University of Virginia Library

ISAAC COMNENUS.

A PLAY.

DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Nicephorus Botoniates, Emperor of the East.
• The Patriarch of the Greek Church.
• The Abbot of St. Conon's.
• Isaac Comnenus, Count of the Empire and Military Commander.
• Alexius Comnenus, his Brother, Count of the Empire and Military Commander.
• Macrinus, a Military Leader under Isaac Comnenus.
• Numerian, another.
• Germanus, a Courtier.
• Balbinus, a Monk.
• Eudocia Comnena, Sister of the Comneni.
• Anna Comnena, Cousin of the Comneni.
• Theodora, Daughter of the Emperor.
• Monks, Acolytes, Citizens, Soldiers, Eunuchs, Eparchs, Exorcist, etc., etc., etc.

Scene—Constantinople and its environs.
Time.—The year of our Lord 1088.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—The Palace of the Comneni.
Isaac Comnenus and Macrinus.
Comnenus.
It will not keep, Macrinus; in such things
There is a rotten ripeness supervenes
On the first moment of maturity.

Macrinus.
I well believe, my Lord, that more such schemes
Have failed from over-wariness than rashness.

Comnenus.
Then be our last convention held to-night;
And see that all be summoned.

Macrinus.
I'll look to it.

Comnenus.
And I must to the palace.

Macrinus.
The worse errand.

Comnenus.
It is unseasonable, but not dangerous.
I know Nicephorus well; his roof is safe;
He'd rather that an accident befell me
In any place than there.

Macrinus.
I hope, my Lord,
You put not too much trust in Theodora.

Comnenus.
In her? no—little enough. I could secure her,
But having not a stomach to the means,
I fain would fancy that I do not want her.
Here comes a Lordling of her train. Good-day.

Enter Germanus.
Germanus.
My noble Lord, the Cæsarissa waits
With infinite impatience to behold you:
She bids me say so. Ah! most noble Count!
A fortunate man—the sunshine is upon you—

Comnenus.
Ay, Sir, and wonderfully warm it makes me.
Tell her I'm coming, Sir, with speed. Farewell.
[Exit Germanus.
Didst thou take heed of yon homunculus?

Macrinus.
Ay, my Lord, I marked him.

Comnenus.
We work in the dark and know not what we do;
He that begot him meant him for a man,
And yet thou seest the issue. After dusk,
As soon as may be after dusk, Macrinus,
We meet again.

Scene II.

—The Palace of the Cæsars.
Nicephorus and Theodora.
Nicephorus.
The Count not yet arrived! still more and more
He shows a purposed tardiness.

Theodora.
Not he!
'Tis not his way to measure out the time
As huxtering the minutes.

Nicephorus.
True—but still . . .
The tidings that Alexius is recalled
Cannot have reached him yet?

Theodora.
Surely they cannot.

Nicephorus.
Unless by treachery.

Theodora.
Whom suspect you now?

Nicephorus.
Nay, no one—none—but yet it may be so;
And he might thence surmise some ill intent
Was harboured here against him.

Theodora.
If he should
It were more like he came before the time
Than lingered. But you bear an evil mind
Towards him, and 'tis looking in that glass
You see distrust and thence suspect suspicion.

Nicephorus.
On both sides cause enough; but none so blind
As they that will not see.

Theodora.
And none so lost
As they that know not and that will not know
How dangerous is fear. By phantoms scared
You left the safe and sought the perilous road,
And you have found it.

Nicephorus.
Perils there may be;
But such as I shall know the end of soon.
'Tis time this tampering with an enemy
Should cease. 'Tis now a tedious half-year
That it has stumbled on to humour thee,
And thou art not content.

Theodora.
To humour me!
Yes, 'twas my humour that your head and crown
Should not be ventured in a needless strife
Nor staked for sport.

Nicephorus.
Thou answerest idly, child.
The strife will come—more desperate by delay.
Advances have been made, if seemly all,
Or less than seemly some, I spare to speak;
And not by deed, I doubt if ev'n by word,
Is aught vouchsafed that we can call a pledge.

Theodora.
Count Isaac's lightest words mean something more
Than in court-currency they pass for. You
Nor any man beside can say how far
His heart is pledged.

Nicephorus.
Why, thus much may be said;
Were it his choice to join his house to mine
And take a safe succession for thy dower,
Knowing the contract might be made at once,
Nought would be left in doubt. All the light words
Of courtesy on which thou build'st thy hopes
Do but dissimulate the other choice—
A choice resolved—to wit, to try his strength
With ours in war.

Theodora.
'Tis you drive on the trial;
He never would have sought it, so your fears
Had let him live in peace; but evermore
You feared and feared till dangerous you made him.

Nicephorus.
Have I not shown him every favour due—
Ordered the triumph for his victories,
Myself partaking the festivities?

Theodora.
‘Twould scarcely be acknowledged as it ought
Since that ill accident, the taster's death
Who tasted of the cup you proffered him.

Nicephorus.
Ill accidents are ever in thy mouth.

Theodora.
And since his triumph in the frontier war,
What has been wanting—what but open strife,
To bid him be prepared for self-defence?
Have you not loosed the hydra of the State—
Have you not stirred the vermin of the Church—
Made compact with the natural enemies
Of order and of empire to molest him?
And you would have him move no step to meet you?

Nicephorus.
Too many steps—too many and too long,
Too many strides Count Isaac has advanced
That ever he should stay his foot in peace
Short of the throne. An enemy he is,
And as such must be dealt with. Cease not thou,
Meantime, to show him favour. But beware
Thou lead'st to no surmise that aught impends . . .
That aught . . . I bid thee once again beware
That thou endanger not thy filial faith.
It is not fitting that I meet him now:
Wherefore, thus warned, I leave thee.

[Exit.
Theodora.
Warned, and feared.
Had I been trusted freely from the first
A better claim to my good faith were his.
Where trust is not, there treachery cannot be.
Were but the Count as quick to apprehend
My leaning to his side, as long has been
My father to suspect my falling off,
We had ere this been better understood
Each of the other. He shall know me now. Enter Comnenus.

Enough, Count Isaac, rise; you still forget
The well-deserved exemption you enjoy
From all except the first prostration.

Comnenus.
Ah!
Great is my privilege in Byzantium!
In truth, to stand upon two legs at court
Is what is not infrequently forgotten.

Theodora.
But tell me, Count—we should have met ere this—
Where have you been then?

Comnenus.
Sleeping out the noon.

Theodora.
Asleep?

Comnenus.
Why wherefore not? Sleep, only sleep
Houses the fugitive; sleep shuts the door
Against the hour's too saucy creditors
And bids them rail unheeded and unheard;
Sleep bears the flag of truce to foreign foes;
Sleep stills intestine discord; what but sleep
Can separate the combatants within
Till Time and Death may meet and come to terms
And arbitrate the sole perpetual peace.

Theodora.
Oh, it is no time for your race to sleep,
Unless it were indeed the sleep of death;
And there were tumults in the streets to-day
Might all but wake the dead.

Comnenus.
So noisy were they?
'Tis true there was some shouting in the Forum;
It is a trick of the citizens; when it rains
And corn is mildew'd, straight we have a swarm
Of curious knaves will find us out the cause,
And having found, they noise it in the streets,
Which makes this outcry.

Theodora.
Howsoever made
It might have kept you wakeful, for your name
Bore the chief part.

Comnenus.
I verily believe it;
To-day am I the cause; to-morrow, you;
The next day, it may chance, your royal sire.
'Tis all hap-hazard.

Theodora.
Truly think you so?
Then you think wrong; there is a hidden source
Of these dissensions: but I know not yet
What thanks or whether any should be mine
For confidence unsought.

Comnenus.
Dismiss your doubts;
There are two values in a trust reposed;
The first, the knowledge from the trust derived;
The second, the goodwill of those who give it.
For so much as 'tis given in free goodwill
I value it.

Theodora.
Supposing it so given,
What then to recompense this free goodwill
Would you adventure?

Comnenus.
Oh, the infinite pain
Of hearing an interminable secret—
But not upon the instant unprepared,
For I must fast a month and pray to God.
Meantime I take my leave,—unless perchance
There's aught your Highness would command me in?

Theodora.
You came at leisure—why this haste to go?
Is the escaping from my confidence
A matter so immediate?—Thankless friend!

Comnenus.
There you misjudge me: for the warning given
You have my thanks; for what remains behind
I can surmise its import to this length,
That 'tis intelligence more dangerous
For you to give than me thus warned to want.
I am content: that I am thankful too
Time may prove or may not: 'tis true the same.
So fare you well.

Theodora.
For my sake speak you thus?
Oh, if my peace you tender,—ay, or my life,
Know whence the dangers come that threaten them.
I am an Emperor's daughter, but my heart,
Imperial if it be, is womanly:
One arrow is there and one poisoned cup
I have to dread—Oh! turn but them aside
And lightly as yourself will I defy
All else that can assail me; whilst for you
My woman's wit should weave a panoply
That nothing could transpierce:—turn them aside
And let our counsels be of one accord
And we will share the issue.

Comnenus.
That can we never.
Nature has set apart our destinies
And each must follow out the course assigned;
I mindful of this token of goodwill,
Nor you regardless of your household ties.

Theodora.
Talk you of Nature? Well, then, hear my creed.
The strongest ties have Nature's strongest sanction,
And if the ties of blood be not the strongest
Nature doth abrogate and make them void.

Comnenus.
Where these are not the strongest which are they
That are not frail?

Theodora.
Most moral Sophist! Say
That there were sin, the burden of my sins
Is on my conscience, none of it on yours;
Then whom concerns it?

Comnenus.
Happy is the man
Who, unpartaking of the evil thing,
Reaps the full harvest of another's sins.
But then what says the casuist?—

Theodora.
What he says
This is no time to tell. What profits it
Thus to make answer in didactic vein
To overtures like mine? 'Tis fit you know
They touch on life and death. This (learn from me)
Is not the time to ponder and to poise,
But with a resolute mind to choose your part.

Comnenus.
Thanks for the words of wisdom! excellent
And profitable counsel had this been
Were it not that—one melancholy night—
So long ago that I but then reposed
From my triumphal honours—on this night—
Lying awake through indigestion caught
At the Imperial board—my part was chosen.

Theodora.
Then act your part—a rash and obstinate part
And like to prove a tragical—act your part;
Your life is in my hands; a few words less
And it had there been safe—but do your will—
Rush headlong to your ruin—I should have known
That never was there a Comnenus yet
Who would take part with any but his kin
Or counsel save of pride that courts a fall
And plays at dice with Fate.

Comnenus.
If so it be,—
If it be true mine ancestry and kin
Have all so stubbornly maintained this course,
It were presumption in my humble self
To wander from their ways. But rest assured
If nature made us not for facile friends
We are not easily made enemies
Nor eager in ill-will. So peace be with you.

[Exit.
Theodora.
Great God! preserve my heart from breaking yet
And grant me strength to stagger through the world
Till I have struck a blow. But can it be?
No, he will not be stubborn to the last;
'Tis but his pride, and when his power runs low
That feeds it, he will turn to me. If not
He'll have an enemy more dangerous
Than all that now surround him. Who are you?

Enter a Domestic.
Domestic.
His sacred Majesty commanded me
To ask if yet your Highness was at leisure
And could attend him?

Theodora.
Tell him that I come.
[Exit Domestic.
That is a sleuth-hound sent to pry about
And watch my motions. Ay; the time is past
For putting trust in me.

Scene III.

—Streets of Constantinople.—A crowd of Monks, Acolytes, and Citizens of the blue faction.
1st Citizen.

Patience, fellow-citizens, I say patience. Let us all be patient; let us all be patient.

1st Monk.

I say he is an Iconoclast.

2nd Citizen.

Iconoclast! I know not what is Iconoclast! but this I know,—there's no man ever wore a green scarf but deserved hanging in it.

1st Monk.

I tell thee he is an Iconoclast if ever one of his house was. Did he not break the head of the holy St. Basil (whose name be glorified!) with the butt end of his lance?

2nd Monk.

I say Anathema, I say Anathema, I say Anathema. Body and soul, life and limb, here and hereafter . . .

Monks and Acolytes.

Anathema esto, Anathema.

1st Citizen.

Patience, excellent friends and fellowcitizens! I say let us debate this matter as wise men with patience and silence.

2nd Monk.

I say,—body and soul, life and limb, here and hereafter, be he cursed.

3rd Citizen.

Then to hell with him at once.

2nd Citizen.

Most assuredly, holy father, he shall go to hell.

1st Citizen.

Patience, sweet friends; silence, gentle countrymen; patience and silence, I say. I am about to explain this matter to you.

2nd Citizen.

Why all this clamour? Silence, and hear the worthy Hypatius.

3rd Citizen.

Silence! Why roar and growl ye thus like the bears in the Hippodrome?

1st Citizen.

Hem!—We are all agreed in one thing,— that Count Comnenus is to be made an end of.

2nd Citizen.

All, all.

3rd Citizen.

Agreed, agreed.

1st Citizen.

Then having come to the conclusion, which is with us as it were the ground and beginning of the argument, it behoves us to look to the reasons, which are, as I may say, the ways and means of coming to the conclusion. For if you fall to without knowing the reasons, you'll be held for no better than brute beasts; since all your wise men, look ye, when they are resolved upon a thing, have ever sought out the reasons before they began. Now you all know that last year's harvest in Cappadocia was scarce worth the ingathering, and that corn here in Constantinople cannot be had for money. And who is the cause of this, think ye?

All.

Comnenus, Comnenus.

1st Citizen.

And that the Huns and Bulgarians and other such long-haired savages carried fire and sword and bows and arrows and long spear and short spear through the heart, and, as I may say, to the very neck and heels of the Chersonese, and looked a very terrible look at us over the long wall.—And who brought all this about, think ye?

All.

Comnenus, Comnenus.

1st Citizen.

But how did Comnenus bring it about, answer me that?—You're dumb,—you know not. Now hear me. You all know that some years by-gone this Comnenus was out in the Persian war, fighting in as Christian-like a manner as I myself or any of you. Now mark;—after he was taken prisoner, there comes to him in his tent one evening an old man, wrapped in a flowing mantle, and holding, look ye, a cup in one hand and a mighty volume in the other. He was as wicked a Magian as you shall see in all Persia; and he said to him, look ye, he said . . . by the sweat of St. Isidore I have forgotten what he said. But ever since, this Comnenus has been one of your bloody schismatics and heretical murdering villains.

All.

We know it. We know it.

1st Citizen.

Ay, and you know too the holy image of the blessed St. Basil, in the niche over the monks of St. Conon's gate. Now this Comnenus, no farther back than one night I know not when, riding past like a

madman with two or three more such heathen pagan knights from over-sea, puts me his lance in the rest with the butt end to the onset, and drives it two inches and a half into St. Basil's eye.

2nd Monk.

Anathema esto!

All.

Anathema!

1st Citizen.

Softly! you all know that St. Basil is the Patron Saint of this city; now the case stands here;— will he ever look evenly on this city again?

All.

Never, never.

1st Citizen.

Never while Comnenus is in it.

Citizens.

We'll drag him out of it, we'll burn him alive.

1st Citizen.

But they'll tell you, they of the green faction, that he's a very Socrates, a second Cæsar, and holds your clubs are no better than oaten straws and will not frighten the flies from lighting on your noses. But mark you this—Did Cæsar ever consort with the Magians? Did Cæsar ever hit St. Basil in the eye?

Citizens.

No, no.

1st Citizen.

And though I think he be neither a saint nor a martyr, yet I'll be bound for him he was no blood-thirsty heretic. Why then, if Cæsar was no heretic, a heretic can be no Cæsar. And look ye,—what I say is this,—shall all Constantinople be starved to death because of one man?

All.

Never, never. Burn his house. Cut his throat.

1st Citizen.

Then look ye, what I say is this,—if he be not already fled forth the city gates—

Citizens.

Stop him, seize him, secure the gates.

2nd Monk.

Smite him hip and thigh, hew him in pieces before the Lord.

Enter a Eunuch of the Palace.
Eunuch.

Why do ye flourish your staves in the air, good friends? Worthy father, why dost thou ventilate thy garment in the east wind? Whom seek ye?

All.

Comnenus, Comnenus.

Eunuch.

Then your search is not like to be long, for I came before him but half the street's length.

1st Citizen.

Count Comnenus, saidst thou! How attended?

Eunuch.

There is a young officer from the eastern army with him.

2nd Citizen.

Armed, armed, saidst thou?

Eunuch.

Ay, short sword and shirt of mail.

1st Citizen.

Fall on him, down with them both! I'll run and make sure of the east gate, lest he make his escape.

2nd Citizen.

And I the north.

3rd Citizen.

And I the south.

[Exeunt all but Fourth and Fifth Citizens.
4th Citizen.

Lo you! how they run! to my thinking they are no better than arrant cowards.

5th Citizen.

Assuredly they have the gift of running. But if we stay here alone we're dead men.

4th Citizen.

No question of it,—dead.

5th Citizen.

Come along; they say this Comnenus is sworn friend and minister to the Devil. I tell thee Satan took his Bible-oath to back him out in aught he put his hand to.

4th Citizen.

I would go, but that it looks so villanous dastardly.

5th Citizen.

Do as thou wilt. Fare thee well!

[Exit.
Enter Comnenus and an Officer of the Eastern Army.
Comnenus.
One whom my brother . . .
. . . What dost stand i' the way for, friend?

4th Citizen.

Nothing, worthy Sir—good day, noble Count.

[Exit.
Comnenus.
One whom my brother holds in trust, to me
Is as a brother welcome. More than once
I wrote to beg him, should he come at all,
To come with what celerity he might;
But he outstrips my expectation. Speed,
'Tis true, is needful; you yourself may see
The state in which I stand; no day goes by
But fills the streets with tumult; even now
Methought I saw a flying rack of the storm
Scud by to leeward. Say, what think you, Sir?

Officer.
My Lord, for those that I have seen, they seem
The very scum of the city and dregs of the Church.

Comnenus.
Why so they are—yet these things have their source.
You are a soldier, Sir,—ay, and a young one;
You would instruct me—for a soldier's dawn
Is rich in lights and guidance—you would call
These gatherings here and there that rise and break
And vanish, worthier of the city watch
With whip in hand, than of a soldier's sword.
Sir, if these slight imposthumes which you see
Were the disease, not, as they are, the symptoms,
Think you I'd send so far to have them lanced?
This multitude, this monster idiot-born,
Moves you not one of its Briarean hands
By its own brainless head; but let some chief,
Though he be ne'er so base, but whoop them on
And they shall follow till the noblest fall.
Your master must be nearer ere I move.
You left him at Ancyra?

Officer.
There, my Lord,
He waits your further tidings, or will move
His somewhat jaded force more gently on.

Comnenus.
'Twere good he came no further or came fast.
I wrote with some caution, Sir; I'll speak with less;
Well knowing whom my brother trusts trustworthy.
Tell him that in my mind the time of choice
Has slidden from our grasp; tell him that now
Our only armour is the crown and purple.
Here stands the throne, and there the block—I say
To one of these must the Comneni come:
Suspicion thus draws down the thing it fears
And emperors leave no refuge save in empire.
This thou shalt tell my brother is my mind.
Say further thus:
If having duly weighed the double venture
He hold forbearance for the lighter risk,
Let him lead back his forces (for myself
I'd put the issue on a throw of the dice
As lief as on aught else); but so he view
These matters as I view them, let him on
With all the speed his lightest horse can make
To the Propontis on the hither shore,
And, barring accidents, I'll meet him there;
And you, Sir, too, I hope.

Officer.
I'll use all speed.

Comnenus.
When past the city gates;
Till then go leisurely and unobserved.
I've noted when I send young gallants forth
In things of trust and moment, straight they'll lash
Their horses in a gallop through the street,
That Mother Gape may ope her casement wide
And Father Quidnunc stare. Take heed of this.
Use all despatch, not as to boast great things
Are staked upon thy speed, but so to join
Despatch with privacy as the stake's on both.
Deem that this trust is for the empire's weal
And not to do thee credit. Fare thee well.
[Exit Officer.
He's a young envoy in a cause like this.
Alexius has the gifts that quicken zeal
In them that serve him, but he hardly knows
What harness it should wear or whither speed.

Scene IV.

—An Apartment in a Convent near St. Conon's Shrine.
Eudocia and Anna Comnena.
Eudocia.
I never knew but all of us were brave.
In tears! I'll not believe you of our race.

Anna.
Oh! were I not I were not weeping now.
Heaven knows it is not for myself.

Eudocia.
Why there!
That were the least unreasonable cause.
Is it my brother that you weep for? He
Is nothing new to dangers nor to life.
His thirty years on him have nigh told double,
Being doubly laden with the unlightsome stuff
That life is made of. I have often thought
How Nature cheats this world in keeping count:
Some men shall pass for old who never lived;
These monks, to wit; they count the time, not spend it;
They reckon moments by the tick of beads
And ring the hours with psalmody—clocks, clocks;
If one of these had gone a century
I would not say he'd lived. My brother's age
Hath spanned the matter of too many lives;
He's full of years, though young: ne'er weep for him.

Anna.
He looks not tired of life.

Eudocia.
Not when with you.
There is a sort of youth comes back on men
By sight of childhood. It is so with him;
At least by sight of you.

Anna.
But others, too,
Call him a cheerful man.

Eudocia.
They know him not.
You knew him not in earlier youth; and I
Can scarce believe that it was he I knew.
The false vivacity of fevered blood
Under the press and spur of times like these
Deceives not me; nor yet the power he hath
Of holding off the burthen of his mind
Till the time come that leaves him to himself.
Disquieting thought hath wasted him within.
Weep for Alexius, if weep you must;
His seems a life worth saving; he is now
Much what some ten years past his brother was,
Yet may be what he is. Let Fate alone;
There's many a man is best cut off betimes.
Date not their destinies.

Anna.
You love them not,
Though you're their sister, as their cousin loves them.

Eudocia.
I would not have them walk in the dusk like thieves,
Nor crouch like chidden slaves, nor dig them holes
And hide like Troglodytes. I'd have them live
Even as their sires of old, linked each with each;
Careless of kingdoms so they might live free;
If not, I'd have them Kings.

Anna.
Alas! and I
Would count it no mischance that sent us back
To our Propontic island, where we all
Were born and bred in peace, who now are strewn
Like a wrecked convoy on a savage coast.

Eudocia.
Hush! Prophetess of woe; the ships sail well,
Though they be deep in the water. Enter Comnenus.

Here are we,
Obedient to your summons; both in doubt,
And one in dread, of what may be the cause.
Why have you sent us hither?

Comnenus.
Need I say,
Eudocia, that it never was my wont
To clip and pare ill tidings for your ear.
The city is no longer safe for you:
Therefore I sent you hither.

Anna.
And yourself?

Comnenus.
My safety will be cared for in due course.

Anna.
And stay you with us, then?

Eudocia.
No! by my faith;
That question I can answer. We seek here,
If I misjudge not, the good neighbourhood
Of Mother Church's sanctuary.

Anna.
And he?

Eudocia.
Think you the sanctuary's a place for him?

Comnenus.
I have a safer refuge. Mother Church
Hath no such holy precinct that my blood
Would not redeem all sin and sacrilege
Of slaughter therewithin. But there's a spot
Within the circle my good sword describes
Which by God's grace is sanctified for me.

Eudocia.
Yet do not be so rash to walk the streets
Without a guard.

Anna.
Are not the riots quelled?

Comnenus.
They are not: they increase and will increase
Until the cause be quelled.

Anna.
What is the cause?

Comnenus.
There are, if truth were known, some three or four;
But one is named.

Eudocia.
And what may be its name?

Comnenus.
Truly they call it by my name, Comnenus.

Eudocia.
Then they miscall it.

Comnenus.
No, not altogether.
When things of evil aspect are to do
The first cause is not named, but commonly
Some slight, remote, co-operative cause,
Whereto the people knit them soul and body
Unknowing that which stirs them up to act,
Which is the mover's cause, not multitude's.
The mover finds them reasons, they him hands.

Eudocia.
Whence hath he then these reasons?

Comnenus.
Oh! they grow wild.
He is an arrant bungler in his work,
Whate'er it be, who is not stored with reasons.
Reasons! there's nought in life so plentiful!
They are the most besetting snares of men
Who ought to act by instinct, did they but know
How far their nature, when not tampered with,
Their prostituted reason would transcend.

Eudocia.
But how are you the cause?

Comnenus.
The multitude
Were ready for a cause—and there was I.
There's much sedition in the gastric juice
Gnawing the empty coats of poor men's stomachs.

Eudocia.
This tells me nothing: prithee to the point.

Comnenus.
What would you have?

Eudocia.
I'd have you signify
What is our hope, what ought to be our aim,
What's to be feared, what to be done . . . .

Comnenus.
Ay—true;
I never knew a woman placed in peril
But must be doing; if not dead despair,
Then fever'd action:—Muse, Eudocia,
Muse, meditate, and moralize like me.
That which I crave of you is quietness.
You would intrust me with your safety, Anna?

Anna.
Truly I would not trust you with your own,
So I could find you a more careful guard;
But as for mine I'd trust it with a foe.

Comnenus.
Where would you find one?

Anna.
Oh! it were easy, that;
Foes are as plentiful as lukewarm friends.

Eudocia.
Why, Anna, can your tongue too play the censor!

Comnenus.
My cousin, may you ne'er have cause to prove
The fervour of your friends.—Hark! there's the bell:
Is it for vespers?

Anna.
It is evensong.

Comnenus.
And you attend it?—tell the Abbess then
That I detain my sister—has she leave?

Eudocia.
Ay, say so, cousin.

[Exit Anna.
Comnenus.
My time is short; but something must be told
Which 'twere as well she heard not. Why it is
I know not (for the thing must come to her
As to all else in time), but I would not
Disclose to her—no, not a thousandth part—
The knowledge which to me, though loth to learn,
My dealings with this treacherous world have taught.

Eudocia.
And what has happened now?

Comnenus.
A summons came
From Theodora: I attended her,
And found her ready to betray her father.

Eudocia.
She is more passionate than politic,
Yet lacks not cunning: she has then despaired
Of winning you by fairer means?

Comnenus.
And these
Have failed her likewise: I refused her suit.

Eudocia.
But not her tidings?

Comnenus.
I refused them too.
It went against my nature to accept them.
I am prepared for whatsoe'er befalls,
Or shall be on the morn. Provision's made
Where it may be adventured here within.
To-morrow night, so that his purpose hold,
Alexius may be looked for. You, from hence,
Can, at a word of warning, reach the shrine;
There wait in safety the result: if ill,
To you, Eudocia, I need not say
How ruin should be met.

Eudocia.
If it be well,
Then no instructor will my brother need
How he should wear the diadem.

Comnenus.
Enough.
That's as it may fall out. My brows, in sooth,
Would rather bare them to the breath of heaven
Than be so gold-encircled: yet 'tis true,
I shall need no instructor. It grows late.
I think I have said all. Farewell, farewell.
Should it be long ere we two meet again,
Yet is it not for us to chide the Fates,
Or make long partings.

Eudocia.
One word more, but one;—
Last night I heard strange stories of a feast
To which you bade your friends: it is not true?

Comnenus.
It makes for me that it should pass for true.
'Twas a Damoclean feast and we sat down
In flowing robes with corslets underneath;
And I may say I ne'er saw graver guests
Met to carouse, save at the royal board,
Where memory evocates imperial deeds
Such as betrayed Britannicus of old.
Another such has waited me too long.
Be strong of heart—be like yourself.—Farewell.

[Exit.
Eudocia.
And I could say to you “Be strong of heart,”
But that were needless; and “Be like yourself”
Were an injunction I would qualify.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The Palace of the Cæsars.
Nicephorus.
Priests are even all but Kings, and would be Kings
But that the diadem disdains bald crowns.
That snake engendered amid Rome's green ruins,
The inheritor of Satan's pomp and pride,
At whose fierce hiss the royal Henry shook
An Emperor excommunicate, and bowed
His haughty spirit, after three days' fast,
To walk barefooted to Canusio's gates
Most abject in submission—that proud priest
Is imitated here: but I can spurn
Their interdicts, and call my crown my own,
Seeing their schism doth comminute their power.
Is no one there? What, Corius! Lazer! Ho! Enter Attendant.

Comes not our reverend Lord the Patriarch yet?

Attendant.
Not yet, my Liege.

Nicephorus.
Ha! what hast got beneath thine upper vest?
Here, here; 'tis steel!

Attendant.
The star you bade me wear.

Nicephorus.
Ay, true—the star—thou hast deserved it well.
The Patriarch, as I think, is past his hour;
The moon should rise at eight and we should see her
But that the horizon's cloudy; yon's her light;
What says the Persian water-clock? How now!
There's dust upon thy sandals! where hast been?

Attendant.
You sent me for my Lord the Patriarch, Sire.

Nicephorus.
Ay, true, 'twas thou; a trusty knave thou art.
What's doing in the streets?

Attendant.
Sire, here and there
The people gather and invoke the death
Of Count Comnenus and reproach his house
For all the ills they suffer.

Nicephorus.
Why, so let them.
What, saw'st thou nought of the other faction, ha?

Attendant.
My Liege, there's none can see them; they're so few
And cowardly they dare not venture forth.

Nicephorus.
Well: let me know the hour.
[Exit Attendant.
They may be few,
But whether cowardly demands a doubt.
There never was a kingdom but comprised
Some thousands of bold men that hate the King,
Whom in some kingdoms there are none to love;
And of these thousands one life sacrificed
In killing of this King would quench the hate,
The smouldering hate that burns these bosoms black.
Now, it is strange that men hang, burn, and drown
For love, religion, pride, I know not what,—
Cast away life for very wantonness,—
Yet of these thousands you shall not find one
Will dare an instant death and slay the King.
And through the lack of this one instrument
Innocuous malice lies a coiled-up snake
Through life till toothless age. What threatens me
Is not a general hatred; 'tis the growth
Which year by year a lengthened puissance breeds
Of checked ambition and exasperate will;
For who reigns long must needs wear out the hopes
And baulk the aims of many. Yet are these
By prosperous suitors shackled . . .

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
Please my Liege,
The Patriarch has arrived.

Nicephorus.
At last. Admit him.
And some are yet more hated than they hate;
Careless withal, incautious, eating, drinking,
Sporting and sleeping like a Goth or Frank
After a victory. Then why this fear?
Here is the Church too, glad to change with me
And hug my burthen. Be it so! Amen!
For Kings should never seem to be men's foes,
There being always some to take that part
Whose malice, seeming to be bridled in,
Is spurred the while and chafes with neck high-arched,
Till, once let go, it gallops to its goal,
And hath the scandal for its guerdon fair.
Thus with this headstrong priest, in extreme age
Fiercer and fierier— Enter Patriarch.

Most reverend Lord,
We give you hearty welcome.

Patriarch.
May the host
Of heaven in all good thoughts preserve the King!

Nicephorus.
I sent for you through pressure of some ills
That weigh but heavily on ourself and state.
How is't, my Lord, that in our sovereign seat
We cannot rest in peace for slaves and monks
Careering through the streets from morn till night?

Patriarch.
How is it, say you, Sire? Why thus it is,
Yea, thus it is; the sovereign arm is weak,
The sovereign heart is palsied, and the Church,
Reft of her strength thereby, is trampled down.
How is it? look abroad—Time, crippled sore,
Hath lost his footing and slid back three ages.
Behold! the spirit of Isaurian Leo,
Accursed heresiarch! is forth and fighting.

Nicephorus.
Ay, ay, my Lord, since first she found a voice
In Paul of Tarsus, still the Church hath cried
That heresies are growing; yet she thrives
From age to age, till crowns but hang on crosiers.

Patriarch.
Yea, doth she thrive? and from her very walls
The images of her most glorious saints
Down shivered into shards; her ministers
By every uncommunicating slave
Laughed unto scorn! yea, thriving call you this?
Then take thou heed, for by the bones of Basil
The Empire and the Church shall thrive alike.

Nicephorus.
Be temperate, priest.

Patriarch.
I tell thee, monarch, when the crosier bends,
The sceptre breaks; and I will tell thee more;
'Twere better for thy temples to have worn
The iron crown in Lombardy, than here
Thy golden diadem and tarnished thus.

Nicephorus.
What wouldst thou have? Truly 'tis aid I need,
Not admonition. Seek I not an end
To all these troubles, or did I begin them?
Or can I with a heartier will consult
For compassing their cure?

Patriarch.
Tis well, my Liege;
The Church shall aid with her maternal arm,
Propping her aged servant at his task.
I am gone in years, my Liege, am very old,
Coreless and sapless, weak, and needs must crave
Support of secular force, else had this sore
Not grown upon us thus. It is not well
When that the Church and State divide their power
And carp upon the difference. In my youth
I can remember, old as I may be,
I sojourned at the convent of St. Anne
In the Hercynian forest; and one night
There was a storm abroad, and forth I went
Along with it, and roaming through the wood
I saw an aged oak which groaned and creaked
And flung its arms aloft, whereof the nearest
Ground each into the other till both fell
Sawn thorough sheer; and this I likened then
To Nebuchadnezzar's tree of monarchy—
But I am wandering; 'tis mine age's weakness.

Nicephorus.
I grant you, holy father, that for us
To be at strife, is but for each to waste
The strength that each hath need of. But the Church,
The Church it is Count Isaac hath assailed,
And if her champions strike not, how should I?

Patriarch.
Speak but the word, the blow shall follow fast.
I will abet your majesty in all,
So it be sudden. Whatsoe'er is feared
In states is dangerous. The man is bold,
His friends are many, and it were not safe
That warning went before.

Nicephorus.
Yes, more than bold.
There is in him a carelessness of life
Which ofttimes betters care.

Patriarch.
In him I grant;
Not in his friends and followers. All they have
Of courage falters seeing him removed.

Nicephorus.
Removed—removed; but how?

Patriarch.
With gracious speed
And godly prudence; swift and therefore sure.
Let but a whisper of a threat be heard
And you shall see him desperate and his friends
By very fear compacted and compelled
To follow where his frenzied boldness bids.
Who then shall answer for the issue?

Nicephorus.
Well
What wouldst thou counsel—exile? interdict?

Patriarch.
Commit him to the power of Mother Church;
Call we a Synod, cite we the Count forthwith
To answer for his sacrilege.

Nicephorus.
What! now?

Patriarch.
Now, now, I say; the time is fitting; thus
Surprise shall bar resistance or escape.
The measure of his wickedness filled full
We take him in the surfeit of his sins—
The deadly surfeit and the doom.

Nicephorus.
So, so;
'Tis sudden, but I hardly may deny
That ofttimes what is sudden is more safe
Than what is slow. Thy counsel shall be mine,
And may God speed it!

Patriarch.
That He surely shall.
Despatch a guard; arrest the Count; meanwhile
A Synod shall be summoned.

Nicephorus.
And the award?
What dost thou purpose?

Patriarch.
That is for the Church
Assembled to adjudge: the sinner thou
Deliverest to her hands; the rest is hers;
And she will purge her sanctuary.

Nicephorus.
'Tis just.
Yet bear in mind that nothing has been proved
Of treasonable sort, and lacking proof,
I burthen not my conscience with his blood;
Nor of his following, till their guilt be clear,
Would I take life too hastily.

Patriarch.
My Liege,
Know you not there are maladies in men
Which in their rise were easy to be cured
Were they but known; whereof when clear become
The diagnostics, difficult is the cure.
For treason timely treatment: be content:
This is an issue that concerns the Church,
Which sleeps not and will take her torch in hand.

Nicephorus.
Order it so. My crown these last few years
Hath pressed some furrows in my brow which else
Time had been tardier with. It lightens me
To have a friend like thee, in whom I trust.

Patriarch.
God have your majesty in His safe keeping!
An hour will bring us hither.

Nicephorus.
In an hour
The culprit shall attend you! God be with thee!

Scene II.

—The Palace of the Comneni. The board spread as for a feast. Macrinus, Numerian, and others. Leaders and Soldiers of the faction dressed as revellers, musicians, attendants, etc. Arms appear occasionally underneath the dresses.
Enter Comnenus.
Comnenus.
What! friends, the board is spread, and ye abide
The coming of the host? Much grieved is he
His noble guests should wait. But how is this?
Rich smell the viands; whence these grave regards?

Macrinus.
My Lord, we have not all the art, like you,
To cast aside perplexities and cares:
But though our looks be grave, our hearts are staunch.

Comnenus.
Well, then we'll all be grave. Be seated, friends:
But pledge me first in this; 'tis Samian wine,
And of the innermost; it quickens counsel,
And makes it bolder, which with us is better.
Your toast, Sir; you are practised much in toasts.

Numerian.
I am, Sir, and in things of more concern.
“The double dyeing of the royal purple.”

Comnenus.
I pledge not that: we're drinking wine, not blood.
Success to us: say nothing of the rest.
[They drink.
My Lord Macrinus—to the head of the board;
I shall be but a listener.

Macrinus.
Sir, I thank you;
But there are worthier of that place than I.

Comnenus.
None, none, Macrinus, that I know of, none;
And if there be they'll pardon me the choice.
Sit close about the board and speak not loud.

[They sit.
1st Leader.
My Lord, my thought
Was humbly this; that could we seize some post
Within the walls, 'twould profit more our cause;
Since flight doth alway with the vulgar sort
Give token of defeat or loss, and thence
Their spirits swell with triumph.

2nd Leader.
But, my Lord,
In my mind it were good they do thus swell;
For as despair may oft avert men's ruin,
So causeless exultation brings it on;
The one emboldening reason, the other folly.

3rd Leader.
Besides, supposing we could win this post,
'Twould make the times of action cross; for look,—
Wait we your brother's coming, we're too late;
The news is theirs as soon as ours; not wait,
And should he be delayed, we're premature;
For you'll observe, my Lord . . .

Comnenus.
Enough, enough;
I see your point, Sir, and I hold it good.

1st Leader.
Yet, Sir, there are some reasons we o'er-look . . .

Comnenus.
There are, Sir, many; which I overpass,
Not wholly overlook; for should I stop
To weigh the grains of reason one by one
We are to gather and glance o'er, good Sir,
'Twould hold us here till morning; not to add,
That so we multiply the chance of error.
We'll hold this matter, with your leave, arranged.

1st Leader.
My Lord, you would not pass Numerian's toast,
Yet would I deem it over-lenity
To spare another's blood and stake our own.
One death or ere the strife began, my Lord,
Might save some thousands.

Comnenus.
But not salve the sin.
My friends, God knows too lenient am I not,
And to my nature 'tis less opposite
To be the cause whereby a thousand bleed
Than purposely kill one to save the rest;
And there is reason for it, howe'er we gloze.
This once for all, him hold I a false friend,
(Which signifies I hold him worse than foe,)
Who strikes at any life save in fair fight.

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
Sir, there's one waiting at the gate to see you.

Comnenus.
One—what one, who?

Attendant.
I know not, Sir; he's muffled in his cloak,
In fashion more a Latin than a Greek.

Comnenus.
My friends, await me there within.

Macrinus.
You're armed?

Comnenus.
From head to foot.

[They withdraw.
Enter Theodora.
Comnenus.
When I shall know my guest to be a friend,
I'll give him welcome.

Theodora.
You may give it then.
[Discovering herself.
You might have known her for a friend long since,
She proffers you but one proof more.

[Giving her hand.
Comnenus.
A fair one.

Theodora.
You well may wonder, and I think you do,
Although you show it not.

Comnenus.
Not much; not much;
Ten years are gone since I have felt surprise
Save at my own existence and the stars.

Theodora.
If not surprise, what else then can you feel?
Oh Count, I ask it not in bitterness,
But can you see me here, almost, I own,
A supplicant—me, me a supplicant—
A woman and a princess at thy feet
Beseeching thee—

Comnenus.
Oh, say no more—stop there.

Theodora.
Beseeching thee to save thyself and me,
And feel nor pity, gratitude, nor love?
Thy life thou scarce canst deem so little worth
As I do mine; but it is worse than death
To bear a dead heart in a living body;
And when I tell thee death is at thy door,
The doom pronounced, the warrant out, the axe
Already in the headsman's hand, I say
Not only fly from death, but waken life
In thy dead heart. Be but a living man
And we will fly together.

Comnenus.
Princess, no—
It cannot be; but yet misjudge me not;
I am not reckless, as you think, of life;
I am not thankless, as you think, for love:
Your countrymen, the Thracians, held of old
Their counsels o'er their cups in night carouse,
Perpending them next morn: even such has been
My session of to-night. My head, I think,
Will keep the headsman waiting. For my heart,
It is a sad and solitary heart,—
So sad that it must needs be solitary,—
And though not dead, disordered unto death,
And though not thankless, pitiless, or proud,
Yet inaccessible to love.

Theodora.
Then, Count,
Know that I hold thy head from this time forth
As worthless as thy heart—and weak and fond
And tender as I would have been and was,
Or e'er these drops are dried upon my cheek
I'll see it rolling bloodily in the dust
With triumph and with joy. Till then, farewell.

Comnenus.
It is but in thy passion and thy heat
Thou speak'st so wilderedly.

Enter Attendants.
1st Attendant.
My Lord—

2nd Attendant.
My Lord—

Comnenus.
Soft! see you not this lady? One at once.

1st Attendant.
Sir, the Varangian guard is at the gate,
With two officials of the Church.

Comnenus.
What say they?

1st Attendant.
They claim admittance on a royal writ,
Citing you to attend a Synod.

Comnenus.
Good.
Admit them.

1st Attendant.
What! the Churchmen, Sir?

Comnenus.
Ay, all;
Open the gates; let all who will come in.
Thou staring idiot, do my bidding; go.
[Exit First Attendant.
Here, Porgius—thy wit runs deeper—hark!
When all are in, look that the gates be shut.
[Exit Second Attendant.
And, Macer, call Macrinus hither. See!
[Exit Third Attendant.
Your warning, Lady, would have come but late.

Enter Macrinus.
Comnenus
(meeting and speaking aside to him).
Macrinus, we have talked enough. Thou seest
The wordy time is past.

Macrinus.
Indeed, my Lord,
This end was little looked for.

Comnenus.
Not the less
I bid it welcome. They but give their hands
To fashion our devices. As they will.
Make speed, Macrinus, to the southern gate
With but such numbers as may make it sure
Yet not alarm the town; close by it stands
The cloister of St. Conon; send some friend
To bid my sister and my cousin there
Hie them to sanctuary. Within an hour,
If all be well, I mean to pass the gate.
That will not press you?

Macrinus
Ample time, my Lord.

Comnenus.
Send Hertius round to draw our scattered friends
To the same spot,—within the hour. Till then
I will amuse the Emperor and his court.

Macrinus.
But for these guards?

Comnenus.
Hark! now they pass the gates.
When all are in, disarm and bind them. Yes,
They shall along with me, by their good leave.
[Exit Macrinus.
Your father's action, Princess, with a bound
O'ertakes our tardy talk.

Theodora.
So sudden! oh,
So madly sudden! Count, there still is time—
Say you recall the past—say you repent,—
And I may yet find means—

Comnenus.
Nor now nor ever
Will I make bargains for a lady's love.
Enter Two Apparitors.
What is your errand, Sirs?—say on; no form.

1st Apparitor.
Lord Count, our errand is to take thee hence
By virtue of this power.

Comnenus.
Nay, keep the scroll;
Your tone's so lofty you must needs have powers.
But should I ask indulgence for an hour
To be prepared?

2nd Apparitor.
My Lord, it cannot be.
The conclave waits.

Comnenus.
Ay, doth it? then I come.
I pray you first to pledge me in this wine:
'Tis juice might soften Churchmen.

1st Apparitor.
No, my Lord:
Our orders are to bear with no delay.

Comnenus.
To bear with none!
[A disturbance without.
Oh! be at ease, Sirs: hark!
'Tis but disputes between my guards and yours
Which shall become my escort to the court.

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord, your orders are obeyed.

Comnenus.
'Tis well.
Confine these Churchmen in the cells below.

1st Apparitor.
My Lord, beware how you maltreat the Church.

Comnenus.
We leave them there, and on our march be sure
No voice be heard nor any leave their ranks.

1st Apparitor.
I say, the thunders of the Church shall peal
Against this outrage—

2nd Apparitor.
Hush! it will but goad him;
'Tis plain he's master.

Comnenus.
Order thus the march:
The royal guard within, unarmed and bound,
My own surrounding them, myself will lead,—
This lady with me. Now, Sirs, we must part.
[To the Apparitors.
Keep your own secret: it is safe with me.

[To Theodora.
1st Apparitor.
Lord Count—

Comnenus.
Nay, on, Sirs; you will suffer nought
Save mild restraint till morning.

2nd Apparitor.
God be praised!

Comnenus
(to Theodora).
Give me your hand. Not so?
then walk by me,
And doubt not my protection. You came here
In no such friendly guidance. There— [As they go out]
—just so.
All as I wished, Macrinus: fling the gates wide,
And sound the trumpets of the Royal Guard.
Out, out, friends, out.

Scene III.

—A Hall in the Palace, where many Ecclesiastics are assembled in Synod. The Emperor is seated on a throne at the further end of a table, at which are also seated the Patriarch, the Bishop of Trebizond, the Bishop of Nicomedia, the Synodal Secretary, and other Dignitaries. In front the Bishops of Heraclea and Philippopolis are conversing in an undertone and are joined by the Bishop of Cæsarea.
Bishop of Heraclea.

Methinks the time is long.

Bishop of Philippopolis.

It passeth heavily, and truly 'tis heavy laden.

Bishop of Cœsarea.

I heard our brother of Trebizond whispering the Patriarch of an idle rumour that the heretics were found watching and had overpowered the Royal Guard.

Bishop of Heraclea.

At such times there are ever such rumours.

Bishop of Cœsarea.

Hark!—no; 'tis nothing. Is not the Emperor paler than his wont?

Bishop of Heraclea.

He is as white as an almond tree in June.

Bishop of Cæsarea.

And our brother of Trebizond?

Bishop of Heraclea.

There's no more blood in his face than in this crucifix.

Patriarch.

What is your talk, my Lords? Speak out, speak out: there be no laics here. Speak freely out.

Bishop of Cæsarea.

Do thou make answer.

Bishop of Heraclea.

Most holy father, we spake how that this heretic hath tarried long.

Patriarch.
He cometh late to judgment; yea, too late.
Long-suffering are the delegates of heaven;
Abounding they in mercy and in grace:
So judgment followeth sin with stealing steps.
Too late—too late.

Emperor
(to one of the Ecclesiastics).

Send some one forth to look if they be coming.

[Exit Ecclesiastic.
Patriarch.

I say we're all too late. Hast written out the award?

The Secretary.

Holiest father, it is here.

Patriarch.

We'll have it signed at once. First to his Majesty, and then the rest.

Emperor.

Not me, not me; the thing concerns not me.

Patriarch.

Well, well, here's warranty enough without. [Signs.
So—pass it to my Lord of Trebizond.

Bishop of Trebizond.

Must I sign first?

Patriarch.

At once, my Lord, and pass it.

Bishop of Heraclea
(aside to the Bishop of Cæsarea).

Mark you how the style trembles in his hand.

The Secretary.

My Lord, you're writing on the written part: The space is here.

Bishop of Trebizond.

My eyesight fails me: here,—I see, I see.

Enter an Attendant.
Emperor.
Thine errand?
We waive the adorations, speak thine errand.

Attendant.
The Royal Guard is entering the gates.

Emperor.
'Tis well, right well.
Let them bring up the prisoner.

Patriarch.
Bring him up.
Most reverend Lords, we pray you take your seats.

Enter another Attendant in haste.
Attendant.

'Tis not the Royal Guard; 'tis the Comnenians: they have passed the gates, Count Isaac at their head.

Emperor.

Great God! then all is lost! Where is the Cæsarissa?

Bishop of Trebizond.

We shall be murdered all!

Bishop of Cæsarea.

We're martyrs doomed.

Bishop of Heraclea.

Yea, verily the hour is come, and we are called and chosen.

[During these exclamations the Hall has filled with Officers of State and Attendants crowding in confusedly.
Patriarch.
Silence, my Lords, what craven cries be these?
Your Majesty will please send some one forth
To draw your forces from the suburbs round.
I tell you take your seats. Ho! God is great!
His Church is mighty, and that might have we.
I say, bring up the Count.

Several voices.
He's coming up.

Patriarch.
I say, then, let him come.

Enter Comnenus, who walks to the foot of the table, the crowd falling back on either side.
Comnenus.
I'm here to answer to your summons.

Patriarch.
Lo!
Almighty God is present in His Church!
His Church is present here!
How hast thou dared then to profane this presence
By coming here in arms? Give up thy sword.

[Comnenus ungirds his sword and flings it on the table.
Comnenus.
(after some pause).
What would ye have with it that cannot use it?
My Lords, you trifle with me; here am I
Brought by your midnight summons from my house,
And ye have nought to say. Ye do but mock me.

Patriarch.
We mock thee not: 'tis thou that mock'st high Heaven.
Thou'rt summoned here on many an ugly count
Of sacrilege and heresy and schism,
Which so thou answer'st not and clear'st thy fame,
We shall, in due acquittance of our trust,
Pronounce the interdict from fire and water
And cut thee off from Christian fellowship.

Comnenus.
My Lords, or e'er ye shall inhibit me,
From fire and water, have it you in charge
I cut not off yourselves from earth and air.
My Lords, this world is not so all your own
That ye can grant away the elements
Amongst your friends, and lock one moiety up
From them that like you not. Ye kneel and pray
That God will make you humble as the dust,
Then, rising, arrogate omnipotence
And shake the ashes from your shaven crowns.
But I ere long will teach you how to stoop
In veriest lowliness and know yourselves.

Patriarch
(holds up the cross and pronounces the adjuration, “Ecce crucem Domini! fugite partes adversæ!”)
A man possessed—'tis Sathan speaks, not he!
The father of lies hath spoken by his mouth.
An exorcist for this demoniac straight
To disenchant his body of the fiend!
Avaunt! avaunt!

Comnenus.
Ay, echo cries “Avaunt!”
Ye charge your own malignancy on me.
A demonocracy of unclean spirits
Hath governed long these Synods of your Church,
The Antichrist foretold: and I am he
Who, in the fulness of the approaching time,
Will exorcise you all. Expect my coming.

[Exit.
[A short silence ensues, during which several persons who had followed Comnenus re-enter, exclaiming, “The Count is gone!”
Patriarch.
Thy wrath go with him, God!

Emperor.
I hear the sound of horses' feet afar;
The city force is out—he cannot stay;
He will abscond and seek support abroad.
Let every tribune hie him to his charge.
The prefects and the eparchs will resort
To the Bucoleon with what speed they may,
And there I'll meet them. Each man to his charge.

Patriarch
(to the Bishops).
Soldiers of God and militants supern!
Fight the good fight! on us devolves the charge
To fulminate the judgments of the Church;
And on the morn, before Sophia's shrine,
Shall this high charge be solemnly fulfilled.
Let every Churchman now assembled here
Attend and share the office.—You may go.

Scene IV.

—Precincts of the Palace.—A Eunuch of the Imperial Household and an Exorcist.
Exorcist.

He is gone, then?

Eunuch.

Gone! he galloped out of the town as if he had ten thousand Devils in him.

Exorcist.

Well, I am glad he is gone before I came, for to say the truth he is ill to deal with.

Eunuch.

But thou couldst exorcise him?

Exorcist.

Oh! if we come to the matter of science, an evil spirit is no more in one man than in another.

Eunuch.

But tell me, I beseech thee, which saint is the most powerful for freeing the demoniacs?

Exorcist.

That is, look you, according as they are obsessed or possessed; and also according to the order of the spirit: now for the abruption of evil spirits of Belphegor's or the ninth order, St. George of Cappadocia is your only saint. I have known him bring the Devil clean out of a man's body before ever he knew him to have been there.

Eunuch.

Ay, indeed!

Exorcist.

Yes; and you may remember Anthemius the Eparch, who was possessed of Leviathan and caused a dropsy in the Emperor's daughter. I never had a more obstinate spirit to deal with in all my experience.

Eunuch.

But you succeeded?

Exorcist.

I bless God, by the help of St. George, to say nothing of my own secret receipt for suffumigation,

I brought him fairly out at last, and her Highness was cured.

Eunuch.

But did she not relapse in the space of a year or so.

Exorcist.

Relapse? Yes, she did relapse; for, look you, there's nothing sneaks back into a man's body so soon as your villanous evil spirit.

Eunuch.

But Anthemius has not troubled you lately?

Exorcist.

No; the Emperor sent him to the prisons of Lethe on the other side of the water, and the word went he was strangled.

Eunuch.

So he was, for certain.

Exorcist.

What was it for, then?

Eunuch.

Some idle tongues spake how that all was not as it should be between him and the Princess; but what plainly appeared against him was, that he stole the hood of a Benedictine Friar from his cell after eleven o'clock at night, and being afterwards at the Sabbath of evil spirits and magicians, did there put it upon Satan's head, saying, “hoc honore dignus es,” in contempt of St. Benedict and his holy order.

Exorcist.

God's mercy! it was time he was put out of the way! what will not a man do when once he is maleficated.

Eunuch.

Ay; and who could bring him round without your help?—Come, we are friends, tell us some of the secrets of your craft.

Exorcist.

There be things whereon we discourse to

our friends, and there be things where on we hold our peace.

Eunuch.

Nay but—

Exorcist.

Mark me. There is an inside and an outside to everything. There is a virtue in silence, and that virtue is discretion, which is the virtue that holds a man back from babbling. Again—he that saith nothing doth wisely, for what he knows is more than you know.

Eunuch.

By St. Peter that is true, and I will seek no further.

Exorcist.

Nevertheless, as it is thou that hast inquired of me touching this matter, I will say somewhat; for the man that has nothing to say to his friend is too wise for this world.

Eunuch.

Thou art a true friend to say so.

Exorcist.

Attend then: when the demoniac is brought before you, the first thing is to make sure that he is bonâ fide possessed: for which end you shall look for the Devil's mark in the form of a hare's foot; and when you find it, run a lancet half an inch into the flesh; if the man cries out, it is a mere certainty he is possessed. The next thing is to bless the instruments, which are four; that is, water, incense, salt, and oil. Water is twofold; that is, first, water of ablution, and second, water of aspersion. Water of ablution is sevenfold; that is, first—

Eunuch.

But tell us the manner of it.

Exorcist.

The manners of it are three; there is the præexorcization, the exorcization, and the postexorcization. The præexorcizations are fifteen; that is—

Eunuch.

Nay, I see it is past my understanding. But only tell me this,—how do you get the Devil out of a woman?

Exorcist.

You've gravelled me there; if once the Devil gets into a woman—

Eunuch.

But you told me but now, speaking of her Highness—

Exorcist.

Why look you, the Devils that have to do with women are two,—the Incubi and Succubi; now for the Incubi—

[Trumpets without.
Eunuch.

Hark! the troops are gathering; that is the Imperial march; they are coming this way: we must be gone.

Exorcist.

I fear some bloodshed will come of this.

Eunuch.

I care not what comes of it; nothing new to this city, we may be sure.

Exorcist.

No, unless it were peace and quietness, which I much mistrust. Farewell; shame the Devil and renounce his works, and thou wilt never have need of my craft.

Eunuch.

Easier to keep him out than to cast him out,if I know anything of it. Farewell.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The European Shore of the Propontic.
—Isaac and Alexius Comnenus.
Alexius.
But for that hair that's twisted in the grain
I had not known thee.

Comnenus.
Youth, Alexius,
Knows nought of changes; age has traced them oft,
Expects, and can expound them. You yourself
Are somewhat altered, but the few years more
Of time which I have travelled through have taught
The art to know what has been from what is,
What's like to be from both: change is youth's wonder:
Such transmutations have I seen in men
That fortune seemed a slow and steadfast power
Compared with nature.

Alexius.
There is nought you've seen
More altered than yourself.
I speak not of an outward change alone;
For you are changed in heart.

Comnenus.
Ay, hearts change too:
Mine has grown sprightly, has it not, and hard?
I ride it now with spurs; else, else, Alexius—
Well, many a sage has said the best of life
Is childhood, and I sagely say the same.
Life is a banquet where the best's first served,
And when the guest is cloyed comes oil and garlic.

Alexius.
Childhood! But later years went well, and gifts
Came with them that were better worth than joys.
Have you forgotten how it was your wont
To muse the hours away along this shore—
These very rippled sands?

Comnenus.
The sands are here,
But not the footprints. Would you trace them now?
A thousand tides and storms have dashed them out;
Winds brushed them and waves worn them; and o'er all
The heavy foot of Time, who plods the shore
Replenishing his sand-glass, trodden down
Their vestiges and mine. Look, here's a rock—
His seat or e'er he pushed it from the cliff,
And which shall now be ours; a goodly seat;
He's worn it smooth—smooth as the fair round cheek
He lies in wait for, nor has touched with care
Nor stained with tears, nor even tutored yet
To dimple into lies.

Alexius.
Look! what is here,—
Here, carved upon the rock?

Comnenus.
That know not I,
But Time has ta'en it for a poet's scrawl—
He's razed it.

Alexius.
No, not wholly; look again;
I take it for a lover's.

Comnenus.
What! there's some talk
Of balmy breath, and hearts pierced through and through
With eyes' miraculous brightness, vows ne'er broken
Until the Church had sealed them, charms loved madly
Until it be a sin to love them not,
And kisses ever sweet till innocent.
How much that should be written in the stream
Has our fond lover written in the rock,
Not knowing of its nature?

Alexius.
Hardly much;
Two words there are,—no more.

Comnenus.
And what are they?

Alexius.
“Alas, Irene!”—Why, your looks are now
Such as I once beheld them heretofore;
'Twas when our mother died;—what troubles you?

Comnenus.
Now this I hate, to stand and be deciphered,
Pored on industriously and puzzled through
Like riddles that are read o'winter's nights
When maids and boys have nought to prate on else.
Alexius, forgive me. Leave me now.
There's business waiting for us both.

Alexius.
Oh no;
I cannot leave you yet; there's yet to tell
A seven years' history since last we met.

Comnenus.
Go put it down in four and twenty books
'Cleped “the Comneniad,”—to be read at leisure.
We'll have no more of this; my youth is past
And I would not recall it.

Alexius.
Isaac, oh!
Can you stand here and say so? Can you look
On this soft-rolling, deep-embayed sea,
With yon blue beautiful ridge half-compassed round,—
Hear the low plash of wave o'erwhelming wave,
The loving lullaby of your mother Ocean,
(We, like the Cretan, are not sons of Earth,)—
See the rocks stand like nature's ruins round,
For man's were never so majestical—
The boundary forts of Earth and Ocean's empire,
The deep-scarred veterans of their countless wars,
Your native and your father's native shores—
Can you be so surrounded and speak thus!
Are they not lovely?

Comnenus.
It is not the eye
To which these things seem lovely, but the mind,
Which makes, unmakes, remodels, or rejects.
When I was in the country whence you come,
I oft would watch the sun go down; and there
He sets with such refulgency of red,
That the whole east, with the reflected glow,
Is crimsoned as it may be here at dawn:
I would the life of man did so decline,
But that still darkens to the cloudy close.

Alexius.
There is an after-dawn.

Comnenus.
That way I look,
Or I have used to look, and that way turned
I turned my back upon the past. With you
It faces me again.

Alexius.
We'll let it rest.
How is our cousin Anna?

Comnenus.
Well, quite well:
The natural infirmities of youth,
Sadness and softness, hopefulness, wishfulness,
All pangs for which we do not see good cause
Let's take no count of. If at ninety years
A man shall die, accusing no disease,
Only by reason of the ninety years,
So shall a maiden languish at nineteen
Only by reason of the time and state.
Enough for nature if she keep us sound
In the slow tide and tenor of our lives,
Betwixt youth's flushings and the lapse of age.

Alexius.
A rumour went our gentle cousin's charms
Were to have filled for you this gap of life.
If she grew up with what I call to mind
Of gifts that graced her childhood, few like her!

Comnenus.
I own it, but I own it unenslaved.
I scarcely care for beauty.

Alexius.
Have you nought
But that to care for? May we not say love?

Comnenus.
That is a point to which most men would speak
In words of dubious import, to imply
That they are loved, but very loth to tell it.
I answer, Yes, she loves me.

Alexius.
And you her?

Comnenus.
Ay;—with a difference, though: her love's untold,
Though I am not so young in the world to doubt it;
I tell her that I love her every day.
I have designed her for a happier fate,
And she shall learn to love herself, not me;
Soon taught, soon taught.

Alexius.
And wherefore not love both?

Comnenus.
Because she never can be true to both.
Hast no talk meeter for a battle's eve?

Alexius.
All is arranged; there's nought upon my mind.

Comnenus.
Nor need there be; but there is much on mine,—
A weight of foregone years crowding along
That seem pressed back by some approaching close:
We'll talk of times to come to-morrow night.
What time the watch is set I take me hence:
I sleep beside Blachernæ.

Alexius.
Do you so?
Is't not too near the walls?

Comnenus.
I go alone.
One man at dusk will scarce be seen.

Alexius.
Alone?
And take you not a guard then?

Comnenus.
Not so far.
I have a watchful eye to yon monks' kennel;
For, as I said, if aught be stirring there
I'll seize upon the post by break of day.

Alexius.
You fear not for our sister?

Comnenus.
But thus far:
I think when Pagans such as we make war,
The safeguard of the Church is not so good
But that my own is better.

Alexius.
Like enough.
My way is with you half the distance.

Comnenus.
Well.
Macrinus then shall lead; we'll play the spy.
Let's to his tent; there must be orders given;
My armour too is there; ere all is done
Dusk will be well-nigh here and we'll set forth.

Scene II.

—Evening.—An outpost of the camp. Tents in the distance. Fires at intervals, reaching to the shore and throwing light across the Propontic. Soldiers lying on their arms. In front a Sentinel walking his rounds.
Sentinel.

So, so! There is like to be wild work tomorrow, and as to what is to happen to me, it may be known or it may not. It was scarcely right and just a little venturesome of my wife, to betake herself to the

old wizard. Ah! after to-morrow never to walk more but with a wooden leg. Why, what then? My threescore and ten in this world is well-nigh out, and Father Jerome says a man may stump about in heaven with a wooden leg as stoutly as with the best.

Enter Alexius.
Alexius.

Thou art one of Count Isaac's men, art not?

Sentinel.

How dost thou know that? Methinks by thy sunburnt face thou shouldst belong to my Lord Alexius.

Alexius.

True, I am from the east; but we are comrades for all that.

Sentinel.

Yes; for we are all Count Isaac's men now, mind'st thou.

Alexius.

True.

Sentinel.

Count Alexius is now no more than second in command.

Alexius.

No more.

Sentinel.

And in so small an army that is next to nothing.

Alexius.

'Tis little, but as much as he deserves.

Sentinel.

Nay, I did not mean that: only I would have thee understand that thy master serves my master.

Alexius.

He does. There are few men worthy to serve thy master. I would that Count Alexius were.

Sentinel.

Not that I mean any ill of Count Alexius; he's young.

Alexius.

Ay, but one might be wiser, even at his years.

Sentinel.

Nay, I know not that. When I was two and twenty I know not if I had much more sense than he has now. 'Tis a miracle how sense will grow upon a man after he has mounted guard a few years. Thou wouldst not believe how many thoughts come and go in a wise man's head as he walks his four hours backwards and forwards upon an outpost.

Alexius.

How long hast thou been walking here?

Sentinel.

The matter of an hour.

Alexius.

And what thoughts have come and gone in thy head?

Sentinel.

The matter of four.

Alexius.

What was thy first thought?

Sentinel.

I bethought me that the wind was easterly and one ought to hear the waves break upon the Symplegades.

Alexius.

What was thy second thought?

Sentinel.

I thought when the moon rose I should see the tops of the fig-trees at Galatá; that's my birth-place.

Alexius.

And thy third?

Sentinel.

I thought if I was to fall to-morrow, I could like it were thereabouts.

Alexius.

Thy fourth?

Sentinel.

I thought when Count Isaac was Emperor, he would be for recasting the army, and I should tell him I was getting old in the service and could like to be one of the Immortals.

Alexius.

That I'll be bound for him thou shalt.

Sentinel.

How canst thou tell?

Alexius.

I know he takes care of those that stick to their old generals and look cold on the new.

Sentinel.

How know'st thou that? Thou art of the eastern forces.

Alexius.

None knows thy master better.

Enter an Officer.
Officer.

My Lord, your brother waits you hard by where the roads meet.

Alexius.

I come. Farewell to thee. See thou keep a keen look-out to the north and west; the moon will soon be up, and on the scout side of the field; all thou need'st take heed of comes between thee and the light. Farewell. I'll tell Count Isaac thy deserts.

[Exeunt Alexius and Officer.
Sentinel.

Holy Mother of God! that will be the young Count himself. 'Tis well he takes it no worse; for, to say the truth, I did him but scant justice. What was it I said to him? No doubt but I told him plain out every thought that has come into my head for this year and more.

Scene III.

—A Churchyard.—Comnenus, Alexius, and Guide.
Comnenus.
This road is but uneven. How is this?

Guide.
It is the burial-ground, my Lord; these hills are graves.

Comnenus.
Then do we trespass; but the dead ne'er heed us.
Ha! Pray you, trip not up my heels, good friends,
That lie in wait so stilly.

Guide.
Hush, my Lord.

Comnenus.
I tell thee that they heed us not.

Guide.
Our feet
They heed not and they hear not; but some tell
How a light word's recorded till the day
When they shall burst their graves.

Comnenus.
And so it is;
Words though from earth with wings they fly away
Yet perish not nor lose themselves in space,
But bend their course towards eternity,
And roost beneath the judgment-seat of God.
What may yon shape be, hewn upon the tomb?

Guide.
A cherub 'tis, my Lord.

Comnenus.
What, with that damnable visage?

Guide.
It is thus, my Lord, they carve them.

Comnenus.
'Tis wondrous hideous. When I die, Alexius,
I'll have an image of another mould
Shall smile a cherub's blessing o'er my dust.
What, ha! again—that rogue,
The bungling sexton, overplied his task
And buried us the epitaph; this stone
Hath but one knob above ground, which obtrudes
“Siste Viator” to who journey darkling.
Well, there's a lesson when the tablet's buried
More than its scroll could read us. Sit we here.
This stone is new: there's but one name inscribed,
And a long blank for chronicling the friends
Whose hour comes after. Why not write their names?
Then were the date but wanting. Look again—
“Here lieth” (say rather “here once lay”)
“The body of Peter Andros, a true spouse
“And tender father—may the dust lie light . . .”
Why, look you there! the relict of this Peter
(Whom I once knew) and his all-duteous sons
Drave Peter hitherward ere they bore him here;
And here they stood around the low-laid sire,
Echoing the hollow rattle of the mould
Upon his coffin-lid with hollow groans;
And then they wrote his epitaph,—a true one,
Which yet they lied in writing. Could we call up
The rings of mourners that have girt these mounds
And bid them show their faces, 'twere a sight
That to behold the Devil should jump for joy.
But they have followed.—What may be the name
Of yonder church?

Guide.
It bears its founder's name,
St. Nicolaus Pontifex, my Lord.

Comnenus.
Ay, is it so? Alexius, this place
I should have known, but that the dusk deceived me.
Once in this ground I saw a friend interred,
And I would fain revisit now the spot.
From hence I know my road. I'll follow you.
[Exeunt Alexius and Guide.
This is the very earth that covers her,
And, lo! we trample it like common clay!
Chance shall I call it merely—but blind chance,
That at this fateful, questionable hour,
Brings me to blunder thus upon the spot
That I have shunned for years as haunted ground!
Is it not haunted? When I last stood here
Disguised to see a lowly girl laid down
Into her early grave, there was such light
As now half shows it, but a bleaker air,
For it was in December. 'Tis most strange;
I can remember now each circumstance
Which then I scarce was conscious of; like words
That leave upon the still susceptive sense
A message undelivered till the mind
Awakes to apprehensiveness and takes it.
'Twas o'er—the muttered unattended rite,
And the few friends she had beside myself
Had risen and gone; I had not knelt, but stood
With a dull gaze of stupor as the mould
Was shovelled over and the broken sods
Fitted together; whilst some idle boys
Who had assisted at the covering in,
Ran off in sport, and trailed the shovels with them,
Rattling upon the gravel; the sexton then
Flattened the last sods down, and knocked his spade
Against a neighbouring tomb-stone to shake off
The clinging soil,—with a contented mien,
Even as a ditcher who has done his work.
I, at that sound, had started from my trance,
Conscious of its completion, but the keen frost
Had ta'en the power of motion from my limbs.
How I came thence I know not, nor dared ask.
But now I dare recall these things. Oh, Christ!
How that which was the life's life of our being
Can pass away and we recall it thus!
Irene! if there's aught of thee that lives,
Thou hast beholden me a suffering man;
Hast seen the mind—its native strength how racked,
Hast seen the bodily frame how sorely shaken,
And thou wilt judge me, not as they do who live,
But gently as thou didst judge all the world
When it was thy world.—
On many a battle's eve, in many climes,
By the ice-caverned course of black Araxes,
By Ister's stream and Halys and Euphrates,
By Antioch's walls and Palestine's sea-shore,
I have addressed wild prayers unto thy spirit
And with a mind against its natural bent
Tortured to strong devotion, have besought
That thou wouldst meet me then, or that denied,
That I might seek thy world upon the morrow.
And then it would have seemed a thing most sweet,
Though awful, to behold thy bodiless spirit.
But now—and whether from the body's toil
I know not if it be, or fevered blood,
Or wakefulness, or from the mind's worn weakness—
It were a very terror to the flesh
To look on such a phantom:—it is strange
That what we have loved and lost we fear to find
In any shape,—strange that the form so sweet,
So gentle and beloved, I saw laid here,
Now new-arisen would make my blood run cold!
Up, Moon! for I am fearful of the darkness,
And I have heard a voice that cries aloud—
Home, home, Comnenus!
[A voice at a distance, calling Comnenus.
Where hath he a home?
His home is with the dead—his home is here—
Father of mercies, take him to his home!

Enter Alexius.
Alexius.
Isaac, you stay too long.

Comnenus.
Ha! What?—too long!

Alexius.
What ails you? are you present to yourself?
I left you but just now.

Comnenus.
True, 'twas just now.

Alexius.
And now you look so ghastly! Why is this?

Comnenus.
Ay, it was something that I saw just now.

Alexius.
You speak without the concert of your mind;
Collect your senses; whence this sudden change?

Comnenus.
Be not alarmed; 'twas but some idle thought;
Nought else,—a bodiless creature of the brain;
Think it no more. Alexius, as you said
I am a much changed man, and phantoms come
Before my sight most palpably like truths,
But going thus show clearly what they are.
We should survey yon villa on the left;
Some fifty men might hold it for an hour
And cover our advance till Cos be won.
Come, let us onward. Why, you stand amazed.

Alexius.
Go on; I will not quit you.

Comnenus.
Time runs out;
'Tis dawn by three o'clock; and ere that hour
Macrinus will be up with half his force
As far as Ithé. I'll send word—but come—
The Moon looms large and shows our footing well.

Scene IV.

—The Gardens of the Convent of St. Conon.— The Monk Balbinus and an Acolyte.
Balbinus.
The hour is nigh; anon the Count shall come,
And if, as I am bid believe, alone,
He shall return no more. Take thou this scroll;
'Tis for the Captain of the Fort; stand close
Behind yon statue of St. Isidore;
Observe us well, and should I cross myself
Fly with it to the Fort; but should I bend
And clasp my hands, slink through the thicket hence
And meet me at the sacristy. Stop, stay;
Not that way or you meet him. This way; see.

[Exeunt.
Enter Comnenus.
Comnenus.
Midnight is past; yon western rim of light
Is sunken and obscured: not gone though yet:
The brow of night is pale—pale, but how lovely!
Quieter far than life, than death less dark;
A voiceless revelation of the things
Which lost their names when Eden was no more.

Balbinus.
(behind).
Cherub and Seraph be your blessing here!

Comnenus.
But lo! the names are left; oblivion gulfed
The nature, essence, notion—not the name;
So honoured be the all that earth lost not.
I, willing that all words should have their use,
Accepted these for watchwords.—Peace, come forth.

Balbinus.
Cherub and Seraph—

Comnenus.
Bring thy body forth,
So I may deem that heavenly voice incarnate;
Come, come, thou know'st me.

Enter Balbinus.
Balbinus.
Holy Mary Mother!
My Lord, you're louder than the bell for matins!
You'll rouse the brotherhood.

Comnenus.
Which it did never.

Balbinus.
To come amongst your enemies alone!
It is mere madness, so I bade him say;
Perilling alike yourself and me that screen you.

Comnenus.
Thy counsel whether I should come or not,
Was never asked; I sent to bid thee hither
And finding thee am satisfied. Alone
I have not come, save for the last half mile;
Seest thou yon upland; in the dell beyond
A hundred horse are browsing.

Balbinus.
Gracious Powers!
You do not purpose an attack?

Comnenus.
Not yet;
Unless perchance my person were betrayed.

Balbinus.
Surely, my Lord, you question not my faith.

Comnenus.
I cannot doubt that it behoves thee keep it.

Balbinus.
Pardon me there! though plighted faith still binds,
The rashness of a chief might cast in doubt
Which side is safest.

Comnenus.
Not a whit, Sir, no;
By whichsoever is espoused, by that
'Tis safest to abide. Be thou aware
It were a fatal error shouldst thou dream
That thou couldst secretly espouse my cause
And change thy mind at will as things fall out.
Thou stand'st committed to the issue; yea
My good or evil fortunes thou shalt share.

Monk.
My Lord, have I desired or more or less?

Comnenus.
And if, the while, cross tides shall run me hard,
And then some subtle spirit in thine ear
Whisper “Change sides,” with this thou shalt make head
Against that subtle spirit,—thou shalt say,—
“Count Isaac, in his cunning malice, bent
That none be left unscathed if he be smitten,
May have bethought him to leave proof behind
Of all our dealings—proof whereof the tithe
Were all-sufficient in the Patriarch's hands
To doom me to that peace his Church accords
To her false brethren.”—In the hour of trial
Thus shalt thou fortify thy better mind.

Monk.
My Lord, a cruel stratagem is yours,
If I must needs believe this done, to fix
Your follower's faith; but I am yours till death,
Though sorely wronged.

[Bending low and clasping his hands.
Comnenus.
Invidious it were
To justify to thee the cutting off
Of that safe second turn which should insure,
Lose they that might, a winning game to thee.
To justify is not my present need;
To have explained suffices.—By the night,
The compline has been done this hour, and now
My cousin might come forth.

Monk.
Not here, my Lord;
The trees are ranker to the left, where now
She doubtless waits you: in the cloister near
Your sister will keep watch; on this side I.
The path is at your hand.

Scene V.

—Another part of the same Garden.—Anna Comnena, alone.
Anna.
Whate'er the cause I'm glad we meet again;
For our last parting was not to my mind—
A turning off as who should meet by chance
And bid good-morrow—nay, not even that;
He did not say farewell, a word though sad
One would not leave unspoken—still a sweet sound,
Though, it may be, a sound that parts for ever,
The dying cadence of a broken chord.
He did not say farewell, nor did he look it,
Nor kiss it, as he once, though not of late,
Was wont to do. I have outgrown the time
When all was unsuspected, unsuspicious:
And yet I would not be a child again.
How quiet is the night—no breath afloat—
I hear the kine upon the far hill-side
Tear up the long dank grass. And such a morn
Will break the rest of this so peaceful night!
Hark! what is that?

Comnenus
(entering).
Curse on these birchen boughs;
They waked a grey he-owl, who stared amain
To see one here that was not of his order.
Well met, fair cousin! Short our time is here.
Wert thou afraid to come?

Anna.
Afraid? oh no;
I nowhere feel so safe as where you are.

Comnenus.
Yet few men of a peaceful mind like mine
Have brought such dangers both on friends and foes;
Not wilfully—in no case wilfully;
And now the end is near.

Anna.
A happy end,
Oh yes, a happy, blessed end I trust;
And thenceforth and for ever we live in peace.

Comnenus.
Under his fig-tree each: so be it! Yet
At this and all times it befits the brave
To look each issue fairly in the face.
The courage of the commonalty sinks
Unless their hearts be sanguine; victory thus
Is in each general's mouth; none cries,
Courage, my friends, for wretched is your plight!
The chances are against us, Death and Defeat!
But by the common cry the common mind
Is buoyed aloft: be it not so with us:
Whatsoe'er possible evils lie before
Let us sincerely own them to ourselves,
With all unstinting, unevasive hearts,
Reposing in the consciousness of strength
Or fervent hope to be endowed with strength
Of all-enduring temper,—daring all truth.

Anna.
I am courageous when you bid me be;
But were I left without a friendly voice
To strengthen and exhort me,—left alone
In some disastrous sequel of this strife,
I fear, I fear that I should falter.

Comnenus.
Nay,
The fear of fear redoubles fear of fact,
And ofttimes fact is better borne than fear.
The worst assemblage of the worst events
When actual is not so intolerable
As when remote it seems: fancy o'ersteps
The bounds of nature, and miscounts the force
Of cumulative griefs: a first mishap
Has a fair field; the rest are but late comers;
The human mind's capacity of pain
Is no illimitable attribute.
What is it you most dread?

Anna.
Oh! when I think
How many a bold adventurer rose in arms
This last indiction, and what fates they met,
They who had won and reigned falling in turn,
And then behold you standing where they stood,
Upon the verge of empire or of—

Comnenus.
Death,
Not excæcation, if the thought of that
Calls up these looks of horror. Fear it not.
To no such maimed and ignominious close
Will I degrade my being. Life is now,
I think, with all its evils, eligible;
But one sense less would turn the odds against it.

Anna.
But if this dread conjuncture should arrive,
You would not with your own hand cast it off?

Comnenus.
Not so, if others can be found: my wish
Has never been unneedfully to arm
My reason or my will against my instincts;
What facile guidance nature gives I take;
In the sharp interchange of blow for blow
Our volatile life transpires at unawares
Without the thought of death, whose sting is thought;
The easiest permeation of mortality
Is this, and this, if need be, shall be mine.

Anna.
Whilst I behold you standing by my side
So full of life, my mind will scarce be brought
Fairly to apprehend the fatal change
We speak of.

Comnenus.
Death is but a name to you,
Who have but fancied hitherto, not felt
A deprivation. May it so remain!
To me, acquainted with mortality,
A foresight and forefeeling clear and strong
Present the image of the hour to come;
And come when come it may, death comes to me
As a familiar spirit—not desired,
Neither eschewed. Some three good hours ago
I passed a burial-ground, and pondering there
How much by accident it is we live
'Mid all the storms that wreck humanity,
I deemed that there was something yet to do
To clear the coming hours of anxious thoughts;
One possible issue unprovided for.

Anna.
I can but look to two events; but two:
Your victory, which quits us of all cares;
Or else your fall; and having proved the worst
There's nothing left to fear; Fear yields to Fate.

Comnenus.
Though I should fall, defeat might not ensue;
Alexius might win the crown and wear it.
My thoughts were on that upcast; and therewith
I called to mind how greatness shuffles off
The ties of blood, and oft-divided hearts
Break up the fortunes of a new-made house.

Anna.
'Twill not be so with ours.

Comnenus.
That it might not,
Is mainly what has brought me here to-night.
Nought could secure Alexius on his throne
More than Eudocia's counsel; which were lost
Should he receive a stranger's hand in marriage.
I know my sister's heart, and bear in mind
What comes of Aulic councils wherein strives
With an Augusta's will a Cæsarissa's.

Anna.
She must be brave who thwarts Eudocia.

Comnenus.
Nay;
The empress were high-minded who should not.
Audacious oftener than unenvious
Are women: of them all I know but one
From female jealousies by nature free
In whom Alexius, should he wear the crown,
Would find a fitting consort. You are she.

Anna.
I! never; never; oh no, never in me
A consort could he find; me most unfit
For aught but meekly to await the end
And mindful of my kindred with your house
Weep or rejoice as ill or good betides;
In me a consort can he never find.

Comnenus.
And wherefore? 'Twas in childhood you last met;
When you survey him with a woman's eyes
You shall confess no woman can resist him.
Oh, childhood's independency of heart
How art thou lost before the loser wotteth!
Why should we doubt the prompt and sure success
Of a good soldier like Alexius?

Anna.
I love Alexius as his cousin ought,
But will not wed him: and I say not this,
As many a maiden's protest has been said,
For a defiance; nor does pride prompt me,
Who ne'er was independent of affections,
To say, what said shall bind me evermore,
That come what may, to him imperial honours,
To me distress, bereavement, all that's worst,
I will not wed Alexius.

Comnenus.
How is this?
You say you love him as his cousin ought
And then forswear him and renounce his works
With like devotion as he were the Devil.
How know you till you see him grown to man
You may not worship him? Armenian girls
Call him the Mithra of the middle world
That sheds Eoan radiance on the West.

Anna.
I meaned not to disparage him; oh no,
He was a gentle boy, of a kind heart
And a quick fancy, and I loved him well.
But do not speak of him as now you did;
That makes me rancorous in my own despite.

Comnenus.
I say no more. When time is most to spare
There is a sex in reasoning with whom
I never misemploy it. True it is
That divers motives, many a cogent cause,
Affecting first the empire, next yourself,
And lastly the Comnenian race, demand
Another strain of thought. I press them not.
When these want weight, change may be better hoped
From passion's mutability.

Anna.
Oh, God!
The last words these may be we speak together,
And can you thus embitter them, and all
Only because I'm true to my own heart?

Comnenus.
Far be reproachful thoughts! my fairest cousin
Shall be as faultless in my sight as fair,
Nor would it derogate from her fair perfection
If she should hold her best affections free
To change as times change; with no wanton lightness,
Nor on vain pretexts, nor from those that are
To those that are not worthy; but with judgment,
Having regard to who are dead, who live.
This only I would ask, but will not urge.
When the hour comes I spoke of (if it come)
Alexius will better press the pleas
That I shall pass away from. Bear in mind
In after times what I have here let fall:
The seasonable hour will come, though now
My counsel seem unacceptable.

Anna.
Alas!
You speak as if you had no hope to live.

Comnenus.
My way was through a churchyard, whence, as I said,
My thoughts have brought away a taint of death.
It is my wont upon a battle's eve
To invocate a spirit for my guide
Which till to-night ne'er answered to my call.
What! is the moon so high? 'tis more than time
That I were in my camp. Farewell, my cousin.
Sinless and blameless as thy life hath been
It is not much of ill that can befall thee.
Mine has been less so.

Anna.
First and best of friends,
If virtuous, just, and honourable living
And gallant deeds could answer for man's weal,
Yours were not to be feared.

Comnenus.
Not much the doubt
Comnenus would stand well with times to come
Were thine the hand to write his threnody.
Yet is he in sad truth a faulty man.
In slavish, tyrannous, and turbulent times
He drew his lot of life, and of the times
Some deep and bloody stains have fallen upon him.
But be it said he had this honesty,
That undesirous of a false renown
He ever wished to pass for what he was:
One that swerved much and oft, but being still
Deliberately bent upon the right,
Had kept it in the main; one that much loved
Whate'er in man is worthy high respect
And did devoutly in his soul aspire
To be it all; yet felt from time to time
The littleness that clings to what is human
And suffered from the shame of having felt it.
But this is posthumous stuff; talk for the tongues
That tell their tales when mine are all told out.
My gentle cousin, hie thee to cover now.
An hour or two and yonder Euxine Sea,
That slowly indues its matutinal grey,
Shall suddenly change colour like a snake,
Enamelled with the glow of other fires
Than those of sunrise. Briefly, fare thee well!
And whatsoe'er be told of me henceforth
A most untruthful annalist were he
Who said I did not love my cousin Anna.

Anna.
Go, dearest kinsman: should we meet no more
In many an hour of all my after life
Shall this be treasured inmost in my heart
As kindness for a last memorial left.
Go, and good Angels guard you is my prayer.

Comnenus.
Good soldiers, Anna. In the arm of flesh
Are we to trust. The Mother of the Gods,
Prolific Mother, holiest Mother Church
Hath banded Heaven upon the side opposed.
No matter: when such supplicants as thou
Pray for us, other Angels need we none.
Now must my horse know nothing of the reins
Until the warder's challenge sound a halt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—A Chamber in the Bucoleon.—Nicephorus, the Patriarch, and the Abbot of St. Conon's.
Abbot.
I cannot but commend your Grace's course;
She is a woman of ungoverned spirit
And were she in her helplessness so urged
Might do some violence to herself, which still
Men's minds, more prone to scandal than to faith,
Would fix upon the Church. Count Lyra's death
Is yet a question and a calumny
Rife in men's mouths, despite the miracle.

Patriarch.
It pleaseth God to hasten no man's hour
But straight our Order is impeached, as we
Could make men linger.

Nicephorus.
For our present need
Reserve we force until devices fail.

Abbot.
All shall be ordered with the strictest heed
To what your Grace directs.

Nicephorus.
Yet have regard
To what runs counter, what occasions serve.
In this time's mutability, the pleas
That rule one hour the next may abrogate.
Wherefore, by due observance of the times
Mould thou the means as best to work my end.
A woman and a child are easy dealt with.

Abbot.
To work your Grace's will and save the shrine
From the reproach of violence, I will try
All gentle and benign devices first . . .

Nicephorus.
And should these fail to draw the culprits forth
Expect my further will. Enough is said.
They wait you in Sophia's.

Scene II.

—A Suburb.—Alexius, his Lieutenant, and Soldiers.
Alexius.
Stand fast. The Sunian suburb is on fire.
Send word to Eulas to advance and storm
The Atrian gate; with half his force—no more;
The troops that guard it will but feign to fight;
They're won. With t'other half do thou thyself
Rejoin Count Isaac. There is nought to fear.
The famed Varangian brawlers led the flight,
Their leader leading them. His father, Anx,
Our prisoner, saw it and his bald head blushed.
Begone! Remember—half his force.

Lieutenant.
The rest
I carry to Count Isaac.

Alexius.
Ay, at once.
Now with our ladders to the walls, my friends.

Scene III.

—Interior of the Church of St. Sophia.— Thuriferi swinging censers on each side of the altar. A number of Priests holding tapers and performing from time to time the ritual deosculations of the images. A congregation of old men and women. The Patriarch is descending the steps of the altar.
Patriarch.
As many goats as sheep.—No more of this—
Ye do but bring each runaway and skulk
Hither to seek a shelter. Quench those lights.

Enter Theodora.
Theodora.
What doth this people here? What, know they not
The battle rages to the very walls
And none to man them?

An old Man.
Princess, we are old.

Theodora.
Old! and how is it then ye know no better
Than thus to cupboard up your vapid dregs
Like something precious?

Patriarch.
Said I not? Lo, there!
The very women cry out shame. Away!

Enter a Soldier.
Patriarch.
Whence comest thou?

Soldier.
From Phenar in much haste.
The Emperor is sore beset, and saith
Unless some aid be brought that all is lost.

Patriarch.
Who feareth loss that fighteth for the Lord?
Why arms he not the citizens and the slaves?

Soldier.
They will not arm; I saw them in the streets;
Prostrate before the images they lay,
Stricken with fear; the ways were filled with monks
Passing in long processions to the shrines.

Patriarch.
Oh, God! raise up thy people. Lo! I take
A blessed relic from Sophia's shrine!
This sword contains a scraping of the steel
Of that spear's head which pierced the side of Christ;
What host shall stand against the Lord of Hosts?
Arm ye, my children, arm ye for the fight!
St. Theodore, St. Maurice, and St. George
Shall strike with them that strike with this dread sword.
Cast down your lights; find weapons where ye may—
What host shall stand against this sacred sword?

Scene IV.

—The City near the Walls.—A Soldier keeping ward. To him enter another running.
1st Soldier

From what side comest thou?

2nd Soldier.

From Petræum, covered with laurels. There is nothing in war so glorious as a successful retreat. I have left the dead, but brought off the baggage. [Exhibits articles of plunder.
I'll give thee this ring an' thou'lt show me the nearest way into the sewers.

1st Soldier.

Dost take me for a scavenger? Thou art for slinking off.

2nd Soldier.

I! perish the thought! 'Tis a point of generalship. Didst never hear of a city being surprised through the sewers. If I were there, I could keep the pass against a thousand.

1st Soldier.

Indeed, thou wouldst keep it all to thyself, for the thousands are coming the other way—over the walls. But I'll take thy ring, for methinks I know what way thou camest by it; thou hast been killing and rifling thy wounded comrades; I'll take thy ring, and show thee the way to a safer place than the sewers— there— [Turns round suddenly and stabs him.
Get thee underground and give me up thy ill-gotten gear.

Enter several other Soldiers.
1st Soldier
(as he rifles the body).

Good soul! wounded to death, I fear me! The best of friends—a military testament—left me all he had—alas!

3rd Soldier.

Truly and no little either—ha! Come, let's have fair play,—we will all go shares.

Enter an Officer: the soldiers quit the dead man and gather round him.
Officer.

How fares it here?

4th Soldier.

The same as everywhere—ill fare; it fares foully; the sally is beaten back to the walls.

Officer.

There was a rumour with us that a miracle had been wrought.

4th Soldier.

The miracle of making live men dead; I saw no other. But there was the old Patriarch among the foremost soldiers, with a rusty sword that came from Jerusalem.

Officer.

What did he with it?

4th Soldier.

Why, he held it up before the ranks and prayed lustily. The enemy were shy of it till Comnenus rode up and brake it in twain with his lance, and then they all fell on and the sally was driven in.

Officer.

They say the Emperor was there himself.

4th Soldier.

No man in the field fought better. This day has made a soldier of him again.

5th Soldier.

Here is some one coming this way.

Officer.

It is the Emperor and the Eparchs. Jump on to yon wall; you were best not be found doing nothing.

[Exeunt.
Enter Nicephorus, followed by Eparchs and other Officers. Also the Patriarch.
1st Officer.
The sum of all is, he will have no truce.

Nicephorus.
Ay, but I'll bring him to another mind:
Return and say a Synod hath been called
Which doth adjudge that by the Nicene canon
The Church affords no sanctuary to those
She theretofore detruded from her pale.
Add that in such sort as he grants conditions
Which may spare innocent blood, so shall I deal
With his heretical kindred. Get thee gone.
[Exit First Officer.
The last attack told hardly, my brave friends;
Yet was it fairly faced.

1st Eparch.
To speak God's truth,
I think, my Liege, we had better sped at last
Had there been none but soldiers to bring off.

2nd Eparch.
When first the monks came out, they gave some spur
To the fight; but after, when our line broke up,
They were a questionable aid: some stood
Like landmarks, others knelt, most ran
With more of haste than speed, and shook to air
The order of retreat.

Nicephorus.
The Patriarch's troops
Find little favour with my soldiers.

Patriarch.
Yea;
Harlots find favour with thy soldiers; feasts,
Riotous feasts, find favour with thy soldiers;
And therefore favour find they not with God.

Nicephorus.
Nay, nay, Lord Patriarch, let's not charge each other
With aught that hath befallen. Both did well.
May we so aid each other to the end.

Re-enter First Officer.
1st Officer.
May it please your Majesty, upon the road
I learned the Count Comnenus had been lost.
The last who saw him said it was apart
From the main body, with the troop of horse
That drave some friars through the Eastern breach,
And thereabouts they found his shield and spear.

Nicephorus.
Then go proclaim thine errand on the walls,
And say, unless an hour shall bring reply
St. Conon's is no sanctuary thenceforth
For any of his kin. Now to the ditch.

[Exeunt Officers, Eparchs, etc. (As the rest go out, the Patriarch detains Nicephorus.)
Patriarch.
An evil hour were this, should we invade
The Church's privilege to prop her creed
Or spare her sons.

Nicephorus.
Extremity, my Lord,
Will ever force the cures that wound; 'tis vain
To blink them.

Patriarch.
Vain, if other there were none.

Nicephorus.
See you not every outwork stands exposed?
Nought but an instant truce can save us now,
And he will grant it only to redeem
These women's lives; so they shall to the walls,
And if the Abbot fails to draw them forth
They must be brought by force.

Patriarch.
I grant they must;
But was't not said that near the eastern gate
The arms of Count Comnenus had been seen
And that himself was missing?

Nicephorus.
So they said.

Patriarch.
Then let these arms be found, for they will aid
Our holy end, to spare the sanctuary
From rude irreverent force, too needful else.
This must be looked to.

Nicephorus.
Ho! the signal sounds.
Let us not lag behind.

Scene V.

—The Convent of St. Conon's.—Eudocia and Anna Comnena.
Anna.
Hark! cousin.

Eudocia.
I know that sound. It is the Uri's horn.

Anna.
And look there: yon is not sunrise?

Eudocia.
No, 'tis the Greek fire on the other side of the hill.

Anna.
Heaven! is the attack begun, then?

Eudocia.
I trust in Heaven it is.

Enter the Abbot of St. Conon's.
Abbot.
I come, deputed by the Emperor
Upon a gracious mission. I am to say
He never warred with women and for you,
Whom he holds faultless of this vile revolt,
To see you driven like culprits to this strait
Afflicts him sorely; and with all respect
He proffers an asylum in the palace
Where honourable safeguard and respect
Await you.

Eudocia.
Let thy Emperor be told
They wait me from a greater far than he,
Isaac Comnenus, whom may God preserve!

Abbot.
I fain would be the bearer, with your leave,
Of a more seemly answer; it is fit
I bid you know you find not safety here;
Mine age, my holy calling, bid me stand
Betwixt you and that precipice's brink
Whither you . . .

Eudocia.
Hath your Emperor been pleased
To signify his further will through you?

Abbot.
He gave no further message.

Eudocia.
Nor do I.

[Exit Abbot.
Anna.
Why do you speak so fiercely?

Eudocia.
'Tis all one;
The time is passing and the term approaching;
When swords are drawn soft words are out of date.

Anna.
Would it were day!

Eudocia.
I would it were; this light
Shows the old monks like dead men walking.

Anna.
Yes;
None living do I dread as I dread them.

Eudocia.
Here comes another. Well, thine errand, monk?

The Monk enters.
Monk.
St. Conon's name be praised! Count Isaac's ours.

Eudocia.
Who sent thee with that tale? It is not true.

Monk.
St. Conon's name be praised! Lo! hither come
His shield and spear; it is the Emperor's will
That as a meet oblation they be laid,
With fitting rites, before St. Conon's shrine.

Enter Monks in procession, bearing the shield and spear, and chanting “Gratias agimus.” They lay them on the altar and with the customary genuflexions and thurifications pass off.
Eudocia.
Gallant Comnenus! and is such thy fate!
The boldest heart in Christendom was thine,
And thine, as was thy due, the fastest friends
And faithfullest soldiers. Now doth Ruin reign!
Now be our race extinct, for never more
A name so noble shall adorn its annals.
He said be bold and we should meet again;
And Heaven shall witness that I have been bold;
But never, never as a captive,—no,
Not in captivity shall we e'er meet.
The term of princely durance is but short.

Anna.
They cannot slay him—oh no, no, they cannot.
The fiercest soldier would not lift his hand
Against Comnenus.

Eudocia.
Tempt not thou thy heart;
Yield not to hopes, but arm thee with despair.
The stake was noble—'twas the eldest crown
In Christendom, and which, if worn by him,
Had grown in splendour through a glorious reign.
The loss is great;—so might have been the meed.
It was a cause worthy my brother's sword.

Anna.
Oh! holy Father, say they will not slay him.

Monk.
The Emperor is merciful in judgment;
Imprisonment may serve, with loss of eyes.
'Twere safe to blind him.

Eudocia.
Blind him! slave of slaves,
Unworthiest to give utterance to his name!
Low in the dust must be Count Isaac's state
When such as thou dare breathe thy blights upon him.

Monk.
Lady, 'twere good you were less splenetic;
If you could frame some more becoming speech
And audience of the Emperor were obtained
Or of the Lady Theodora, then . . .

Eudocia.
I ask not audience of either—Hark!
'Tis a mere incoherency of mind
That angers me with such as thou—attend—
Thou bring me to the presence of the Count
By any means thou wilt, and I bestow
This diamond thy reward.

Monk.
Then with all haste
Set forward to the palace.

Eudocia.
Who comes here?

Enter an Officer.
Officer.
I bear the Lady Theodora's signet
And have it from her Highness in command
To say her bidding here.

Eudocia.
Say on, Sir, speak.

Officer.
Her Highness gave command that to no ear
It should be uttered, save to yours.

Eudocia
(to the Monk).
Thou hear'st.

[Exit Monk.
Officer.
Your pardon, Lady, are there none else near?

Eudocia.
What fear'st thou? there is no one—none—speak out.

Officer.
I come from Count Comnenus.

Eudocia.
Thou from him!
Thou comest then from his prison. Tell me where,
That I may hasten thither.

Officer.
From his prison?
Far be the prison doors that close on him!
His cause is hopeful.

Anna.
Hopeful, say you? God
Be merciful and make that tiding true!
His cause is hopeful!

Eudocia.
And if it prevail,
The first and only boon I ask of him
Shall be to truss me up these lying monks
And sprinkle yonder altar with the blood
Of one most just and righteous sacrifice.
Where is Count Isaac, Sir?

Officer.
He bade me tell
How all things stood: A spy brought word at dawn
That Synods had been holden and some ill
There was devised which had respect to you.
The sallies from the gates to the south and east
Just at that hour grew hotter, but the Count,
Seeing the issue was on that side safe,
Called from the pursuit a few trusted friends
Of whom I rank myself the humblest; these
Of shields and spears divested them and crept
To some suburban hovels; there they drew
Above their armour the monastic garb,
Then sped as flying from the enemy
And through a breach found entrance to the streets.
To waive suspicion then from shrine to shrine,
With crosses and mock-relics held aloft,
Through awe-struck multitudes they took their way
With offerings for each altar. In due time
They will approach St. Conon's—whence the Count
Sware that no power should drive him till his flag
Were flying on Sophia's.

Eudocia.
A bold oath that!
Will he cast off disguise and stand on force
So soon as he gains entrance?

Officer.
When the horns
Sound from the steep of Ergon, not till then;
But when they capture Ergon, thence the troops
Can aid us in good time.

Anna.
Is he far off?
Where didst thou leave him?

Officer.
In the Kamian way:
There he was met by rumours that himself
Was captured, and not doubting whence they came
Nor knowing but they might work for ill to you
He bade me cast my weeds and with this sign
(A ring the Princess gave in days of old)
Gain access here.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
Your guard is at the gates;
The Father waits your coming.

Eudocia.
Let him wait;
Tell him my mind is changed; I will not go.

[Exit Attendant.
Enter certain of the Brotherhood of St. Conon's, crying “Kyrie Eleison—an offering for the Shrine.” The Comnenians follow, cowled and stoled, with relics and crosses and their offering in a vase. They proceed down the stage and kneel before the curtain of the altar. Enter the Abbot of St. Conon's.
Abbot.
You must attend me to the palace.

Eudocia.
How!

Abbot.
Ay—instantly. A rescript hath arrived;
You and your younger relative must go.

Eudocia.
Invade the right of sanctuary! what words
Are these to hear from Churchmen!

Abbot.
It is vain.
A Synod hath been holden and decrees
Your heresy has forfeited the right.

Eudocia.
What if we dare dissent from such decree!

Abbot.
The secular arm is ready to compel
Instant obedience. Soldiers wait without.
'Tis true the Church hath alway reverenced
The rights of sanctuary when such protect
Offenders against human laws alone;
But when Almighty Heaven hath suffered wrong
The Church were but a patron of the sin
Should she protect the sinners. Ho! the guard!

[Here one of the Comnenians, having advanced gradually to the front, steps between the Abbot and Eudocia.
Comnenian.
Brother, of this the doctrine thou deliverest
I cannot tell thee less than that 'tis false.
It is a lying doctrine, brother—yea,
A doctrine which the Devil hath inspired
Into thy Synod and which God abhors.

Abbot.
And what art thou that thou shouldst interpose?
Am I not highest of mine order here?

Comnenian.
I tell thee that thy words are not of God;
Nor shall the touch of secular force pollute
This holiest, as the best inhabited,
Of all God's dwelling-places here on earth.

Abbot.
Thou contumacious monk! what right is thine
To say to me this shall be or shall not?
Ho! the Imperial Guard! thou shalt see proof
How what I do in this is countenanced.
Dost see this writing? Seest the purple ink?
A warrant in the Emperor's very hand
Gives order for proceedings to this length.

Comnenian.
A stronger warrant in Count Isaac's hand
Arrests them.

[Throws off his disguise and draws his sword. The rest do the like.
Abbot.
Guards! Ho! Treason! Treason! Help!

[Exit.
Comnenus.
Defend the doors. My bravest of the brave,
Well met in any hour! and gentle Anna,
A fitter time for greetings shall be ours.
Form into line.
[The Comnenians form a line on each side, leaving a passage between them down to the altar.
My sister, not a man
You see before you but in this day's fight
Did champion's service. At the altar's foot,
Anna and you shall take your station; pass,
And as you pass extend a hand to each
Of these your soldiers, which, as he receives,
He in his martial heart will pledge his faith,
Long as it beats with life to fight your battles.

Eudocia.
My gallant friends, may fairer hands than this
Be your reward when this day's work is wrought.

[Comnenus leads Eudocia and Anna between the lines down to the altar. The clash of arms is heard without, and the Varangian trumpets. Comnenus draws aside the curtains of the altar.
Comnenus.
My sister, sit you here. Ha! what be these?
Behold a miracle, my spear and shield!
Now by the God of battles this is strange
Nor less auspicious. To the charge they go.

Guards at the doors.
We cannot keep the gates; they're not of strength.

Comnenus.
Back each man to his station. Keep them not.

[Varangians defile through the gates. Horns are heard in the distance.
Captain of the Varangians.
Behold the impious heretic himself!
Yield, or be hewn in pieces, thou and thine.

Comnenus.
If thou wilt do that office on but one
Of them thou seest, I pledge my royal word,
When I hang up thy rebel-kind to-morrow,
To grant remission of thy forfeit head.
Enough of talking. Hark! Comnenians, hark!
List ye the horns from Ergon. Now, fall on.
Down to the dust, idolaters.

[As the fight proceeds a cry of “Comnenus” is heard, and Alexius enters at the opposite gates with his soldiers. The Varangians are driven out.
Alexius.
Well fought, my friends! the last of this day's fight.
Behold our flag is flying on Sophia's
And ye may sheathe your swords; the day is ours.

[The Comnenians shout.“Isaac Comnenus! may he rule us long! Long may the brave Comnenus wear the crown!”
[The common soldiers are heard crying confusedly:“Proclaim him Emperor. Go, bring the crown. Where are the purple buskins? Long may he live! Long live Count Isaac!”
Alexius.
And where is Count Isaac?

Several soldiers.
Where is Comnenus?

A soldier.
When I saw him last
He passed beside yon image of the Saint.

Another.
St. Conon's,—ay, and struck it as in sport
And split the marble with his glove of mail.

Alexius.
Gone doubtless to the front. Eudocia! Ah!
A happy meeting this! a joy of joys
To meet my sister, after all these years,
In Victory's hour, with Fortune at her feet.

Eudocia.
Alexius, God grant you rich reward
Of rare desert. A younger face is here,
Which you can brighten with a livelier grace.

Alexius.
My gentle cousin, be this homage yours
From all the Eastern Empire. Friends, repair
To the imperial palace; as you go
Proclaim Count Isaac Emperor through the streets.
Sound the Comnenian march. Now, all set forth.

ACT V.

Scene I.

—An apartment in the Prisons.
Nicephorus
(alone).
Morn, let me meet thee face to face once more;
Thou look'st upon me with an unmoved front,
The pale cold aspect of a wearied friend.
Well, well; my race was run; 'tis but in age
That Fortune plays me false; 'tis but in age
When all that I can lose she doth but snatch
Out of the hand of Death. 'Twas in my youth,
When she was kind, her constancy bore price;
For then there was a life to make or mar.
There's many an infant Hercules is dwarfed
By lacking a first meal, and me she fed
From a full breast and held me by the hand
Till I could run alone. She quits me now,
But not till time is that I quit the world.
Kings ought not to be old. The strength of thrones
Is youth. The infirmities of age in Kings
Cripple the body politic: first fails
Life's vigour at the heart; a numbness next
Seizes the weak extremities of empire;
Then some old sore breaks out, and all at once
The nice adjustments of the strong-knit frame
Are rent like rotted ligaments asunder.
There's some one comes;—but here's such scanty light—
Who stands within the Emperor's prison doors?

Comnenus
(who has entered)
Isaac Comnenus.

Nicephorus.
Thou art welcome, Count;
More welcome to my prison than my palace.

Comnenus.
I know it. Never was I welcome there.
Had I been less obnoxious in thy sight
I had not sought thy fall. Nor seek I now
Thy further fall than what defence demands.
I would give room for thy fast shortening days
To gather in the aftermath of life
And garner for a better world what here
May yet be reaped.

Nicephorus.
My life! What life is that?
A mangled life that crawls along the base
Of the huge precipice o'er which it fell;
A life that were it whole were little worth
At threescore years and twelve, and being pierced
With many a mortal wound, may count its price
As less than little. Yet I take thy gift.

Comnenus.
Gladly I find there's aught I have to give
Worth thine acceptance. One condition yet
Demands fulfilment that the crown be safe;
For to that end provision must be made
That derogates in some sort from my grant.

Nicephorus.
Thou aim'st then at my liberty. So be it.
The loss of liberty! What loss is that?
Who hath it? Not the rich man. Not the poor.
The rich of what he owns is owned the slave;
The poor a bondsman to necessities,
Selling himself in parcels. And a prison!
To that old age arrives by Nature's doom,
Barring the wrongs of fortune; an old man
More meekly may endure it.

Comnenus.
Somewhat else
Remains for stipulation. While thou hold'st
Thy station in men's minds as being still
One of an order capable of empire,
Thy friends will breed expectancy of change.

Nicephorus.
“Friends” was thy word? in truth an empty fear!
My friends! In thousands yesterday at dawn
Like leaves in summer did they hang on me;
But ere night fell, as with a winter's blight,
They were abroad upon the several winds.
Now, by God's name, it grieves me to the heart
They were not sepultured in yonder trench.

Comnenus.
Be it thy friends are friends of him who reigns,
Thy malcontents will soon be such to us,
And every disaffection that may grow
Take the good name of loyalty to thee.

Nicephorus.
What surety wouldst thou have?

Comnenus.
Assume the tonsure.
The service of the Church, whilst it forbids
The thoughts men might attach to thee of empire,
Becomes thy latter days.

Nicephorus.
Ay doth it, Count?
Hast thou forgotten, in thy feast of power,
The tenor of the life thou'dst have me close
In mockery of myself? The tonsure, Count!
Dim though they be, these latter hours of life,
I quickly call to mind the glorious dawn
When first amidst Mount Rhodope's defiles
A Thracian soldier I took spear in hand;
And though that spear be splintered and that hand
Be nerveless now, I yet have that within
That stoops not to conditions such as thine.
A prisoner thou may'st make me,—not a puppet.

Comnenus.
I meaned no contumely. A fitter time—

Nicephorus.
No more—I see thee not again—hence-forth
All that the Emperor of his gaoler seeks
Is that his latter hours be undisturbed.

Comnenus.
Farewell: but should thy meditations bring
Another mood of mind, spare not to speak it.
Thy summons on the instant brings me back.

[Exit.
Nicephorus.
My life hath been such life as Kings must bear
Who would be more than pageants: it has been
A life of anxious, strenuous thought, and deeds
That sprang from such: yea and all men must say,
Howe'er I governed, it was I that governed:
No minister has played the monarch here.
I have swayed nations—less by kingly power
Than by a power within me which had swayed
The minds around me had I not been King.
My single destiny is all that now
Remains for me to govern; nor shall I
Be found unequal to this final charge.
How many times in youth a violent death
Seemed imminent, yet brought me no alarm
And now the loss of so much less of life,
And that less portion of less rateable worth,
Would surely not seem fearful, but that age
Counts with its ills tenacity of life,
The old inveterate habit of existence.
Enter Theodora.
My daughter, com'st thou to console thy sire?
Thy filial duty hath not been o'erpaid,
But such a time as this were ill employed
In aught but kindly speech.

Theodora.
Father, I come
In this most bitter hour to aid your counsels.
I have not used (and therefore has our love
Held heretofore a not unbroken course)
All words of tender import which are rife
In women's mouths; and if I had such now
What could they profit you?

Nicephorus.
What hast thou better?

Theodora.
Daggers.

Nicephorus.
Hush! hush! that is no woman's word.

Theodora.
Yea, 'tis a woman's word and woman's weapon.
But there are hands to hold them more than mine,
Though there be none more steady. Time runs out.
The menials of the palace as I came
Were busied with the pageant of to-morrow.
Grant that a woman's doom had laid in the dust
The head which they would crown.

Nicephorus.
Why were it done,
Deem'st thou the difference of a single head
Shall quell a reigning faction? Had the blow
Been struck while yet the victory was in doubt
Their leader lost had been the loss of all;
But now 'twere a miracle if they kept not
What he hath won.

Theodora.
Father, your years benumb you.
Wherefore is this? the Patriarch wears a coil
Of twenty winters more, yet his blood's hot;
And I, a woman, do not yet despond.

Nicephorus.
The Patriarch's fury blinds thee to his dotage.
I tell thee there's no hope. As easily
Recall the colour to a corpse's cheek
As give them heart again.

Theodora.
You will not hear;
The cohort which deserted yesternight,
Though paid their hire, were coldly entertained;
Wherewith but ill-content, this day they've sworn
To rise in arms upon the Patriarch's call.
All now is loose, the townsmen and the troops;
None careful but the conquered. One blow struck
Confounds them in their mirth.

Nicephorus.
This old man's dream
Which he hath told thee doth portend nought else
But that a night of blood will interlope
Ere the Comnenian dynasty begin.

Theodora.
My father, hear.

Nicephorus.
Nay, nay; I know too well
That sleepless Chief whose eye is over all,
Be feasting they that will.

Theodora.
Then at your choice
Cleave still to your despair. I go,—and soon
Here in your cell or on your throne resumed
A tale will reach you of as bold a deed
As e'er was done by our most martial sires
Upon the Thracian hills. Till then, farewell!
Father—your blessing.

Nicephorus.
Oh! my child, much grief,
Sore trouble hast thou brought me in my time;
But I forgive thee now, nor may I blame
This enterprise, all hopeless though it be.
Take thou thy father's blessing and depart.
I in the inner chamber will go seek
That rest the time invites me to. Farewell.

Scene II.

—A Street near the Palace of the Cæsars.— Isaac Comnenus and Macrinus meeting.
Macrinus.
Count Isaac, by my life! Well met, my Lord—
Nay, your Imperial Highness—pardon me
If my first meeting with my sovereign Lord
Be something overjoyful.

Comnenus.
Good Macrinus,
There's none entitled to a larger share
Of whatsoe'er of joy this hour affords.
Where is my brother?

Macrinus.
In the palace, Sire,
And with the rest awaiting you.

Comnenus.
And where
Have you disposed the soldiery?

Macrinus.
They crowd,
And with them half the city, to the square
Before the palace; all expectant wait
To hail you Monarch ere they doff their mail
And with rejoicings close the glorious day.

Comnenus.
Something too soon, Macrinus. And my guard?

Macrinus.
They are within, my Lord.

Comnenus.
So far is well.
Are those deserters looked to?

Macrinus.
Which, my Lord?
I knew not that a single friend proved false.

Comnenus.
Ay, but the false proved friends. Observe them well.
I mean that Mæsian cohort—they that oped
The Atrian gate to Eulas.

Macrinus.
By my faith
They were but now before the palace; yes;
A Lombard shirt of mail they wear, and sword
Much like a Frank's—I marked them there but now.

Comnenus.
March out my guard, and let them be disarmed.

Macrinus.
'Twill cause much discontent, my Lord.

Comnenus.
Why so?
They'll share the donative; so say, Macrinus.
I will reward them, but I will not trust them.

Macrinus.
It shall be done, my Lord. And will you then
Indulge the impatient multitude that longs
To shout their gratulations?

Comnenus.
Noise and pomp
Is what they long for. They will have it soon.
To-morrow comes the coronation; then
They'll have it to their hearts' content; to-day
There's something I would say to them . . . no matter.
The Count Alexius, said you, was within?

Macrinus.
He is, my Lord.

Comnenus.
A noble youth is he.

Macrinus.
Indeed he is.

Comnenus.
And a good soldier too.

Macrinus.
There's not a man on either side his peer.
He has a martial heart.

Comnenus.
And therewithal
The rapid eye, ubiquity of presence,
And quickness and collectedness of thought
Which give a natural command in war.

Macrinus.
He has, my Lord.

Comnenus.
For he was from a boy
By care taught conduct. No state-weakling he,
Born in the purple and so bred a fool.
He is, though young, well practised in affairs.

Macrinus.
Surely, my Lord.

Comnenus.
In him there is besides
The strong vivacity of youth and health,
With something of a gallantry of spirit
That wins upon the multitude.

Macrinus.
Most true.
The troops he has commanded love him well.

Comnenus.
A word with thee, Macrinus—— Hark! the throng
Are bellowing my name.

Macrinus.
My Lord, they wait
To take you home in triumph. They're nigh mad.
There never was a people so o'erjoyed,
Nor ever yet a city that so rang
With acclamations; not a troop files by
With the Comnenian standard, but the shout
“Long live the Emperor Isaac” peals on high
As from a thousand voices in one breath.
Long may he live and reign!

Comnenus.
My friend, my friend,
There's more mortality about this frame
Than known to those who tell its term of years.
The worm within may make the building weak
Ere Time has leant his weight upon the walls.
Well; let us to the palace. I had meant——
But it is needless. From the terrace walk
Above the palace gates I'll speak some words
To thee, to Count Alexius, and the people.
So let us to the palace. But disarm
The Mæsian cohort first, forget not that.

Macrinus.
I'll lose no time, my Lord. Hark! there, again!

Scene III.

—A suburb.—Theodora and an Officer of the Mæsian Cohort.
Theodora.
Who wrote it, knowest thou,—this quavering scrawl?

Officer.
It is the Patriarch's, Lady.

Theodora.
It is like.
Old age hath stricken him. I cannot read it.

Officer.
Princess, if I may be so bold to guess,
His Holiness would see you.

Theodora.
Wherefore so?

Officer.
I know not; he is muttering evermore,
But none can tell his drift. He lies at length
Upon a pallet in St. Cyril's cell.

Theodora.
This day hath overwrought his aged frame.
I will attend him. Keep thy men together,
And send me word of whatsoe'er befalls.

Scene IV.

—A Chamber in the Palace.—Eudocia standing at a casement. Anna sitting near.
Eudocia.
Look, cousin, look! for a more princely pomp
Ne'er blessed a maiden's sight.

Anna.
I'm sick of shows.
What do you see?

Eudocia.
The troops, a host in arms,
Fill up the palace square, and them beyond
As far as eye can reach, the multitude
Throng through the ways. Hail to that silken flag,
The proud Comnenian banner! Long may it float
Triumphantly above yon palace gate!

Anna.
Your heart is in the pageant; you were wont
To taunt your sex that they were all for shows.

Eudocia.
My heart! ay, every pulse of it that beats!
And call you this a show? I tell you, girl,
That were these squares and palaces black dust,
These ways more desert than the Palmyrene,
And were all silent save the mouse-bat's wing,
So that our banner waved above the waste
My triumph would be full.

Anna.
Well; be it so;
I meant not to reprove your triumph.

Eudocia.
Ah!
I see him,—there he comes, and close beside
The princely boy Alexius. Heard you that?
A shout as of an empire drunk with joy!
Again and louder! Hear you?

Anna.
Now they're still.
How suddenly it ceased!

Eudocia.
He speaks to them.
I saw him wave his hand.

Anna.
Would we could hear!

Eudocia.
I heard him once address some mutinous troops:
'Twas with a grace so winning yet so bold
That their ferocious clamour died away
And when he ceased they cried, “Long live the Count!”

Anna.
See, from their hands he takes the diadem.
What means he now?

Eudocia.
Look! look! Alexius stoops,
And on his head he puts the Crown.

Anna.
And hark!
They shout again, and can you not discern
“Long live Alexius!” is the burthen now?

Eudocia.
He has transferred the empire! as I live
Discrowned his proper head!
(A pause.)
It is not well.
My life long have I looked to see him crowned,
And much I strove and struggled to that end,
And thousands toiled with no less zeal, from whom
Was much less owing, and have they no claim
Who ventured—much or little—all they had,
Or might have or might hope to have, for him—
Have they no rights?

Anna.
But should Alexius reign
He will be good and generous to them all.

Eudocia.
Alexius! who's to govern in his nonage?

Anna.
They ope the gates; the multitude throng in;
Some one approaches.

Eudocia.
Isaac, by his step.
I'll tell him all I think.

Anna.
Oh no, not now;
Give him a welcome now.
Enter Comnenus.
My friend, my cousin,
A thousand welcomes leaping to my lips
Would fain be uttered if they could.

Comnenus.
Enough;
More than an empire is the worth of one.
You stay too long; the tables are all spread.

Eudocia.
Where is your diadem?

Comnenus.
'Tis given away.
No more about it—there's a feast below.

Eudocia.
It is not well to balk your triumphs thus,
And cheat the friends who aided you to rise.
All was endured for you—ay, in the hope
That this which has come would come—that this hour
Of full regality would crown the ascent,
The perils of the upward path were braved.

Comnenus.
Eudocia, be content; I could not reign.

Eudocia.
Not reign! Who says not you were born to reign?

Comnenus.
I am not of that mind; of what hath been,
I can say boldly I was born to that;
More can I not,—unless it be worth while
To predicate that I was born to die.
Engraft, my sister, on a greener stock
Your love and pride, and they shall flourish long:
There wants not divination of decay
In that from which your earlier hopes drew life.
Alexius is docile; him your care
Shall train to empire, him your counsel teach,
As counsel is there none by which in straits
I half so much have profited. Now first
I need it not; for henceforth there is none
Can be of counsel with me. I transfer
That with the crown, a not unequal gift
Nor ill assorting with imperial power.

Eudocia.
I know you not; so all unroyal now
That rose to royalty so gloriously—
Now when all men are gazing at your height
As at a ruling planetary power.

Comnenus.
I never, even when a boy, desired
To be star-gazed of men. You could not think it.
What I desired has been this day fulfilled;
The living of my race are safe and free;
The dead are not dishonoured: some firm friends
And many loose adherents will be paid,
Some less, some more, the wages of their work.
This was desired; this was or will be done;
And being done, I know not that I owe
To dead or living of mankind aught more.

Eudocia.
And how wilt thou dispose thy future life
To profit more thyself?

Comnenus.
Of that hereafter.
Alexius must feast his Lords below,
And you assist him. I must give meanwhile
Some needful orders and survey the posts
Or e'er the night waste further. Fare you well.

Eudocia.
My noble brother, must you go? Farewell.
I said not aught ungentle? if I did,
You know that I have loved you from your birth.

Comnenus.
Not an ungentle word—not one—not one.
I'll seek your chamber ere we sleep and court
Some further conference.

Eudocia.
I know not why,
But I am loth to see you leave us. Well:
Till midnight I shall scarce expect you back;
But do not fail me then.

Comnenus.
About that hour.

[Exit.
Eudocia.
Oh! I forgot—but he is gone.

Anna.
What is it?

Eudocia.
I wished to tell him he should take his guard;
The city is disorderly—no matter;
We'll send Macrinus.—Are you ready?—Come.

Scene V.

—A Cell in the ruins of a Convent.—The Patriarch lying on a pallet.
Enter Theodora.
Theodora.
All goes as we would have it, holy father;
The Mæsian men stand firm and nought transpires.

Patriarch.
Who is it—Ha? Who's there?

Theodora.
Most reverend Lord,
Arouse you and look up. Our purpose thrives.

Patriarch.
I say again who is it? Speak, who is it?

Theodora.
The Princess Theodora.

Patriarch.
Theodora!
What, hast thou stricken him? reach me thy palm.
Lo! there's no blood—all over ashy white.
The Princess Theodora—why then speak—
Say—hast thou dealt the blow?

Theodora.
Father, not yet;
The hour has not yet come.

Patriarch.
Not yet, not yet?
That ever was the cry—when I said, “Strike,”
Some coward came between and said, “Not yet.”

Theodora.
Compose thy mind; the season is at hand,
And duly as the day and night go round
The work shall be fulfilled; for deeper vows
Than ever pilgrim pledged his soul withal
Devote me to this deed.—He hears me not.

Patriarch.
Bring holy water that my hands be cleansed.
The Father of the Church this day hath slain
Seven men in battle—be his sins absolved.

Theodora.
Christ! that his senses should forsake him now,
At once, and in this need! Arouse thy mind;
Father, Comnenus reigns; this very hour
He will be crowned; bethink thee of the hour.

Patriarch.
Think'st thou I hear thee not—beshrew thy shouting—
I bade thee smite him and thou brought'st me back
A pair of lily palms and saidst, “Not yet.”
But hark! his soul is cared for: 'twas my charge
And I have tended it: die when he may
There is a weight on that—help! I am slain—
What traitor drave that spear?—Soft, let me lie.

Theodora.
Great God! is this his death-stroke?

Patriarch.
Let me lie—
Let me lie down.

Theodora.
What hinders you, my Lord;
Pray you lie down. His back's as stark as steel.
He is convulsed.—Help, friends, help! help, without!

Enter a Mæsian Officer.
Officer.
I greet your Highness with but evil news—

Theodora.
Peace with thy news—seest not the Patriarch ta'en
With the death-struggle? help to lay him down.
Soft! he's more placid now. Go, call the priests.
[Exit the Officer.
Lo! his eyes open wide:—how now?

Patriarch.
Methought
That there was some one dying in this house.
Who may it be?

Theodora.
Nay, turn thy thoughts elsewhere;
Call on Lord Jesus and His holy mother;
Think thou wert ever steadfast in the faith
And may'st have hope of grace. Here come the priests.
Ill may I do their office.

Enter Priests.
1st Priest.
Much I fear
The life hath left him. Open thou his vest.
The pulse is gone—gone utterly—alas!
The soul's departed.

Theodora.
'Twas an awful strife.
Take forth the body.

2nd Priest.
Lo, beneath his vest
Here is a wound still bloody, and received
Doubtless in this day's fight.

1st Priest.
And here are scars
Of wounds received long since. Men wont to say
He was not in his youth the sinless saint
We knew him, but a man of lawless life
And militant in other wars than ours.
Some blood was spilt in stifling of that tale,
And like enough he spared the surgeon's aid
Rather than show these scars. So—bear him out.

[Exeunt Priests with the body.
Theodora.
This is a fearful hour. A terrible end
Was that old man's, and if all tales be true
Many a dark deed his soul is charged with. Ay,
A fearful hour to usher in an act
That may lie heavy on the soul hereafter.

Re-enter the Officer.
Officer.
By the Count's command
The Mæsians have been suddenly disarmed.

Theodora.
Disarmed! and they resisted not?

Officer.
Their Chief
Had been entrapped before, and when assured
That all should have an equal share of spoil
They gave their arms.

Theodora.
My father's word fulfilled!

Officer.
A few were headstrong, and amongst them I,
In cover of a tumult that ensued,
Took sword in hand and brake away to you.

Theodora.
Enough, Sir; I discharge you from all dues
Of future service.

Officer.
I shall ever hold
My service at your Highness's command.

Theodora.
I thank you; for I did not look to find
In such extremity a heart so true.
My last memorial for service done
Is this. Accept it from a fallen friend.
[Giving a ring.
Now, Sir, farewell; our common cause expires;
What may remain is Theodora's; she
Will execute henceforth her own behests.

[Exit the Mæsian Officer.
Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Alas! your Highness, there is grievous news;
My Lord, your royal father—

Theodora.
What of him?

Messenger.
By his own hand hath died.

Theodora.
My father dead?

Messenger.
The warder found him almost cold and stiff;
He had been dead an hour.

Theodora.
No marvel this.
To him the bitterness of death was past;
He has done well and wisely; in the world
He had no more to do; there yet remains
A task of mine unfinished. Now, to work.

Scene VI.

—A large Hall leading to the Banqueting Chamber in the Palace, from which guests are passing out at intervals. In front is the Steward of the Household, with Musicians and other Attendants.
Steward.

The healths come faster now. Aye, aye, they're breaking up and not a second too soon. Hark! that is our young Emperor's health they're drinking, and his is the last. Now, my masters of sing-song, give him your good e'en.

Music.
Thou that many a night hast found
Soldier's bed on guarded ground,
There to sleep and thence to leap
Lightly at the trumpet's sound,
Softer bed be thine to-night;
Other summons than to fight
Wake thee with the morning light;
Rise to-morrow and be crowned.

[Whilst this is sung, Theodora has entered, as a suitor, in a mourning dress with her face veiled.
Steward.
Stand all aside, the guests are coming out.
What wait'st thou for? Make way there! Ho! make way.

Theodora.
I wait for Count Comnenus.

Steward.
He's not here.

Theodora.
He's coming here?

Steward.
I cannot tell. Stand close.
Count Cataculo coming out—make room—
That brave commander—noble Cataculo.

Theodora.
Is he not coming here?

Steward.
I cannot tell;
He ne'er was well affected to a feast,
And speaks irreverently—friends, stand back—
Of wine that's older than himself—room ho!—
The only sin that I can charge him with,
God save his soul in heaven!

Theodora.
Amen, amen.

Steward.
Paleologus coming out—St. George!
That bark's deep laden; Scian wine's aboard;
Yon was a heavy lurch.

Paleologus.
Good friends, good night.
Your servant. Let me hold you by the arm;
For, pardon me, you seem to walk but so-so;
Nay, never mind, I'll steady you; I'm sound;
No milksop neither; but I hold it good
That alway one keep sound to help the rest.
So,—steadily—on this side of that lady—
This side the lady in the grave-clothes—Ha!
This side the apparition—cleared, by Jove!
And so a fair good-night to ghosts in black.
[Going, returns.
And tell Count Isaac, I forgive Count Isaac
For being thrifty of his bounteous presence;
For I've a guess, a shrewd one, mark you me,
A shrewd conjecture of the why and wherefore,—
And to be wise and say no more about it,
I think it may be he's too drunk to come.

[Exit.
Theodora.
Hark you; the matter that I bring the Count
Concerns his life.

Steward.
How mean'st thou?

Theodora.
Yea, it doth.
The scurvy citizens are not content,
And ever and anon some knave cries out
His house is plundered and Count Isaac's men
Have stolen his supper and debauched his wife.
Then lays the rogue his hand upon his hilt
And turns the matter in his beggarly mind,
Feeling dissatisfied: so walks he forth,
And no one's eye is on him.

Steward.
In good truth,
Thou hast described a dangerous man; i' faith,
They're very dangerous, your hungry men;
They have no charity for us that eat;
I ever said, put hungry men in prison,
Else you shall surely have them discontent.

Theodora.
Yet for the time, seeing there's no offence,
They go at large unheeded.

Steward.
No offence?
What call you then the lack of charity?
The lack of Christian charity? What, none?
By my salvation, 'tis a foul offence,
An infamous transgression, which begets
Much peril to us powers that be.

Theodora.
I say
There is a danger nearer to the Count
Than any you surmise: where is he?

Steward.
Well,
He will be here anon and thou shalt see him.
Away. The guests are rising all. Away.

Scene VII.

—The Banqueting Chamber.
Enter Isaac Comnenus and Macrinus, with an Attendant.
Comnenus.
The guests have all departed?

Attendant.
All, my Lord.

Comnenus.
Here, take my sword. Bring me a cup of wine.
[Exit Attendant.
And he is dead?

Macrinus.
He bled to death, my Lord.
A barber there had left the instrument
Wherewith he did this violence to himself.

Comnenus.
Farewell, Nicephorus the first and last!
Soldier of fortune, bold and free in Thrace,
Poor abject Emperor in Byzantium!
He's better dead, so let us hope, by much.
Thou wouldst not think it, friend, but it is true,
Had I been of this war the wilful cause,
I could have killed myself for conquering
As soon as he for suffering defeat.
Though it be not a soldier's word to say,
The sight of all this blood has sickened me.

Macrinus.
No blood has needlessly been shed by us.

Comnenus.
By us, I trust, no drop. But think, Macrinus,
When civil war's afoot, whate'er the cause,
And whosoe'er the leaders, in the fray
How many a beast breaks loose and roams abroad
In shelter of an honourable name.
Go, good Macrinus, give my orders forth
That whosoe'er unsheathes his sword to-night
But at the word of his commander, dies;
And in the public view of all who pass
Plant in each quarter where the throng is thick
A headsman and his block. Look it be done.
If chopping off of heads can stop the course
Of these disorders, I will have them stopped.

Macrinus.
I will about it straight.

Comnenus.
Good night, Macrinus. [Exit Macrinus.
(After a pause).

So here am I, to say my work is done.
Thus churchyard visions mock us as we merit,
When man, for lack of manliness, is made
A lazaret for the mind's maladies.
[Walks to a casement.
How changed those skies from what they were at eve!
They change as do the destinies of men,
And give no warning,—or at best a brief one.
Black, save a seam, a trench, a gaping chasm
Of ghastly moonshine betwixt cloud and cloud!
And therewithin a pale and shivering star,
Like hope in far futurity, a gleam
Of half-extinguished light still struggles on.—
I feel that chill and heaviness of cheer
Which follows oft a chase that's hotly won;
For then the hazards and vicissitudes,
The pride of conflict, spur of opposition,
The quickening sense of danger, and the need
And exercise of wit, are all effete;
And the reward of all (which seen remote
Shone like a Caucasean peak at dawn)
Meets with a cold reality the touch
And bares the blank and nothingness of life.—
Were I a man to take delight in crowns,
And purple boots, and sending forth of bulls,
And dealing out of dignities,—to wit,
Calling this man Sebastos and that Cæsar,
Bidding one worthy follower wear red hose,
Another hope the like advancement soon
And wear them mottled in the mean time—yea,
Could I rejoice in royal sports like these,
I should exult in this day's victory
And not feel all this barrenness within.
I will go hence to-morrow.

Re-enter Attendant with wine.
Comnenus
(drinks).
Ho! the Gods!
That re-creates the spirit. Marvellous!
How this amalgam of a body and soul
Can grain by grain so interpenetrate
That washing of a ventricle with drink
Shall strengthen and uplift the low-laid mind.
Oh, then what potent menstruum is that
Which shall dissolve the so compacted compound
And segregate the subtler element
To live apart when all the other dies.
Enter Alexius.
God save your Highness! Well, how speed you now?
To her Imperial cousin what saith Anna?

Alexius.
When first I spoke she said at once 'twas vain;
But when I urgd your sanction to my suit,
She faltered and grew pale, then turned away,
Nor honoured me with one look more.

Comnenus.
So fixed!
Then shall she have her way and follow me;
And though a wanderer on the earth am I,
I will requite her constancy with care
And in that care may chance to find at times
A resting-place myself.

Alexius.
God grant it you!

Comnenus.
He will, He will. Some minutes ere you came
A kind of vision had enwrapped itself
Around me like a winding-sheet. I saw
I know not what phantasmas, and was moved
To moralize the matter of that change
Which theologians call—how aptly, say—
The quitting of a tenement, or else
The casting off old clothes—the . . . Oh, the gods!
The figures are as multitudinous
And ugly as their archetype.

Alexius.
To me
These seem as apt as any.

Comnenus.
Even so.—
The Prophet of the Zend expounded thus
The secret of original sin: he said
When Light, the Power of Good, created man,
Him Evil followed darkly as his shadow.
And this is fair philosophy, whereby
We typify what is not understood,
And say a thing is thus, and thus, and thus,
Just as another thing is thus and thus,
Though how or wherefore either thing came thus
We nothing know. Enough. One week from this
Will find me a day's journey on the road
To the Illyrian frontier. Who is here?
Eudocia and Anna. Take apart
Our sister sage, thy Councillor of State,
And leave to me my Anna. I would hold
Some present conference with my gentle friend. Enter Eudocia and Anna Comnena Alexius, advancing to meet them, leads Eudocia to the farther part of the stage, where he remains with her.

What ails thee, Anna? Why this changing cheek?
What rainbow is reflected in those eyes?
What dream hath moulded that pathetic mouth?
Thy lip hath pouted at an Emperor's suit,
And pouts it now repentant?

Anna.
Oh no, no!
Though I were truly what I ought to be,
A lifelong and perpetual penitent,
Yet never could my soul repent of that.

Comnenus.
Then are we two at odds with empire both;
And being therein of one mind and heart
What should gainsay us that from this time forth
Our hearts and lives be one? Thou know'st not, Anna,
How wide the vacancy, how deep the void,
That opens here, which empires could not fill,
Nor worlds—nay, weep not—

Anna.
It is not for grief.
I hear you say that you are desolate,
Yet feel no pang! My heart is not my own,
To be so happy, knowing you are not.
But onward I am looking, and rejoice
To think my eyes shall be upon you ever;—
And ever watching you, if haply once
I chased but half a sorrow from your soul,
'Twould fill me with such gratitude to God,
That suffering with you still, though for you too,
I scarce should seem to suffer.

Comnenus.
Born of Heaven
Love hath an empire o'er the spirits of pain
Beyond all earthly powers; else loth were I
To see thy lucid life obscured in mine.
But in the sun and summer of thy love,
My life shall live anew.

[Alexius advances, leaving, Eudocia, who is joined by Anna.
Alexius.
If go you must
We will not quarrel for the day and hour.
First to Illyrium, is it?

Comnenus.
Thither first,
If Anna shall forbid me not; for there
Some present propping will your State demand
Ere it be stablished. Now the little left
Of this night give to sleep. Good night, good night.

Alexius.
In the left wing the Protovestiary
Hath seen your couch prepared.

Comnenus.
No need of that;
In the adjoining chamber I'll lay by
These heavier trappings, write a rescript there,
And take what rest I may. Again good night.

[Exit.
Anna
(in discourse with Eudocia). . . .
I cannot tell you how it startled me;
And surely it was strange—still whensoe'er
A health was drunk and guests grew clamorous,
That ominous figure glided into sight,
Looked slowly round and vanished.

Alexius.
I gave leave
All should have entrance to the lower hall
To witness the festivities. This one
Had been some straggler.

Anna.
But her mourning dress?

Alexius.
She was a suitor for some forfeit head,
And thought to move compassion by her garb.

Anna.
Her face was veiled, but truly hers was not
The bearing of a suitor. There was too
At times a something I had seen before—
—Oh, God! I see it now—

Enter Theodora.
Eudocia.
Hush! 'tis the Princess.

Theodora.
Ye have feasted full,
And ye are merry. I must kneel to beg
A humble boon—the body of my sire.

Alexius.
Your pardon, if my officers imposed
Such and so needless an indignity.
The fitting orders I will give myself.

Theodora.
I know thee not, nor seek I aught of thee.
I am a suppliant to the Count Comnenus.

(To Eudocia.)
Thou knowest there hath that between us been
Which makes it fitting I receive my suit
In audience from himself.
Eudocia.
Doubtless, to-morrow . . .

Theodora.
Much is the doubt what morrows bring to them
Who tire of their to-days. 'Tis now, now, now,
That I must see him, or else never more.

Eudocia.
Through yonder door, then, if you pass . . . She's gone.

[Exit Theodora.
Alexius.
Her purpose is apparent; she will tread
Fast in the footsteps of her father.

Eudocia.
Yes;
And by her looks I doubt if even now
There be not poison working. I repent
That access has been granted her. Go in—
I fear she may design . . .

Anna.
Hark, hark!—a groan——

[All rush into the inner chamber, whilst Theodora, passing out from it, crosses the stage, holding in her hand a dagger covered with blood.