University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Hut.
Alfred discovered trimming some arrows, with an unfinished bow beside him—Maude kneading flour for cakes.
Maude.
[Aside.]
Ay, there he's at his work! if work be that,
Which spareth toil. He'll trim a shaft, or shape
A bow with any archer in the land;
But neither can he plough, nor sow!—I doubt
If he can dig—I am sure he cannot reap—
He has hands and arms, but not the use of them!
Corin!

Alf.
Your will?

Maude.
Would thou couldst do my will
As readily as ask it! Go to the door;
And look if Edwin comes. Dost see him?

Alf.
No.

Maude.
Bad omen that! He'll bring an empty creel;
Else, were he home ere now. Put on more wood;
And lay the logs on end! You'll learn in time
To make a fire! Why, what a litter's there,
With trimming of your shafts that never hit!
Ten days ago you kill'd a sorry buck;
Since when, your quiver you have emptied, thrice,
Nor ruffled hair nor feather.

Alf.
If the game
Are scarce and shy, I cannot help it.

Maude.
Out!
Your aim, I wot, is shy, your labour scant!
There's game enow, wouldst thou but hunt for them;
And when you find them, hit them! What expect'st
To-day, for dinner?

Alf.
What Heaven sends!

Maude.
Suppose
It sends us nought?

Alf.
Its will be done!

Maud.
You'd starve?
So would not I, knew I to bend a bow,
Or cast a line! See if thou hast the skill
To watch these cakes, the while they toast.

Alf.
I'll do
My best.

Maude.
Nor much to brag of, when all's done!

[Goes out.
Alf.
[solus].
This is the lesson of dependence. Will
Thankless, that brings not profit; labour, spurn'd,
That sweats in vain; and patience, tax'd the more,
The more it bears!—And taught unto a king—
Taught by a peasant's wife, whom fate hath made
Her sovereign's monitress. She little knows
At whom she rails; yet is the roof her own;
Nor does she play the housewife grudgingly.
Give her her humour! So! How stands the account
'Twixt me and fortune?—We are wholly quits!—
She dress'd me—She has stripp'd me!—On a throne
She placed me—She has struck me from my seat!
Nor in the respect where sovereigns share alike
With those they rule, was she less kind to me—
Less cruel! High she fill'd for me the cup
Of bliss connubial—She has emptied it!
Parental love she set before me too,
And bade me banquet; scarce I tasted, ere
She snatch'd the feast away! My queen—My child!—
Where are they? 'Neath the ashes of my castle!
I sat upon their tomb one day—one night.
Then, first, I felt the thraldom of despair!
The despot, he! He would not let me weep!
There were the fountains of my tears as dry
As they had never flow'd! To bursting swell'd
My heart; and yet no sigh would he let forth
With vent to give it ease! There had I sat
And died—But Heaven a stronger tyrant sent—
Hunger, that wrench'd me from the other's grasp,
And dragg'd me hither! This is not the lesson
I set myself to con!

Re-enter Maude.
Maude.
'Tis noon, and yet
No sign of Edwin! Dost thou mind thy task?
Look to't! and when the cakes are fit to turn,
Call, and I'll come!

Alf.
I'll turn them, dame.

Maude.
You will?
You'll break them!—Know I not your handy ways?
I would not suffer thee put finger to them!
Call, when 'tis time. You'll turn the cakes, forsooth!
As likely thou couldst make the cakes as turn them!

[Goes out.
Alf.
So much for poverty! Adversity's
The nurse for kings;—but then the palace gates
Are shut against her!—They would, else, have hearts
Of mercy oft'ner—gems, not always, dropp'd
In fortune's golden cup. What thought hath he
How hunger warpeth honesty, whose meal
Still waited on the hour? Can he perceive
How nakedness converts the kindly milk
Of nature into ice, to whom each change
Of season—yea, each shifting of the wind,
Presents his fitting suit? Knows he the storm
That makes the valiant quail, who hears it only
Through the safe wall, its voice alone can pierce;
And there talks comfort to him with the tongue,
That bids, without, the shelterless despair?
Perhaps he marks the mountain wave, and smiles
So high it rolls!—while on its fellow hangs
The fainting seaman glaring down at death
In the deep trough below! Let me extract
Riches from penury; from sufferings
Blessings; that if I e'er assume again
The sceptre, I may be the more a king
By being more a man!

Maude re-enters, goes towards the fire, lifts the cakes, goes to Alfred, and holds them to him.
Maude.
Is this your care?
Ne'er did you dream that meal was made of corn?
Which is not grown until the earth be plough'd;
Which is not garner'd up until 'tis cut;
Which is not fit for use until 'tis ground;
Nor uséd then till kneaded into bread!
Ne'er knew you this? It seems you never did,
Else had you known the value of the bread;
Thought of the ploughman's toil, the reaper's sweat,
The miller's labour, and the housewife's thrift;
And not have left my barley cakes to burn
To very cinders!

Alf.
I forgot, good dame!

Maude.
Forgot, good dame!—Forgot! You ne'er forgot
To eat my barley cakes! [Knock.]
Open the door!

Maude sets the cakes on the table, where she had been kneading them; Alfred opens the door.
Alf.
An aged man!

Maude.
Come in— Enter an Old Man.]
What want you?

Old Man.
Food!

Maude.
Want calls on want, when you look here for food!

Old Man.
Good dame, to say I have not tasted food
Since morning yesterday, is not to speak
My need more urgent than it is.

Maude.
Whate'er
Thy need, we cannot minister to it—
Seek richer quarters.

Alf.
Stay! He's in the gripe
Of straitest want! There's food, and give it him!

Maude.
What! when we've scanty stock for three days more!

Alf.
We breakfasted this morning; yesternight
We supp'd, and noon ere then had seen us dine.
Since yestermorn he has not touch'd a meal!
Whoe'er lacks food, 'tis now his turn to eat.
This portion would be mine—I'll go without!
Here!—Here!—Good dame, the hand which gave us that
Will not more sparing of its bounty be
For using thus its gift! The hand that fed
So many thousands with what only seem'd
Provision for a few, can, also, make
The remnant answer us for many a meal!

Old Man.
O strong in faith!—In mercy rich! Whoe'er
Thou art, that hand is with thee! Wast thou great,
And art thou now brought low?—'twill make thy fall,
Thy rise—thy want, abundance—thy endurings,
Enjoyings—and thy desolation, troops
Of friends and lovers, countless! Does the storm
Hold on? Ne'er heed it! There's the sun behind,
That, with effulgence, double, shall break through,
And make thee cloudless day!

[Goes out.
Maude.
A poor man's wish,
They say, is better than a rich man's gift.
If house and lands thou'st lost, I would not say
But thou mayst get them back again; with roof
Enlarged, and acres grown. Yet lands and house
To come, are not so good as bread in hand,
And that thou'st given away,—if Edwin speeds
No better than he did yesterday!

Alf.
Ne'er fear—
These arrows when I've trimm'd, and strung this bow,
I'll find thee out a garner in these wilds
To dress the table still!

Maude.
I'd rather trust
A peck of barley meal to furnish it!

Edwin
[without].
What, hoa! within!

Maude.
'Tis Edwin's voice!

Edwin
[without].
Within!
Open the door!

Maude.
Thank Providence, his hands
Have something else to do!

[Opens the door.
Edwin.
[Entering with a sack.]
Provision, wife!
A month's subsistence! Take it in, and ply
Thy housewifery; for friends must eat of it—
Guests, sure of welcome, who supply the board
They ask their hosts to spread—a gallant troop
Of countrymen, for common safety link'd,
And wand'ring through the land, with hopes, they say,
To learn some tidings of their king; and if
They find him, list themselves beneath his banner,
And face the Dane again.

[Maude goes out.
Alf.
[Aside.]
The land's not lost
That's left a son to struggle for't! The king
That's firmly seated in his people's hearts—
His proper throne—although supplanted, reigns.

Edwin.
[Going to the door.]
In! in!

Enter Egbert, Kenrick, Arthur, Edwy, Oswald, and others, variously armed.
Eg.
Thanks, friend!

Edwin.
No thanks, good sirs, to me,
You're guests the frugal'st host might entertain,
Who cater for yourselves. Sit down! The board
Shall soon be cover'd.

Eg.
And we bring a cup
To cheer it with, with richer beverage
Than what the fountain yields, replenish'd. Bring
A flagon, worthy host—

Ken.
[Aside to Arthur.]
Commend him to
A cover'd board and brimming cup! He's fit
To play the leader there;—but he's no head
For men like us, that rise betimes from meat,
And wish for busy hands! I'm weary on't!

Arth.
[Aside to Kenrick.]
And so am I! and, trust me, of our minds
Are many more!

Ken.
To lead a life of shifts
That we may dine in safety! I'll no more on't!
Give me a skirmish!

Arth.
Tell him so!

Ken.
I will,
Ere I touch food, again!

[Returns with Arthur.
Eg.
[To Alfred.]
Is it a bow
You shape?

Alf.
It is.

Eg.
I pray you show it me.

[Beckoning Alfred.
Alf.
[Rising and coming forward.]
Here.

Eg.
[Struck with the appearance of Alfred.]
I did wrong to call you from your seat.

Alf.
No wrong is done where none is meant.

Eg.
You make
The trespass greater, so excusing it!
Lodge you beneath this roof?

Alf.
I do.

Eg.
[Aside.]
I've met
With men whose air and faces almost told
Their histories, that I could say, “Now this
Was such, or such, a man—such course of life,
Or such, pursued—this kind of acts, or that,
Perform'd.” His dress, alone, bespeaks the peasant.
Change it for e'en the richest, he would seem
Far more, indeed, at home!

Alf.
You'd see the bow?

Eg.
[Mechanically taking, and almost at the same time returning it.]
Your pardon! I forgot! I humbly thank you!

[Alfred returns to his seat.
Enter Maude, with cakes, which she lays on the table, while one of Egbert's party enters with a flagon, and sets it down.
Maude.
This bread will serve till more is ready, friends.

[Goes out.
Eg.
Sit down.

Ken.
Sit down who will, I'll not sit down!

Arth.
Nor I!

Osw.
Nor I!

Eg.
Why? what's amiss?

Ken.
We loathe
To lead this wary life. The very deer
Confess the covert irksome, and at times
Betake them to the plain.

Eg.
Not when they hear
The hunters are abroad! Sit down! Sit down!

Ken.
We'll not sit down, till 'tis determined who
Shall head the table!

Eg.
I shall head it!

Ken.
Ay?

Edwy.
And wherefore should he not?

Ken.
Go to! Go to!
You question far too bold for one so young.

Edwy.
I question in the right, and so am bold
Far less than thou, that question'st in the wrong!

Ken.
The wrong?—Thou'rt but a boy!

Edwy.
The boy that proves
Himself a man, does all a man can do.

Ken.
Beware thou dost not prove thyself on me,
My metal's temper'd—thine, at best, but raw!
Before thy chin exchanged its coat of down
For one of manlier fashion, I had shown
A beard in twenty fields!

Eg.
No more of this!
The post by lot is mine. I got it not
Of mine own choice; nor, yet, by partial leave.
It fell to me. It might have fallen to you,
To him, or him—to any one—and then—
No matter! If, by fearing to be rash,
And overshoot the mark, my shaft hath lit
O'er-short on't, I am content a better bow
Should lead the game.

Edwy.
It shall not be! We'll have
No other leader! Sides, Sirs, sides!

Ken.
Come on!
When they've such stomach for't, 'twere strange if we
Lack'd appetite. Come on!

Alf.
[Rushing in between them as they are on the point of encountering.]
Hold!—Stop!—Which side's
The Dane? I stand for England! Can it be?
You're Saxons all! What! Are your foes so few
You make ones of each other? Fie, Sirs! Fie!

Arth.
[To Kenrick.]
Who's he?

Ken.
I know not.

Alf.
[To Kenrick.]
You're a soldier?

Ken.
Yes.

Alf.
Whose sword is that you draw?

Ken.
My own.

Alf.
Your country's!
You took it, with an oath to use it 'gainst
Her foes, and do you turn it on her sons?
For shame!

Arth.
Why bear you his rebuke?

Alf.
[To Arthur.]
And you?

Arth.
A soldier too!

Alf.
[To Oswald.]
And you?

Osw.
The same!

Alf.
Beneath whose banner shot you arrow last?

Arth. and Osw.
The king's.

Alf.
And take you aim at the king's liege?
As well the king himself! What! do you stand
With graspéd weapons still? Or do you look
For signal here?—Old soldier, why is this?
Is't thus you use your battle-temper'd sword?
Is that the rust of Danish blood upon't?
These hacks—are they the thrusts of Danish blades?
Ne'er hath it met the foe that master'd it?
Ne'er hath it fail'd the friend that call'd upon it?
Still did it guard thy country while it could?
Yet would it back thy king, did he command?
And wouldst thou tarnish it?
[Kenrick hangs his head.
The field, the field,
You drew it last in?—Ha!—You start at that!
Remember you who won that field? You do!
His shout is in thine ear again! Thine eye
Beholds him scattering carnage through the ranks
Of those that fled!—The Saxon then was down!—
What! tighten you your grasp, till, with the strain,
Your weapon trembles? Keep it for the Dane,
And put it, stainless, up!

[Kenrick sheathes his sword—Arthur and Oswald unbend their bows—The rest follow the example.
Eg.
[Aside.]
What man is this,
That lacks all sign and title of command,
Yet all obey?

Edwy.
We're friends again?

Ken.
Content!

Eg.
A cup, then, to our making up.—Sit down.—
A pledge for concord, friends—The king!

[Drinks.
All.
The king!

[Drinking successively.
Eg.
I pray you, Edwy, sing those rhymes for us,
You've strung so well, and we so love to hear.

Edwy.
Right willingly. Though homely be the verse,
I dare be sworn was ne'er more rich in heart.
[Sings.]

Eg.
Well sung.

Edwy.
What's well intended, scarce comes short
Howe'er performance halts—I did my best.

Alf.
My heart o'erflows!—I shall betray myself!
What could my palace boast to vie with this?
Not for its carved roof would I now exchange
These rafters, 'neath whose shelter—vanquish'd, stripp'd
Of crown and sceptre—I am still a king—
My people's hearts my throne!

Eg.
What trumpet's that?

Arth.
[Going to the door.]
I'll see.

Ken.
I know.

Eg.
Whose is it?

Ken.
'Tis the Dane's!
I know his flourish well! Let's out, and meet him!
Is't not the Dane?

[To Arthur, who returns.
Arth.
It is! They're close upon us!—
A quick retreat!—Their numbers double ours!

[All start up except Alfred.
Alf.
No more?

Arth.
No more!—What can we, one to two?

[Alfred rises, looks sternly at him for a moment, and goes out hastily, in an opposite direction.
Eg.
Why goes he?

Arth.
For his safety to provide.
Let us provide for ours by instant flight.

Ken.
He's not the man to fly! My life upon it,
He'll never turn his back upon the foe!—
I told you so!

[Alfred returns, armed with sword and target.
Alf.
What distance off's the Dane?

Arth.
Scarce half a mile by this!

Alf.
[To himself.]
The wood 's to pass.
Unseen we can approach, and set upon them,
All unprepared for us. Divide your band!
[They mechanically obey him, alternately looking at each other and at Alfred, with an expression of wonder and inquiry.
Half with your leader go; and half with me!
[Egbert mechanically heads one of the divisions.
Ours be it to charge! They're sure to waver. Then
Our shout your signal be to second us!
My bounding heart presages victory!
And so I see does yours, old soldier. [To Kenrick.]
Come,
There be our first trust; and our second here!
Say, would you back your king?—Follow your king!

[Alfred and Egbert go out, the rest enthusiastically following.