As Anselm to the king, beseech you take 
 My blessing. 
 
 Rufics. Father, I refuse it not. 
 
 {Ansebn silently makes the sign of the cross 
 over the Ki?tg, and blesses him. 
 
 Anselm [to Eadmer]. Come, Edmer, we are pilgrims, and 
 my shell 
 Is my own yearning heart. [Exit with Ead??ier. 
 
 Riifics. Now he is gone. . . . 
 
 What ! my eyes wet ? I warrant he shall weep 
 He ever left me. [To Clerk.] William, you are slack ; 
 Turn o'er his goods ; and we will b — b — banish him. 
 
 [Exit Walter J the King buries his face in his ha?ids. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The New Forest. Beowidj {restlessly paci?tg 
 to and fj'd). Efiter Purkzs. 
 
 Pitrkis \aside\ There's alteration in the face. His brow, 
 That had the quiet of a leaguered town, 
 Growing a little stiller day by day, 
 Is now a blaze of sortie and assault. 
 
 \Aloiid^ Why, dad, you're looking busy ; what new scheme 
 Are you hatching ? Is your sight come back again ? 
 
 Beowtdf\^ptilling down a bougk of acorns']. One fell down 
 on my head ; they're growing ripe. 
 Where is the king ? Does he have quiet rest ? 
 
 Purkis. Don't shake like a conspirator. 
 
 Beowulf. It's come ; 
 
 It's at the doors, and I must witness it. 
 I was at Senlac. Look you well about — 
 I must not miss it ; I must see him fall ; 
 I saw King Harold. 
 
 Purkis. Well-a — well-a-day ! 
 
 We'll to the show and you shall lead me on. 
 Unfold me how the players gib and mince : 
 You are the seeing man. 
 
 Beowulf. Let's walk about. 
 
 What is the time of day ? — The August gules . . . 
 
 Purkis. You're mixing things. 
 
 Beowulf What was it that I wrought ? 
 
 We must not one be idle. I must help. — 
 I'm young again : my boy, it's coming back, 
 
 203 
 
2 04 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 My sight is coming — at the set of sun. 
 
 Purkis. This is fresh prodigy ; he's radiant. 
 There's very twinkle in the leaden sky 
 Of his old eyes ; but let them out of cell, 
 He'll be a maniac. — Come, come, to-bed ! 
 
 Beowulf. I'll sleep when it is dark ; it's shining now, 
 And I must watch. I am a sentinel ; — 
 Ay, that's the word ; all things are pressing back. 
 A watch ; they chose me for my piercing sight 
 By the hoar apple-tree ... I built the fence. 
 Where is the place ? I can't see clearly yet. 
 Let's feel the trunk. 
 
 Purkis. It's supernatural. 
 
 I'll haul him to the oak : he's riveted 
 To this one bark. — We will encamp here, dad. 
 
 Beoivtilf. There's a great prospect, even over sea. 
 Ay, it stands well. 
 
 Purkis. One looks to Pevensey ; 
 
 The sea is glist'ring. — Now he's dulled again. 
 
 Beowulf. Another time ; that was another day. 
 It's overspread with leaves — a better light. 
 And not too dazzling. I will guard the wood. 
 
 Scene II. — Twy7tJiam. The Church completed. Enter 
 LeofriCj meeting Old Matt. 
 
 Old Man. Ah, sir, your face is full of happiness ; 
 But should they knock that down [pointing to the tower] 
 like the old church .'* 
 
 Leofric. Nay, when a mother sees her perfect babe, 
 She thinks not of the doomed calamity 
 To strike his hoary head. Come now, confess 
 It is a goodly pile. 
 
 Old Man. Ay, a fair heap 
 
 Of masonry. Young man, you've done your best ; 
 I'll not deny it — and the rest is slow. 
 God and the winds must care for it ; it needs 
 To be thick-planted with the dead before 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 205 
 
 It will look old enough for worshippers. 
 
 The Lord Himself, they say, will make all new; — 
 
 I marvel at Him ; but He's fit to judge. — 
 
 Our forefathers lay still ; men had good thoughts 
 
 In the old place : it seemed a heathen thing 
 
 To hack it up. 
 
 Leofric, Nay, it was rough and plain ; 
 
 Not better than a homestead. 
 
 Old Ma?i. Well, you see 
 
 God had been there ; He did a deal for it. 
 Yoii rumbled up the dead. When there's more graves 
 It will be better. I shall make one soon. 
 You must not think, young man, you do it all. 
 We do our part just rotting in the ground ; 
 The saucy urchins feel it's wonderful ; 
 We frighten 'em. I do not think the walls 
 Do much ; it's what's outside and what is in, 
 Plenty of living sorrow and a Past, 
 Makes one look up. — You will excuse me, sir, — 
 There's a little girl I buried years ago 
 Here, where the nettles press. I let it be 
 While they were building ; now I'll put it right ; 
 That's what I'm come for. It is difficult; 
 The weeds so intermix. 
 
 Leofric. We'll find it out. 
 
 You have no headstone : I will carve you one, 
 If you would care. Then you will not mistake. 
 
 Old Ma?i. My little lass was shy of strangers, hid 
 Behind the chair, if they but looked at her. 
 I'll keep her to myself. \pisappea7's. 
 
 Leof7'ic. It's useless toil. 
 
 The people come here to reclaim their dead, 
 Or just to mass. 
 
 \E7iter Flaj7tbard.'\ 
 
 Flambard. Good even, Leofric. 
 
 Fair news, my cunning craftsman, do you hear '^. ' 
 Your uncle Godric I will reinstate, 
 
206 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 And all — except the beauty of this church — 
 
 Wear its old form. Nay more, my bonnie lad — 
 
 I am translated to a northern See ; 
 
 And, hark ye ! good St. Calais brought him plans 
 
 From Normandy, by which we'll raise a church ; 
 
 Ay, Leofric, a dominant, dark pile, 
 
 That shall express the State's stability, 
 
 And keep the fortress in its very mould ; 
 
 A mighty, militant, majestic mass. 
 
 You shall notch out the saint, the populace 
 
 Outside, the grinning devil and vile beast. 
 
 Who sets his paw-mark on the simpleton 
 
 Living for this world's praise. — I'm altering, 
 
 My Leofric ; Zaccheus from the fig 
 
 Came down at summons and restored his gain, 
 
 Ill-gotten, to the poor. I will provide 
 
 Good hospitable lodging for the Lord, 
 
 And you shall furnish it with ornament. 
 
 Leofric. There is no joy ... oh, my lips fail like 
 tools 
 Blunt-edged ; I cannot carve the words I would. 
 This sudden surety of a noble toil, 
 Not unimmortal like the labourer's, 
 Good as the earth to the Creator's eyes, 
 And excellent as nature unto man. 
 Is better to me than a promised wealth, 
 More even than a marriage. 
 
 Flamba7'd. \lookmg at Leofric] Ah, to say 
 Let there be summer in a human face, 
 And straightway there is summer, gives a man, 
 In sooth, an inkling of omnipotence 
 Not to be scorned. Here comes a malcontent. 
 
 [Efifer Wilfrith.'] 
 I ever shunned such ; you may deal with him ; 
 Cheer him with my departure. Leofric ! 
 [Aside.] He's lost. How happy are these artists — well ! \_Exit. 
 
 Leofric. A minster-church, a pile to block the air, 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 207 
 
 And throw steep shadows on the tiny roofs ; 
 It's built now. I behold it. 
 
 Wilfriih. Leofric, 
 
 I had a dream, a cruel, ghastly dream, 
 An apparition. I must see the king. 
 
 Leofric. What ails you ? 
 
 Wilffith. God will bring deliverance. 
 
 And yet by fearful means. The instrument . . . 
 But what has happened ? You have surely seen 
 A comfortable vision, for your eyes 
 Look as they never more could shed salt tears. 
 Give me your message. 
 
 Leofric. Wilfrith, you are scared. 
 
 Listen, good uncle Godric is restored, 
 And dear routine will give you back the health 
 That days uneven agitate. 
 
 Wilfrith. The king — 
 
 You do not seem to care — deliverance ; 
 We shall be free. 
 
 Leofric. The devil gave you dreams. 
 
 And in imagination you are bond. 
 What want you with the king ? At Malwood Lodge 
 He earns his daily feast of venison. 
 Let be, and listen to my saner news : 
 Flambard is Durham's bishop, and I go 
 To build — 
 
 Wilfrith. What boots it I am hounded on 
 Of fiends ? I cannot tell what it portends, 
 I am distracted ; but you have your art — 
 It's nothing to you. 
 
 Leofric. Wilfrith, it is less 
 
 To be possessed of devils that are dumb, 
 Than dwell the mate of undelivered power, 
 A stricken thing divine, another self. 
 Kingly and crippled as great David's son. 
 
 Wilffith. All that is fantasy ; these fearful dreams 
 Are real. Yet, if England in his death 
 
208 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Gain freedom — 
 
 Leofric. It's the spirit that is free. 
 
 Wilfrith, you cannot know, when first I took 
 These logs of wood and stared at them, it was 
 As God Himself lay captive at my heart, 
 And I must burst His withes and worship Him, 
 His jailer, who could give Him prison-bread, 
 Not liberty. I perished in His chains : 
 I could not speak ; — now He has utterance, 
 And all my nature subjugate to joy 
 Of His authority, I am at peace. 
 
 You have religion ; let it make you bold * 
 
 To bear the strange convulsions of the world. 
 Be happy in your consecrated thoughts ; 
 Look on the church ; in its vicinity 
 You shall spend blameless years, till 'neath its stones 
 You sleep in death's immured tranquillity. 
 
 Wilfrith. No, no. I'll to the king to save his soul. {Exit. 
 
 Leofric. And I'll to Durham to my lattice-work. \_Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Castle Malivood. The Ki7ig''s Chamber. 
 
 Riifus [starting fro7?z sleep]. Maria ! Light ! Help, help ! 
 [Enter Chamberlains^ 
 
 1st Chamberlain. A fearful cry ! 
 
 My lord, what is 't ? 
 
 2nd Chamberlain. His eyes like shooting-stars 
 Blaze all about. 
 
 1st Cha?fiberlai?j. And dew is on his brow. 
 Speak, speak ! My lord ! 
 
 Riifus. Bring me the candle, close — 
 
 Near, near ! 
 
 \st Chamberlain. 'Twill fire the bed. 
 
 Rufus. There hangs my cloak — 
 
 My hunting horn. And who are ye, black louts ? 
 Those yonder are my boots ? I must have dreamt ; 
 Nearer, the light ! — the comfortable light, 
 
William rufus. 209 
 
 The earthly light, the light that shows me life. 
 And who are you ? 
 
 7.nd Chamberlaiit. Your faithful chamberlains. 
 Rufus. Show me your faces ; they are dim and red. — 
 My dreams are bloody. — Ha ! your pimpled nose 
 And your slant eye-lid, I have known them ere 
 I went to sleep. You are my chamberlains, 
 My common servants, born as other men, 
 And subject to like terrors with myself; 
 So do not leave me. Sit on either side, 
 And watch my pillow. Varlets, if you stir 
 Your haunches from each side of me, the day 
 Shall never dawn for either. 
 
 1st Cha7nberlain. We will stay. 
 
 Rufus. Hath the cock crowed ? Ay ! now his throats at 
 work. 
 You'll never hear that when your blood is shed ; 
 'Tis of the earth and waking to the sun ; 
 There is no clarion of judgment in 't. 
 
 jj-/ Chamberlain. A pleasant household noise ! The day 
 is near ; 
 She's melting the cold east. 
 
 ind Chamberlai?t. And shadows wane 
 
 How fares my liege "i 
 
 Rufus. It was a sleep diseased. 
 
 Tm well. — This heart is full, and yet they drew 
 Medicinal red drops ; they bled me, and — 
 Snuff the light, villains ! Do you see, 'tis dull^ 
 And ruddily the flame's obscured ! Now sit — 
 For as they bled me, lo ! my blood gushed up 
 To Heaven and put out the light of day. — 
 Maria ! 
 
 ind Chamberlain. O my lord ! — he calls again. 
 There is damnation in his face. 
 
 Rufus. Look, look ! 
 
 Out through the window is my blood, it glows 
 Across the sky, incarnadines the clouds,- 
 
 P 
 
210 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 And there is day behind it. Red, red, red ! 
 Gules ! Oh, blood-red ! 
 
 I J-/ Chai7iberlain. It is the sunrise. 
 
 Rtifiis. No ! — 
 
 Is my heart rushing out ? 
 
 ind Chamberlain. My lord, my lord ! 
 
 Thus daylight comes. You've heard of rosy morn ? 
 'Tis here. Indeed, the colour of the sun 
 Envermeils all the east. 
 
 Rufus. Not mine, not mine ? 
 
 It renders me my dream, 
 
 \st Chainberlai7t. Yea, like the sun 
 
 You'll lift on high the scarlet of your reign, 
 That it will clothe the Heavens with its pride 
 And quite outdo yon Phoebus. 
 
 2nd Chainberlain. So I think. 
 
 Such my interpretation of your dream. 
 
 Rziftis. Ha, ha ! you teach me reason. From my heart 
 The ruby stream of empire shall expand 
 Until it dyes the vision of the world 
 With glory yet beyond. — I'll raise myself. 
 Ah ! now I see the tree-tops, dingy, dun, 
 With just a spot of foliage down there 
 That's lurid with high blush from off the sky. 
 It's earth, familiar outlook, just the wood 
 Where I shall hunt to-day ; I'll lie and rest ; 
 I have a heavy head-ache. Who comes here "i 
 Hamon ! 
 
 [EnUr Robert Fitz-hajnon^ 
 
 Fitz-}iamo7i. Good day. You have a haggard look ; 
 I fear that sleep hath been unmerciful, 
 As an soft wantons can be. 
 
 Rtifus. I have dreamt, 
 
 Have been appalled and shaken by a spark, 
 Until I called it doomsday. 
 
 Fitz-haj)io?i. Very strange. 
 
 Dreams multiply. Did aught of death invade 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 211 
 
 Your slumbers ? 
 
 Riifiis. Ay, such hovered through the fog 
 
 Like Jack-o'-lantern. But these cunning knaves 
 (As nimble Joseph cheered the Court of Nile) 
 Make me a merry prophet. 
 
 Fitz-hamon. Pray you, keep 
 
 From hunting in the forest. There's a load 
 This morning on my spirits. 
 
 Rufus. It is hot ; 
 
 And August weather makes a fool of you. 
 
 \Eitter the ^thelmg He?try.'\ 
 Well, Harry, shall we hunt .? 
 
 ^theli?tg He?try. So please you, yes. 
 
 Fitz-hamon. I pray him not — for portents are about. 
 And I have waked uneasy. 
 
 ^theling Hejiry. Do not, then. 
 
 If Crcesus had attended to his dream 
 (The golden king of Lydia), he ne'er 
 Had lost his son, the hunter, from the dart 
 Of the young man's own friend. 
 
 Rufiis. Now none of that, 
 
 Your clerkly nonsense, Harry. Ay, we'll hunt, 
 But after meat. The fore-noon we'll devote 
 To business, for I plan a march to Rome. 
 I'll go where Anselm journeys — not with scrip, 
 But ringing shield, no staff, but ready spear. 
 Bring me cold water — I must freeze my head 
 To have it cool for projects ! 'Tis full day. 
 Harry, the sun is after you, I'll swear 
 You stand a man of gold. — Get out, I'll dress. \Exeu}tt. 
 
 Scene IV. — Castle Malwood. The Banqueti?ig-hall. 
 Enter Servants with dishes. 
 
 1st Servant. The feast is ready. Flagons glow with wine 
 Hotter than summer's veins. 
 
 2nd Servant. The steam of joints 
 
 Is dense across the breath of basking noon. 
 
212 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 The feasters come. 
 
 yrd Serva7it. Hast noted how the king 
 
 Falls into silence after each brave speech, 
 And is so noisy certain that he'll hunt 
 Before the day is out ? 
 
 1st Servant. Yet puts it off, 
 
 And plunges into business recklessly. 
 
 ind Servant. The chamberlains at cock-crow heard him 
 call 
 The Holy Name. 
 
 ist Servant. I'll swear he never did ; 
 
 He scoffs at all religion. 
 
 2?td Servant. Ay, my son, 
 
 A mocker is a mendicant at pinch. 
 
 \Enter the Ki?tg, the ^theli7ig Henry^ Walter Tirel^ 
 
 Robert Fitz-haino7t, William of Breteuil, atid others.'] 
 Rufus. A goodly meal, 
 A fat repast. Be seated, gentlemen. 
 My hearty Tirel, lean you to my right, 
 I'll have you served with primest venison ; 
 For, gentlemen — be patient with my freak, 
 It is not worth your jealousy, good lads — 
 I'm smitten with this Tirel, and my love 
 Must have him near, at meat and in the chase. 
 For ere the sun is slanting through the glades, 
 -And taming with its soft decline the brutes 
 
 That range these woods, we'll hunt 
 
 Tirel. We will, we will ! 
 
 I'll bring to earth rich quarry. 
 
 Rufus. So thou shalt. — 
 
 I wish I did not love thee. — \To Attendants^ Serve him well. 
 Drink, pot-companions, to my sovereignty. 
 I'll hold my court at Poitiers next Yule. 
 The Hall I've built at Westminster is nought,— 
 A pigmy temple for my empire's shrine. 
 Drink, compeers, to our revels in the south. 
 Where Christmas shall be hot as is to-day. 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 213 
 
 A rouse ! Lift up thy cup, thou fool of France. 
 
 jEtheling Henry. Is Walter tame with this blank airless 
 noon, 
 Or will he flash retort ? 
 
 TireL Talk, talk, all talk ! 
 
 The way is clear. Breton and Angevin 
 Bow to his sway, and yet he nothing does 
 But wag his forward tongue. 
 
 Rtifus. Ho ! saucy mate ! 
 
 We'll be across the Alps and back again 
 Before our belfries ring the old year out. 
 
 TireL If ever they submit to English rule, 
 An evil death may every Frenchman die ! 
 
 yEtheling Henry. A patriot ! He's flame and vinegar. 
 Drink to our merry sport. These beechen glades 
 And golden mossy plots, where shadows lie 
 Asleep like satyrs, will be exquisite 
 In mellow warmth of sun-down ere we start. 
 
 Fitz-hamon \to the King\. You still incline to hunting? 
 
 Rufus. Hunt I will. 
 
 INIy brain is dull and clotted with affairs ; 
 The evening will be cool. 
 
 TireL Oh, very cold. 
 
 Rtifus, Why say you so ? 
 
 Tirel. Sooth, as a flatterer 
 
 I magnify your language, for you prate 
 Like a big tyrant. You say cool — I, cold. 
 
 Rufus. My bosom-friend ! 
 
 {Enter Wilfrith.] 
 
 BreteuiL Who's here ? A staring monk, 
 
 With sooty rings about his fevered eyes ? 
 
 Wilfrith. Where is the king .'' • 
 
 BretetdL He crowns the feast up there. 
 
 Rufus. More venison, you niggards ! Wine, I say ! 
 I will not hunt till I am full of meat, 
 And jocund with the madding blood of grapes. 
 Pour ! serve ! — I pledge you, Walter. 
 
214 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 TireL In red wine 
 
 I challenge you. 
 
 Breteiiil. This monk has had a dream. 
 
 Rjifiis [aside]. Cursed be these visions and these haunt- 
 ing sights 
 That fool my health to qualms. Let's hear this trance. 
 We have no jester at the feast to-day. 
 We will make merry with this cowled buffoon. 
 
 Wilfrith \to the Kmg\. Hither, my lord, I've travelled 
 through the sun 
 To reach your living feet and hold them back 
 From the dark threshold of your coming doom. 
 I saw the throne of Judgment, and the night 
 Flared to annihilation, while the beams 
 Of moonlight gathered round a kneeling form, 
 A woman, lily-vestured, sad and white. 
 The Church that grieved most sorely to her Lord. 
 I looked and saw a coal-black figure rise. 
 With grizzly raiment, scintillating darts — 
 A man, the swarthy witness to his forge. 
 One shaft the mystic Hand omnipotent 
 Took, turned, and pointed earthwards. — Oh, my lord, 
 The bow is bent. 
 
 Rufus. Ho, ho ! He is a monk. 
 
 Monk-like, he dreams for money. Give him coins — 
 A hundred shillings. 
 
 Wilfrith. O my lord, my lord . . 
 
 I will not take a penny for my pains. 
 Only believe my words. 
 Oh, look not on me with hot merry face 
 That Death may strike to stone and kill with cold 
 At any wretched moment. \Entcr a Sinith?^ Heaven ! Christ !' 
 'Tis he — the sable minister. Good Lord, 
 Have mercy ! — for the darts are in his hand. 
 And death becomes reality. Dark man. 
 Did you not walk along God's hall last night ? 
 
 Smith. The monk is crazed. 1 am an honest soul 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 215 
 
 Who wrought last night these arrows for the king. 
 He makes me fear that I am marked to die. 
 
 IVilfrith. ^oxyou. 
 
 Ritfus {to SmitJi\. Approach. How many dost thou 
 bring .'' 
 
 Smith. Six, my good lord. 
 
 Riifus. They are not for the bow, 
 
 You mean them for the deadly arbalest. 
 They're finely wrought, most cunning Master Smith. 
 Four I will keep ; and two I'll give to thee, 
 My Walter, for 'tis meet that sharpest steel 
 Be gift to him who dealeth deadly strokes. 
 \To Smith.'] My thanks, and praise. 
 
 IVilfrith. There is a further doom. 
 
 The murky hands are empty. All is vain. 
 Woe, woe ! 
 
 [Enter a Messenger."] 
 
 ^theling Henry. Your news .'' 
 
 Messenger. A letter, gracious king. 
 
 From Abbot Serlo. 
 
 Riifus. Harry, read the scrawl. 
 
 W'hat says it ? 
 
 J^theli?ig Henry. That another monk hath dreamed 
 Such things as this. {Pointing to Wilfrith. 
 
 Rtifus. Is every brain a cave 
 
 Of silly visions .'' So the Church complains 
 Among the clouds as well as on the earth. 
 Walt, do thou justice, even with the things 
 Which thou hast heard. 
 
 Tirel. I will. Ha, ha ! I will. 
 
 Riifus. I wonder at Lord Serlo's fantasy, — 
 A good old abbot, but a simple soul, — 
 When I am torn with business and great cares. 
 To send this nonsense of his snoring monks. 
 What ! Am I like the English, who are scared 
 From deed and office of necessity 
 By any whining crone who nods her head ? 
 
2l6 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 JEtheli?tg Henry. The sun declines, and still you linger on. 
 
 Ttrel. You are afraid. 
 
 ^theli?tg Hen7'y. Fie ! fie ! I think you are, 
 
 You have such craven hold upon your chair. 
 By Jupiter, I swear you will not hunt ; 
 But break your promise to the forest-ways 
 To make them rich with sport. 
 
 Tirel \aside\. He drinks again, 
 
 As if he'd weary Time from tempting him 
 With what he fears to act. \Aloiidi\ A coward ! Ay, 
 Thy liver blanches, though thy cheek's afume. 
 Fie, thou art fearful of the bunched trees. 
 And the deer startle thee. 
 
 Rjifus. I'll hunt, I say. 
 
 But I am sick and sad a hundred-fold. 
 More than ye wot. The end is come — I mean 
 The feast is over ! Rise. I do not think 
 I stuck more closely to my mother's teat 
 Than to this table. Nay, I will not go. 
 
 Tirel. He's mocking ! 
 
 Rufus. It's a heavy air. . . . The dogs 
 
 Are baying with a pleasant vulgar sound 
 That shames my inner strangeness. Seat, farewell ! 
 I feel as I should fall !— All's right. We'll go. [Exetmt. 
 
 Scene V. — The New Forest: a Glade. Enter the 
 jtEtheling Hetiry., William of Breteuil, and Gilbei't of 
 Clare. 
 
 jEtheling Henry. We're solitary. 
 
 Clare. Ay, these tangled brakes 
 
 Confuse companionship. 
 
 ^theling He7iry. Their giddy boughs, 
 
 Like sirens' hair, enwind the charmed sense 
 Until it lose its function. Let us on. 
 
 Bretetnl. We have encountered little sport. 
 
 ^theliiig Henyy. Rich chance 
 
 Wait on our sundered friends, for we to-day 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 217 
 
 Are not Diana's favourites. 
 
 Clare. Methinks 
 
 I hear across the air the chime of dogs 
 Rejoicing the green distance. 
 
 Breteuil. I hear nought. 
 
 ^theli?ig He?iry. There leaps a squirrel ! 'Tis too small 
 a goal 
 For arrow's flight. Contemptuous is Fate 
 To send us such small prey. Beat down the fern ! 
 I caught the glimmer of a couchant side 
 Gold in the evening beam. A deer ! To chase. [Exetent. 
 \E7tterfrom the other side^ Robert Fitz-hamon and Gilbert 
 
 of Laigle.'] 
 
 Fitz-hamon. Where is the king ? 
 
 Laigle. I cannot even guess. 
 
 I saw him turn about a clump of oak 
 In company with Tirel ; when I reached 
 The spreading corner he was gone. 
 
 Fitz-hamo7i. The pack 
 
 Is just below. But we are in a maze, 
 And there's no thread to guide us. I will blow 
 My horn. 
 
 Laigle. Stay ! Yonder is a grazing herd, 
 Soft victims for our onslaught. — Where the dell 
 Stoops to a stony brook, I hear response. 
 We have not far to seek. 
 
 Fitz-ha7non. Within a wood 
 
 We're far and near ; perchance may never meet. 
 
 Laigle. We'll work to share our favours with the rest, 
 And call the dogs around us. In this shade 
 The air is cloistered. It is very hot. [Exeimt. 
 
 Scene VI. — Another part of the Forest: a Glade below 
 Malwood. E?tter the Ki?ig a?id Walter Ti?'el. 
 
 Rufiis. Tirel, I am a man again ; these leaves 
 Breathe Hfe ; the rattle of the quiver shakes 
 My heart to palpitation and sharp joy. 
 
2l8 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 This freedom makes each throbbing art'ry bold, 
 And clears my blood of phantasy. I stand 
 The jolly hunter, with my steadfast bow, 
 And bosom unconfined with secret thoughts 
 That girdled my good spirits to this hour 
 And kept them tight at dinner. 
 
 Tirel. You were sad. 
 
 But who could help rejoicing, that is lord 
 Of these deep forests ! 
 
 Riifiis. Every inch of ground 
 
 Is mine ; yon wide-set beeches, mine; the deer 
 All mine, my father's heritage. Like him 
 I love them — to the death. One comes. Soft ! soft ! 
 I'm ready — now ! \Shoots, and slightly woicnds the deer. 
 
 Tirel. It runs. 
 
 Rufiis. The light is broad \ 
 
 It blinds me. 
 
 Tirel. 'Tis the setting of the sun. 
 
 Rufus. I'll shade my eyes. — He's there ! 
 
 Tirel. See, see, my lord ! 
 
 Another one ! 
 
 Rufus. Shoot, in the devil's name ! 
 
 [Tirel shoots — the arrow gla7ices from an oak, 
 
 a9id pierces the King. 
 
 Tirel. God save me ! He is falling on the dart. 
 It breaks ; he grasps the fragment with a groan 
 And pulls out death from hiding in his breast. 
 Christ ! He hath found his doom. Wretch, wretch am I ! 
 [^Coming up to the King.'] For mercy's sake, lift up thy face ! 
 
 The lips 
 Are speechless ; but there's vision in the eyes — 
 Their egress nearly dumb — and yet they say : 
 " Pain is my portion ; all is lost." I'll seize 
 These flow'rs and herbs ; perchance the Lord above 
 Will hold them for a sacrament. He's gone. 
 Too late ! He's clay, and lifeless. I could think— 
 He looks so stout and proof against his fidl — 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 219 
 
 He'd rise again, and bend once more his bow, 
 Bend it to slay his murderer. I'll fly. 
 They'd call it murder though I did it not. 
 The tree, the oak, was Nimrod in this chase, 
 And mightily hath hunted. — I am chilled ; 
 There is a wind as if the woods breathed free. . . . 
 There is a terror round me and this man, 
 A gathering of voices through the shades, 
 A vengeful trooping of screened witnesses, 
 A judge's tension in the very air, 
 As it would aim a sentence 'gainst my soul. 
 God ! I must fly. If I escape with life. 
 To Holy Land I'll bear my ransomed blood. — 
 Cold image of dead fellowship, good-bye ! — 
 I dare not pause ; so fearful is the spot. 
 To horse ! [^Exit. 
 
 \Eiiter 071 the other side Robert Fitz-hwno7i and Gilbert oj 
 
 LaigleJ] 
 
 Laigle. Ho, ho ! We shall not meet this eve. 
 There's Friar's lantern unseen in the wood, 
 Or we should never wander thus like fools. 
 The sun is down ; dew falls and shadows grow. 
 
 Fitz-hamon. What's that — yon heap with glitter on the 
 grass ? 
 Some hunter sorely hurt. — Alas ! — the king ! 
 And dead as what he lies on. Ah, too true 
 The visions swelled around the banks of sleep ; 
 He would not see the warning. Now he lies 
 In dreamless slumbers that will never wake 
 Till every night is done. 
 
 Laigle. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 His hands were full of gifts. 
 
 \Enter William of Bretenil and Gilbert of Clare ?[ 
 
 Look here and see 
 Our fortune dead ! 
 
 Clare. The king ! 
 
 Bretetiil. Lift up his bulk. 
 
2 20 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 Fit2-ha7non. Too late. The dart hath scattered all his 
 breath, 
 And we are ruined. 
 
 Breteuil. Let us to our holds 
 
 And gather booty in ! 
 
 Clare. Whose deed is this ? 
 
 Fitz-ha7non, Some churl's offence. 
 
 Laigle. 'Twas Tirel rode with him. 
 
 Breteuil. Tirel I saw at gallop even now, 
 As if the fiend were hindmost. 
 
 Clare. Curse the fool ! 
 
 We'll follow to revenge this regicide. 
 Off, off, and after ! \Exetint Cla^-e a?td Laigle. 
 
 Breteuil. Nobles of the land, 
 
 This is a pause of moment in affairs. 
 You all declare for Robert. I'll away 
 
 And seize the hoard at Winchester. "^ \Exit. 
 
 \Enter the ^theling He?try.'] 
 
 uEtheli7tg Henry. Well met. 
 
 I've had my bow-string mended where a dame. 
 As brown as Earth, was full of prophecy — 
 Jove ! What is this 1 
 
 Fitz-ha7non. Your royal brother dead. 
 
 ^theling Henry, Who knows ? 
 
 Fitz-ha7no7i. Some three. De Breteuil 's 
 
 on his way 
 To Winchester. 
 
 ^theling Henry. I am your king— He's gone. 
 
 \^Fitz-ha7H07i rides off. 
 The king that is, left with the king that was. 
 Both the crowned fruit of one imperial womb. 
 William, I'll be a wiser prince than thou, 
 And yet as proud. — My coming fate must have 
 The heels of Atalanta.— English oaks. 
 Farewell ; ye've crowned the yEthcling. Now I'll race 
 To Winchester, where all the gold is bright. [Exit. 
 
 Etiter Purkis and Beowulf^ 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 221 
 
 Pitrkis. A sunny eve. I'll prop you 'neath this trunk 
 You know the girth of, while I gather clods 
 For the oven. — How his face works ! Does he smell 
 The hunters here about ? There is no sound. 
 
 \_Ai a little distance he perceives the body of Rtcfus. 
 
 Beowulf. What do you stand so still for .'' 
 
 Purkis. Farther off ! 
 
 \_Kneeli?ig before Rufus^ a?id speaking low."] The very crown 
 
 of England in the dust ; 
 Those royal eyes sunk in the savageness 
 Of death ! My king — what, no retainer here ? 
 They say thy father lay upon the floor : — 
 That was in Normandy. We Englishmen 
 Have awe. Well, well, — a freeman and no churl 
 Shall bear you to your burial. All soaked 
 With blood — the very Earth ! A majesty 
 Is on him, and my heart's allegiance 
 Is his. 'Tis pity that he broke with God. 
 Such quarrels have one ending. I will kneel, 
 And humbly as the meekest chamberlain 
 Put thee to rest, and kiss and fold thy hands 
 Cross-wise, — the posture's good for judgment-morn. 
 It turns the Lord's eye off to Calvary 
 To come back moist with mercy. — How to lift ? 
 Dad can't assist. 
 
 Beowulf I will have charge of him ; 
 
 Give him to me. It was the oak that struck ; 
 He wounded it ; it gathered up the wrongs 
 Of generations in its storied pile. 
 And for the people hath poured out revenge. 
 The Earth shall leper him ; each trampled blade 
 Of grass shall bear a drop of blood for dew ; 
 Nature shall part the spoil ; the gallows fowl 
 Must not be left unsummoned, the maimed dogs 
 Must mutilate the quarry. 
 
 Purkis. Father, hush ! 
 
 Satan has hold of you ; you would not curse 
 
22 2 WILLIAM RUFUS. 
 
 A murdered man. I'll fetch the cart to bear 
 His bones to Winchester ; he must be laid 
 'Mid the old royal tombs. 
 
 Beowulf. Is he not damned ? 
 
 Purkis. We are poor folk, and he has rated us. 
 God 's king ; He'll have a fellow-feeling like ; 
 No vengeance in His heart. Leave Him to judge. 
 
 Beowulf. Yea, bear him through the woods like a gashed 
 boar, 
 Present him dripping to your angry God ; 
 He may not be implacable. In haste 
 Cloak the foul thing beneath the minster tow'r ; 
 Heap soil on him ; choke your rememberance 
 Of his unnat'ral crime ; establish him 
 In the untaxed dominion of a grave ; — 
 Earth will unhouse him from his tenement ; 
 He shall be dispossessed. The crumbling tow'r 
 Shall spread in ruins over him : his vault 
 Shall crack her walls, and open up her roof 
 To let foul, rushing weather on the clay 
 That shall rot down with refuse and be lost. 
 The land-mark broken down, the boundary 
 And guarding hallowed precinct of a tomb. 
 
 Purkis [aside]. La ! he is terrible. I cannot doubt 
 He's some great advocate to press his wrongs. 
 It's odd now I should tremble to entrust 
 A dead man to the keeping of a blind. 
 Great king, you're in the clutch of Destiny ! 
 Death looks a strong-ceiled house ; ah me ! I fear 
 It is a sorry sanctuary from sin. 
 There's much remains. Some hoary influence 
 Sits at the chimney-corner of our lives, 
 Holding a rightful end in store for all. 
 There's little we can alter. All the same 
 It's simple we must give him burial. 
 I'll fetch the cart with Wilfrith. [Exi/. 
 
 Beowulf {carefully feeling the corpse\ There are worms 
 
WILLIAM RUFUS. 223 
 
 About his darkness. I am satisfied. 
 
 \I.eaving the body, he props himself against the oak. 
 Earth, Earth, O Earth ! the tyrant is struck down. 
 Thou drevv'st the arrow from Fate's sluggish hand ; 
 Thou sped'st it mortally. Though thy bhnd sons 
 Dishonour thee, seeking the younger love 
 Of Country, swayed by her caprice, to strive 
 For law or liberty, while thou art bond, 
 Far off thou hearest Freedom's yeanling cry, 
 Orphaned, necessitous ; thy motherhood, 
 O Earth, is prophecy ! Thou wilt prevail. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 " La patria e la nostra casa : la casa che Dio ci ha data, 
 ponendovi dentro una numerosa famiglia, che ci ama e che 
 noi amiamo naturalmente, colla quale noi possiamo intenderci 
 meglio e piu rapidamente che non con altri." 
 
 Mazzini. 
 
> 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This play (written three years ago) is founded on the follow- 
 ing passages from Dean Milman's Laii7i Christianity : — 
 
 " Henry (the Sixth, Emperor of Germany) appeared in 
 Italy. . . . Palermo received him with open gates, with 
 clouds of incense and processions. The youthful William, 
 the second son of Tancred, laid his crown at the feet of the 
 Emperor, and received the hereditary Countship of Lecce. 
 The campaign began in August ; the Emperor celebrated 
 Christmas in Palermo A.D. 1194. There had been no sound 
 of arms, no disturbance, except from the jealousy of the 
 Pisans and Genoese : not a drop of blood had been shed. 
 At Christmas, the period of peace and festivity, Henry laid 
 before a great assembly of the realm letters (it was said 
 forged) but letters which, even if they did not reveal, were 
 declared to reveal, an extensive conspiracy against his 
 power. Bishops, nobles, the royal family, were implicated 
 in the charges. No further evidence was offered or required. 
 Peter de Celano sat as supreme justiciary, a man dear to 
 the hard and ruthless heart of Henry. A judicial massacre 
 began. Archbishops and bishops, counts and nobles — 
 Margaritone, the great naval captain, the Archbishop of 
 Salerno— were apprehended, condemned, executed or muti- 
 lated with barbarous variety of torture. . . . The Queen 
 Sybilla and her three daughters . . . were thrown into 
 prison ; the young William bhnded and mutilated. On the 
 very day when these fatal disclosures were made and the work 
 
 827 
 
2 28 PREFACE. 
 
 • 
 
 of blood began, the Empress Constantia * gave birth at Jesi 
 to Frederick Roger, afterwards the Emperor Frederick 11. 
 The Nemesis of Grecian tragedy might be imagined as pre- 
 siding over the birth."— Book viii. chap. ix. 
 
 " Qui ne met la poesie au-dessus de tout n'a pas le senti- 
 ment de I'histoire meme, car Thistoire est le recit des efforts 
 impuissants des hommes pour arriver k cette beaute severe 
 que nous trouvons dans le grand art." It is in this spirit 
 that the author has treated the story of this Sicilian insurrec- 
 tion. He does not claim to have reached the severe beauty 
 of art ; his endeavour has been rather to touch with sym- 
 pathy the impotence of human effort. Historical facts have 
 inspired, not dominated him. The Markwald of the drama 
 has nothing in common with the Markwald of history. The 
 office of Peter de Celano is given to Markwald, and in other 
 ways authority is rejected. 
 
 History and fiction, fact and fable, cross and recross the 
 texture of the plot. Melpomene gives her left hand to Clio, 
 her right to the 
 
 "... mighty lord and master of the lyre, 
 Unshorn Apollo." 
 
 Apn'l, 1885. 
 
 * Constantia was the legitimate Queen of Sicily, whose rights had 
 been usurped by Tancred, the natural son of one of lier brothers. At 
 his death he left his pretensions to his son William and his Queen 
 Sybilla. Henry VI. claimed the throne of Sicily as Constantia's 
 husband. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONjE, 
 
 Henry VI., Emperor of Germany a?td King of Sicily. 
 
 William, Boy-pretender to the throne of Sicily. 
 
 The Archbishop of Salerno. 
 
 Markwald of Anweiler, Justiciary. 
 
 Margaritone, Lord High Admiral of Sicily. 
 
 Peter de Celano, Minioft to the Emperor. 
 
 Andrea, a Priest^ afterwards a Mo7tk^ brother to Peter de 
 
 Celano. 
 Adheld, Germa?t Page to Peter de Celano. 
 A Fool. 
 
 Constantia, Empress of Gerinany and Queen of Sicily. 
 
 Sybilla, mother to William. 
 
 Iolante, wife to Markwald. 
 
 Clara, sister to Markwald. 
 
 Veronica, a noble Sicilian lady. 
 
 Madeleine, sister to Adheld., ifi lolanfe's train. 
 
 Azaire, a Moorish girl, waiting-woman to Iolante. 
 
 Scene. — Palermo and its neighbourhood. 
 
 S29 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Roo7n in a Sicilian Palace. E7iter Veronica and 
 
 Margarita. 
 
 Veronica. The Emperor 
 Is then about to land ? 
 
 Margarito. And in his train 
 
 Are notable Sicilians. 
 
 Veronica. Ay, indeed ! 
 
 Markwald of Anweiler they say leads home 
 lolante, our fair countrywoman. — Ah ! 
 You fret your brow ; my words I fear give pain ; 
 Before the image of that saint Pve marked 
 You're often on your knees. Your idol, sir, 
 Is now but rudely worshipp'd. 
 
 Margarito. Will that make 
 
 Me less religious ? 
 
 Veronica. Your audacity 
 
 Becomes you, Margarito ; 'tis the plume 
 Upon your cap. 
 
 Margarito. I was at Algiers 
 When she consented. So think not, fair dame, 
 I shall be less her gallant when she comes 
 Once more to grace Palermo. — You will find 
 One worthy of your arts in Henry's train. 
 
 231 
 
232 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Oh ! he will bring you one step from your throne 
 Who makes all women crouch ! 
 
 Veronica. Celano here ? 
 
 I only love my countrymen, nor those 
 Among them who are leagued to give our land 
 To insufferable Teutons. 
 
 Margarita, All the same 
 
 You'll catch him as the plague-spot ; he exhales 
 An amorous infection. Henry's self 
 Is sick of him. 
 
 Veronica. For this / prophesy 
 A pair of Teuton eyes whose northern blue 
 Shall freeze your patriotism. Nay, but here 
 We'll have no noisy politics. I've set 
 Those words to music ; will you sing them now ? 
 
 [ Takittg a lyre. 
 I think it was Sicilia that forgot. 
 
 Song. 
 
 If the sun our white headlands with flame 
 
 Fail'd to greet, 
 Should we deem he would shroud them in shame ? 
 Nay ; blot 
 The sweet 
 
 Dayhght not ; — 
 Heaven forgot 
 
 If soft Spring fail'd the flow'rs name by name 
 
 To entreat, 
 Should we fear she would harden Earth's frame ? 
 Her hot 
 Breath sweet 
 Bloweth not ; — 
 She forgot 
 
 From my love if no gay token came, 
 
 Were it meet 
 To think she had slighted Love's claim ? 
 A knot 
 So sweet 
 
 Snappeth not ; — 
 She forgot. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 233 
 
 If a land full of memories and fame 
 
 At the feet 
 Of a tyrant bow'd down should we blame ? 
 A spot 
 So sweet 
 Sinneth not ; — 
 It forgot. 
 
 Margarita. Veronica, there's that within your voice — 
 You've known no heart-break ; it must be a part 
 Of your superb dissimulation, yet 
 You earn this kiss — a tribute to your skill. 
 
 [ Taking her hand. 
 A hand— oh, it's not white ! — a sonneteer 
 Could not express it. 'Tis too exquisite 
 For any use but this. \_Kissing it. 
 
 \Enter Celano.'] 
 
 Veronica {withdrawing her hand\ 'Tis mine to give 
 In hospitality and to assure 
 Frank welcome to my guests. 
 
 Celano [to Margarito]. Ah ! I divine 
 
 You've been consulting with this lady how 
 Our too time-scanted city can prepare 
 For her great monarch's entry ! 
 
 Veronica. Surely you, 
 
 Who have put off your native manners, best 
 Can teach the taste of foreigners. 
 
 Celano. I will, 
 
 With promptest courtesy. You first must paint 
 These waxen cheeks a German would despise 
 As bloodless. 
 
 Margarito. This is artifice to bring 
 The balsam-blushes to the lady's face. 
 
 Celano. In future it must be great Markwald's self, 
 As famed by sea as land in victories, 
 Must loiter in your galleries, and not 
 A sailor of your isle. 
 
 Margarito. This insolence, 
 
234 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Save as enriching us with rainbow change, 
 
 [ Touching Veronicds cheek. 
 From rose to pearl, were scarce deserving note. 
 Lady Veronica cannot forget 
 She is Sicihan, — doubtless she will give 
 To strangers welcome, be they German churls 
 (Crowds of Apulian captives in their train) 
 Or . . . 
 
 Celano. Have you lover's right for this ? 
 
 Margarita. Now speak, 
 
 Veronica. 
 
 Veronica. He simply has the right 
 Of subject to speak honour of his queen. 
 Am I to blame men seek me on their knees, 
 My dear lord councillor ? 
 
 Celafio. Superbly urged ! 
 
 {To Margarito.'] Now, sir, the hour of public audience 
 Is pass'd, I claim a lover's privacy. 
 My right ; the lady has denied it yours. 
 
 Veronica \to Margarito\ State-business, not Veronica, 
 forbids 
 A further parley. \Exit Margarito. 
 
 [To Celano.] Now be merciful. 
 Tell me of Andrea. 
 
 Celano. His sickness wanes. 
 
 Veronica. If Heaven should restore him . . . ? 
 
 Celano. You would add 
 
 A pray'r I should release him to espouse 
 The girl Veronica, whom he seduced — 
 The girl who, when a virgin, won the heart 
 Of Peter de Celano : — so I will, 
 On this condition : it be noised abroad 
 How my young brother won your love before 
 You were my bride, and how you forced his mind. 
 Prepare your blushes. 
 
 Veronica. I will do your will, 
 
 Beseeching only grace for Andrea. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 235 
 
 I taught him earthly passion ; he is pure — 
 
 Celano. As Mother Church could wish ; he's penitent 
 Now of his frailty : to the holy nun 
 Who from his fever hath deliver'd him, 
 He's sworn the remnant of his life to pray'r 
 And patient fasting. 
 
 Veronica. Penitent ! Oh then, 
 
 I do beseech you marry me — 
 
 Celano. Not yet. 
 
 Veronica. O God ! It must be false ; let me see words — 
 His hand. [Cela?io gives her a paper. 
 
 \Reads^ " Veronica, I've found my bride, 
 The Church ; 't\vas only w'hen you feign'd her voice 
 I loved you." {She sots. 
 
 Celano. Let me counsel ! Your one aim 
 Must be to woo the brother in the world, 
 Still unespoused — to-morrow to contract 
 With Madeleine, a fair Thuringian 
 In lolante's retinue ; — an4 yet 
 I hesitate, for the young Moor Azaire 
 Hath turn'd upon me her black amorous eyes 
 With passion I had best assuage. 
 
 Veronica. I am 
 
 Your victim ; give me orders ; but my name ! 
 Have pity on it, if 'twill be your wife's. 
 
 Celano. Had you as wife betray'd me in this sort ! — 
 As it is you'll suffer while I recollect. 
 
 Veronica ! 
 Eyes blue as incensed air, and, oh ! I thought 
 As holy ; every drop that falls a gem. 
 Pooh ! they're to mourn the Church's prisoner ! 
 Not the lips ! — but haply he o'erlook'd this brow. 
 I'll think it is Celano's. Keep it smooth. \Kisses her. Exit. 
 
 Veronica. I'll live for my good name. He only knows 
 My misery, and he will lighten it. 
 Margaritone shall not haunt my house. 
 What said he of a Moorish girl t Can I . . . 
 
236 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Veronica, — can he put me to the shame 
 
 Of suffering a rival ; must I wait 
 
 Till he's worn out a brace of victims, ere 
 
 I'm safe in all a wife's serenity? 
 
 My course is clear : — 
 
 He has ambition, and I'll cover it 
 
 With the mantle of my grace. We'll rule the world. [Exif. 
 
 Scene II. — A Room in another Sicilian Palace. lolante 
 seated before a ')nirrorj Azaire^ herself crowned with 
 roses, is wreathing her mistress's hair. 
 
 Iola7ite [looking in the mirror\. How well these passionate 
 red roses look 
 Against a skin the ardent sun hath kiss'd 
 Into a shame of darkness ! On my white 
 The crimson hearts would pour their rich desire 
 And find it harshly virginal. Swart brows 
 Alone should carry roses. How say'st thou ? 
 
 Azaire. All lovers give them . , , 
 
 lolante. Ah, you have a 
 
 love? 
 Is he a Moor or a good Christian soul ? 
 
 Azaire. I may not tell. ... I know not anything. 
 
 lolante. You never have been awkward till in love ; 
 But Love is blind, so we must give a hand 
 To help his stumbling. What a handkerchief 
 You've tied about your neck ! — the needles sure 
 Stitch'd it with threads of the three heavenly skeins 
 That make a rainbow. You'll outshine the bride. 
 
 [Enter Madeleine.'] 
 All joy and blessing be with you from Heaven. 
 But must a bride 
 
 Put by the roses of her blood and wear 
 Only the lilies of her spotless flesh ? 
 Methinks Azaire 
 Hath stol'n your cheeks to set upon her brow. 
 
 Madeleine. My bridegroom loves another ! 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 237 
 
 Azaire. Let me go 
 
 To get . , , 
 
 lolante. There's water in the ewer, child ; 
 
 'Tis useless for the heart. My Madeleine, 
 One that could cut you to the quick of grief 
 Hath never loved you. 
 
 Madeleine. But the veil I'll keep 
 
 For spousal with my Christ. 
 
 lolante, O cruelty, 
 
 Wild beast of vices, sin with claw and tooth. 
 The heart thou holdest is a den, tho' hung 
 With grace as with a vine ! Surely in jest 
 You have been wrong'd. Celano comes himself. 
 \Enter Celajio and Groomsmeni\ 
 
 Celano. I come for my fair bride. 
 
 lolante. You've frightened her. 
 
 Her lips are trembling as a dove's two wings. 
 Press them to calm with kisses. 
 
 Celano. They are grey. 
 
 I'll close thy brown ones with a kiss together, 
 My nightingale ! \^Kisses Azaire. 
 
 lolante. What does this mean ? Azaire, 
 
 Confess that you are guilty. 
 
 Azaire. Yea, of love. 
 
 We were fellow-maids together, tho' you kept 
 The Moorish girl well hid. Last night unseen 
 I took a bunch of roses from his hand 
 For Madeleine ; he kept mine prisoner, 
 And smiled, " The roses were a bridal-wreath," 
 He bade me twist them in my hair, and wait 
 His pleasure till the morrow. 
 
 lolante. It is mine 
 
 That instantly you leave me, traitoress. 
 
 Celano. Retire in my protection. Mark ye that. 
 Hither, sweet slave. [^To Madeleine.^ 'Tis not unmannerly 
 To ask for what pertains not to you now. 
 To Csesar what is Caesar's, to the bride 
 
238 LOYALTY OR LOVE 
 
 What is the bride's. 
 
 Madeleine. And what is God's to God. ■■ 
 
 May I have this veil in which to wed myself 
 To Heaven ? 
 
 Celano. Nay, sister. 
 
 Madeleine. Then I'll dress your bride. 
 
 Th' attire is all about me. I shall want 
 No help. I am your humble maid, Azaire. 
 
 Celano. Less rigorous the service of my bride 
 Than that of Christ's. 
 
 Madeleine. Her servants must put on 
 
 Meekness as livery, and this event 
 Shall be the loom on which I'll weave it me. 
 For Christ's sake, [asidel and for yours, Celano, yours. 
 
 Cela?io. Delay not then, fair maid, to dress the bride. 
 
 Madeleine. I had learnt the duties of a wife by rote, 
 The first obedience. With will as meek 
 As he had found in Madeleine his wife, 
 I veil Azaire. 
 
 Celano. Well spoken ! we will wait 
 At the chapel, friends, with your good grace and leave. 
 
 \Exeunt Celano^ Azaire^ Madeleine^ and others. 
 
 lolante. Am I a creature of bed-ridden will 
 To suffer it ? — And Madeleine is gone ! — 
 
 \Enter Markwald.'] 
 Oh, good my lord, great treachery is here. 
 Celano hath but now departed hence 
 With Azaire as his bride, and Madeleine 
 Weeping behind, like Love's new year and old. 
 
 Markwald. I know Celano's business everywhere, 
 But look not for him here, where I have peace 
 With lolante. 
 
 lolante. But you do not note 
 
 His sin's enormity. He's broken troth 
 With one as stainless as the marble is, 
 O'er-fountain'd every moment, and — the shame ! — 
 Hath grossly ta'en the Moorish girl. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 239 
 
 Markwald. In sooth, 
 
 I like not these alHances of blood 
 At natural enmity ; — 
 But you, offend not Peter, for the king 
 Holds him in highest love. He wields the brain 
 O' the monarch ; I but execute commands. 
 Loyalty, lolante ! Why this morn 
 I^Iy prince hath spoken of a marriage-tie 
 Between my sister Clara and the young 
 Sicilian Margarito. — Ah, he comes, 
 My future brother. 
 
 \Enter Margarito^ 
 
 Margarito. Trusting here to find 
 
 The maiden whom the Emperor makes my wife, 
 Your sister Clara. \To Iola?ite.'] Lady, have I leave 
 To rob you of the sweet companionship 
 Of those most grave blue eyes ? 
 
 Markwald. Get her consent, 
 
 And I will order Clara to appear. 
 The German maids are shy, but true of heart. 
 Believe you, you can trust her. \Exit. 
 
 Margarito {approaching lolante]. So we meet. 
 The little missal that you left with me. 
 And those slight rhymes you gave me to re-set, 
 I will return to you. 
 
 lolante. Nay, Margarito, they are no love-favours. Think 
 not Clara will be jealous when she sees the holy prayers I 
 tasked you with, or the childish words I prayed you bind 
 into a canzonet. Clara will give the answer to my foolish 
 wonder why love hath wings. 
 
 Margarito [taking a guitar and singing]. 
 
 Love's wings are wondrous swift, 
 When hanging feathers lift. 
 Why hath Love \\ings — 
 Great pinions strong of curve ? 
 His wild desires to serve ; 
 
240 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 To swoop on the prey, 
 And bear it away, 
 Love hath wings. 
 
 Love's wings are golden soft, 
 When dropping from aloft. 
 
 Why hath Love wings — 
 Feathers of glistering fleece ? 
 To soothe with balmy peace, 
 And warmth of his breath 
 Souls he cherisheth, 
 
 Love hath wings. 
 
 Love's wings are broad of van, 
 Stretch'd for great travel's span, 
 
 Why hath Love wings — 
 Mail of the sea-bird's might ? 
 From feeble hearts and slight 
 To lift him forlorn 
 To a fastness of scorn, 
 
 Love hath wings. 
 
 lolante. I did not ask for music. 
 
 Margarito, True ; but I 
 
 Needed it. 
 
 lolaftte. Margarito, I am vex'd 
 To hear you're taking Clara for your wife. 
 
 Margarito. Oh, I have suffered from such nuptial news ! 
 
 lolante. I fear you're yielding to your monarch's choice. 
 Teutons to licence press their loyalty ; 
 But we Sicilians, we should mate for love. 
 
 Margarito. Have you .'' 
 
 lolante. I was not chosen by the Emperor ; 
 Scarcely in secret dare my Markwald woo, 
 Nor had he won the king's consent except 
 For his rare services. 
 
 Margarito. Oh, I will make 
 
 Your Clara happy. We Sicilians, 
 We're masters in the art of catching love. 
 The woman is not born I could not make 
 Life-happy with my smile. Veronica, 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 24I 
 
 The haughtiest beauty that Palmero boasts — 
 The silk rustles when I near her. Do you think 
 I'll fail to get the homage of that frank, 
 Little, stolid-hearted Teuton ? 
 
 lolante. What, you brag ? 
 
 Margaritone, for this haughtiness 
 May Cupid humble you ! In turn confess 
 Where pay^<?/^ homage ? 
 
 Margarita. To my countrymen — 
 
 That is, excluding males. You're for the feast 
 The king holds on the day our little prince 
 Must give away his crown — a pretty sight — 
 For title of a count ? You will be there 
 To see this, lolante .'' 
 
 lolante. How escape ? 
 
 Tis my lord's office to pick up the crown 
 And offer it to Henry ; it is mine 
 In all fair ceremonies by his side 
 To stay assenting. 
 
 Margarita \touching his guitar\. To my music, then ! 
 \E7tter Markwald and Ciara.] 
 
 Markwald. I've had a task 
 
 To bring her hither, \\Tien you're at the wars 
 You'll leave her safely ; she will keep the house. 
 
 Margarita. And I will keep her heart — a precious charge. 
 Clara — O eyes blue as the sea I love ! — 
 Will you come teach me of Teutonic faith. 
 And give the wild sea-captain a sure port 
 To anchor in, when life's tempestuous ? 
 
 Clara. If you are friendly to my land. 
 
 Margarita. A fleet 
 
 At th' Emperor's service is my warranty. 
 If so — why then . . . 
 
 Clara. What is the rest, my lord ? 
 
 Margarita. Sweet Clara, this — that you must be my wife. 
 Tears ! 
 
 Clara. You're a stranger. 
 
 R 
 
242 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Margarito. Dear, of course I am. 
 
 Would you marry with your brother ! 
 
 Markwald. That's well urged. 
 
 \To Clara?[ Come, come, I'll take you to your sovereign lord, 
 And when you know it is his will you wed, 
 You will not close your fist against the ring. 
 
 \Exeuiit Clara^ Markwald^ and Margarito. 
 
 lolante \looking after Margarito]. Can such a nature 
 pour into a creek ? 
 Ay, but it washes the whole world beside. 
 
 Scene III. — A Terrace. Enter Emperor afid Celano. 
 
 Emperor. 'Tis hot, an air for roses, not for men. 
 What were we saying } 
 
 Cela?io. Please you, my good praise, 
 
 Which made the summer hotter on my cheek. 
 
 Emperor. True, Peter, you're the apple of our eye ; 
 The perfect politician ; but this whim 
 Of setting in a Moorish wench's train 
 A lady of our land , . i 
 
 Cela?to. For discipline ; 
 
 I'd have a wife the Sultan could not match, 
 Amorously dull — no treason. I would sleep 
 On's knee, and dream what beauties I desire ; 
 She watching till she snored. 
 
 Emperor. Well, let us hear 
 
 Of the Moor's speedy death. Your gallantries 
 Outrage our honest German court. Don't take 
 Your wickedness to church. A monstrous freak, 
 To play the bridegroom to that devil-born 
 Hot-blooded little beauty. 
 
 Celano. Absolute 
 
 Your will as my obedience. 
 
 Emperor. There strikes 
 
 The hour we granted Markwald. [/T-tv/ 
 
 Celafto [to Fool without]. Fool, you here ? 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 243 
 
 FooL Surely when wisdom goes out of door, folly may 
 peep in at window. 
 
 Celano. Has a fool eyes ? 
 
 Fool. No ; coupled with Love, he's blind. 
 
 Celano. That most melancholy man, the Archbishop, has 
 found you gamesome. 
 
 Fool. I feed on him, he's victuals to me ; he's so des- 
 perate a man, and a pride — oh, but I'd live to drive the 
 waggon, with him at the cart's tail ! 
 
 Celano. You shall. 
 
 Fool. Heyday, you humour me ; — then hang him up by 
 the leg and moralize. I'd preach to him by the hour. 
 
 Celano. You shall. 
 
 Fool. An' yet to see the poor man pull a long face, and 
 convince him only by smiling could he hope to stand on 
 two legs — to propose to him either to dimple his cheeks with 
 laughter or his neck with the noose ; all the time he fixing 
 his dull fish eye upon me till it glazed. It were a spectacle I 
 
 Celano. He shall. The Archbishop walks much a' nights 
 on the long terrace by the chestnuts. Lie on the wall and 
 listen. Keep your ears prick'd for treason. 
 
 Fool. I'll be tale-bearer. 
 To see th' Archbishop hanging by the leg. 
 His long face downward ! Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Celano. You shall. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Roo?n. Enter lolante and Clara. 
 
 lolante. My Clara, comfort me. I have no maids 
 About me now ; my bright Azaire is gone, 
 With her pretty Moorish ways, and ]\Iadeleine, 
 So sweet a preacher to my playfulness, — 
 For, Clare, I must be playful. Oh, I feel 
 A loneliness upon me, even here 
 In Sicily half-exiled. 
 
 Clara. Can that be 
 
 With Markwald's sister for companion.'' — but 
 
244 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 I've seen you yawn in Markwald's company. 
 He's good enough for the king. 
 
 lolante. And yet for lolante's veins too slow. 
 A child, I laugh'd and clapp'd my hands beside 
 The rivers that ran swift ; the sluggish streams 
 
 Clara. lolante ! These are most disloyal words. 
 I trust you feel some rev'rence for a name 
 The Emperor holds in honour. 
 
 lolante. Ay, and you. 
 
 You girl with the grave face, I trust you feel 
 A proper reverence 
 
 For the Lord High Admiral, who has, at best, 
 For the great Empire that you venerate 
 But pohtic affection ? 
 
 Clara. Do you doubt ? 
 
 lolajite. Come now, I have you ! Do you love this man 
 Better than your own German land and tongue ? 
 Will you forget them all, and with his kiss 
 Receive Sicilia to your heart ? 
 
 Clara. ' Oh no ! 
 
 My brother wishes me to marry him — 
 And, and . . . 
 
 lolante. That massy raven hair framing a brow 
 Of stainless marble ! Clare, I often think 
 With men, like Margarito, who have lives 
 Fulfill'd of knightly enterprise, the tears 
 They have no time to shed, soften the clime 
 O' the eyes to exquisite humidity. 
 Clare, did you see how as he turn'd he gave 
 His life away with one glance of his eyes .'' 
 
 Clara. He's right to trust me so ; we German girls 
 Are never treach'rous, 
 
 lolante. The wise brother Mark, 
 
 For all your bitter words, has shown no fear 
 Of a Sicilian bride. 
 
 Clara. Who slanders him 
 
 Behind his back. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 245 
 
 Iola7ite. Most virulently : — not my lord alone. 
 
 'Tis natural 
 
 In me, removed from anything I love, 
 To eye in the cold blood of commentary 
 Its virtues and defects. My Markwald's voice 
 Makes me again a partisan. But, Clare, 
 You think / love you is a spell to keep 
 Margaritone at your side ? I say 
 He'll need to be cajoled, implored, malign'd, 
 Threatened, entreated twenty times a day 
 To keep in temper ; — more, to be amused, 
 As to his head, sweet Clara, by your wit. 
 Can you listen to his sonnets ? Shall you care 
 Hear of his Arab training ? In a word, 
 Can you dish up this crude sincerity 
 Into a pretty falseness without guile .'* 
 
 Clara. Never ; that is your way. 
 
 lolante. Go, sullen girl ! 
 
 But when you're mew'd up with your tapestry, 
 Your lord a-hunting, sick of his dull home, 
 You'll cease to blame 
 Your sister lolante : you will know 
 She's the wise matron who, when truth 's a thorn, 
 Mosses it o'er with falsehood for the feet 
 She loves to tread on. — I was saying, dear, 
 
 \E7iter Markwald.'] 
 She knows not how to rule my countrymen. 
 
 Clara. She says 
 Sincerity is crude ; moss it with lies 
 For lovers' footsteps. 
 
 Markwald. lolante ! Wife ! 
 
 lolante. Thus he expostulates ! — But why this brow 
 So over-clouded ? 
 
 Markwald. Women's tears, they rust 
 
 The blade of manhood ! I have stood two hours 
 By the old stricken queen, who on her knees 
 Beseeches Henry to return her child, 
 
246 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 When he's discrown'd him. " 'Tis himself I want ; 
 His breath, his hair, his limbs." She supplicates — 
 " Take all his royalties." 
 lolante. There is no way ? 
 
 Markwald. My lord is stark ; she must resign the child 
 Into his charge. 
 
 lolatite. Oh, he's too mere a babe 
 
 For men to handle. 
 
 Markwald. Could you nurture him 
 
 Till he's of age for convent discipline — 
 For he must be a priest — my lord might yield. 
 As you're my wife. He knows our loyalty. 
 
 Clara. Why lolante would so love the boy 
 She'd join in a conspiracy to put 
 The crown on's head. 
 
 Markwald. Foul slander, Clare ; she trusts 
 
 Her husband so entirely she would give 
 The children of her body to be torn 
 
 Piecemeal if he required it. If I win {Exit Clara. 
 
 This favour, you must show a great reserve 
 To Margarito and Sybilla. 
 
 Iola?tte. Yes. 
 
 For the reft mother, I could no more face 
 Such spoil of nature than frequent the streets 
 Of a sack'd town ; but Margarito, think !— 
 Whom Clare will soon becloud, we must not keep 
 His spirits on low diet, or the king 
 Will dream he's plotting treasons. She's too slow 
 For a Sicilian. 
 
 Markwald. From experience 
 You speak i* — 
 
 lolante. Yes, Markwald, you can't understand 
 
 Half that I feel :— for Sicily, 
 Sybilla, Margarito, Qv&wyoit, 
 Not half the ways I love you. 
 \She puts up her JuDids to caress him ; as he pushes them 
 ack, a joint of his armour i^razcs one of them . 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 247 
 
 Markwald. You must learn 
 
 Not fight against my will when I command. 
 You think yourself too clever ; I must keep 
 My wife from peril. — What, you are not hurt ? 
 It's nothing. 
 
 lolafite. A mere scratch ; but such may break 
 The skin of the spirit. You'll not rule me thus. 
 Leave me awhile. 
 
 [Enter Margarita^ 
 
 Margarita. lolante, I am come 
 
 To have you teach me how to court my love. 
 She's obstinate. 
 
 lolante. Then try the Teuton way. 
 
 Drive your affection as with hammer in 
 The soft places of her heart. 
 
 Margarita. I did not know 
 
 I broke upon your privacy. 
 
 Markwald. You do. 
 
 At present for state reasons 'tis my wish 
 That you be little at my house ; my wife, 
 I trust, may have Prince William in her charge 
 To teach the German language. 
 
 Margarita. I obey, 
 
 Most grateful for the cause ; intelligent 
 Of your prudent fear and forethought. 
 
 Markwald. There you judge 
 
 Most circumspectly. I'll unfold you more. 
 I would befriend Siciha. \Going. 
 
 lolante [aside]. He is gone. 
 
 Before a stranger I've insulted him, 
 My Markwald ! I have given him no son, 
 And he a child of my own race to rear. — 
 I'll sue for grace in Margarito's sight. 
 Margarito ! — Oh, my lord ! [T/iej/ return.] Thanks, on my 
 
 knees, 
 For your great gift and pardon ! When you say 
 In our Sicilian, which you blunder at, 
 
428 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 A word too strong, I put it back again 
 
 In your own speech more gentle — so I sought 
 
 To turn you from a course that seem'd more stern 
 
 Than I with wifely privilege descry 
 
 The purpose of your heart. 
 
 [Markwald turns to her. Exit Margarita. 
 
 Markwald. lolante, God hath given us no child. 
 I thought the boy would comfort you. 
 
 lolante. He will — 
 
 Not only as Sicilian, as your gift. 
 Oh, Markwald . . . \^Sobs. 
 
 Markwald. There, there ! Why the merest touch 
 Of a mail'd hand brings blood to a woman's cheek. 
 Kneeling for pardon ! Love, a German wife 
 Could not look humbler in her penitence, 
 Nor half so handsome. 
 
 lolaftte. End as you began — 
 
 Wife, lolante ! 
 
 Markwald. lolante, wife. {Claspiftg her. 
 
 Scene V. — Cela?td's House. A Room. Enter Madeleine 
 a?td A 2 aire. 
 
 A Zaire. It grieves me sore 
 Thus to receive your service. 
 
 Madeleine. 'Tis his will 
 
 And Heav'n's. I, humbling thus myself, shall win 
 High place in paradise. Your beauty is 
 A snare to him. 
 
 Azaire. Is 't that ? I cannot tell. 
 
 I love him, Madeleine. It seems to me 
 That other women cannot look on Love 
 Save it be dress'd for them a thousand ways. 
 My appetite can diet on raw meat. 
 You love because 'tis profitable ; Christ 
 Will think of your humility ; while I 
 Love simply, madly, as I love the food 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 249 
 
 In sight when I am hungry. 'Twas a whim 
 
 That set the veil on me ; but if instead 
 
 You had been honour'd, and my only hope 
 
 Of being loved by him a life of shame, 
 
 I would have stoop'd to 't. If I could not be 
 
 The silver flagon for his lips at feast, 
 
 Then the horn-cup he'd catch up for a drink 
 
 When he was thirsty, hunting. So I love. 
 
 I do not care for anything but love, 
 
 Nor how I get it. He is coming in. 
 
 You'll leave us, Madeleine. 
 
 Madeleine. My lord forbids 
 
 That I should ever leave you. I'll retire 
 In shadow to my tapestry. {Retires. 
 
 A Zaire [aside]. How cold 
 
 The girl is ! I could hate her. 
 
 [Enter Celano.'] 
 
 Celano. Well, Azaire, 
 
 My little spit-fire wife, what angers you '^. 
 
 Azaire. I'm vex'd and angry at this misery. 
 
 \Poi7its to Madeleijte, 
 Remove it from me ere I kiss you. 
 
 Cela?to. See, 
 
 My pretty tyrant, how your slave obeys. 
 Madeleine, leave us. [Exit Madeleine. 
 
 There ! — How lovelier 
 You look each hour, a rose-bud that at dawn 
 Was only a red rose-bud and to-night 
 Bends over me all rose, even to the air 
 It breathes on me. Say, are you wholly mine ? 
 In the whole world do you love aught but me ? 
 
 Azaire. You're all to me. One language and one life 
 Are far too short for me to reckon up 
 My wealth in you. 
 
 Celano. Do you love God ? 
 
 Azaire. Oh no ! 
 
 Not in the least ; remove that jealousy. 
 
250 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Celano. Why that is well ; then you are wholly mine. 
 
 Azaire. No, you are mine, mine own. 
 
 Celano. Yours, little fool ! 
 
 Ay, as a wine-butt is sole property 
 O'^the cup. I am the world's. 
 
 Azaire. Oh, misery ! 
 
 You love none save Azaire ? 
 
 Celajio. I woo a dame 
 
 Who pray'd me on her knees to marry her. 
 
 Azaire. She loves you ? 
 
 Celano. No. Why is it that you love ? 
 
 Tell me, Azaire. 
 
 Azaire. You're beautiful ; your voice 
 
 Is like a touch to me, your touch a bond. 
 
 Celano. None ever loved Celano in this sort. 
 
 Azaire. And does Celano love that other one 
 So, thus ? 
 
 Celano. What, Madeleine ? 
 
 Azaire. That girl who asks ? 
 
 Celano. You mean your servant. No, child ; but the 
 king 
 Compels me to receive the icy girl 
 In my reluctant arms. 
 
 Azaire. Then must I die. 
 
 Celano. O you delicious creature, no reproach ! 
 Flee from me, sorceress ! Among the hills 
 I have a tiny villa. There I'll come ; 
 Nay, do not bind me— not a pledge. You know 
 You are the only woman in whose love 
 I have delight. You love so senselessly 
 You satisfy my soul. No tears ! You start 
 At dawn ; till then we'll make the darkness glad. {Exeunt. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Window-seat in a Chajnber of the Palace. 
 Eitter Constantia and lolante. 
 
 Constantia. O lolante, was not that an owl 
 r the sun-basking ivy ? Yet forsooth, 
 The shadow of Time's finger points the noon, 
 Saw we a dial. Wherefore then this owl, 
 This hooded thing on the bright glove of day, 
 This page of purblind Night, this trumpeter 
 To tongueless apparitions .'* 
 
 Iola7ite. 'Tis to prick 
 
 Our joy with sense of mutability. 
 
 Co7tsta7ttia. Did you not smile, your answer had been sad. 
 Ah me ! 
 
 There's even such a rueful prophet lurks 
 Behind my branching gladness. 
 
 Iola7ite. 'Tis to make 
 
 More precious your felicity. 
 
 Constantia. False cheer ! 
 
 Obscure Distrust sits in my joy's recess. 
 Distrust, O lolante, of my lord. 
 I've laid Sicilia in his grasp. To see 
 A mail'd hand close over a butterfly 
 Were not more cruel. Ah, there was a time 
 I could have mated you ! But then he came, 
 Th' Apulian Conqueror, and gave my sweet'st 
 Companion to his stalwart captain ere 
 My lips recover'd liberty. And I 
 
 251 
 
252 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Must bear him children, as my countrymen 
 Yield him their labour's first-fruits. My desire 
 Is not to make him father ; 'tis to give 
 A man-child to my country. O my land, 
 My life, my blood, for thee my womb's in toil, 
 And I shall see thy prince's heritage 
 Trampled before my face ; Sicilian blood 
 Pour'd out by him who hath begot my child. 
 This is distraction. 
 
 lolante. Such distraction waits 
 
 On motherhood, my queen ; full treasuries 
 Bring terrors and forebodings of the thief; 
 Pangs that the poor 
 
 Would suffer smiling. Were I in your case. 
 Sweet lady, I would bear your world of cares 
 To feel a babe's hand patter its soft praise 
 O' my bosom's bounty. But you err to think 
 My monarch forced me into marriage-bonds. 
 I love the good duke Markvvald ; openly, 
 With all the noblest of my land in sight, 
 I must have chosen him ; he's true of heart. 
 Most stern for justice. 
 
 Constantia. lolante, say — 
 
 Do you love best your country or your lord ? 
 
 Iola?ite. My lord so well that I have given him 
 Even to his charge my Sicily in trust. 
 
 Consta7itia. Oh, lolante, I abide at home 
 And will not see plots brewing, — will not see 
 Old playmates in mask'd faces greeting mc. 
 A shadowy headsman ever is behind ; 
 While Henry keeps 
 
 Close lips and moves about with courtesy. 
 There's thunder in his nature. 
 
 lolante. A sweet son 
 
 Will soften him. The Hohenstaufen hair, 
 Keep to the golden tinct. 
 
 Constantia. My southern blood 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 253 
 
 Repels invasion from the north ; my child 
 
 Will be all Sicily. Unhappy boy, 
 
 A poet-hearted prince, set i' the midst 
 
 Of barbarous Teutons — lolante ! What ! 
 
 Are you asleep ? — Almost. The very time. 
 
 Still with satiety of light and heat, 
 
 Is Slumber's opportunity. Lie here ; 
 
 Do as your eyes would have you, for their lids 
 
 Are curving to half-moons. 
 
 lolaiite. And leave the queen 
 
 Untended ! 
 
 Constantia. Others with more wakeful orbs 
 Shall dress me for the council, which my lord 
 Untimely holds at mid-day. Sicily 
 Is on her knees that I should slumber not. 
 
 \Exit Constantia. 
 \Iola7ite sleeps ; to her enter Margarita^ 
 
 Margarita. The halcyon Sleep 
 Hath made a blessed calm. O safest hour ^ 
 To turn her with the helm of my desire 
 From anchored port to Love's free waves. But if 
 She will not swerve ? — why, then there is the make 
 O' the brute in Markwald ; if I madden him. 
 He'll so be-tyrant her, she'll take my course ; 
 She's the prow-head of my spirit. — What ! My glove ! 
 I'll leave it here for Markwald to surmise 
 His worst ; my longings far outleap his fears, 
 ril kiss her for an earnest of my guilt, 
 lolante, I'm audacious. I'll awake 
 And daze her with the glare of my wild love. 
 My lolante ! \Kissing her passio?iately j she wakes 
 
 lolante. Where's Margarito .'' — What a cry is this ? — 
 From such assault 
 
 Your sword, my knight, should save me. Slay the beast 
 Who with vile purpose hath surprised my couch. 
 
 Margarito. I must be satisfied . . . 
 
 lolante [aside]. I'm safe ; scarce knew I, waking suddenly, 
 
2 54 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 What had befallen. Heaven give me strength 
 To rescue him from peril. — Why to-night 
 I'll yield to your entreaties ; we'll cajole 
 The unsuspecting Teuton ; he shall learn 
 What it is to trust Sicihans. — You are cold ; 
 You do not answer me. 
 
 Margarita. Oh horrible 
 
 To catch Lust's accents on those holy lips ! 
 The fair saint lolante I'd seduce ; 
 Not a base creature who would tempt me with 
 Suggestion fouler than my devilish thought. 
 
 lolante. The solemn Clara shall be mock'd — 
 
 Margarita, Peace, peace ! 
 
 It is as God's own mother from her shrine 
 Should stoop to tempt and cozen. I'll away 
 From this cursed Sicily ; all patriot thought 
 I'll smother and resign myself 
 To any life of blasphemy : what hope 
 If lolante is . . . 
 
 lolante. There is no hope 
 
 For any land whose women dare not trust 
 Their countrymen. I, in Sicilia's name, 
 Appeal to you. From holy sleep I woke 
 To find you in temptation. Heav'n hath heard. 
 Camping the legion'd angels round your soul, 
 Ere my slow prayers could mount. Confess yourself 
 At chapel, Margarito. Do not think 
 Of Clara till you're shriven. 
 
 Margarito. And of you 
 
 Never? You set a gulf 
 
 'Twixt my damn'd exile and your blessedness .'' 
 {Half-aside.'] I'll bridge it an unhallow'd way . . . 
 
 lolante. I trust 
 
 The man who not a moment could delight 
 In woman thought disloyal. From henceforth 
 I trust you wholly, Margarito. But, 
 Since noble Markwald's sister hath a heart 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 255 
 
 Like her brother's of true temper, I must train 
 
 Your ill-deserving spirit to receive 
 
 The worship of such natures. Fare you well. 
 
 [Giving her hand, which he kisses reverently. 
 
 \Exit Margarita. 
 {Sobbing bitterly?^ What is there in me brings the devils 
 
 thick 
 As flies to honey ? Is it possible 
 A knight could fall to lust of anything 
 That has no smutch of sin t At church I've seen 
 A picture of lean Lust ; she dieted 
 
 On refuse. Faugh ! [going to a viirror'\ I am not beautiful 
 Th' ensnaring way. My simple netted hair 
 It's wavy brown and only good enough 
 For the wind to play with ; and my skin is clear ; 
 My Markwald says I have a homely cheek 
 For an honest man to kiss ; and any child 
 Has eyes like these. Veronica 's a throat 
 One needs must gaze on as the dazzling wall 
 Faced with chalcedony ; mine's common stone. 
 [Enter Markwald?^ 
 
 Markwald. My wife before a mirror ! Vanity ! 
 
 lolante. Markwald, what do you see here ? 
 
 Markwald. Not a saint, 
 
 And by no means a beauty ; not a flow'r, 
 Nor jewel ; but a pretty little girl, 
 Who'll sing and smile and not forget her pray'rs 
 For one she loves ; — a little thing to trust. 
 
 [She silently embraces him and goes out. 
 She kiss'd me sobbing ; she is not herself. 
 [Taki7ig up the glove.'] What's yonder } — Margarito's glove ! 
 
 — The fool 's 
 Been telling her she's handsome : my poor praise 
 Doubtless fell flat. I will not suffer him 
 About my wife. lolante ! [Re-enter lolante.'] What is this .'* 
 
 lolante. A glove. 'Twas Margarito let it drop ; 
 He has been with me, had been with me now 
 
256 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 But that I sent him to confession : he 
 Displeased me much. 
 
 Markwald. Confess to me the sin 
 
 You sent him to the priest with. 
 
 lolante. What, betray ! 
 
 Shall a priest's ear 
 
 Be safer than a lady's breast ? My lord, 
 No curious torture could wring out from me 
 The least 
 
 Of the words you woo'd me with : they're buried here 
 'Mong other precious relics : rifle not ! 
 What's laid on the altar's consecrate, altho' 
 It be not my lord Markwald's offering. 
 
 \Curtsies^ playfully shakes her head, and retires. 
 
 Markwald. I like it not ; yet could as lief accuse 
 A child of treason as that face of thought 
 Un-innocent. Some grief of her country's perhaps 
 With which he pester'd her. Poor child, she loves 
 Her Sicily, and I must execute 
 My king's commands, discrown her httle prince 
 To-morrow. It will cut her to the heart. \^Exii. 
 
 Scene II. — Rootn of State. Enter with great poinp the 
 Emperor, the E7?ipress, Pri?ice William, Markwald, 
 Celano, Margarito, Sybilla, lolante^ Veronica, and 
 others. 
 
 Efnperor. My Germans and Sicilians, whom the cloak 
 Of empire would enfold — my equal care, 
 To-day we take our lawful sovereignties 
 From the thiefs hand, glad that his tender years 
 So plead for him, we can preserve his life. 
 His ancestors 
 
 Sybilla [aside, looking passionately at the Empero7\ Curse 
 him, ye dead ! 
 
 Emperor. Have brought 
 
 The fair boy to this day's disgrace ; he stands 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 257 
 
 Bringing the colour to Sicilian cheeks 
 At thought of their misplaced fealty 
 
 Sybilla \aside\. Curse him, ye living ! 
 
 Emperor. For the guilt of birth 
 
 Desiring pardon : eager to protest 
 His parents did most wrongfully usurp 
 My southern throne. 
 
 Sybilla \aside\. O God the Father, curse ! 
 
 Come hither, child. \As he comes to her, she thrusts him 
 forward^ and looks up to heave?i^ then glances at the 
 Emperor.'] Curse him, O Christ the Son. 
 
 lolante. He doth not cry ; his face is like a cloud 
 That holds the rain. 
 
 Cela7io. Come, little lord, step up. 
 
 Empress. Come hither. 
 
 Markwald. Bravo ! 
 
 Archbishop. Kneel, and speak by me. 
 
 Pri7ice William. I, William, unlawfully called of Sicily 
 king, do here on my knees tender to my liege-lord Henry — 
 Emperor — the crown and lands which are his, to hold and 
 have ; beseeching mercy for the great sin of their treasonous 
 retention by me and my fathers committed against God and 
 our liege-lord, whose hand I kiss and tremble. \Thunder. 
 
 Margarito [aside]. It is not thunder, but Sicilia's groan. 
 
 Emperor. Rise, Count of Lecce, — rightful title this. 
 Which sons may bear — a spotless heritage. 
 Our dearest vassal, our henceforward joy ! 
 Sicilians, see ! our knees are Mercy's throne. 
 
 Margarito [aside to Iola?ite]. The golden light hath 
 tasted misery 
 In the bow'd sunshine of that golden head, 
 That leaves our hearts in night. 
 
 lolante. Oh, do not speak ! 
 
 E7nperor. Yet since on stock of rude disloyally 
 We would engraft obedience, this boy, 
 From the accustom'd care of his own kin 
 We take, to give him, underneath our eye, 
 
 S 
 
258 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 New cherishing and foster discipline, 
 Entrusted to staunch Markwald and his wife. 
 Markwald. Sire, we are honour'd servants — Come to her. 
 
 \Leads William to lolante. 
 Sybilla {raising her head\. Maria — Mother ! Curse the 
 barren thing 
 Whose womb was never thrill'd nor bosom suck'd, 
 To whom they give the child that I have borne. 
 lolante. Willie ! — my little . . . 
 
 \He bursts into tears, 
 Margarito [aside]. His tears within us blush to drops of 
 blood 
 We'll weep in battle. 
 
 Archbishop [aside]. Cover up your fires, 
 Friend Admiral. 
 
 lolante [aside]. There, there ! We'll go away. — 
 I'll take him to my little privy bow'r, 
 Wherein the honied woodbine's dainty paps 
 Suckle the bees, and tell him fairy-tales. 
 
 [Exit with Priptce William. 
 Sybilla. You've stripp'd me of my child ; 'twere modesty 
 To hide my naked motherhood. 
 
 Markwald. Yes, yes. 
 
 Emperor. We spare your presence. — Take her from the 
 hall. 
 Rejoice, Sicilians, for your lawful queen 
 Will speedily present you with a prince 
 Worthy your homage. Stay, Constantia, stay, 
 Smile on your people and confirm their hope. 
 
 Co7istantia. I'm deadly faint. [Retiring, 
 
 Emperor. You'll be obedient ; 
 
 'Tis the ex-queen retires. 
 
 [Taki?tg her hand, he presents her to the people. 
 See, she descends 
 
 To mingle with you and receive your loves. 
 Thus intermarried [glancing toward Markwald and lolante^ 
 we shall breed a race 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 259 
 
 Will overcome the world. \Exeunt all save Margarito and 
 
 the Archbishop of Salerno. 
 
 Archbishop. You lag. 
 
 Margarito. He will not reach the ships till noon. 
 
 / entertain him there. 
 
 Archbishop. You note he pass'd 
 
 Betwixt two rows of corpses to the feast — 
 His queen look'd not more ghastly. 
 
 Margarito. IVe the fleet. 
 
 Those lords \J)ointing to the Sicilian traiti\ I'll answer for. 
 
 Can you contrive 
 To visit them and preach submission 
 To their new earthly lord ? 
 
 Archbishop. I'll stir their blood. 
 
 That boy I wash'd in baptism, and now 
 Have stain'd the royal roses of his Hps 
 With fond self-slander and base perjury. 
 
 Margarito. We yet will teach them truth ! No whispering, 
 No nervous penitence ; be affable ; 
 This is a holiday : go you to church ; 
 Welcome your monarch to its shrine. To-night 
 You shall confess me as the clock strikes twelve. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A Porch. Enter Veronica^ Adheld following. 
 
 Veronica. Come hither, Adheld. You're my lord's fair 
 squire. \He kneels a?id presents a letter from Celano. 
 What think you of his service, sweetest boy .? 
 
 Adheld. So highly do I rate him, lady, all 
 He does I imitate ; what he admires 
 I find most admirable; where he bows 
 In worship, I more reverently kneel. 
 He teaches me religion ; 'tis thro' him 
 Mine eye drinks in divinity. 
 
 Veronica. In sooth ! 
 
 Oh, these are pretty speeches in a boy. 
 Is 't to your taste — [Breaki?ig the seal of the letter. 
 
26o LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Yes, fan me ! — that your sister acts the part 
 Of servant to a Moor? Now, sweet young face. 
 Be frank. 
 
 Adheld. My lord by Caesar hath been urged 
 To right this strangest injury : — my blood 
 Not long will bear the insults that are heap'd 
 On Madeleine. 
 
 Veronica \J)assing her ha?td over his brow]. We women 
 of the world 
 Can but confess to utter innocence. 
 I'm going now 
 
 To be familiar with you, as a child 
 I should take up, and sob upon his neck ; 
 Such trust I have in you. 
 
 Adheld. 'Tis too much grace. 
 
 Veronica. Doth the Virgin tell in Heaven what she hears 
 Betwixt the warm veil'd lips and Ave-sighs ? 
 I know she's secret. I have faith in you. 
 You'll hear, and you'll obey me, for you love. 
 My squire, I'll make you perfect in Love's arts, 
 And when they're yours, I'll smile to see them used 
 \Sighing\ On some sweet girl I mother'd at the font. 
 Incredulous ! Ah ! — You'll obey my words ? 
 
 Adheld. As my lord's orders. 
 
 Veronica. Then you'll never let 
 
 Your sister fall, not even as a bride. 
 Prey to the dread Celano. Get her housed 
 Safe in a nunnery. My heart implores. 
 I am his victim ; he refuses me 
 The one name that can right me. Help me, — ho ! 
 Sweet holy Adheld as thou hop'st to take 
 The vows of knighthood : 'tis for my good name 
 I seek to be Celano's wife, the while, 
 Adheld, I shudder at his proffer'd love. 
 
 Adheld. Lady, you thrill such passion thro' my soul 
 That if it be your will the poison-draught 
 Should follow marriage, I am cup-bearer. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 261 
 
 All, all that wrongs you is my enemy. 
 
 Veronica. Fair child, forget this tragedy ; be gay. 
 Serve me as you have opportunity. 
 Fail not to tell Celano how I droop, 
 A plant in darkness, wither'd for his sun. 
 I teach you no deception — falter not. 
 And do not miss to wait on me each day. 
 For comfort's sake of your pure morning face. 
 
 \Kissing his brow. Exit Adheld. 
 I give him but the irony of truth. 
 My hair is silv'ring fast. He'll win for me 
 The bridal crown before this amorous wealth 
 Is meagre. How I win men with a smile ! 
 The purest sees my sorrow, not my sin. 
 Andrea will be the Church's saint ; at least 
 Seduced Veronica shall take her place 
 'Mong holy matrons. — I am bidden forth. 
 
 \Lookiitg at the letter. 
 Celano holds a dance within his halls. \Exit within. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Council-chamber. Enter Emperor^ Celano, 
 Markwaldf and others. 
 
 Emperor. There's thunder in the air ; the charged wrath 
 Best burst from us ! Misdoubt me not ; I smelt 
 The sulphur in the first Sicilian breeze ; 
 When Margarito at the water's edge 
 Received us with so infinite a grace, 
 I mark'd him — an indomitable eye ! 
 We put that sort of pris'ner to the sword. 
 Or we should never nap upon our throne 
 When we are sleepy. That's an eye to quench. 
 
 Markwald. You wrong him, Sire ; he's a true gentleman 
 Of bounteous nature. 
 
 Emperor. So you warranted. 
 
 We had not else suffer'd our noble Clare 
 To be affianced to him. 
 
 Celafto, Confidence 
 
262 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Hath a weak ankle, and the veriest stone 
 
 Of adverse circumstance may trip it up. 
 
 Let's test Margaritone ere we trust. 
 
 He's amorous and free of tongue ; your wife 
 
 Sicilian, and in wifely courage safe. 
 
 Let them be close ; if treason's in the land. 
 
 She'll give it us, the native accent pure. 
 
 Emperor. Good ; for this peace rots as a pestilence. 
 But if the gallant lady find no plot .'' 
 
 Celano. We'll hatch one. 
 
 Emperor. Set your brains to work, and have 
 Your creatures ready, for I'm sick to death 
 Playing the part 
 
 Of feast-drowsed monarch, when I'm warn'd sharp steel 
 Is wanted : give me pretext and I'll strike. 
 
 Markwald. Patience, my liege : Justice they say is blind, 
 Impartial and not hood-winked. 
 
 Emperor. Set your dame 
 
 To play the pining patriot. 
 
 Markwald. I will. 
 
 As she is my true wife, her single aim 
 Will be her king's security. \ExU Markwald. 
 
 Emperor \to Celano\ You smile ? 
 
 Celano. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 The woman is not born will see such throat 
 Disparted from such shoulders. 
 
 Emperor. I'm content 
 
 With the policy in train : thanks, gentlemen. 
 
 \^Exeiint Emperor J Celano, Councillors. 
 
 Scene V. — A Room ifi Celands House. Madeleine working 
 a veil J she pauses and looks at a picture on the wall. 
 
 Madeleifie. I thought it was Celano in his youth before 
 he saw the world. He tells me 'tis his brother — still 'tis very 
 ike. I wonder where is the difference ! I see — this lacks 
 the funny lines about the mouth, and the eyes have not the 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE ? 263 
 
 polish. I want to pray to this picture as to a Saint Sebas- 
 tian. I drop a bead a moment for Celano's soul. No one 
 else but Madeleine would have patience to pray him into 
 peace again. Since that wedding-day have I slept an hour ? 
 Yet when he's penitent he'll look like this. He has the 
 smile — and there's such a landscape in his face to light when 
 he throws the sun on it ! \^Enter Adheld.'] Dear brother ! 
 
 Adheld. Where's your mistress 1 
 
 Madeleine. Gone to the coast, and, Adheld, she returns 
 no more. Celano promised me when he came back from 
 lifting her on her horse she should not return ; so your 
 quarrel with my lord is ended, and your sister — see!— is 
 working for her bridal. 
 
 Adheld. While the last bride is throttled by assassins. 
 
 Madeleine. Peace, brother ! you forget we are betroth'd. 
 Palermo looks on me as an injured wife. 
 
 Adheld. If betrothal hold you, there's a lady to whom 
 Celano was betroth'd as you say, ere he mimick'd love in 
 your eyes — a lady whom, by force or some vile sorcery, he 
 hath dishonour'd and keeps shame-gagg'd in her misery. 
 
 Madeleine. Some beauty that tempted : — he's not be- 
 troth'd. 
 
 Adheld. Little tortoise-skull ! how is it with your heart ? 
 Can one tread on it and leave no stain on the foot ? Toss it 
 to yon villains paving the street ! I tell you, had you any 
 faith or charity, you'd refuse him, take that veil, and give 
 yourself to Christ. 
 
 Madeleine. I cannot think — 
 
 Adheld. True, you fat flesh-heap ! If Celano gave you 
 a piece of gold and show'd you the very blood that purchased 
 it, you'd say he got it honestly. I tell you, as Celano is my 
 master, I serve him ; but you, as you are Heaven's bond-maid, 
 must disown him. He comes. Madeleine, work my will in 
 this. \Exit. 
 
 \Enter Celano?^ 
 
 Celano. Well, Madeleine, what says the boy to you } 
 
 Madeleine. He wishes me to take the veil. 
 
264 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Celaiio. Oh, then 
 
 Tis lightly done. I loose you from the bond 
 Of my pre-contract with you. 
 
 Madeleine. You consent ? 
 
 Celano. I do not force you ; since the Emperor 
 Takes int'rest in you, I consult his.will ; 
 And if it be that I should marry you, 
 I shall do 't as I should take a city ; if 
 Meanwhile you do not wed yourself to Heaven. 
 
 Madelei?ie, You ask a vessel, would it profit her 
 Remove the helm and with a childish crew 
 Drift on the waves ! Give my unguided life 
 Your merciful direction. 
 
 Celano. Madeleine, 
 
 To-day I'm busy. Tell me what that boy 
 Was urging on you : be obedient. 
 
 Madelei7ie. He said you'd wrong'd a lady who desired 
 That you should wed her ; and he threatened me 
 Because of that I should not be your wife. 
 
 Celano. Call Adheld — and you, tell your rosary. 
 
 \^Exit Madeleine^ rcturiiifig with Adheld. 
 [To Madeleine.] If you like, listen. Adheld, you have kiss'd 
 Veronica's fair hand and felt the dew 
 Of her most excellent tears across her cheek. 
 You're ripe to poison me at her command. 
 Nay, blush not ; I read clear ; all's fair in love. 
 It is an arrant sorceress ! My boy. 
 You think I've wrong'd her. Look upon that face, 
 
 [Poi?tting to the picture. 
 Or cross the street and ask for Andrea 
 The priest who tends yon altar. Learn of him 
 Who to dishonour brought the stateliest girl 
 Man ever worshipp'd. I, my Adheld, sought 
 To wed her, and she mock'd me. 
 
 Adheld. Dear my lord, 
 
 It was her modesty ; she could not speak 
 The past j she's clear ! So look the saints whose robes 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 265 
 
 Are dyed in blood ; she'd stain her purity 
 With penitential tears. 
 
 Celano, Poor child, you're snared. 
 
 You'd strive to force me wed the loveliest bride 
 Siciiia ever grew her myrtles for. 
 Your artifice I smile at. Madeleine, 
 Will you be swa/d by me, or . . . 
 
 Madeleine. I am yours — 
 
 I was. You never were betroth'd to her — 
 Lady Veronica ? 
 
 Ceia?to, Then we'll not fix 
 
 The day of your espousal — to the Lord ? 
 
 Adheld \to Madeleme\ Have you no pity? May your 
 hard heart rot 
 Each day by morsels. Dear my lord have grace, 
 Give to the great Veronica the hand 
 Alone can hold her from abysmal shame. 
 
 Celano. Adheld, my honourable sentiments 
 To your sister half deter me. 
 
 Adheld. Do not call 
 
 So mean a thing my sister ! Of my blood 
 She is not, but a slave to her own lust. \Exit. 
 
 Cela7io. Pray for me, Madeleine. \Exit. 
 
 Madeleine. He looks to me for salvation. My duty is 
 plain ; this veil must be his bride's to save him from the 
 snare of the evil woman. I will pray for him till my tongue 
 swoons ! Oh, what peril to him from the creature who could 
 stain the innocence of the Church's holy son. Thank 
 Heaven, I'm fast betroth'd. I'll leave this vanity [^gathering 
 up her work'] to pray him white as he was ere he went to 
 court [looking at the picUire\ A very seraph's brow ! 
 
 {^Kisses it, a?td exit. 
 \^Re-e?iter Adheld wildly. \ 
 
 Adheld, A damned monk ! 
 
266 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Scene Yl.—A Hall. Enter Markwald and lolanfe. 
 
 Markwald. lolante, 'tis my wish that you to-day 
 Greet Margarito, for whom Clara sighs, 
 And let him see young William ; note his mood, 
 If with the sight it alter. 
 
 lolante. This is strange ; 
 
 You banish'd Margarito from your house. 
 
 Markwald. Orders are now reversed. You are not glad 
 Again to be his hostess ? 
 
 Iola?ite. Not his spy. 
 
 It is unworthy of you, dear my lord, 
 To put your lolante to such use, 
 That you no more can teach her to fulfil 
 Than train an innocent, glad singing-bird 
 Hawk- wise to fix and fasten on its prey. 
 You keep your lolante for delight 
 r the music that she makes you ; not at all 
 To loose from wrist that she may bear you back 
 The quarry of your bleeding enemies. 
 
 Markwald. Is Margarito then an enemy ? 
 
 lolante [laughing]. Of whom ? — the Emperor 1 
 
 Markwald. He comes. Obey. [Exit. 
 
 lolante. What means my lord to put me in this strait ? 
 \Attenda7tts lead in Prince William.'] 
 They bring the boy : he shall not look on him ; 
 There's that in 's face must grow to royalty, 
 And it might tempt . . . 
 
 Prince William^ Mutter ! 
 
 lolante. A German word ! 
 
 So good at learning ! — There, sweet boy, enough ! 
 I'm sick to-day, and cannot stay to spell 
 The bright page of the missal : to the priest ! 
 
 [Exit Prince ]Villia))i a?id Attendants. 
 [Listening.'] He's found the child — I catch the tenderness 
 Of voice. We will not speak of him at all. 
 [Enter Margarita.] 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 267 
 
 Margarita. lolante, are you here alone ? — in tears ? 
 
 lolafite. Sybilla . . . 
 
 Margarito. Not Sybilla, Sicily 
 
 Forgets the child she bore. 
 
 lohvite. I'm Markwald's wife — 
 
 Even regret is treason in report. 
 In mine ear's treasury whate'er is cast 
 Is wealth my lord distributes at his will. 
 
 Margarito. You tell me that in the Sicilian tongue ? 
 What, use it as a traitor ? 
 
 lolante. Not so grave ! 
 
 Wives forget every bond when once they wear 
 This pledge — 
 
 Margarito. Oh, tell me — do our slaves in chains 
 So forget freedom ? — lolante, say, 
 Why am I summon'd ? 
 
 lolajtte. My lord summon'd you ; 
 
 For what I know not. 
 
 Margarito. And can scarce devise 
 
 A hasty welcome. — What is that you do ? 
 
 lolante. A shirt I'm making for my foster-child. 
 These cares are new to me, and cost some tears, 
 For I am sonless, and my pretty guest 
 Is going to a convent. 
 
 Margarito. What ! your prince ? 
 
 lolante. Tush, tush ! 
 It's the child I'm thinking of; so delicate ! 
 He's rooted in my heart ; transplanting him. 
 So frail a sHp, to rougher Earth — 
 
 Margarito \drawing lolante to the window]. Look there ! 
 The child, who owns that : — all that jewelry 
 Of sea, the shining marble of these roofs, 
 lolante, is preparing for the cowl? 
 
 [Markwald and Celano enter tmseen.l 
 
 Celano. Stay ! With what fix'd eyes they are looking 
 down 
 On the city ! How he turns to make appeal ! 
 
268 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Markwald, pass on : you know she'll tell you all. [^Exeunf. 
 
 lolante. Distrust me, I beseech — I must report — 
 
 Margarita. Sweet patriot, do not so belie yourself. 
 
 lolante \turni?ig round on hini\. I swear to you I will be 
 ever true 
 To noble Markwald ; you, I straight dismiss 
 For daring utter to me words no wife 
 Must Hsten to : — this is the only lie 
 
 To save betrayal. Go ! \_Exit Margaj'ito. 
 
 {Enter Markwald^ 
 
 Markwald. Have you obey'd ? 
 
 Iola?tte. My lord, I've wholly fail'd to play my part. 
 Margaritone has a lover's way ; 
 And, ere we enter'd into grave discourse, 
 He put into his gestures and his tones 
 What well I know my Markwald would not like. 
 So I have straight dismiss'd him. 
 
 Markwald. When you stood 
 
 Together, looking at the city, then 
 Were you dismissing him ? 
 
 lolante. Even then in thought. 
 
 I did not summon him. I cannot play 
 The spy — be mask'd to my old friends. My lord, 
 Christmas is coming on, and the great feast 
 For which I am not able. Let me go 
 To our little sea-side villa. There I'll stay 
 Where I can bring no harm to those I love. 
 
 Markwald. Who are they, lolante.'' 
 
 lolatite. You, my lord ; 
 
 Margaritone as a countryman — 
 The child, all these. I have a parting charge 
 To make to you : trust, trust the Admiral 
 In all state matters, and beware of him 
 As rival. I'm o'er-scrupulous. You think 
 A married woman must not hear a word 
 Of praise from any but her lord. / won^t. 
 So pray you put me beyond reach ; for here 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 269 
 
 I must be much where my young countryman 
 Frequents — 
 
 Markwald. Capricious fancy ! Well then, go . . . 
 And I must keep the feast without my wife. 
 Your talk was then of personal affairs ? 
 
 lolante. Yes I — 
 
 Markwald. Clare shall go. 
 
 lolante. Margaritone sure 
 
 Will seek to see her. I must be alone. 
 Leave Clara here. 
 
 Markwald [aside]. The man is doom'd. — No, no. 
 You'll go together. I will see you start 
 This afternoon. There's myst'ry in my wife j [Exil lolante. 
 I would she had my sister's honesty ! \Exit. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Rooin in a little lonely Villa. Andrea pacing up 
 
 and down. 
 
 Andrea. I am bidden here 
 To one of his poor victims. Should he ask 
 My priestly aid, I must confess him, yea, 
 Wash from his soul the spots I'd have hell-fires 
 Burn deep to ingrain'd devil. I must hear 
 Of amorous encounters, while my hands 
 Clutch the cold crucifix ; mine unpurged blood 
 Will leap responsive to the sin my lips 
 Scourge with prescription of unnumber'd pray'rs. 
 Oh yet 
 
 There was a whiteness and a glory in 
 My way of ruin. On the rosary 
 I tell the minutes of that sacred hour. 
 My lady stoop'd 
 
 To teach me love, as she had taught a child 
 The missal's pages ; since, illiterate, 
 The gold and crimson story would be lost 
 To eyes so bright with wonder. — Ah, she comes ! 
 
 [Enter Asaire, />ale, with a child in her a7ins.\ 
 A temptress beauty, no Madonna, tho' 
 She clasps a glorious babe. 
 
 Azaire. He promised me 
 
 You would be kind, you are his brother — this, 
 This child, I bring for baptism his son ; 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 27 1 
 
 And I wed to him in the open church 
 
 'Mid lords and ladies ! Fair Veronica 
 
 Was there. I am his wife. I cannot live 
 
 Without him. The last parting broke my heart. 
 
 And he must keep away. I think he's dear 
 
 To the pale, waxen, proud Veronica, 
 
 Tho' now the Emperor forces him to wed 
 
 The German girl he was betroth'd to first. 
 
 He has been good 
 
 To me ; he loves me, and he'll own his child. 
 
 They say you are his brother, sir. 
 
 Andrea. I am. 
 
 Your boy shall be baptized. What name ? 
 
 Azaire [passio?iately embracing the child']. My babe ! 
 I have no will ; he call'd thee. Andrea, 
 See that his father loves him ; take the child. 
 
 Andrea. Will you not shrive you, if so soon to die .'' 
 
 Azaire. I am a Moor. 
 
 Andrea. Oh, let me speak to you 
 
 Of Christ and His great sorrows ; you will burn 
 In hell if thus you die. — 
 
 Azaire. Thus — loving dear 
 
 My husband and my child ? 
 
 Andrea. Nay, in your sins. 
 
 Have you no hate 
 
 Of that proud dame Veronica ? You say 
 She loves your husband ? 
 
 Azaire. I don't think of her 
 
 In anger ; me he loves — poor chrysalid. 
 What is my worth now t Those the crimson wings 
 
 \Pointi?tg to the child. 
 The glory of my nature went to fledge ! 
 Azaire shall live in her man-child. Oh, say 
 I travel southward toward a deeper sun — 
 I die of thirst and hunger — thirst for love 
 And hunger for my child. Oh, tell my lord 
 The Moorish girl is dying in the sun. 
 
272 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 He'll see her eyes again in the dark boy 
 She bore him ; let him love the young Azaire ! 
 [Lays the child at his feet j as he raises it, she turns back^ 
 stretches her arms to it, a7id rushes out. 
 Andrea [tttrningfro^ft the child]. What mockery ! 
 Our Andrea had sprung from gentlest blood — 
 The tiny waxen figure put to sleep 
 On a nun's virgin pallet ! Ah, my son, 
 My Andrea, we're buried from her breast, 
 Dead both of us, murder'd for modesty ; 
 And when with fasts I strive to purge myself 
 From mem'ry of my manhood's sweetest days, 
 I see thee lying in thy little tomb 
 And fall upon thy innocence to weep. 
 So easily 
 
 Thy breath was stopp'd. Thou liest in the arms 
 Of Death, thy foster-nurse, mistaking her 
 For thine own mother. One may kill a babe ; 
 But never curb the pulses of a man 
 To a priest's ambling pace. Veronica, 
 So cold, so hard thou think'st me, and I burn. 
 I must away where women are not heard ; 
 Their silver voices at confessional 
 Thrill me like music. I must take the cowl, 
 Be where rough, angular, begrimed monks 
 Will make me loathe my own condition. 
 Meanwhile — {Pausing before the child."] Oh, he has children 
 
 at desire ; 
 Yet when he found Veronica in hope 
 Of motherhood, he came with ashen face, 
 Told me to hide her in a nunnery, 
 He would provide a coffin for my child. 
 Nay more, he would forgive my treachery. 
 Promote me in the Church, when he had scourged 
 By private shame his dearer penitent. 
 Would haply right her — but he plays her false. 
 He'll work the ruin of her soul. O God, 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 273 
 
 Mete out to me the measure of Thy wrath 
 
 In purgatorial fires : singe not Thy dove, 
 
 For I who touch'd her silver plumes well know 
 
 They cannot tarnish : mix them with the wings 
 
 Of angels, Thou wilt lose them in the white ; 
 
 Then turn Thy unappeased face on me. 
 
 I shall not weary of my punishment 
 
 So she escape. To-day I take the cowl. [Ex'z't 
 
 Scene II. — A Chamber. Enter Celano^ a miniature in his 
 hand and a roll of parchnenf. 
 
 Celano [lookiftg at the portrait\ Veronica, 
 Thou'lt write at my dictation words that doom 
 Thy dearest countryman ; thou shalt be false 
 To every creature that thou lovest, ere 
 I pardon thy great treason with my name. 
 How I remember when I was a boy 
 I thought all Heaven's blue was in those eyes. 
 {Putting up the 7niniaturei\ Had she been spotless, I had 
 
 been her slave 
 Who am her subtle tyrant ; yet no pain 
 I can inflict on her can touch the hurt 
 She wrought upon my nature. Here's the king, 
 Who thinks I work to pleasure him. 
 
 [Enter Emperor a?td Markwald.'\ 
 
 Emperor. What news ? 
 
 Those rolls of parchment — Markwald, my worst fears 
 Celano's searches have confirmed ; he's found 
 A document that tells the truth as frank 
 As witness under pressure of the screw, 
 Revealing all. 
 
 Markwald. Then is the writing forged. 
 
 Celano. So I surmise ; yet it may yield a clue ; 
 My spies shall fathom it. Within a week 
 We'll sit in judgment on a ripe revolt. 
 We will discover all, 
 
 Markwald. By honest means. 
 
 T 
 
2 74 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 My lord, I like not subterfuge. 
 
 Celano. Although 
 
 You use a spy, your wife ! What news through her 
 Of the Lord Admiral ? 
 
 Markwald, She's sick, retired. 
 
 Celano \persistently\. Through Clare ? 
 
 Markwald. What ! set a girl to wreck her love 'i 
 I'll not believe Margaritone's false ; 
 \Aside to Celano^ You force the king against him. \Aloud?^ 
 
 If we thus 
 Suspect and harass, we shall make him vile. 
 
 Celano, I see you've no suspicion. Painful scenes 
 Must follow on this plot's discovery 
 I fain would spare you knowledge . . , 
 
 Markwald. Painful scenes ! 
 
 If lolante's self 
 
 Were brought before me as a traitor, I 
 Would doom her to a traitor's death, I swear, 
 Nor ever flinch. What angers me is this : 
 You put disloyal thoughts in simple heads. 
 The people here are happy in the thought 
 Of keeping festival with their good king ; 
 Celano, rack your brains to give them sport. 
 Spy on the revels, and no deed of blood 
 Will need your censorship. 
 
 Celano \to Emperor^ Will you appoint, 
 
 My liege, when I of southern treachery 
 Bring proof, this fearless and impartial judge, 
 The uncorrupted Markwald, to assign 
 The several punishments 
 To the discover'd wretches : misery 
 Will be enough to me in leading them 
 Into their toils : let Markwald seal their doom. 
 
 E7?iperor. Markwald shall be our grand justiciary. 
 
 Markwald. I will : Celano, use you lawful means ; 
 See I condemn you not for stirring up 
 Sedition. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 275 
 
 Celano. See you have not to condemn 
 Those you hold dearest to you. Have a care. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — An Ante-chamber to a large Ball-room in 
 Celano's House, Celano, exquisitely attired, watches 
 from a distatice the dancers, Veronica passes. 
 
 Celano. What a flower she is, a balsam ! We are each 
 masters in the art of winning men's souls — I to perdition, she 
 to a fool's paradise ! She thinks to bring me to her feet a 
 victim ; she shall lie at mine ; though the landscape be 
 fair, that to a conqueror's eye means desolation. I'll change 
 the face of that fair country her body ; — no respite till ruin 
 bring her to subjection. She's dancing with Margarito ; I 
 like not the dominance of that grasp. Should he win her, 
 I were baulked. Now he's offering her jasmine \ that jas- 
 mine she shall tread under foot before sunrise. 
 {Enter a Page."] 
 
 Page {presenting letter']. My lord ! 
 
 Celano {reading]. "The lady who calls herself your wife 
 brought to me two days ago her babe for baptism. The 
 attendants who followed her report, as I suspect to order, that 
 they found her asleep under a cactus, a snake coiled about 
 her loins. I send you your son, having performed for him 
 the rites of the Church, in the charge of a young woman 
 Madeleine, who claims to be, by your authority, his nurse." 
 
 Celano {aside]. It's perfect. I secure her {looking towards 
 Veronica]. Weary now, warm and a little love-faint ! The 
 room clears. The adieus ! Does Margarito stoop low to 
 smell the jasmine that his hps bend over it? He's gone. 
 {To Page.] This to the lady. Bring her back. {Page returns 
 with Veronica!] You've been dancing with a traitor. 
 
 Veronica. You mistake ; 
 I danced with you ; and the Lord Admiral 
 For pity : there are dark lines round his eyes 
 For lolante ; wherefore is she gone ? 
 
 Celano. Faugh ! How that jasmine-tuft infects the air ! 
 
276 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Unloose it ; trample it beneath your foot. 
 Obedience ! your toilet I will make. 
 I hate the dull, white stars. 
 
 Veronica. How exquisite 
 
 Your sense of fitness ; it's a wither'd flow'r, 
 And gives a look of tire and negligence 
 To one unweary. 
 
 Celano [takifig a gem from his dress]. Here's a brooch 
 for you ; 
 An amethyst best sets those moon-white breasts. 
 Now I can speak with you, I say, " Beware 
 The pestilence that walks in darkness." Think ; 
 One least speck of disloyalty would doom 
 Your body to the dead-house. 
 
 Veronica. Sure, the wine 
 
 Hath wrought upon you. Never had the king 
 A smoother front. All's well. 
 
 Celano \drawing out some letters]. This pocketful 
 Of letters will condemn the Admiral 
 To death— and the Archbishop. 
 
 Veronica. They are forged ! 
 
 Celano. Well guess'd, fair Casuistry. The ink is wet 
 Wherewith I penn'd them. I have left a page 
 For you to fill. 
 
 Verotiica. What mean you ? 
 
 Celano. This : I need 
 
 Your writing — just the witness of your hand. 
 Write a few lines of warning — let them speak 
 Of loyalty — to Margarito. That 
 You will not do .? I bid you think again. 
 
 Veronica. Never ! 
 
 Celano. The lover of the German girl 
 Is dear to you. You've seen two German maids 
 Preferred before you — Madeleine and Clare. 
 
 Vero7iica. My lord is over-wearied, and his wits 
 Do him dis-service. I will take my leave. 
 
 Celano. You scorn such rivals, but Azaire held sway 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 277 
 
 Over Celano's heart and — do not turn 
 
 From sweet blanch'd rose to snowdrop — and Azaire 
 
 Is dead. This is no forgery. To-night 
 
 The Court shall hear of it. Veronica, 
 
 If with those clear eyes you look'd up to me 
 
 And said this matter'd not, the words were forged. 
 
 Be not a perjurer. 
 
 Veronica {trying to free herself\ You're keeping me 
 Unduly for a guest. 
 
 Celano. With lover's trust 
 
 I'm treating you : to-morrow I depart 
 In haste to my wife's funeral. You can 
 Report to Margarito all I've said 
 Before the feast when I present the king 
 With these forged letters. You will not do this ! 
 If implicated in this plot you ne'er 
 Can be Celano's bride, who — how you shake ! — 
 Aspires to the high honour of your hand. 
 All know this ring ; wear it as my betroth'd. 
 Veronica, On what conditions ? 
 
 Celano. Simply write a note 
 
 To Margarito ; warn him 'gainst revolt. 
 Say that the Germans seek Sicilia's good, 
 And those are traitors who defeat their ends. 
 
 Veronica. So I have ever thought ; I would not stir 
 In any foolish rising. You exact 
 No more of me than this — I take the ring 
 And with it on my finger pen the words 
 Of your dictation. \Sits down and writes. 
 
 Celano. 'Tis to exculpate 
 
 You from participation in the crime ; 
 And if I find you faithful, instantly, 
 When Sicily is humbled, as reward 
 For the better part you've chosen, you shall be 
 Led to the priest. 
 Vero7iica {looking at the ring and kissing it]. The gem is 
 exquisite. 
 
278 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Celano. I've seen you watch it flash across my hand, 
 With envy — half-contempt : tho' smooth enough, 
 My hands have not that rare transparency 
 That makes flesh spiritual enough for these 
 Moon-opals. Are you proud ? 
 
 Veronica. Vain-glorious 
 
 As you are of your will. Farewell, my lord. 
 
 \Gives him her jewelled ha?id to kiss. Exit. 
 
 Celano. Country and lover yields she to her lust 
 Of pow'r. I have the strategist's delight 
 In circumventing her ; how great her fall ! 
 Azaire, cup-bearer of the wine of life — 
 Azaire — she loved me for my handsome curls 
 And smiling hps, loved me as man, and I 
 Made her my wife therefore — while Madeleine — 
 She is my slave. Veronica! Oh, I 
 
 Reserve for her a place. \^To Attendants.] Bring me my boy. 
 [Enter Madeleine with the child ^ 
 
 Madeleine. The baby sleeps. 
 
 Celano. 'Tis a sign'd picture, this ; 
 
 Myself new-wrought in flesh. My fatherhood 
 Is past suspicion ; these dark lashes hide 
 Haply his mother's eyes. Ah, keep them closed ! 
 The child is well ! Now, Madeleine, you know 
 What, as a sign of the respect I bear 
 To you, as faithful servant of my will, 
 I hold your due. 
 
 Madelei?ie. My lord, it is enough 
 
 That I may nurse the child. 
 
 Celano. 'Tis 7iot enough. 
 
 You shall be made his step-mother. You know 
 Of old we were betroth'd. A priest is here 
 To make the marriage firm. I may not vex 
 The king with private matters ; for the nonce 
 You shall have rooms and tendance for the child, 
 But not until you have full wedding-right 
 To rule as mistress o'er it. In a month 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 279 
 
 I promise you open acknowledgment. 
 Put off your terror. 'Tis not to the rack 
 Fm leading you. Why here upon your neck 
 Is the little band of peach-stones that I set 
 Under the crucifix. Poor child, I've made 
 Your love a cross to you. But you consent, 
 Good Madeleine, to be my lawful wife ? 
 
 Madeleine. My lord, you are betroth'd to me. I do 
 No wrong to poor Azaire, if I comply. 
 
 Celano. The priest will meet us in the chapel. Come. 
 
 Scene IV. — Room i7i Margaritd's House. E?tter Margarita 
 aftd the Archbishop of Salerno. 
 
 Archbishop. There must be secrecy. 
 
 Margarita. My lord, not a feather in our plumes must be 
 dashed, not a tongue shall be padded, our horses' hoofs shall 
 clink on the stones and our voices be heard through the open 
 casement to the last. 
 
 Archbishop. I, as it were in a reverie, will look round. 
 Con you the names on the scroll {looking out cautiously]. 
 That ringing voice is for a rouse. If the hen clucks she's 
 not on her nest hatching treason. All the same I'll spy. 
 Ah, a wedding ! They were marrying and giving in mar- 
 riage till the last day. Tessa, my child ! \A Servant- 
 maiden appears at a chamber window^ A troop of soldiers ! 
 One looks up, he marks the house ; he winks. 
 
 \Enter Fool below; looks up laughing.] 
 
 Fool. My lord, you've a waiting-woman would kiss a fool. 
 Think you not the race should be celibate? Indeed, 'tis 
 probable Holy Church forbids fatherhood to the priest lest 
 he perpetuate folly. 
 
 Archbishop. My knave, what see'st thou, whom seekest 
 thou .? 
 
 Fool. What see I ? Tessa gaping at the bride. Get in 
 and chide her, holy father. . . . And yet more distinctly 
 I see the doves on the housetop. 
 
28o LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Archbishop. Do not stare so at the house. Have you 
 business here ? 
 
 Fool. Aye, with the Lord Margarito ; a fool has always 
 business with lovers, for their whole business is fooling. 
 
 Archbishop. Pass in, pass in ; do not whistle. There ! 
 On tip-toe ! 
 
 \Enter Fool, presenting a letter?^ 
 
 Margarito [covering the scroll with his 7na?itle'\. News 
 from my love ! 
 
 Archbishop [aside, i7npatiently\. And a kingdom must 
 wait a lover's leisure ! See how his long fingers dally with 
 the seal. [Alotid^ Break it ! 'Tis the light heart of 
 woman, dry and brittle ; 'twill not bleed. 
 
 Margarito [aside]. She's gone, my lady lolante. [Alot^d.] 
 The rare Teuton wench denies me the light of her eyes 
 [carelessly handing the letter to the Archbishop?^ {To Fool.] 
 Go. 
 
 Fool. I've none to play with now the little prince is 
 cowled and looks at the free birds as he strings his pater- 
 nosters. 
 
 Margarito. Tessa's a fairer toy [motions impatiently to 
 him to go]. 
 
 Fool [aside]. The very blink 
 Of traitors in their eyes. — God prosper you ; 
 Prosper you — 
 
 Margarito. How now ? What is 't thou dost say ? 
 
 Fool [mockingly]. Nothing but " God be with you, gen- 
 tlemen." [ExHt. 
 
 Archbishop [reading]. " lolante and I have retired to my 
 brother's villa by the bay, for lolante is sick and wearied of 
 the Court, and I am ordered to accompany her. See we be 
 not too lonely." That's near the convent where the boy is 
 hidden. The monks are all Sicilian and true to their royal 
 novice— save the German abbot. 
 
 Margarito. I'll adventure it ! A ride to the monaster}', 
 a secret meeting with my hooded countrymen, and the child 
 is mine. I'll take him to the caves by the sea, and the lady 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 28 I 
 
 lolante shall receive him in her lonely villa. She'll keep the 
 prince till we come to possess him of his royalties — and 
 I pay a visit to my love ! Thou art fervid for thy country ; 
 'tis by chance thou favourest a lover's zeal. 
 
 Archbishop. How sayest thou ? Pour out our plans with 
 thy love-sighs ! I'll not consent. 
 
 Margarito. She'll cleave to me as my ring to her finger. 
 Well, my lord archbishop, all is ready. The fleet is mine ; 
 every ruddy sail flaps to Sicilian air, and feels the thrill of 
 its freedom. The gates are in the hands of the Germans ; 
 but here's a key Sicilians can use. This scroll contains all 
 names of note in the land, and they are all sworn to our 
 enterprise. The prince I secure ; lolante keeps him. So 
 our enemies will search the convent in vain. The child stole 
 away from his prayers ; would not suffer discipline and made 
 escape through a cleft in the wall : the brethren shall be 
 dolorously searching for him when the creatures of the 
 Emperor arrive. We are safe. Look not so mournful. 'Tis 
 thy manner. The owl smiles not though the weather shines. 
 Thou art haughty before the people ; show thy pride in the 
 face of thy fears. 
 
 Archbishop. Go to thy ships. The cathedral bell is 
 calling for vespers and the holy feast approaches. \Exeunt. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The Garde?t before Vefonzdi's House : moonlight. 
 Veronica and Margarito on a terrace overlooking the 
 landscape. 
 
 Margarito. Fair lady, we have memories ; — that day 
 We gather'd figs 'neath the caruba-tree, 
 Gathering and giving — therefore I am come 
 To bid farewell, before I ride to-night 
 In chase of the httle cruel recreant love 
 Deserting me. You're right ; the moon shines fair, 
 Thrown as a bridal-veil across the land. 
 Do you love 
 Your land, Veronica? 
 
 Veronica. Look at that peace, 
 
 The trellis'd gold of the vines, the lucid hills, 
 Those peasants singing as they saunter home. 
 I think 
 
 The moonlight comes that we may see our land 
 Lying asleep. Look, Margarito, look ! 
 
 Margarito. I feel her breath 
 
 On my brow, — Sicilia's breath ! So sweet a slave 
 Chain'd to the ravisher } I am a man ; 
 That sight unsheathes my sword. 
 
 Veronica. My patriot ! 
 
 \Pressing back his sword into the scabbard. 
 
 Margarito. You'd spare your country's enemies .'* 
 
 Veronica. I'd spare 
 
 Virgilia and her goats ; those fishermen 
 
 Toiling at sea ; the simple peasant wives 
 
 282 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 283 
 
 Who laugh even at their prayers — 
 
 Margarita. And would not cry 
 
 If widow'd by the Teuton. 
 
 Veronica. Just beyond 
 
 That light-irradiated chasm rests 
 lolante . . . and your love. 
 
 Margarita [laug/mtg as he mounts his horse]. You mean 
 my love, 
 The Lady lolante ! Fare you well. 
 
 Veronica \looking after him]. How hard I'm getting ! 
 I can see him go, 
 And so I could to the headsman. I am hard ; 
 I'm growing worthy of Celano's bride. 
 How the jewel flashes ! I have kept it hid. 
 
 Scene II. — A Room in the Villa. lolante and Clara at 
 
 work. 
 
 Iola7tte. I'm tired of stitching daisies, and you sit 
 Like Nature at her meadows. Well-a-day, 
 Good Sis, I've little patience ! Hark, who raps ? [Knocking. 
 I'd greet a mouse. 
 
 \Enter Atte7idant and Messenger.] 
 
 Attendant. The trusty coxcomb there 
 Alone may give his letter to your hand. 
 
 lolante. Worthy obedience ! My servant's tongue 
 Improves your virtue serving it with taunts. 
 As bitter herbs give relish to our meat. 
 You shall be entertain'd. 
 
 Messenger. Good mistress — no, 
 
 I must not tarry. 
 
 lolante [to Attendant]. Take him to the gate. [Exeunt. 
 Put down your work. Would you be glad to see 
 Your love to-night .-^ 
 
 Clara. I never loved him so 
 
 As when he walk'd with me, here in the fields. 
 It seem'd to me, tho' I'm a simple girl, 
 
2^4 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 He had that trust in me that Markwald shows 
 
 To you — his wife. I care not to be teased 
 
 And play'd with as some girls. 
 
 . lolante. And you were proud ? 
 
 Clara. Yes — of his trust. 
 
 lolante. And worthy of it, Clare ? 
 
 Clara. Try me. 
 
 Iola7ite. I will. Read this : — 
 
 " Gracious and beloved lolante, 
 
 Your prince asks pity. Can you withhold that milk of the 
 heart from your country's orphan? His hiding-place must 
 not be known — I have chosen the low caves. Bring Clare 
 with you. I can trust my love. I await you at sunset. 
 
 MargaritoP 
 
 Clara. I cannot go. Why did you let me hear 
 Of such a thing ? — Treason ! 
 
 lolante. You will not come ? 
 
 You've no response to that ? False girl ! 
 
 Clara. False wife ! 
 
 lolafite. Markwald, my lord ! — and, oh, Sicilia ! 
 And more than that a prince, and fugitive ! 
 
 Clara. Have others then no country and no bonds t 
 If you forget your duty as a wife 
 To gratify a young compatriot, 
 Despise me not that simply I renounce 
 A lover rather than forget my blood 
 And all it binds me to. Beyond all this, 
 I'm Markwald's sister, think before you thus 
 Betray him. 
 
 lola?tte. I have thought : for in our life's 
 Most sudden tempest there's the lightning-flash, — 
 Torch of an instant ! — all is seen and judged. 
 I'll not betray my country ; and my lord. 
 My noble husband, will not be betray'd 
 If to his wife I'm true. — You will not come. 
 A trust, remember. Do you love him, Clare? 
 
 Clara. You then forget ! 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 285 
 
 lolanie. I see you will not com(*; 
 
 You're sewing. [Exit. 
 
 Clara. 'Tis a plot. That's treachery. 
 
 I will not keep a traitor's confidence 
 That is a snare under my people's feet. 
 I'll write and send my German page to town ; 
 Sunset will not be here for seven hours. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Enter the Ejnperor and Celano. 
 
 Celano. These letters state the bargain which my brain 
 Hath struck with greedy Death — the written bonds 
 That pledge full many lives to sudden tombs. 
 
 E7nperor. Let's see ! I read elated. — Markwald comes 
 With knotted brow. He fears your subtility. 
 \E71ter Markwald^ 
 
 Celano. He's for the battle-axe and honesty, 
 No toils, no snares, no scaffold. 
 
 Emperor. How now, Mark .? 
 
 Markwald. I have a paper — to be read aloud — 
 'Tis from my sister — says : " This very eve 
 William and Margarito seek the cave 
 Under our pines. Arrest them." 
 
 Emperor. Noble lass ! 
 
 Why look you so aghasted ? We will find 
 Among our Dukes a nobler groom by far 
 Than this vile Admiral. 
 
 Celano. Who's written this ? [Snatching the letter. 
 
 The Lady lolante without doubt 
 Knew of the secret and , . . 
 
 Markwald [tnoodily]. The hand is Clare's. 
 
 I'm not a man for motives and surmise — 
 Absolute blank, where I can learn no facts. 
 And I beseech you. Sire, by all my sword 
 Hath wrought for you, and by my loyalty 
 Mine and my sister's, you impute no ill 
 Where you can have no knowledge. I myself 
 
286 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Arreftt the traitors. 
 
 Celano. You ! Oh, pardon me. 
 
 You are too heated. More, there is a pledge. 
 An oath ta'en you should be justiciary 
 In clearing off these treasons. 
 
 Markwald, So I will. 
 
 Go, search my house — bring each to his account 
 Of all within. Do not let one be spared. 
 [Aside.] Oh ! — lolante, I shall be your judge. — 
 I must give orders. Lead me to my house. 
 
 [He moves away totterhig, 
 
 Celano. Sybilla and her daughters are involved. 
 
 Emperor. Let them be all confined. 
 
 Markwald [returnmg\. Sybilla, Sire, 
 
 Sicken'd for death when we removed her child. 
 Doubtless the blow has stunn'd her ; better leave 
 That aged creature in her misery — 
 It's burning down to ash. 
 
 Emperor. 'Twill be rare sport 
 
 To stir the embers ; the dull'd flames will hiss 
 And crackle fierce, I warrant. Hither ! [71:? Attendant. 
 
 Markwald. Leave 
 
 The crownless woman to die undisturb'd. 
 
 E7nperor. No words for rebels. 
 
 Markwald. None. [Aside.] My heart is dead. 
 
 [Exit Markwald 
 
 Emperor. Peter, I like not this remorseful mood. 
 
 [ Walks about uneasily. 
 
 Celano [busily turning over his letters]. My brain may 
 rest : no need of forgery. 
 In Clara's warning we've a real plot. 
 Yet will I make it seem that all along 
 I had instinctive knowledge of their schemes. 
 And this my painful scribbling [puttitig back the letters in 
 
 his breast] will avail 
 To humble my Veronica. I'll keep 
 These pretty running lines in which she's sold 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 287 
 
 Her birthright as Sicilian. She is mine : 
 
 The country I apportion her is Hell — 
 
 Confinement at my pleasure in its flames ; 
 
 With just a hope across the gulf to catch 
 
 Sight of a paradise within my arms. 
 
 \_Al02cd.'] My lord, I must confess to you I feign'd 
 
 Creative faculty : for full four days 
 
 I have with diligence by piecemeal learnt 
 
 All that is here devised. This note confirms 
 
 My worst suspicions of Salerno's guilt. 
 
 I set your childish fool a spy to watch 
 
 The Archbishop, whom he hates for getting him 
 
 Whipt 'fore the Court ; and he reports the two 
 
 Have constantly been closeted. — The lad 
 
 [The Emperor turns away with knitted brows. 
 Will get revenged upon his enemy, 
 But lose his playmate in the pretty prince 
 He dotes on with a fool's capacity. 
 It takes much science to secure revenge 
 Without some personal discomfiture. 
 [A/oud.] Salerno, Margarito, Markwald^ — Sire, 
 You'll think I am suspicious — we must watch. 
 
 Emperor. It's that old hag, Sybilla ! Honest Mark 
 Against the charms of discrown'd royalty 
 Is scarcely proof; the boy must be immured 
 Deep in an Alpine fortress ; for the rest, 
 Though he enrages me, I'll not withdraw 
 My faith in him ; he's German to the bone, 
 
 [Enter Constatitia!\ 
 As German as my fair Constantia here 
 Is rank Sicilian. Give us leave awhile. 
 
 Celano. I'll warn the guards and captains. {Exit. 
 
 Emperor. This revolt 
 
 I'll quell with iron heel within my house. 
 The Lady lolante has of late 
 Been much about the Empress. Women here 
 Breed thoughts as they were men. I'll put her back 
 
288 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 To her own woman's use. — How now ! in tears ? 
 You should not leave your rooms ; your modesty 
 Keeps you a pris'ner till you give a prince 
 To me and to your country. 
 
 Constantia. Sweet my lord, 
 
 I've given her a prince imperial 
 In you, and now, thus suppliant at your feet, 
 Beseech you look upon my woman-land, 
 Wild, ardent, dreaming, full of tenderness, 
 As if she were Constantia ! Comfort her, 
 Assure her that the blood of her brave sons 
 By you shall be held sacred as the life, 
 Trembling within me, of your kingdom's heir. 
 
 Emperor. Oh, pretty speeches ! Have you practised 
 them 
 Among your girls ? Such cunning eloquence 
 Moves admiration. I will rule my wife 
 By German custom : you shall breed me babes 
 And wanton in the nursery : on days 
 Of state you shall ride with me round the town. 
 And what I will shall be your pleasure, if 
 It be to sack Palermo. Once for all 
 Leave policy and punishment to me. 
 
 Consta7ttia. You swore — 
 
 You promised me, if I would yield my rights 
 And be your wife, you would espouse my land 
 And cherish her. 
 
 Emperor. Ha, ha ! A pretty wit ! 
 
 And I will keep my word. I govern you 
 As I will govern your Sicilian land, 
 Most absolutely — you're the stuff for it, 
 Fickle and tender and irresolute. 
 
 Constantia. The stuff for making slaves ! You've chosen 
 me 
 A mother for your son. 
 
 Emperor. To see him through ^ 
 
 His teething, set him on his legs, as soon 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 289 
 
 As he can prattle I will tutor him. 
 
 [A Messenger enters at the door.'] 
 
 You're for the swaddling clothes. . . . 
 Messenger. My liege, the lord 
 
 Celano urgently implores you give 
 
 Him instant conference. 
 Emperor \tiirning to Constantia^ raising aftd hastily 
 kissing her']. Oh, then a kiss 
 
 And pardon. [Exit with Messenger. 
 
 Constantia. I have cursed him on the lips. 
 
 Are men so mad to put into our hands 
 
 Such arms against them as I carry sheath'd 
 
 In my frail body's scabbard. I will bear 
 
 A prince to Sicily ; he shall be great 
 
 And glorious the fervid southern way ; 
 
 My own despised Sicilian he shall woo. 
 
 And as a bride be-jewel with his songs; 
 
 His court shall be the splendour of the world, 
 
 The sun of nations ; men shall say of him, 
 
 " Constantia was unfaithful to her spouse ; 
 
 He bears no impress of his German sire." 
 
 \B eating her breast?^ Here, here, in closest privacy we'll 
 hatch 
 
 Our treasons, my unborn avenger, here 
 
 Shall be conspiracy. Oh, I am weak 
 
 Even to the mortal hour, yet mightier 
 
 Than an earth-cov'ring host; for jMotherhood, 
 
 That ancient Power with rights mysterious, 
 
 Won by fell Nature for her womankind. 
 
 Receives my injuries. \Noise of arms without!] They're arm- 
 ing men ; — 
 
 My child, we'll leave them to their battle-fields ; 
 
 They may determine history ; the fate 
 
 Of nations we will settle, thou and I. \Exit. 
 
 U 
 
2-90 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Scene IV. — A Cave. Enter Mar garito and Prince William. 
 
 Margarita. Boy, are you cold ? 
 
 Priftce William. Why yes, my feet. 
 
 Margarita. We'll walk. 
 
 Take care of the rough stones. 
 
 Prince William. How dark it is ! 
 
 So stiff and dark above our heads, I think 
 The ground that roofs our graves must look like that 
 When we are buried. 
 
 Margarita. Nay, nay, — not at all. 
 
 The grave hath got no hole within its side. 
 
 Prince William. It had one when they put the dead 
 man in. 
 I've seen it — a black hole. 
 
 Margarita. And this is blue — 
 
 With what the sexton sees when in a grave, 
 The sky 1 Cursed thought ! I will not tell the boy* — 
 Come, we will nearer to the entrance, so ! 
 I like not stifling fumes of underground. 
 Lift me yon stone. Heroes have lifted such. 
 That's bravely tried ! 
 
 [Enter lalante.'] 
 
 Prince William. Mother ! 
 
 Margarita. Where is my love 1 
 
 lalante. She's no Sicilian ; do not look for her. 
 
 Margarita. lolante, you reproach me ! 
 
 Iola?ite. You divorce 
 
 Me from my husband. It were easier 
 Refuse a newly-orphan'd babe the breast, 
 Than a sweet outcast prince my refuge-arms. 
 Yet, Margarito, yet I never had 
 One traitor thought. Why do you ruin me ? 
 
 Margarito. Oh, perfect image of Sicilia's self 
 Guarding her child ! Why that is natural — 
 The curs(^d German girl ! Oh, the vile horde ! 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE ? 29 1 
 
 lolante. Now, my brave Markwald, were you here, that 
 lie 
 Were back i' the speaker's throat. I'll keep the child, 
 Leave him to me. 
 
 Margarita. Yo»u have no sympathy ? 
 
 Do you not say " God-speed " nor even " Farewell." 
 If Clare is false it may be all's betray'd; 
 This our last meeting. lolante — Oh ! — 
 Have you no " Addio " .-* 
 
 lolante. Heaven shield the right ! 
 
 Margariio. And me. — I am Sicilia's hope. 
 
 lolante. I feel 
 
 All's lost. Oh, Margarito, haste thee, fly 
 To Africa. — Thou hast unlawful thoughts. 
 
 Prmce William. There's some one coming. 
 
 lolante. I'll defend the child. 
 
 Margarito. Lost ! They are arm'd. 
 
 \E7iter Markwald and Soldiers.'] 
 
 Markwald [aside]. A show of innocence — 
 
 That child between them as a sword to make 
 Dolts of my eyes. Ah, I have driven snow 
 Over her wanton cheeks ! — They're traitors all. 
 [To Soldiers.] Advance ! 
 
 Margarito. Stand ! 
 
 Markwald. Never trust Sicilian tongue 
 
 He means no vain defence. Advance ! 
 
 [They engage. Margarita's sword is broken. 
 
 Margarito. There cracks 
 
 One of thy heart-strings, -Freedom ! [He is secured. 
 
 Markwald [to a Soldier]. Let me pass. 
 
 Soldier. I'm wounded. 
 
 Markwald. Yes. — Captain, secure them. — QQim^\toIolante?[ 
 With me. I would not have you manacled. 
 
 lolante. Markwald, the boy is innocent. 
 
 Markwald. And you ? 
 
 lolante. Am ready for my punishment. You must 
 Bear me away. I swoon. 
 
292 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Margarito. Upon my soul, 
 
 Her innocence is twice the child's. 
 
 Markwald. You taint 
 
 The wind, sir ; not my ear. The prisons : on ! [Exeunt. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Palermo. A Court of Justice. Enter Emperor., 
 Markwald as Justiciary, Peter de Celano, Lords and 
 Ladies^ the Fool., the Archbishop of Salerno, Sybil la and 
 her children, lolante and Margarito attended. 
 
 Markwald. The court is open. This revolt had wrought 
 Destruction to our rule ; ruin as swift 
 Fall on the workers' heads ! Our loyalty 
 (That virtue gave Christ heart to be a King) 
 Is lost. You, proud Archbishop, have been proved 
 The root of this ofifence by witnesses 
 That my authority may not impugn ; 
 And I condemn you to the death most meet 
 For such desert — 
 
 Fool [to Celano]. Oh, hang him by the leg ! 
 
 Celano. His extreme haughtiness deserves reproof ; 
 He'd suffer none before him. 
 
 Emperor. Put him last. 
 
 Harness him to his courser's tail, and then. 
 Fool, his remains shall be thy heritage ; 
 This the first property I've given thee. 
 
 Archbishop \as he passes 02it to Celano\ I'd done the 
 same by you, and may in Hell. \Exit attended. 
 
 Markwald. For Queen Sybilla, she hath done no wrong. 
 No : nor her daughters. 
 
 Celano [to Emperor]. Do you mark that, sire .'' 
 He'd win a gentle sentence for the queen 
 To save his wife ; he hesitates and doubts. 
 
 293 
 
294 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 E^iperor. I note him : do not interpose. 
 
 Markwald. Therefore 
 
 Let her remain in mild imprisonment 
 With her three daughters. For this kingdom's peace 
 Young WiUiam must be guarded ; it may be 
 Prudent to keep him in an Alpine hold, 
 Where lawless rebels may not penetrate 
 To seize his person. 
 
 lolajtte \aside\. Oh, my lord turns pale ! 
 He loves the boy : my Markwald, what he bears ! 
 
 E7nperor. Too lenient ! Mine the usurper's child ! 
 And to no charge I'll yield him till he is 
 A prince no man will fight for. Take him out. 
 / will attend him. \Iolante favits. 
 
 Markwald. See to her who faints. — 
 
 Sire, from his mother's sight to pluck the child 
 Thus roughly with such threat — 
 
 Ejnperor \poi7iHng to Sybilld\. She does not faint. 
 Mark you her glaring eye. 
 
 Markwald. My liege, the guilt 
 
 Lies not on that young head : it lies with those 
 Who harbour'd him. I do beseech you, spare 
 (You soon will be a father) the young prince. 
 I shall not ask you mitigate your wrath 
 When it hghts true on the thrice-damned heads 
 Of Margaritone and . . . my wife. 
 
 Einperor \to Cela7id\. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Celano, you judged wrong ; let's wait to see 
 How a true Teuton tramples down his heart 
 'Neath the mail'd heel of his conscience. — For the boy, 
 He's mine to crush. 
 
 Sybilla. If you would shed his blood 
 
 In my sight, that were a boon. O God, I feel 
 The seeds of frenzy quick in me. Chains, chains 
 For the wild beasts at my brain ! God, call them off ! 
 I must keep wit for cursing. Lunacy 
 Will eunuch my revenge. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 295 
 
 Emperor, Give her a cell. 
 
 Keep in light bonds her daughters. \Exeunt, guarded. 
 
 Markwald, Now we pass 
 
 To other pris'ners. Margarito is 
 The arch-conspirator, and has seduced 
 A noble woman from her wifely faith. 
 Let the slow fire consume him ! 
 
 Margarito. Merciful, 
 
 To blazon forth my fate ] I could not choose 
 Death more significant. I fain would speak 
 While the faggots pile ; I have but two requests \—\TJu Em- 
 peror takes the forged letters fro?n Celanoj they talk apartJ] 
 That my heart be given Clara, my betroth'd, — 
 The girl who set her country o'er her love — 
 Look for it in the ashes ; it will throb 
 
 Laid in her faithful bosom. I applaud {Markwald shiidders?[ 
 Her action, tho' it dooms me to my pyre ; 
 'Tis mated by her nobleness, who snapped 
 
 {Turning to lolante.l 
 For her country even a more sacred tie, 
 And for Sicilia with rent bosom braved 
 Taint of a word that kills her as unchaste, 
 lolante 
 
 Markwald. Let the fire consume your lips 
 For playing with that name ! Leave me to doom 
 What of mine own is guilty. Lead him out 
 To the red stake. {Exit Margarito a?id Guards."] lolante, 
 you must die, 
 
 lolante. Most wiUingly ; bind me to that same pyre 
 We both have merited. 
 
 Markwald {furiously]. What, with him s.till ! 
 Is torture sweet with him to share it .'' No, 
 You shall look on unhurt and see him die, 
 The next day suffer. {To Emperor.] May I ask the block 
 For her ? The bitterness of death is past 
 When she's seen the traitor blacken at the stake, 
 For whom she brought dishonour on my house. 
 
296 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Cela7io [aside to the Emperor], Oh, it's a private grievance ; 
 never think 
 He'd send her to the block, but for the shame 
 Margaritone was her paramour. 
 
 Emperor. Your private grief 
 
 Heal, cauterize at will : for us we'd give 
 Free pardon to so fair a miscreant. 
 Nay, we make intercession : — prison her, 
 After she's seen that fellow to his end, 
 And give her time for penitence. 
 
 Markwald. She dies, 
 
 lolante, will you speak ? Have you requests ? 
 
 lolatife. My lord, you have done justly ; I deserve, 
 As a state-culprit, death. Mar not your deed 
 By thought of private vengeance. Oh, believe, 
 You offer a pure victim to your God, 
 Or the sacrifice avails not. — Promise me 
 I may have burial in your vault, the place 
 That is my right : there, Markwald, you will come ; 
 We shall be reconciled. You cannot bear 
 To be answer'd by a woman. I will lie 
 Quite still, and you will call me by that name. 
 Of which I have not lost the chrism-grace. 
 Wife — lolante. 
 
 Markwald. I dishonour not 
 My ancestry with a dissever'd head. 
 You shall not lie with them. 
 
 lolante. Then, sweet my lord, 
 
 Let Sicilia take my body as my life ; 
 Her vilest ground is hallow'd. Fare ye well. 
 Clara will comfort you ; she suffers most. 
 Don't tell her how Margaritone dies ; 
 She'll think all's ended. — I am ready quite 
 To see the patriot lighted to his God ; 
 He whom I love I leave in torture here ; 
 My Markwald, Heaven grant you clearer sight ! 
 
 [^Exit lolante attended. 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 297 
 
 Markwald. Is the Court over ? 
 
 Celano. The rebellion is 
 
 Methinks pluck'd up by the roots. 
 
 Markwald. 'Twas not to you 
 
 I spoke. Tear up those damned forged lies. 
 I thank my God they have condemn'd no man ; 
 Each has confess'd his treason : thine the vil'st, 
 Who mix'd, dissembling, 'mong the wretched bands 
 Foohng and cozening them, — and thine escapes. 
 
 Emperor. Softly, good Mark ! Celano serves me well, 
 lolante — 
 
 Markwald. I've a boon to ask : none speak 
 That name : remind a bastard of his birth 
 Sooner than a dishonour'd man of her 
 He has miscall'd his wife. There's much to do ; 
 The city is unquiet ; I will set 
 A guard at the southern gate. 
 
 Ei7iperor. Nay, Markwald, take 
 
 Some rest ! 
 
 Markwald \looking back at the E?ftperor]. What rest } 
 Rest in the lonely grave 
 From which I've banished her? I'll keep the gate. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Balcony overlooking Margarita'' s pyre. 
 
 Celano \looking at Markwald^ who is walki?ig round it]. 
 The fires are dying down. What's blasted him ? 
 Is it the bolt of Heaven ? Wounded pride? 
 He's built on Henry's favour. Good my Mark, 
 The Emp'ror shall disgrace you. God may scar, 
 The royal woodsman sunders you at base. 
 To-morrow, when my last great victim falls, 
 My wedding-day, the triumph were complete 
 Did not a rival's shadow cross the throne. 
 [Enter the Emperor.] 
 
 Emperor. Peter, it's out ! No Teuton can withstand 
 
298 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Sicilian arts ! Markwald's been prowling round 
 
 That pyre to see 
 
 Justice on Henry's murderer ? — the bones 
 
 Of a dead rival. He's for Tancred's line 
 
 Hot as was Margarito. There he stood 
 
 And blubber'd like a baby. I recall 
 
 His words, "The deed is devilish ; you blind 
 
 The child, but not men's judgments, seeing eyes 
 
 Condemn your deed." — I'd have such eyes put out 
 
 Imperial policy. . . . 
 
 \The Fool bursts ni.] 
 Fool, are you crazed ? 
 Is the Archbishop hanging by the leg ? 
 
 Foo/. It is not that. Lord Markwald set me on 
 To watch it alL — 
 The pretty lady lolante stood 
 So white and cold against the flame. I ran 
 To play wi' the little prince, but others came 
 Gave him hot sport. 
 
 Celatio. Your folly's lost its wits. Poor fool, you've 
 miss'd 
 The jangle of your bells these last twelve hours. 
 
 Fool \to the Emperor]. I am a boy ; master, be merciful. 
 
 Emperor. You shall be whipt, till you cry out yourself 
 For mercy. \^To Attenda?tts.] Get him flogg'd. A fool 
 
 implores 
 Mercy for such. 
 
 [^Exeunt Attendants with Fool.'] My anger is confirm'd. 
 I tell you, Markwald is remorseful now 
 For kindling those spent faggots. As they bore 
 Sybilla to her cell, a cry was heard : 
 " Markwald, my boy's grim father, you'll revenge." 
 He breathed deep in reply. 
 
 Celano. Has anything, 
 
 My liege, miscarried that I undertook "i 
 To-morrow lolante dies : he waits 
 To see her pass ; — the State dispenses with 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 299 
 
 His ocular aid henceforward. What, you start ! 
 We'll merely blind him, for his sympathy 
 With those dead rebels ; 'mong the ruins there. 
 He's dangerous ; a bandage for the eyes 
 Secures his loyalty, so saves his life. 
 I would not have you doom him to the block 
 For sake of ancient service. Yet a word, 
 My liege ; I craved an audience to ask 
 A private favour of you. Will you deign 
 Visit my house to-morrow ? No more blood. 
 We'll give you change from this grim festival, 
 The scaffold's ; to my bride Veronica 
 I will conduct you. 
 
 Emperor. You have had enough 
 
 Of these cursed marriages. 
 
 Celano. Veronica 
 
 JNIust be subdued ere the rebellion end. 
 I marry her and then — 
 
 Emperor. Well, you've the brain, 
 
 I owe you much, and you shall have your whim. {Exit. 
 
 {Enter Veronica^ 
 
 Celano. Veronica — and frozen to the scent. 
 She'll never drop her leaves for misery 
 Like the little fool Azaire. A perfect pride ! 
 And not one stone 
 
 Left on another, when the world again 
 Looks toward the edifice ! — Alas, how few 
 The moments we can give to love. You're pale. 
 
 Veroftica. We wed to-night ? To-morrow to the king 
 You will present me .'' 
 
 Celano. Yes, I sent you word 
 
 The marriage would not be before the Court, 
 The king has so scant leisure ; yet he greets 
 My bride the first day of her state. 
 
 Veronica. The priest 
 
 Stays for you at the altar, with the friends 
 I've brought to witness it. 
 
300 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Celano. You're poorly clad 
 
 In this white gown. 
 
 Veronica, Could I look more beautiful ? 
 
 I thought not when the mirror faced me. 
 
 Celano. True. 
 
 A touch of humbleness would perfect you. 
 Must Beauty always grow on pride's stiff stalk ? 
 You are impatient ; but I am not dress'd 
 As bridegroom. Stay awhile ; I'll come for you 
 In the dove-colour'd robe. \Exit Celano. 
 
 Vero7tica \_looki?ig out wildly]. The fire is dead ; 
 It leaps not to reproach me. I am hard, 
 I have no pity ; I am only glad 
 As it had ceased to lighten in the sky 
 Because the thunder flutters me. It's stilL 
 I am at last about to be his wife 
 (There's terror in it, in my only hope !) 
 The blue eyes that he's borrow'd fascinate ; 
 They're borrow'd for my wedding. Andrea 
 Had that cold glance — I thought youth's chastity 
 Till he look'd down on wreck'd Veronica 
 Aloof and critical. 
 
 \Re-enter Celano^ 
 
 Celano, This hand is ice 
 
 Within my fingers. 
 
 Veronica. But the wedding-ring 
 
 Will give it warmth, my lord. The priest attends. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A Cell. I ol ante and Gaoler. 
 
 lolajite. At ten i' the morning — when the day has pass'd 
 Its early youth and looks as old as I .-* 
 You will be there ? 
 
 Gaoler. Your lord will see you pass. 
 
 lolante. Lord Markwald ! 
 
 Gaoler. Doom'd for clear disloyalty ; 
 
 They found him raking out the traitors' ash. 
 
 I 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 3OI 
 
 lolante. Is he to die ? 
 
 Gaoler. They'll blind him, when he's used 
 
 His eyes to-morrow ; 'tis his own desire 
 To keep 'em till he's seen all have their due. 
 
 lolaiite. Would I might be his executioner ! 
 
 Gaoler. Lady, you have no fear ; there's some of us 
 Will use him roughly. 
 
 lolaiite. You have been my friend. 
 
 Now listen ; try to understand ; he judged 
 Us rightly. I was a conspirator ; 
 Margaritone was of blacker dye ; 
 He kill'd us for his country ; but he loved. 
 He cannot over-live us. See he die. 
 
 Gaoler. Sweet lady — 
 
 lolante. Is he not your countryman } 
 
 You Germans do not falter. For his land — 
 He served it to the sev'ring of his heart; 
 But do not doubt he loves Sicilia well, 
 And therefore must he die. — Oh, see it done ! 
 Touch not his eyes till his o'erstrained soul 
 Break from its prison. 
 
 Gaoler. Nay, I promise you. 
 
 I have authority. {Exit. 
 
 lolante. Then now to sleep 
 
 For this one night alone. 
 
 \Lies down on a pallet and sleeps. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Street in Palermo. Enter Markwald and 
 
 Warders. 
 
 1st Warder. We'll stand in the shadow o' the wall ; 'tis a 
 hot sun. 
 
 2nd Warder. Good sir, we pause. — He might be walking 
 in his sleep. 
 
 2,rd Warder. After a^ manner 'twill be always so when 
 he's got no sight. Poor gentleman !— an' I so timid at dark- 
 ness, 'cause of ghosts an' foul dreams. An' there's no cock- 
 
302 LOYALTY OR LOVE ? 
 
 crow to his sort o' sleep ; till the last trump. All dark — 
 night, day, an' the grave. 
 
 2nd Warder. Do you dream ill ? 
 
 3^^ Warder. 'Till I scream like a houseless cat at mid- 
 night. I dreamt last night of a bloody gibbet, an' the devils 
 making their tongues red. My wife says 'tis the wine ; but I 
 hold 'tis my kind o' head. 
 
 \st Warder. Saints be thank'd ! I'm sober in my sleep. 
 Stop, sir, don't stumble ; here is better shade. 
 
 Markwald. The sun is cover'd by yon dome. Bright 
 Heaven, 
 I'll make my own eclipse ! 
 
 2nd Warder. But just in time. Look out — 
 \A processio7i begins to appear.\ 
 Poor soul ! 
 
 Markwald. The axe ! — 
 It points not to my heart. — The other way ! 
 And there — 
 
 \Enter lolante attended?^ 
 Why did they let her dress herself in white ? 
 No matter. She is nothing. — Would these windows 
 Were broken into shivers ! \To Warders?^ Pleasant shade ! 
 
 lolanie [^kissing his eyes]. Alas, they have been ever 
 blinded. See ! 
 Thy lolante, going to her Judge, 
 Dares thus, with blessed wifely privilege, 
 To kiss them. 
 
 Markwald. Surely these are faithful lips 
 That press so firmly ; little constant lips 
 That have not said what's wicked. 
 
 Iola7tte. Never, never ! 
 
 Markwald. They'll leave me the poor lids that you have 
 kiss'd. 
 Light of my eyes ! 
 
 lolante. Tho' everything Is dark, 
 
 I'll see for you from Heav'n. 
 
 Markwald. God bless you. 
 
 I 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE ? 303 
 
 Headsman. Lady, 
 
 We wait no longer. 
 
 Markwald. lolante — wife ! 
 
 [Exeunt lolante and procession. 
 These hateful eyes, like lights above the marsh, 
 Misled my love. Oh, take me to the place 
 Where I can get them quench'd. — Ay, there's the flov/r 
 That, when I pinch'd her mouth into a pout. 
 She mimick'd and she call'd it Snapdragon. 
 
 ^rd Warder. Here, shove me with your shoulder an' I'll 
 pick it from the wall. Then — march ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — A lordly Room. Veronica before a mirror , 
 S2iperbly dressed. Enter Celano at a distance. 
 
 Celajzo. There are dark lines round her eyes ; she's won 
 her goal. 
 She says she is my wife. 'Tis manifest 
 She loves me ; I shall see now if she'll bear 
 Disgrace with me,— or if it be the name 
 She sought but to recover. — Why not wear 
 That string of pearls I deck'd you with last night ? 
 
 Vero7tica. Will you not put it on ? 
 [Gives hifn the pearls. As he clasps the necklace, a tear falls 
 
 on his hand-l 
 
 Celano. D' you give me liquid pearls ? I ask no price 
 For my necklace ; 'tis a gift. 
 
 Veronica. Why, so am I, 
 
 Celano ; I have given you myself. 
 Body and soul : — there is a look in your eyes 
 As you had bought a slave-girl. 
 
 Celafio. I have pride 
 
 In my most rare possession : lift your eyes, 
 We need their sapphire — or the marble cheek 
 Repels from kissing. See the king attends ! 
 [Enter Emperor a?id train?\ 
 Do I not give you state.'' That haggard brow I — 
 
304 LOYALTY OR LOVE ? 
 
 Fie on you for a bride ! 
 
 Veronica. Oh, mock me not ! 
 
 Celano. My liege, it is a strain of courtesy 
 To pay us bridal honours, while the town 
 Is still unsettled, from the cares of state 
 Sparing an hour to taste your subject's joy. 
 
 E7)iperor. Sweet lady, by my royalty, I'm glad 
 Faithful Celano hath so fair a wife. 
 Had you been found my enemy — 
 
 Celano. Perchance 
 
 I may bespeak a place for her beside 
 The queen, reward for her meek loyalty 
 
 \l7i low voice to Emperor. 
 And frankness ; she has scrupled not, my liege, 
 To lend her hand to the creative work 
 Of the forged letters. Ay, a goodly hand 
 That will not blush at falsehood. \Presses il.] Does it hurt, 
 This wedding-ring ? You wince. I'll take it off. 
 
 Veronica. Leave jesting. [Aside.] God, what part am I 
 to play ! 
 There's the very look in all that crowd of eyes 
 I saw when they degraded the wrong'd priest. 
 
 Etnperor. My queen needs tendance, for her hope is soon 
 To give my lands an heir. 
 
 Veronica, Most joyfully 
 
 I shall attend her Highness. 
 
 Cela?io. Heaven grant 
 
 Your hopes prosperity. Wilt please you pass 
 Where my poor bridal off'rings are set forth ; 
 My bride exacts such homage. [Leads Veronica to a table 
 richly laden with jewelled cups, /air array, etc.] Ah, 
 a thing 
 Of ancient admiration— coveted 
 How long, that cross of lapis lazuli f 
 
 Veronica [not heeding hifn], God ! Andrea's first gift, 
 torn from my neck. 
 When . . . I'm his wife, he'll not dishonour me : 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 305 
 
 [aloud] I like the fashion of this cup— 'tis well. 
 My liege, what think you of it ? 
 
 Celano. All this while 
 
 You're speaking in a tongue that irks the king. 
 Discourse to him in German. 
 
 Veronica. That must be 
 
 As my lord finds teachers. 
 
 Celano. Oh, I've thought of that ; 
 
 And to begin with, there's a German girl 
 I've chosen to attend you, with regard 
 To accent. \To Servant.] Will you summon Madeleine } 
 \Madelei7ie enters^ with a child i7i her arfns.] 
 
 Veronica [glancing at her]. My lord, what is 't you do ? 
 Some paramour 
 Brought to insult me .''—Oh, oh ! 
 
 Celano. Madeleine, 
 
 Defend yourself, declaring who you are. 
 
 Madeleine. I am his wife, and this his lawful child. 
 
 Celano. Truth, girl ! And this 7ny mistress. 
 [Pointing to Veronica^ staitding superb amotig her jewels. 
 
 Veronica [clutching a small jewelled dagger a?id stabbi?tg 
 Madeleine]. Now your wife. [Falls sejiseless, 
 
 Celajzo. Look to the babe ; it is my lawful son ; 
 Heaven grant it be not hurt ! Veronica, 
 We'd lived in lawless love, my peerless one ; 
 I never would have banish'd thee. 
 
 Servants. ^ Alack, 
 
 The babe is dead. 
 
 Celajio. What, kill'd — my young Azaire ! 
 
 Murd'ress, 'tis you who crush'd it, and she's slain. 
 I'm baulk'd. Do you think I want your services, 
 You maudlin wretch ? Hence, blunderer — your hire ! 
 
 [Re-stabs Madeleine. 
 
 Adheld [pointing to Veronica]. Now she's not here to 
 chide me, I'll avenge. 
 Her prayers delay'd this tragedy. [Stabs Celano. 
 
 Celano. Well done ! 
 
 X 
 
306 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 Adheld, it would have been 
 
 More Roman to have bid you hold my sword 
 
 While I fell on it. One thing I command, 
 
 You close my eyes now shuddering from light, 
 
 And, pardon'd by your murder'd master, live 
 
 My faultless squire. [Bzes. 
 
 Adheld. Oh, kill me from his sight ! 
 
 \Turiiing to Veronica^ But Heaven ! She wakes. 
 
 Veronica. Bring me my husband, quick. 
 
 Adheld. Alack, sweet lady, he is dead. 
 
 Veronica. Oh, then 
 
 I am his widow ; see they bury us 
 In the Cistercian Chapel side by side. \Dies. 
 
 Emperor. O dignity superb ! 
 
 \To Adheld] Of the dead pardon that accords you life 
 We'll reap the profit : let your tongue give clue 
 To this dire tragedy. What drew your lord, 
 A man whose nature was not of the clime 
 Where tears are foster'd, to sob o'er that babe, 
 And with such fury pierce your sister's heart 1 
 Celano, your domestic policy 
 Is grim and dull. Why did he stumble thus ? 
 
 Adheld. My liege, his one thought betwixt state affairs 
 Was of this lady \lurning trembling to Veronica] ; her he 
 
 dearly loved, 
 Loved vainly as a boy — was spurn'd ; he found 
 His younger brother, since a monk, had won 
 Her secret love, and vow'd to publish it. 
 The lady then entreated him to wed 
 And shield her ; but he fear'd she sought his name. 
 Indifferent to his love. 
 
 [Enter Messenger.] 
 
 Emperor. Who seeks us thus ? 
 
 Messenger. Markwald is dead. As they were blinding 
 him. 
 He fell upon his torturers and used 
 Their instruments — not to put out his eyes, 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 3© 7 
 
 But, as he said, his life. 
 
 Ej7iperor. Markwald is dead ! 
 
 It was a threat. 
 
 Messe7iger. The order was most strict. 
 
 Einpet'or, Celano, ah, I fear 'twas jealousy ! 
 You would have been the highest in my love ; 
 To you I owe my kingdom. 
 
 [Enter an Old Woman^ 
 
 Old Woman. O my liege, 
 
 You have a son. 
 
 Emperor. Now by my fatherhood, I feel the clue 
 To this dark maze. Celano, your dead son 
 Shall have a tomb next to the solemn vault 
 Where majesty is laid. My lords, away ; 
 This is no fitting chamber for the news 
 Of the queen's blest deliv'rance. Let us go 
 Greet our young prince. \Exeunt all but Adheld. 
 
 Adheld. Now I may close her eyes. 
 
 Scene VI. — A Chapel. Midnight. Veronica and Celano, 
 superbly dressed, on biers. Moonlight falls on the floor 
 of the Chapel. In the distance by the dimly -lighted altar 
 Monks are chanting j they approach, A few remain 
 grouped round the bier; the rest retire. 
 
 \st Mo7tk [to a brother luho rises from his knees}. Thou 
 hast not wander'd from thy pray'rs ? 
 
 2nd Monk. But once, 
 
 To see the soul for whom I sought release. 
 
 2,rd Monk. They say she is not the true lawful wife. 
 She had a fearful pride ; the Emperor 
 Was smitten with her beauty, and allows 
 This stately burial as she were his bride. 
 
 ind Monk. A mighty temptress ! By St. Benedict, 
 
3o8 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 I had to shut my eyes to pray for her ; 
 Satan is in me yet. 
 
 1st Monk. The funeral 
 
 Is to be full of pomp. 
 
 2nd Monk. She should have been 
 
 Herself the Empress ; she's imperial ; 
 Her brow a crown, and her thrice-coiled hair 
 A tiara of gold ; her hand 
 Is Venus-white, half azure from the sea. 
 
 1st Monk. She's but a comely woman, touch her not ; 
 The image is profane. 
 
 2,rd Mo7tk [to 2nd Monk]. Your watch is o'er. 
 
 1st Mo?ik. Take no farewells ; but go and scourge 
 yourself. 
 This is a sinner's corpse. 
 
 2nd Monk. 'Tis beauty's shrine. 
 
 2,rd Monk. She died, they say, of stifled jealousy 
 As 'twere by her own hand : she's in the flame. 
 
 2nd Monk. Oh, happy to encircle her ! In hell 
 There must be rare encounters. I will go. 
 [Enter Andrea.] 
 
 Andrea. You all of you may rest. I'll watch and pray, 
 And guard the dead till midnight ; then, return ! 
 
 [Exeunt Mo?iks, carejtdly veili?ig the corpse. 
 To be again alone with her ; in truth 
 She has protection in her husband, — ah, 
 Death now has forced him join a brotherhood 
 Denied all earthly pleasure : ne'er again 
 He swore should I behold this blessed one, 
 And now, so she is gracious to my suit. 
 My fasting lips shall banquet on her cheeks 
 While he lies there unfeasted. [Touching the grave-clothes.] 
 
 How the folds 
 In shimmering creases fall upon her breast, 
 I dare not touch them. 'Tis as when I climb'd 
 The trellis to her room : she lay within. 
 So solemn in repose, so beautiful, 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 309 
 
 I held my breath and worshipp'd. Suddenly 
 
 She waked, — ah, God, if she had been afraid, 
 
 Entreated me to leave her, — but she smiled. 
 
 And as a queen bow'd o'er me in embrace. 
 
 I dare not lift this cover {^grasping the cover on her /ace] ; 
 
 I might meet 
 Repulse ; the dead can look forbiddingly ; 
 I had forgotten she is lying dead, 
 And I must pray for her . . . Oh, presently. 
 But first 
 
 I'll see they've laid God's image on her breast. 
 And kiss — the crucifix ; then spread the cloth 
 ' Twixt me and her and get me to my pray'rs. 
 
 [He d7'aws aside the face- cloth and passionately kisses her. 
 Oh, Christ ! And you are buried as his wife 1 
 Mine, mine ! Receive me ! 
 
 \He falls in a swoo7t on the body, aitd dies. 
 {After a long pause re-enter Monks and their Superior.] 
 ist Monk. How's this ? The devil hath been tempting him. 
 2,rd Monk. He's push'd aside the cross ; he's in a swoon. 
 2nd Monk. Methinks the face looks softer. Can it be 
 The lady hath revived ? 
 
 \st Monk \turning the face of Andrea to the moonlight]. 
 
 Poor soul, he's gone. 
 nnd Monk. See ! he has caught her hand, the ring hath 
 
 slipp'd. 
 All. Most wonderful ! 
 
 ind Monk. Good father, do you note 1 
 
 Superior. Too young, too young our brother was to watch. 
 He to his Church, his spiritual land, 
 Hath been disloyal, cleaving to his love. 
 
 All. We shall be charm'd unless we fly the place, 
 Entranced by the devil. 
 
 Superior. He is lost. 
 
 Fetch a low bier ; and lay him at her feet. 
 Chant soft as ye retire to cleanse the air. 
 
 \Exeiint solemnly chanting. 
 
3IO LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 3CENE VII. — Outside the Walls of Palermo. A desolate 
 country, strew tt with bones and ashes j Clara sittitig 
 by a mound. Enter Sybilla. 
 
 Sybilla. He broke from me — the wild fantastic lad. 
 I'll sit down on the refuse. That's a grave ! 
 Are you not smiling there ? A pretty mound 
 Of flo Vrs and my boy's body safe beneath, 
 With no more cruel torturer than the worms. 
 Oh, I would rest beside it and laugh so ! — 
 Like the fool. — He's in the Alps, 
 Blind, mutilate, and motherless. 
 The man-child of my womb. If they'd give him me 
 To finish the wild work, so one by one 
 I'd pluck the senses out ! He should not hear. 
 You'll find the scars of his shrieks about my heart — 
 Nor touch with seeking hands. I'd bury him 
 Wholly alive. What are you doing there ? 
 
 Clara. They cast the ashes here ; I pick them up. 
 They say full fifty men were burn'd alive ; 
 There are bones too . . . and trinkets. 
 
 Sybilla. Burnt to clear ash ! What all the misery ? 
 Go, score your brow with them and comfort you. 
 Is it possible to turn fine gold to dross, 
 Degrading nature ? 
 
 Clara. I delivered him 
 
 To justice, — he was treasonous. I loved 
 My country. . . . 
 
 Sybilla. You're that German girl who brought 
 The patriot Margaritone, thus 
 To dust ? — the harlot ! 
 
 Cla7-a. Here are double rings, — 
 
 One black and rusty, but I recognised — 
 
LOYALTY OR LOVE? 31I 
 
 They're our betrothal rings. I am his bride. 
 You speak the truth to call him patriot ; 
 He died for his country. Oh, thou widovv'd land, 
 Thou art sad for him, thou hast large space to mourn ; 
 Poor little Clara with her confined heart 
 Dare not receive such sorrow. — After death, 
 Friends go away ; one comes to wash the corse ; 
 There's in me that fidelity to cleanse 
 The death-sweat from the brow, prop up the chin. 
 Set the lips straight for kisses. Things being thus, 
 I stay 
 
 To cover up the ashes. I shall wait 
 Till the vine smothers up the spot, and then, 
 When the last offices are done, I'll go 
 
 And die in my own land. \Burying some ashes. 
 
 \Enter FoolP[ 
 
 Fool. Come away, mother, — mother, come away, 
 My folly's gone from me, my childishness. 
 I'm the little prince, your son — in motley too 
 To make you laugh — the Prince ! Just see me dance. 
 Mother, I'll make you fool first, then I'll go 
 And pray for you in a convent. Don't you stand 
 To see them burn. . . . Mother, they took the fool, 
 A boy too like myself — you must not see — 
 After they Winded him, I stole his cap 
 And little motley coat — 
 To dance before you that you may not see ; 
 And the bells, bells ; mother,, listen ! 
 
 Clara. Are you a queen ? 
 
 Have you escaped from hard captivity ? 
 
 Sybilla. I am a queen. Oh, you say wisely, you 
 Vile doggish creature, snuffing at the grave 
 Of your dead hero — verily a queen. 
 I came here for the air — the sweet soft smell, 
 Like violets, of my Sicilia's corse. 
 
 Fool. Lady, I brought her here, for she cried for the 
 country ; 'tis a jest, for the country is the fields and the 
 
312 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 scaffold. Margarito asked for his country and they gave 
 him a bundle of sticks. I take the lady to the green fields. 
 Come away, mother, to the fields ! 
 
 For the country is where it's green all day, 
 And cannot be where it's red ; 
 The country is where it's green all day, 
 And so still, because one's dead. 
 
 To the country, come ! > 
 
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 DAY AND TO *l."" 
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