University of Virginia Library

THREE PLAYS IN RHYMED VERSE

FAND

A FÉERIE

IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Cuchulain, son of Sualtim, champion of Ulster, otherwise called Settanta, or the Hound of Ulster.
• Conhor, King of Ulster.
• Laeg, Cuchulain's charioteer.
• Laegaire friends of Cuchulain.
• Lugaid friends of Cuchulain.
• Labraid, of the Quick Sword, King of the Sidhe, in Magh Mell.
• Manannan, a magician, King of the Sea.
• Emer, Cuchulain's wife.
• Fand, of the fair cheek, a fairy, wife to Manannan.
• Liban, sister to Fand, and wife to Labraid.
• Eithne, a poetess, beloved of Cuchulain.
• Male and female attendants, chorus of fairies, prisoners, etc.

ACT I

A room in the Speckled House at Emain. One portion of the stage is divided from the rest by a curtain. In it lies Cuchulain on a couch entranced, Laeg and Eithne with him. Outside Lugaid, Laegaire, and others, are playing noisily with dice, a flagon by them and horn cups. Eithne singing. She has a distaff and spindle.
Laegaire
(rising).
I have had enough of this. I need the air, Lugaid.
'Tis a fool's life we lead here by this sick man's bed.

Lugaid.
Ay, a dog's life.

Laegaire.
I've done. He neither lives nor dies.
I want the sun, the wind, the blue face of the skies,
The white mists on the mountains. We are useless here.

Lugaid.
We will away to-morrow.

Laegaire.
We will chase the deer
In the free forest, run, shout. We have become diseased
With his mad malady. 'Tis time we were released.

Lugaid.
We have been a year here, watchers. What more can we do?
We have done enough for him.

Laegaire.
We will leave him with these two,
Who will watch on.—And Emer, she will be here anon.
I sent for her last night. When all is said and done
His wife is his best guard, albeit he forbade.
The day Laeg bore him in from Baile's strand he was mad,
As thou well knowest, mad; and we had promised him
To carry out his bidding to the utmost whim;
He would not hear of Emer. Yet time solves all vows,
And small has been his profit in this Speckled House
With Eithne for consoler, and her songs and tears.
She has lost her power to soothe. He needs more wit than hers,
However well she loves him. I have called Conhor too,
His liege lord, whom he worships, his companion true.
A wise man sure is Conhor. He will probe this thing
And grant us our dismissal.

Lugaid.
See, he comes. (A voice.)
The King!

Enter Conhor, who approaches slowly and withdraws the curtain. Laeg rises, but Eithne sits weeping at Cuchulain's feet.)
Conhor.
He sleeps on?

Laeg.
Ay! he sleeps, and without change or sign
More than a tree in winter, his breath infantine,
His colour, as you see, a little paler grown
Through the long lying here. His cheeks have lost their brown,
His brows their manliness, and all his frame is slack
As an uncoiled rope.

Conhor.
Yet he is sound?

Laeg.
We find no lack
Of any bodily doing; hand, and foot, and limb,
All seem compact, in order.

Conhor.
Can none waken him?

Laegaire.
Conhor, not one of us. A year it is to-day
Since Laeg first laid him here. And still, do what we may,
He sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps. He heeds us not at all.
The weakness came on him at the Spring Festival.
Some say it was the Sidhe, others a woman lewd
Who took him unawares, where he lay in a wood
Because the sun was hot, and scourged him at her will.
He spoke to Laeg of faces fair and terrible,
And not to be gainsaid, of a shape clothed in green,
Another in clear crimson, and of a third, a queen,
Who smote him with a rod, till he became a child
And yielded to her will; and while she smote she smiled.
He told this and no more; and the sun burned his head.
And so they bore him here, as one less live than dead,
To Eithne's Speckled House. He would not be brought home,
Or hear of his wife Emer. He was mettlesome
On this one point. And since that day of evil we,
I, Laeg, and Lugaid, have watched him narrowly;
And she, too, who weeps there. And we have hid him close,
For our oath's sake and her great love, here in her house
Unknown to all the world. And, Conhor, of a truth
We are weary of our lives, and grudge our days of youth
Spent idly in this room. We can no longer wait.

Conhor.
And she, too, is she weary?

Laeg.
Eithne? Ay! of late,
In spite of her long love. Awhile her voice to him
Served to bring understanding and a change of dream,
And he would turn and listen while she sang. But now
A month and more is past, and neither prayer, nor vow,
Nor chant is of avail. We are weary to our death
Of this unending watch. And we have lost our faith
In all things, even our love.

Laegaire.
Conhor, you are a king,
Speak to him as a master. Bid him leave this thing
And be himself once more.

Eithne
(rising).
Ay! Conhor. Use thy power,
Thou glorious King of Ulster. Even at this late hour
If thou shouldst speak to him in terms of thy high wrath
He could not choose but listen. Smite the fiend he hath
With thy authority. He shall not gainsay thee.

[He bends over Cuchulain and takes him by the hand.
Conhor.
Cuchulain, man, wake! rouse thee!

Laegaire.
Nay, but lustily.

Conhor.
Wake! wake! After a pause.)
My power counts little. You who loved him know
He listened but to women, heeding nor friend nor foe
For all he was our champion. These possessed his ear;
Never our man's persuasion. If she move him not,
Neither may I prevail to counterwork their plot. After another pause.)

O, pitiful Cuchulain! What fool's fate is thine,
Thou mirror of our nation, our sun's self, which did shine
Like daylight on the world, and drawing all to thee!
How is thy pride departed; the fair witchery
Of thy high hero's courage, and thy manly face,
Which was all Ireland's glory, Alban's sore disgrace,
Beloving and beloved! Hast thou forgot thy deeds,
Thy battles, thy strong shoutings, thy delight in steeds,
The clamouring of thy clansmen and the clash of spears?
Sualtim's son, bestir thee. Be as in past years.
The day is gone for sleeping. Rise, man. To your arms.
Your chariot waits. Laeg calls you. Hark to his alarms.
The foe is at the ford!

[Cuchulain moves restlessly, waving his arms.
Laegaire.
He seems to wake, to hear.
He clutches for his sword. O, wise philosopher!
Speak louder to him, Conhor.

Lugaid.
By the powers of hell
He shall not now escape us. Rouse him with a yell
Such as he heard in Connaught.

[They all shout. Cuchulain half rises, staring around him angrily. Then his eyes close and he falls back.
Eithne.
He is beyond relief.
He falls back to the darkness. O my grief! my grief!

[She goes out weeping.
Conhor.
It is no use. He sleeps more soundly than before.

Lugaid.
He mocks us, for he heard us.

Laegaire.
Ay, he heard our roar
As a wolf hears the hunters in his far-off den,
And bares his teeth an instant, yawns, then sleeps again.
He is beyond our rousing.

Conhor
(drawing the curtain).
Leave him to his sleep.
Your noise shall not prevail, or haply make you weep
If he should rise in anger. Where is his wife?

Lugaid.
Not here.
At Dundealgan is she. We sent a messenger,
But she will hardly come. She is a woman proud,
And will not face this other.

Conhor.
Eithne?

Laegaire.
'Tis the cloud
In her high heaven. She sits and waits the end apart,
Not here at Emain Macha.

Conhor.
She has a mighty heart,
And has forgiven him much, and once he loved her well.
Love's memories lie close. Where they are housed they dwell.

Laeg.
Ay! Emer is no babe. Her will for war or peace
Had ever a strong edge, and will not let her cease
Till she has gained her end—a woman passionate,
And fair, and masterful, either in love or hate.

Conhor.
Ay! a supreme, fair woman,—and his wife. Time was
She clung to him, his shadow. Whereso'er he went
She followed unreproved, beloved, obedient,
And yet commanding him. How often have I seen
The two in their first courting on the hurling green,
He godlike in his skill, she rapt and watching him,
Intent upon his triumphs, and with strained eyes dim
With the thrill of victory. The long day through she sat,
Made glorious by her love, his arbiter and fate,
To give him praise or counsel. I have seen her, too,
Handing him spears in battle while the javelins flew
Around them like a hail, both at death grips with men
Sublimely overnumbered, as of one to ten,
Yet victors in the fight, where each took glorious toll.
He feared her while he loved, and both were as one soul,
A noble apparition. Later a change came.
He was a man, inconstant. Spite of his great name,
He stooped to things inglorious. Foolish loves he had
With foolish, pretty women, whom his fame drove mad,
And who must tempt him from her. She was high-born, proud.
She scorned to be their rival. Silently, calm-browed,
She stepped back from his life. He went alone to war.
Yet she subdued him still, and brought him back to her,
Twice, thrice. There was a savage tincture in her blood,
Which always overcame. He fears her in this mood,
And fear is kin to love, and both work miracles;
For this 'twere well she came.

Laeg.
I hear her chariot wheels
Already in the court. For certain she is there.

(Enter Emer, who approaches them doubtfully.)
Emer.
Laegaire! Lugaid! The King! You sent for me, Laegaire?

Laegaire.
Ay, for we needed thee. Thy husband lies within,
As thou well knowest, asleep; such sleep as is akin
To sickness, on our hands. We are beyond our wit
To cure him or to wait. See, lady, you to it,
We yield him to your care.

Emer.
Who brought him to this house?
Was it thy order, Conhor, he lies far from us,
Thy order,—or what woman's?

Conhor.
Emer, none of ours.
Thou knowest his mastering will, the strength which overpowers
All impulse but his own. 'Twas his own headstrong choice,
These dared not disobey nor raise a counter voice.
They hid it from thee long.

Emer.
Too long. And where is she?

Conhor.
Eithne? She might not stand betwixt the sun and thee.
She fled before thy coming as the wild dove flies
Before the falcon's wing, nor thinks which way be wise
So it escape her rage. There lies the man you love.
She shall not vex him more, nor thee.

Emer.
Enough, enough.
What is your Eithne to me, or all womankind,
That she should fear to see me? Think you my peace of mind
Is of such unstable stuff it should be over-set
By a girl's folly, a man's fanciful regret
For youthful joys remembered, and the sickly need
Of a new maiden bosom for his aching head?
Conhor, no more of this; pass on to larger themes.
The man, your friend, lies here, by what foul stratagems
Stricken I may but guess; the man, your champion,
The bulwark of your State, Sualtim's glorious son,
Foe of your foes, Cuchulain. What have you dared for him
Who dared all for your help, who risked life, fortune, limb
Each prodigal day for you? You hid him from me close,
You grudged him to my care, in this unhallowed house.
How have you proved your wisdom? You are a king of men:
Did you command a cure? Are there no Druids, then,
In all the land to serve you? Have the woods no charms,
No herbs, no poison flowers, since harms are met with harms
And poisons with more poison? Have you probed the hills
For a wise omen, searched the seas to cure his ills?
The Gods have many omens. Have you asked of them
A single sign in prayer or clung to Nature's hem
For a least alms of pity? Speak! Would you let him die?
Away with you for cowards!

Conhor.
Emer, verily
These waited while he slept. They deemed he would awake
With the new dawn of summer, and arise and break
His bonds as a bear roused.

Laegaire.
We watched and waited here
Until our hearts were sick.

Emer.
Like crows a wounded deer!
Nay, as brute sheep are you which on the hillside graze,
Nor see more than the herbage on the mountain ways.
His spear alone to you was worth a thousand spears,
His shout all Ulster's shouting, his rage all its tears.
And you sit on and watch. You, Conhor, are his lord:
You stand and look at him and speak your royal word
Of your high royal bounty—and go forth? Laegaire,
You come here for your chess play. You, his charioteer,
Laeg, drowse at his bed-head. You weep for him, Lugaid,
As a man weeps with wine, and drink as to one dead.
Are these the ways of men? Had it Cuchulain been,
And you the slumberers, what wonders had been seen
In every realm of Ireland! Not a Druid's skill
But had been impressed to service—ay, against his will.
If Fergus had been sick, think you the Hound's swift brain
Had caught no remedy? If Connall had thus lain
All Albion had been ransacked by Sualtim's son.
Rise, Laeg, put wings upon thy feet, thou sluggard! Run
Through hill and dale for help; press all men to his need.
You shall not let him die.

Laeg.
Ay! Emer, we take heed;
Yet art thou less than just.

Emer.
Justice is powerless here.
'Tis tyranny should rule. (To Conhor.)
Be thou strength's messenger,
And bring peace with the sword.

Laegaire.
Ay! Emer, with the sword.
The thought is a man's thought. Thou hast thy woman's word
More potent than our own. We go forth all for thee.
Command us as thou wilt.

Lugaid.
Ay! go we joyfully.
We leave him in thy hands.

Conhor.
Thou shalt keep watch and ward
While we are in the mountains. If our quest be hard,
Our zeal shall make it light. Only, do thou take heed.
The man thou lovest is sick. He standeth in sore need,
Beset by ills not human. There are shapes and shades
We know of, yet see never, in the forest glades,
And on the heaths and rivers deadly to us men.
It needs a mightier power to drive them to their den
Than only arms and courage—nay, than only love—
Else had he long been rescued. Guard him close, and prove
All comers with thy questions. Be advised. Who knows
What spirits may appear, in what enchantments gross,
To work his full undoing.

Emer.
Or to work him weal.
The powers have sometimes pity. They have a hand to heal
Where they have wounded; bring back strength, restore, make good
Losses sustained through pain; earn human gratitude
By more than human help.

Conhor.
Be politic with these,
And know the good and evil of all fantasies.
Lady, I kiss your hand.

[Exit Conhor.
Emer.
I do not fear the spirits,
Who lead a wiser life than our sad world inherits.
Rather man's foolishness.

Laegaire.
We bid you our farewell.
We will bring you back his cure, were it a herb from hell.
I go with a light heart.

Lugaid.
And I. To the hills! Lugaid!
Shout, brother, we are released, a shout to wake the dead!

[Laegaire and Lugaid go out shouting.
Laeg.
Lady, I do thy bidding. Be thou circumspect.
See where he lies within (half drawing the curtain).
[Exit Laeg.


Emer.
(listening to the shouts outside).
There go they, the elect,
The warrior lords of Ulster. Peace be with their ways.
Yet why should I say “peace,” since peace is a dispraise,
And war their only pastime? They have watched too long,
And are like boys let loose. They shout their battle-song
Already in the street. I had need to wish them war;
Fight to their hearts' content. And what a race men are!
How small their practical worth! They have the thing we lack,
The doggedness of will, to stand with a stiff back
Against all odds of fear in a death-stricken field,
And win the day or lose it—at least, not to yield—
The rage themselves call courage. But beyond it, what?
Nothing of any count. We weave the nobler plot
Who are the strengthless women. What they spend we keep
And build up in our souls, and half forget to weep.
Only, our hearts betray us—always, utterly.
[She goes to Cuchulain's couch, draws back the curtain and kneels by him.
Settanta! My beloved. Dost thou hear me? See,
I have come to thee at last, although thou wouldst not come.
Hast thou forgot them, then, the pleasures of thy home,
The faces of thy children, thy delight in all
The fair things which were thine, which were a festival
Each day to thee renewed? I am Emer, thy true wife,
Who asks but to forgive thee. (After a pause.)
O, my grief! my grief!
He hears me not, nor knows.
(After another pause.)
Who brought thee to this pass,
Man, that thou liest here, with thy sad, witless face
All the sweet summer through? What women evil-eyed
Have set their blight on thee? I do not blame their pride,
Beloved, that they loved thee. But 'twas a foolish whim
That thou shouldst love them back, be pitiful to them.
Enough of this dissembling. Rise, Settanta, wake!
It is summer in the hills. The wild swans on the lake
Have every pair their brood. The does from lawn to lawn
Crop the sweet grass in joy, and each one with her fawn.
All are awake but thou, Settanta. (After a pause.)
His eyes close.
He is beyond my skill. He neither hears nor knows. [She buries her face in her hands.


(Enter Fand, closely veiled, with doubting steps, as of an old woman.)
Fand.
Lady!

Emer.
What voice is thine that questions of my grief?

Fand.
One's who would bring thee counsel.

Emer.
Canst thou bring relief
For a long, causeless ache, rekindle fires grown cold,
Awake hearts worse than dead, and loves that have waxed old?
Hast thou a remedy for ills that have no cure?

Fand.
I come from one that knows, and from a far-off shore,
A friend to thee and thine.

Emer.
Nay, woman. Get thee hence!
Begone! These have no need of thee, nor I of friends.

Fand.
Yet were it well thou listened. Lady, this disease
Is not a common ill, but of those maladies
Which are the gods' to send, the gods' to take away.
I would share counsels with thee for his cure.

Emer.
Nay, nay.
What know you of the gods?

Fand.
What those know who have seen.

Emer.
The gods have little pity on the sons of men.
They live in their own world apart, their mountain tops,
Their inaccessible mists, aloof from human hopes.
They know not of our doings, and we know them not.
Woman, hast thou their ear? Canst thou, too, haply float
Upon the rain, and hear their voices in the wind?
Hast thou held converse with them, thou of human kind?
Thy words are idle phrases, and the gods are far.

Fand.
Yet are there others, lady, who more congruous are,
And serve us to interpret. Mortal shapes have they,
With men's own loves and passions, and less far away.
They live with them unseen in every lake and rill—
Ay, too, and in their homes as the invisible
Co-partners of their lives. The great gods delegate
Their sovereign power to these, and these control men's fate
On sundry strange occasions. Wouldst thou not hear of them?
Wouldst thou refuse their message? Listen, noble dame.
The Sidhe-folk are his friends, and, as thou lovest, they love.
They would not he should die.

Emer.
And their help's price? They prove
Their pleasure to what profit? They will hardly give
Their succour without payment.

Fand.
All the world must live.
But these are generous givers, and their price is small.

Emer.
I dare not trust them. Nay, a blight is on them all:
They are not of human blood.

Fand.
They are of human passion.
They love and would be loved, but in less selfish fashion
Than you with your mad lives. Yet are they ill to cross,
And whoso mocks at them 'tis to his pain and loss.
Lady, forbear your railing.

Emer.
And you? Who are you,
Woman? Are you one of them that you hold the clue
Of their designs?

Fand.
Grant me full audience. Let me speak.
O gracious lady, listen. Fand with the fair cheek
Is she that sent me hither. Fand, Manannan's Queen,
Of the shores of Eoghan lord, and of the islands green
Twixt Inbhir and the sea.

Emer.
Fand, daughter of Abrat?

Fand.
Ay, she of the pure eyes, the face which some relate
Is as an unshed tear for its wise chastity.
Ah! she is pure. How pure! All men she doth deny
Who come to crave her grace. She looketh upon none,
Though now for a year past Manannan, the sea's son,
Hath gone forth in his ships and left her without guard.
Yet pitiful is she. There is no wandering Bard,
No Druid in the land, but asketh alms of her.
She taketh delight in heroes. All things great and fair
Move her to joy and pity—battle, glory, fame,
Heroic feats of arms, the deeds that earn a name,
The songs that win men's tears. Thou knowest, who art generous,
The largeness of great bounty in an ungrudging house,
The largeness of compassion. Long hath she known of thee
And him who lieth here, and of his malady,
Since she knows all; and lately she was touched with pity
And sent me here, her angel, to this alien city,
To help thee and to heal. And, lady, if thou please,
I will put forth my power—as thus—on his disease,
And cure him of his ill—as thus—and thus—and thus—
[She makes magic passes with her hands which Cuchulain responds to in his sleep.
And bring him to nemembrance of days glorious,
And of his noble deeds and his great fame with men.
And he shall be more a man twice told than he was then,
For thee and for thy love. Yet only if thou will.
See how my hands can move him.

Emer.
I mistrust thy skill.
What is the price? The price? Thou art a woman old.
How were it wert thou young? Shall I pour out my gold,
My jewels, in thy lap? Fand hath her price?

Fand.
She hath.
Only do thou, fair lady, keep an equal faith,
Nor challenge us too strictly of our means and ways.
We borrow him of thee.

Emer.
How so?

Fand.
For forty days.
This is Fand's message to thee: In return for good,
Thy hero being restored, with health and strength renewed,
Grant him to fight with us against our enemies,
Eochaid and Siabartha, who are Manannan's spies
And leagued against her peace. But with Cuchulain's aid
She shall be free from fear; and they too, and Labraid,
Shall meet their men in battle and make discord cease.
And so for forty days. Then shall he turn in peace,
Fair lady, to your pleasure.

Emer.
Thou dost tempt me. Yet—

Fand.
Thou doubtest of my skill. Behold him in my net,
A bird held by the fowler.

[Cuchulain struggles on the couch.
Emer.
Stop! Do naught to him.
You are not of our blood. Your purpose is too dim,
Your face too full of meaning. You are a woman old.
How were it were you young? My fears are manifold,
My faith in thee a shred.

Fand.
Must he then find his death,
Your hero? Nay, behold him; note his labouring breath,
The darkness of his cheeks, his hands that clutch and strive.
Have you no pity on him? Must he, then, not live?

Emer.
Yours is an evil presence.

Fand.
He has felt my power;
He struggles with his sickness. It is the fateful hour!
His life hangs on a thread, the word of our debate.
Say, shall he live or die?

Emer
(aside).
She is importunate,
I know not what to think. It may be she is true.

Fand.
Speak, quick. His hour approaches.

Emer.
What, then, would you do?

Fand.
He shall be safe with me. His life as my own life,
Ay, as the life of Fand. He shall not need his wife
In one short glorious war which shall restore his fame
And bring him back to you recaptured from all blame,
A hero to your arms. Behold the dolorous man
Laid on his couch of death; how pitifully wan,
How frail a thing for you. We take him upon lease,
Lady, to cure and save and yield him to your grace
Ere forty days are done, a new man, sound and whole
And worthy of your worship,—once more soul to soul,
Body to body yours,—a man!

Emer.
She tempts me sore.
The occasion is too great.

Fand.
Thou sayest?

Emer.
I give o'er.
I leave him to thy skill. Deal with him as thou wilt.
Only beware of failure. Yours shall be the guilt
And yours the punishment if treachery there be,
And a long arm of vengeance stretched remorselessly.

Fand.
I undertake the charge. At Baile's strand we will meet,
And on the fortieth day. In glory or defeat
Fand shall be there with him to win her thanks of you.

Emer.
I go back to Dundealgan in all faith.

Fand.
Adieu.
[Exit Emer. Fand, alone, unveils herself.
[She bends over Cuchulain, soothing him.
[She sings to him, waving her arms the while.He wakens and sits up and stares round him.

Cuchulain.
Where am I? Was it Eithne? Is it her house? Emain?
Yet it was not Eithne's voice. It was like a sound of rain
On the tree tops heard at noon. I have slept long in the heat.
I need to be aroused, to rise and feel my feet,
To stamp, to do some powerful thing with my hands, to shout.
Yet I am weak; my voice is thin; I feel afraid, in doubt.
I have been long sick here. I remember how it was;
The sun's strength on my head where I lay in the grass
By the yew tree at Baile's Strand; the women that were there,
Beautiful, wonderful eyes, and a mad mass of hair,
Like Dana the Earth Spirit. They struck me first in play,
Then with a heavy hand, and then I swooned away
In pleasure half and pain. (He calls.)
Eithne!

Fand
(showing herself).
She is not here.
I wait upon your pleasure, fair son of Dechtire,
To serve you and to honour. Shall I bring you aught?
Milk, honey, lentils, mead? You have been long distraught.
A draught to give you courage?

Cuchulain.
Ay, I will have mead.
'Tis always the best cure. A curse upon my head
(trying to rise).
It swims when I would stand.

Fand.
Let me support you. So.
Lean on me—your full weight. 'Tis a mere nothing.

Cuchulain.
No.
I cannot stand alone. My knees beneath me flinch
Like a man's struck in the battle when the spear shafts pinch.
Give me the mead, good soul.

Fand.
Come, one step forward. There!
You are at your travel's end. Sit bravely in this chair
While I pour out the tankard. Here is a flagon left
By the roysterers that watched him—all thanks for the gift.
[She pours out to him.
Drink, noble Hound of Ulster—God confound your foes!

[Cuchulain drinks, and she sits at his feet caressing him.
Cuchulain.
You are a kind sweet woman, fair as a wild rose
With the dew of morning on it.

(Playing with her hair.
Fand.
The mead has done you good.
You are feeling like a man.

(She kisses his hand.)
Cuchulain.
This is beatitude.
I feel my courage rising. Soul of my life! I swear
Your lips have given me strength. You are most sweetly fair,
A woman of a thousand.

Fand.
Only one who is
Your servant among women, in all kindnesses,
Your servant, suppliant.

Cuchulain.
What, pretty, is your name?

Fand.
Men call me Fand.

Cuchulain.
How? Fand of the fair cheek?

Fand.
The same.

Cuchulain.
I have heard men speak of her. They say—what is it they said?
They called you like a tear, a passionate tear, unshed,
A single passionate tear—and they spoke truth.

Fand.
Alas!
I would be a smile to please you, not a tearful face.

Cuchulain.
How came you to me here, sweet face?

Fand.
I came from far,
And with a wish, a hope—half peace, and half of war.
Of peace to heal Cuchulain.

Cuchulain.
The poor Hound. What more?

Fand.
Of war to ask his succour; since my need was sore,
To win him to my side.

Cuchulain.
As what?

Fand.
A Champion
To fight for me—and love me. And there was but one,
Worthy of that—and this, in the whole land of Eire.

Cuchulain.
You speak, sweet, in no riddles.

Fand.
Truth is best. A fire
Set on a hill brings help. And thou wilt help me. See
I speak as to a god whom no hypocrisy
Can argue into favour, truly as a god
Who needs not our dissembling when we seek his nod,
Nor any form of prayer save only “Grant thy grace,
Do with me as thou wilt. But let me see thy face.”
And I have seen Settanta's!

Cuchulain.
Thy god answers thee.
And thou shalt be his goddess and thy champion he.
How shall I help thee, Queen? On what far angry shore
Shall I descend in wrath and drive thy foes before,
Like wolves from their strong places? Shall I scourge the seas
With my arm's flail, and pour my vials on the breeze
Which circles Albion's shore. Shall I fire the eastern main?
What new lands shall I conquer for thy sweet disdain?
Fand with the passionate eyes; Fand with the fair rose cheek.
Pour all thy soul in words! Nay, I conjure thee, speak!
Whom shall I slay for thee?

Fand.
Settanta, none to-day;
Let all the wicked live. They are not worth thy say;
They are not worth thy rage. To-morrow thou shalt kill
Men to thy heart's desire, and go forth terrible
To all my foes and me. To-day I ask thee less;
I am Fand, and at thy feet. Wilt thou love her?

Cuchulain.
Sweet one, yes.

ACT II

Scene.—The Garden of Abrat in Magh Mell. There are fairy trees and fairy flowers. A banquet is spread on one side of the stage.
(A Chorus of the Sidhe. Liban and Fand conversing.)

Song —“In the Land of the Living.”

Chorus.

Liban.
And are you a happy lover? Are you happy Fand?

Fand.
The happiest woman, sister, of all fairyland.
How were it otherwise? You see him what he is,
A very prince of love and lord of happiness.
A man is a better lover than our Sidhe-folk are,
Because his heart beats faster. Whether in love or war,
Cuchulain has the rage which is the life of things.

Liban.
He is less subtle, surely.

Fand.
He has imaginings
Begot of human sorrow, which are beyond our wit,
Beyond our subtlety. Men's joys are infinite
Because their time is short. Joy has its root in tears.

Liban.
And does Cuchulain weep?

Fand.
He grieves for his lost years
And for the years to come. Though he has loved so much
He thinks he has never loved. He would have such and such
A joy, lest time should rob him. He is in haste to reap
The whole of his life's crop, and lay it in a heap
As it were here at my feet, to-day and not to-morrow.
This is his cause of grief.

Liban.
Heaven grant us all such sorrow.
You are well venged of Manannan.

Fand.
Manannan? Where is he
In all these happy ventures? I am released and free.

Liban.
Manannan was a fool, sister, to leave you thus.
You are transformed, transfigured.

Fand.
O, I am glorious
As a crane in her spring plumage. Who was it that said
A woman should love once, and only once?

Liban.
Your head
Has reason to be turned. It will be sad for you
The hour when this shall end.

Fand.
Liban, what shall I do?
The fortieth day is near. He has won his victory.
His hero work is finished, fought out gloriously,
And all my foes are captive, put to flight, or slain.
I cannot keep him chained although he loves his chain.
How shall I hold my word? I have promised, place and time,
To yield him to his wife. Would failure be a crime
Where time means happiness, for him no less than me?
What is our rule of honour? May we not faithless be
A little for love's sake?

Liban.
It is a doctrine hard
That love should yield to aught. Yet must we keep our word.
The Sidhe-folk do not lie.

Fand.
I will not grieve to-day,
I am too light-hearted. No. Let grief come when it may,
To-day I will laugh and sing.

Liban.
Sister, to laugh is best.
We cannot know the future. Love should make its nest
Only for one short spring, as the birds do who give
Their whole souls to a moment.

Fand.
I will live and live
As never woman yet, and when the time comes—then
It will be time enough for tears.

(Enter Laeg in haste.)
Liban.
Here comes our prince of men,
Laeg, his good messenger. What news?

Laeg.
All well, all well.

Liban.
Labraid?

Fand.
Cuchulain?

Laeg.
All. I ran in front to tell
The news of their safe coming, and they follow close.

Fand.
Laeg, tell us of the battle? Did he press his foes
As fiercely as of old. Did his strength come to him?

Laeg.
O he was terrible. He stood there limb to limb
With Siabartha wrestling, each a granite wall
Leaning upon the other, grappling for a fall,
Rigid as stone together till the last crash came.

Liban.
How came the fight about?

Laeg.
It was Eochaid's sole blame
That brought the battle on and roused his bitterness.
We had met Eochaid at the spring, who had stooped to wash his face,
In jest at my lord's weakness, leaving one shoulder bare,
While his fellows stood around him with a heedless air,
Their heads thus on their hands
(with a gesture of sleeping), as if to mimic sleep.
They had heard of my lord's sickness, and they held him cheap,
And laughed out in derision. But Cuchulain took
Gay Bolg, his spear, from me and poised it till it shook
Like a reed in the north wind, and with a sudden throw,
Swift as a snake that strikes, ere she is seen, her foe,
Sent it among them singing. Thus it was. The shaft
Pierced Eochaid's shoulder through—ay, even as the hero laughed.
Then on Cuchulain came an unappeasable wrath,
Seeing we two were alone, with all these on the path,
His and thy enemies; and round his head there shone
The hero light of battle; and to each mother's son
He shouted his defiance, words that were not words
But biting points of steel. And all they drew their swords
Who heard him, yet stayed not, and fled before his rage,
While he pursued and slew. And no man dared assuage
The fury of his anger till thy kinsmen came.
And now they turn in triumph, each lord to his dame,
And with them captive kings. But Senach stricken sore
Fled down the road to death. He shall thee vex no more,
He nor Eochaid nor Eoghan.

Fand.
O, sweet victory,
O, day of all the days! There is none, Laeg, but he
A hero in the world, since the great gods withdrew
Apart to their lone mountains, angered at things new,
And left men to their ways. Liban, they come, they come.
Call all the women in. Bring garlands. Deck the room.
Bid every minstrel play. To-day we triumph all,
And celebrate their praise in one brave festival.
Laeg, here is this for thee.

[She gives him a gold chain from her neck.
Liban.
And are none hurt? Labraid?
Has he come back unharmed?

Laeg.
Ay, even as I said,
They are all here untouched, scathless of grief or ill.
The foe before them fled as 'twere a miracle,
All. Only Siabartha, whom Cuchulain broke
Asunder in his arms as the storm rends an oak.

Fand.
And he, my lord Manannan?

Laeg.
Lady, Manannan waits
The issue in his ships, guarding the eastern gates.
The slain men were his spies. He will outlive their death,
Being more wise than they.

Liban.
His sword clings to its sheath,
Yet will he come in war. He has a heavy hand,
Stronger than all the storms that are by sea or land.

Laeg.
Is he stronger than Cuchulain?

Liban.
He has the magic cloak,
Stronger than love or death. Love yet shall be a smoke
Before Manannan's ire. Fand has good cause for fear.

Fand.
I fear him not to-day, Liban. He is powerless here,
In this fair mountain place, far from his fastnesses,
Which all are of the ocean. Here his magic is
Unskilled for mortal hurt, nor dares he face the green
Of gardens watered thus, save as a shape unseen,
And impotent to wound. The anger in his blood
Would be but a faint tremor in our multitude.
The sea is his dominion, and to-day, sweetheart,
We will forget, forgive him.

Liban.
A sweet fool thou art,
Deserving to be happy, and no martyrdom.
Thou knowest not how to hate.

Fand.
Sister, they come! they come!

(Enter a procession, Cuchulain, Labraid, and the army of the Sidhe, crowned with flowers. Prisoners in chains are with them. Fand and Liban advance and sing alternate verses.)

Song —“Who is the Man?”

Fand
(singing).
Who is the man I see,
Set on his chariot of war,
Beautiful, dark-faced, proud?
His eyes as the eagle's are,
His brow is a summer cloud,
His smile is of victory.
He hath looked on the lands afar,
He hath scorn both of fool and wise.
The man with the eagle's eyes
Is the man I see.

Liban
(singing).
Tell me, thou glorious one,
Son of Sualtim, say,
What are the deeds thou hast done?
What are the deeds thou hast done?
Where are the men thy foes,
Thy foes who were foes to me?
Thou art here in thy pride. And they?
Not thou but the raven knows.
When the battle was lost and won
They were cast to the wolves a prey;
There was left of them all not three,
Not two, not a mother's son.
Not one was there left to flee.

Fand
(singing).
Hero! What women's eyes
Rise in their tears for thee?
The men they loved thou hast slain.
Thy face is fairer than theirs,
They shall weep till thou come again,
The sun in their summer skies.
They shall smile and forget their cares.
Thou shalt kiss the tears from their eyes,
Thy love shall have made them wise,
They shall laugh, ay, loud in their glee,
They shall laugh with me.

[Fand makes show of kneeling at Cuchulain's feet, Liban at Labraid's, but Cuchulain kisses Fand's hand, while Labraid raises up Liban.
Labraid.
We greet you, ladies, well. The hour of home coming
Is always war's best part, and the sweet smiles you bring
That make our joy the keener. Liban!

(He embraces her.
Cuchulain
(to Fand).
I kneel to you.
Lady of my soul

(kissing her hands).
Fand.
Nay, nay. The hand-kissing is due
To you alone, Settanta. Let me pay my debt
(she kisses his hand)
Thus here before them all, lest later I forget
In my great joy to thank you. How should Fand not give
Her worship to her champion, who first made her live,
Alas, and made her love!

[They all walk towards the banquet.
Cuchulain
(to Fand).
In love there are no thanks,
Whoever gives or takes; and the least generous ranks
With the most glorious god in all he can bestow.
Let us be happy, sweet, whatever debt we owe
On this side or on that of unpaid gratitudes.
To-day we will walk together in these scented woods,
Holding each other's hands. Now to the feast.

[They take their places at the table near the front of the stage.
Labraid
(seating himself with Liban under a canopy).
My queen,
You give a gay returning here for hungry men.
Let us fall to.

[Music plays, and there is a dance of Fairies.
Chorus.
In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,—nay, kingdoms three;
One of the slayer and one of the slain,
And one of the kings that come back again.
Of these are we, the victorious Sidhe,
The ever-happy, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.

Labraid
(to Liban).
Enough. Now send the flagons round
For better entertainment. What mirth have you found
To celebrate the day?

Liban.
There are two bards from Meath,
But neither of much count. They wear the poet's wreath,
But lack the poet's fire. A blind harper there is
Better worth hearing from beyond the Eastern seas,
And with him a fair youth, it is said, a messenger
From Cathbad, the Arch Druid, one with with severe
And finer flights of fancy than beseem his age,
Master of recitation and high verbiage.

Labraid.
Let them be called. To-day we need a master's tongue
To give praise to our guest. What matter he be young
So the gods speak through him. Let him be called. [They seat themselves at the feast.
(Drinking to Cuchulain.)

To you,
Cuchulain, valiant friend and war-companion true,
Champion of Ulster, King, and of all Ireland first
And noblest fighting man, we consecrate this thirst,
The fruit of glorious toil.

Fand.
Settanta, to your praise.

Liban.
We drink to you, Cuchulain. Peace and length of days.

Others.
To you, to you, Cuchulain.

(Enter Eithne disguised as a poet, followed by Manannan disguised as a harper. Neither of them is recognised by the guests.)
Fand.
What are these two, the boy,
The old man?—a strange union. This one blushing, coy;
The other a veiled spectre. Do you know them?

Cuchulain.
Nay.
I seem to have seen the youth, but vaguely, far away—
I have forgotten where.

Fand.
And the harper? Watch him close.
To me he is familiar.

Cuchulain.
He is from Meath.

Fand.
Who knows?
They came both strangers here. His eye is like a snake's,
Which watches with lids closed and seems asleep, but wakes.
Keep close to me Settanta.

Labraid.
Whence and what are you,
Bards, who thus honour us where welcome is most due
To sing at our high feast? Your name? Your lineage?
(To Eithne.)
You are young to be a poet.

Eithne.
Poets have no age.
They are born of their own thoughts.

Labraid.
It is well said. And he?

Eithne.
His hand shall touch the strings. He shall strike gloriously,
And you shall listen all.

Labraid.
What, poet, wilt thou sing?

Eithne.
That which the gods shall breathe into my ear. I bring
No thought which is my own. Yet thou shalt listen.

Labraid.
Chaunt
Thy praise of our high hero. We will reward thy vaunt.

Eithne.
Thou shalt have little pleasure.

Labraid.
Yet sing on.

Eithne.
Of thee?
Labraid is monarch here.

Labraid.
As thou wilt, let it be.

Cuchulain.
His voice disturbs me strangely. To my ear it clings
Like an enchantment, echoing remembered things,
Ulster, Emain, my glory—dreams I had forgot.

Fand.
Do they still grieve thee then?

Cuchulain.
Nay, love, it matters not.
It was an echo only.

[Manannan strikes chords on the harp.
Fand.
Didst thou hear that?

Cuchulain.
The sound
Of the harper's prelude searching till the words be found?

Fand.
It was the sea's voice calling. It was the sea that spoke,
The black-surge of the shingle and the waves that broke
In thunder on the beach.

Cuchulain.
I heard it not. It was
To me like land winds wandering through the meadow grass.

Fand.
Listen.

Eithne
(sings, addressing Labraid).

Song —“How shall I sing?”

[They show signs of disapproval.

Labraid.
What meanest thou, young poet? This is a festal day.
We asked thee for thy blessing, and thy verses play
Like lightning on the rocks, a too discordant tune.
This warrior is our guest. If thou wouldst ask a boon,
We give thee all thy wish, so thou sing joyously.
Who sent thee with this word?

Eithne.
From the high gods am I,
And Cathbad, their arch-priest.

Cuchulain
(aside).
Cathbad! What youth is here,
Who dares to speak of Cathbad, his interpreter?
I know that voice, that eye.

Fand.
Whose? Do they anger thee?

Cuchulain.
Their menace cannot harm. But there is sorcery
In the boy's voice, a trouble which I needs must share,
And makes me sad at heart. It is ill to leave the air
Where one was suckled.

Fand.
Thou art weary grown of us.
Thou lackest thy companions, thy days glorious
With thine own human kind. Thou art weary grown of all.

Cuchulain.
Not weary, sweet, of thee,—but of this festival.
What was his word of Cathbad?

Fand.
There is a presence here
More potent than the boy's.

Cuchulain.
There is thunder in the air.
It is the sea-storm gathering.

Labraid.
Young poet, sing again,
And put aside thy sorrow for the sons of men.
The high gods do not grieve. They have no cause for tears,
Being aloof from time and the avenging years,
Even as we the Undying.

Eithne.
They are aloof from that
Which is more fierce than time. They neither love nor hate,
They are absolved of passion and the turbulent sting
Of that which hurries man to his own undoing,
Even as you the Undying?—Out and alas, Labraid,
Can you see nothing here? Are your eyes so in shade
That you see nothing? Nothing?

Labraid.
What, then, dost thou see?

Eithne
(then turns to Cuchulain, who becomes troubled while she sings).
[They rise and expostulate.

Cuchulain.
It is Eithne and none other. What would she seek here?

Fand.
Eithne? A woman?

Cuchulain.
Ay.

Fand.
What is she, then?

Cuchulain.
A seer.

Fand.
A woman who once loved thee?

Cuchulain.
Hush! She begins again.
It is to thee she turns.

Fand.
Ay. As a soul in pain.

Eithne
(turns to Fand and sings).
A fair woman's face I see.
Is it a rose, or snow,
Or a tear is she?
Nay, but the rose is a briar,
The snow is trod in the mire.
Her lover is proved a liar.
And the tear? Ah, me!
The sweet, sad, pitiful tear
Of the eyes that know.
Woe to the woman, woe!

[The whole of the company rise up in indignation against Eithne. Fand and Cuchulain interpose on her behalf. There is tumult on the stage, and Manannan raises his harp high above his head, as if imposing silence. A low sound of thunder is heard.
Fand
(who alone recognises him).
Manannan!

ACT III

(At Baile's Strand. Emer with her women attendants armed. They are grouped beneath a yew tree. All around is desolate. A view of hills, the sea hard by.)
Emer.
This is the place, Baile's Strand—and time—the fortieth day,
Since he went forth with her—that sorceress—on his way
To his new mad adventure. Yet it was best. My mind
Is confident of this, and he will come back kind,
And eager as of old. How glorious the world is,
Clothed as it is to-day, with these glad promises,
In spite of the black winter. Winter is best for us
Who are no longer babes—ungraced, but glorious
With its wild gleams of joy illumining the sea.
To-day he will return. This thing she promised me,
A home-coming to-night—who knows, a honeymoon,
In spite of my fool rivals. See you none coming?

[She looks towards the sea.
Attendant.
None.
The sea mist drives too thickly.

Emer.
Nor on the moor? Hard by!
Now, surely there were voices?

Attendant.
It was the plover's cry.

Emer.
Your ears are dull to-day. My own are prescient
Of something brave at hand, of a new grand event,
Which shall repay all sorrows. What was it she said,
That crone, for my consoling while I watched his bed
In the Speckled House and wept? A wise wife wins, it was.
A wife wins against all, and all things come to pass
For her that shall have patience. The rest come and go,
Are smiled on, and pass smiling; but the true wife; no,
She triumphs in her tears;—and in the end he lays
His tired head in her lap, and turns on her his face,
Though it be only dying. If I could hold him thus,
At last, if only thus!

Attendant.
There is one approaching us,
A woman and alone.

Emer.
A woman? Old or young?

Attendant.
Her path is from Emain. She has let loose her tongue,
And calls to us aloud. She is weeping.

Emer.
Who is she?

Attendant.
Nay. It is one we know. It is Eithne.

Emer.
Let her be.
You shall not speak to her. What does the woman here,
Thus once more on my path, to stand my challenger
In face of all, and him—and on this day of days?
I hate the girl's white face and her fair love-sick ways,
And her mad songs and tears. Stand close.

(Enter Eithne, who is walking wildly as if in a dream.)
Eithne.
Have you seen him?

Attendant.
Whom?

Eithne.
The man who is bewitched, your hero. Is there room
For more than one in the world? Cuchulain. Of your grace,
Friends, tell me of Cuchulain.

Emer.
Woman, hold your peace.
There are none here your friends.

Eithne.
I have seen it in the air.
There has been a battle lost. He won once. I was there.
I saw him smite Eochaid and the confederate foes,
And later, in his triumph. But to-day, who knows?
Look at the eagles soaring.

Emer.
Pass upon your road.
We have no news of a fight. For evil or for good,
Pass on your road. Away!

Eithne.
I fear harm by the sea,
If he should have met Manannan. His first victory
Was in the hills afar, where the King's power was weak,
But here Manannan rules. He has the strength to wreak
His vengeance on Cuchulain, since he knows all.

Emer.
All? How?

Eithne.
Manannan rules the sea. The storms before him bow
As servants to his nod. He has the magic wand
That brings them in their cohorts thundering on the land.
None may withstand him here.

Emer.
And he seeks what?

Eithne.
His wife,
Who has defied his power, and is a cause of strife
In all the Fairy realm to all the world—and thee.

Emer.
To me. I will not listen. Pass on thy way.

Eithne.
Nay, see
The eagles overhead. They watch death from afar.
It shall be a day of trouble.

Emer.
Go, then, seek thy war.
But trouble me no further. Out of my sight, begone
Ere it be worse for thee

(threatening her).
Eithne.
Nay, I go quickly.

Emer.
Run.
Lest I should smite thee, girl.

Eithne
(frightened).
Ah, whither?

Emer.
Where thou wilt.
Follow thy birds, not me, lest thy fool's blood be spilt,
For my wrath rises at thee. (Aside.)
Yet my mind misgives.
She presages an ill. (To Eithne.)
The man you look for lives.
Follow your birds. Away!

Eithne.
I will go down to the sea
And watch for what befalls.

Emer.
Ay, and go warily.
If Manannan be abroad. (Exit Eithne.)
She, too, is on the quest
Crazed with her love of him, her heart sore like the rest,
Ready to kneel; to adore. Yet, why should we thus make
Our lives a cup poured out for men's mad pleasure's sake.
This Eithne is a fool. But the wisest wins no more
Than just her stake, their tolerance. We all count it store
If we can hold them with us for some years in chain—
Some years, some months, some days. Our wisdom is in vain.
They always are our masters, since love binds us still,
And we wait on, their slaves, rough ride us as they will,
Hating each other for it with an insensate hate.
O, women, you are fools. And yet, and yet, and yet—
Settanta comes to-day. (To Attendants.)
Is there still nothing? There!
That was a strain of music, not far off, an air
Like the Fairy chaunt, most sweet, yet ominous withal.
They are bringing him in triumph.

Attendant.
It is a festival.
They are coming from the hill.

Second Attendant.
A single voice it is;
A single woman's voice.

Attendant.
I hear the cadences
Of another with her, a man.

Emer.
It is his voice. (Fand is heard singing.)

And hers?
It is not Eithne's. Listen. See that no one stirs
A hand or foot to them. Closer, I bid you, maids.
I bid you closer yet and hide you chattering heads.
We will watch them as they come. [They stand behind the tree.


(Enter Cuchulain and Fand as lovers. She scatters flowers of faery, singing as they walk. Laeg follows at a distance. and remains in the background as they advance.)
Fand
(sings)—

Song—“ O the Days that are Done.”

(She offers him an apple of love, and sings again.)

Cuchulain.
Is this the tree you spoke of?

Fand.
It is the tree of Fate,
The goal where all love ends,—a little desolate,
A little dark and sombre,—like a day that was,
And cannot be again.

Cuchulain.
I do not love its boughs.

Fand.
Yet we shall laugh to-morrow.

Cuchulain.
We will away from it,
I will not be made sad. Time shall not part us yet.

Fand.
We are time's slaves, not masters,—even we who ride
Like kings upon his back, in our joy glorified.
Time bears us royally, but only at his will.
Here he has stopped with us and points towards the hill,
And bids us down afoot. We have been happy, love,
Too happy to lament, or weep, or argue of,
As if love were eternal and our souls our own.
(Sighs.)
Ah, love is not eternal. (After a pause.)
You will remember Fand,
Who was so sweet to you awhile in a strange land,
And gathered shells with you, white shells by the lake's shore,
And strewed flowers at your feet, and loved you, alas, more
Than ever she loved man.

Cuchulain.
Now, by the powers that are,
This parting shall not be. Be the day near or far,
We will go on together and confront our fate.
We will love on for ever.

Fand.
Love? It is too late.
I dare not fail your Emer or be false to her.
This is the tryst I named her, and the hour is near;
'Tis now that we must part. Ah, if indeed she knew,
She would forgive. Your Emer! She is wise and true,
The first of womankind, as you, alas, of men.
Cuchulain, have you loved me? Truly? Once again
Kiss me before we part (they embrace).
There, I put on this veil
(veiling herself)
And hide myself in ugliness, lest my resolve should fail.
I am now another woman—one she would approve
And whom you could not kiss.

Cuchulain
(drawing aside her veil).
Not yet an instant, love.
I dare not lose your beauty.'Tis my strength, my life!

Fand.
And thou who art my strength! It were well to be thy wife
And not as thus, immortal,—and so lose thee. See,
There are real tears in my eyes, the first Fand's vanity
Has ever shed for man.

Cuchulain.
We will away, sweetheart,
And dwell in your high mountains with your gods, apart
From men and their sad ways. Ah, Fand, I love these tears
Better than all the laughter of your glad god's years,
Though those, too, were my glory. Fand of the fair cheek.
Fand of the passionate eyes. Fand.

Fand.
Speak to me still. Speak.
Tell me in words you love me once more ere I go
(they embrace).
I will never more love mortal.

Cuchulain.
Nor I woman. No;
Never while life shall hold me.
[Emer advances. Cuchulain and Fand start apart, Fand veiling herself again hurriedly.Laeg places himself between them and the Attendants.

Emer.
Cease. This shall not be.
Cuchulain, stand aside. (To Fand.)
What means this mummery,
This fooling, this disguisement of a treacherous face?
Off with these lying weeds! They hide not your disgrace.
I have seen all and I know.

(She tears off Fand's veil.)
Cuchulain.
Mad woman, hold thy hand.
This lady is protected.

Emer.
She is revealed. 'Tis Fand.
Fand's self, and not another—not Fand's messenger,
But just Fand's wanton self. Woe and alas for her!
Woe for our womanhood! What was it that she said
Of the fair Fairy wisdom, the high lives they led,
These queens upon their mountains, nobler than our own?
The brave immortal part played by the gods alone
Transcending our poor virtue? Fand, in the open day,
Stealing our heroes' hearts, as gold is stolen away,
And robbing their lean wits, till they are such as he,
The man who stands beside her! Fand with her chastity!
Fand with the flower-like eyes! Fand with the pure proud face!
Fand like a tear unshed! O, these bold goddesses!
How like are they to women!

[Emer rushes on Fand with a dagger. Cuchulain seizes her arm. Laeg interposes between them and the Attendants.
Cuchulain.
Emer! Once more have done.
This is no place for brawling. Wenches, every one
Stand back—or fear my hand.

Laeg.
Back, maids. Have you forgot
The terror of Cuchulain? Nay, I warrant not,
Or must Laeg teach it you? To your distaffs, girls, away! (Laeg drives them out, and they fly screaming.)
[Exit Laeg and Attendants.


Cuchulain
(alone with Emer, Fand in the background).
Now, by the name of him by whom I swear, to-day
Shall see an end of it between us two. What rage
Is this that hath beset thee? Am I, then, in cage,
Like a tamed wolf, with thee that thou shouldst hold me cheap
And dare me to my wrath? What harvest wouldst thou reap
With thy mad herd of women set thus on my track,
And thy insane weak hand and the innocuous wrack
Of thy vain railing words? Put down that childish steel.
Its violence does thee wrong.

Emer.
Wouldst thou, then, see me kneel
At my foe's feet, Settanta?

Cuchulain.
I would see thee make
Thy face fair to my friends. Nay, coil thee like a snake;
Thou shalt not master me.

Emer.
Settanta.

(They struggle for the dagger.)
Cuchulain.
Cast it down,
Then we will argue it. I care not, smile or frown,
So thou obey.

Emer
(yielding).
I will obey, Cuchulain. There.
I do it at thy word. It flies a messenger
(throwing away her dagger)
To thy foes slain for thee, how many, in past days,
To tell them I repent; that henceforth Emer's ways
Are the ways of a weak girl, of one who strikes no blow
Even for the man she loves. It is gone—and let it go—
And with it love and hatred and all pride in thee.
Thou hast enough of maids to soothe thy vanity.
Be they henceforth thy safeguard. I am absolved of all.

Cuchulain.
Emer.

Emer.
I am not thy wife. I am thy slave, thy thrall,
Even as these others are (kneeling).
I kneel to thee. I kiss
The ground beneath thy feet, like them, in ecstacies,
Entreating and cajoling; lies upon my lips
And flatteries on my tongue; false to the finger tips.
Is thy wrath satisfied, thou great Sualtim's son,
Thou hero of the world, thou scourge of Albion,
King of all kings—Cuchulain? It is a helot sues,
No wife to war with thee, to claim rights, to abuse
Thy too long patience tried. I am thy concubine
To weep tears on thy bosom; one so wholly thine
As to laugh when thou shalt strike her. Strike and thou shalt see.

Cuchulain.
Emer, enough, rise up. I may not strive with thee.
Thou shalt have back thy weapon, were it but for Ferdiad's ford,
Where we two stood at bay, thy dagger and my sword,
We two against all Connaught. Only do thou stay on
Gentle as once thou wert. What evil have I done
So great that thou shouldst flout me? This one is a queen,
As worthy as thyself; nor shall she stand between
Thy pride and our long love, since thou art first and best,
And a man's heart has needs besides his earliest.
I will call back thy women.

[Exit.
Fand.
Ah! He loves her still.

Emer.
He is subdued and won. His wrath was terrible,
Yet shall his love make light the anguish of his hand—
And I—I am weak—weak—weak—

Fand
(advancing).
What would you, then, of Fand,
Lady, of more account than Fand would freely give?
There was no need of menace, of wild words that grieve,
Of the least ungenerous thought. Gladly would Fand consent
To all your asking. Nay. Him you so nobly lent
She came but to restore. Were it her heart's best blood
You should desire of her, 'tis Fand would make it good,
'Tis Fand that would bestow.

Emer.
Why did you take this man,
If you so little loved him, for so brief a span—
This man of all mankind? It is an ugly trade
To steal love from another, be you wife or maid,
And you, bride of Manannan. Why have you done this thing?

Fand.
Ah, lady, you have said it. Manannan is a king,
Glorious, and to be feared, and once I loved him well.
I came to him a bride, his chosen one. A spell
He wrought on me to love him, though he in truth was old
And I a child in years, with gifts and manifold
Persuasions of fair words. But now he loves me not,
And lives apart and far, and I am clean forgot,
And see his face no more. Brave suitors came to me
How many, with their loves? Yet I loved chastity
More than them all, and said them nay, how oft, how long
Nor would I be consoled, though I had suffered wrong,
Until the day you know of. Then I heard of him,
Your hero who was sick, and idly in a whim
Of pity I came to you. We Sidhe have a rule
To love anew each Spring, and I was named a fool
For my long continence, and when I saw his face
I knew his cure lay only in my arms' embrace,
And my cure in his arms. If I did wrong to you,
See, I repair it well. I give you your full due,
Your hero sound and whole.

Emer.
And is that all your creed?
Is that your Fairy wisdom? For one evil deed
To do a deed more evil? For a love disdained
To take another love, and count the loss regained?
How is your anger vanquished? How is your grief avenged?
Does your wound hurt you less because your bed is changed?
Can pain be cured by killing? Out on your Fairy faith.

Fand.
Emer, we are not as you, who have not, as you, death
To be our full consoler, nor the calm of age
To make our griefs grow less and our sick souls more sage.
We may not be thus fixed who are for ever young,
And so for ever sentient. He who does us wrong
Needs at our hands, and swiftly, his full punishment,
And we, who grieve love lost, to be less innocent,
Lest we should weep eternally eternal tears.
And so our loves grow wanton. You, with your short years,
May dare more constancy. We always must forget,
Nor venture to love wholly, lest we smart for it
Beyond our power to endure. Our loves are like the flowers
We gather in your meadows in our idle hours
And hold them in both hands, and yet as soon let go.
'Tis on their scent we live, the sweetness that we know
Too well to leave untasted. Time is full of blossoms,
And full of wild sweet loves we press to our sad bosoms,
And are revenged and happy and find life again.
Your world is our rose garden and its flowers your men.
I did not mean to wrong you. What shall I say more?

Emer.
And you now love him?

Fand.
Surely. Yet think not therefore
I am less true to you. You are a happy woman,
A woman happier far than I who am less human.
I would not keep him from you. He is yours to-day—
To-night—I promised it; and I will go my way
Where none shall learn to follow, and so keep my word.
Alas, my grief, my grief!

(She weeps.)
Emer.
Nay, I forgive having heard.
And women need forgiveness. We are all weak. We stand,
We two, like children lost in a bewitched strange land,
The land of one man's heart, where we alone are kin.
I grudge you nothing. Nay, why should my heart begin
Its thankless toil anew of weaving the mad wind,
Less wild than a man's heart, and when it goes more kind?
Let me be given up.

Fand.
Not so. Indeed, not so.
I will not stand before you. What is my small woe
To your wife's right of grief? It must come in the end.
I go upon a journey where no soul shall lend
Its voice of comforting; but time cures all,
And our time is eternal, one long festival,
Where the guests come and go and none of them sits long.
Long love proves a long weeping and a longer wrong.
(Aside.)
Yet it is pity you, Emer of the yellow hair,
Should leave Fand to her sorrow, and take all her share. (Re-enter Cuchulain, Laeg, and the Women in disorder.)


[Fand retires to the back of the stage.
Cuchulain
(giving Emer her dagger).
Here, take your plaything back. It yet may serve a need
If that be true these tell. What is it, Laeg, they said?

Attendant.
We have seen shapes and shadows terrible to men.
Hands which have struck at us. The sea mist in the glen
Is full of an armed host with tongues that mock at us
And eyes that flash defiance. There are sounds ominous
Of hurt in every tree, and angers which speak loud.
Hark! Heard you not the thunder?

Laeg.
There is a mighty cloud
That broods upon the sea and seems a living thing,
A shadow of destruction.

Fand
(aside).
It is himself, the King,
Manannan, in his wrath! He has come to claim his own.

[Darkness. A loud thunderclap is heard.Every one starts aside.
Cuchulain.
Laeg. To your arms! Stand fast! What was that presence here?
I felt it on my face, and 'twas no gossamer.
It swept me like a bough. To your arms, Laeg, and strike home!
Take that, and that, and that.

[He strikes at phantoms in the air, and they both rush about fighting.
Women.
We are lost!

A Terrible Voice.
Fand! Fand!

Fand.
I come.

[The storm dies away. Fand disappears.
Cuchulain.
The storm is past,—take courage,—and the foul spectral host
With its lewd apparitions. Is none strayed or lost,
Emer, of all your women?

Emer.
No one of the band.
We are all here.

Laeg.
Save one.

Cuchulain.
What mean you? Where is Fand?
Where is the Queen? Speak out.

Emer.
There was a voice that cried
Aloud to her to come, and would not be denied:
“Fand! Fand!” I saw her turn, and with her lips apart,
In the great darkness, standing thus, her white hand on her heart.
She seemed to fade and vanish.

Cuchulain
(to Emer).
Woman. What is this?
What hast thou done with Fand? Are these thy sorceries?
Are these thy jealous doings?

Emer.
It was Manannan's voice
That called on her to follow; and the rest her choice.
She has gone back to the sea with him. She has chosen her lot.

Cuchulain.
Was I not here, Cuchulain? Nay. She loved him not.
Why should she follow him? It is thy jealous guile
Has driven her out from us. She would not waste a smile
On all the proud Sidhe Kings that ever kneeled to her,
Manannan or another, or one precious tear
From her sweet flower-like eyes on the unpitying sea.
Why should she seek its bosom? Why should she fly from me?
If you have raised this route, Emer, by Him that is,
You shall see my face no more. Women, take heed of this:
If Fand be not restored there shall no more be seen
A lady in this land to be beloved of men,
Nor any save the reprobate. My hand shall take
Such toll upon you all, such vengeance for her sake,
That you shall grieve you lived. Away with you! Away!
Search by the seas and shores, probe every cape and bay,
And inlet where she lies;—nor come with her again
Save as her slaves and servants.

Laeg.
It has turned his brain,
He has grown mad.

[Cuchulain is driving them out when Eithne enters, carrying a cloak.
Cuchulain.
What! A new woman, and not Fand?
Women, you are triflers all, and this is a mad land.
Away, with you! Away!

Eithne.
He has forgotten me.

Emer.
Speak to him, Eithne, straight, lest he do injury.
Have you seen no woman pass?

Eithne.
My grief! I have seen the king,
Manannan of the sea, with his fiend-following.
There was tempest on the beach, and a black multitude
Of shapes upon the waves and cloud which fought with cloud,
And storm-wind with more storm.

Emer.
No woman?

Eithne.
There was a queen
Passed down towards the shore new-clothed in the Sidhe green,
And fair, exceeding fair.

Emer.
What did she?

Eithne.
She was singing
As those sing who are glad, and to the King's robe clinging
As those cling who are gay and ask what all men give.

Cuchulain.
Traitress! She smiled on him? You did not hear her grieve?

Eithne.
The King looked down at her, and her eyes met his eyes,
And she stopped short in her song, and the tears seemed to rise
An instant to her lids, and her eyes looked like flowers
With raindrops on their petals when they are caught in showers
And the sun shining still. Then with a sudden whim,
Even as he stooped to kiss her, she snatched his cloak from him—
This cloak—and broke away with her white feet to the sea,
Laughing a childish laugh, to where I stood, while he,
Pale in his rage, stood there and cursed as she fled on
Unharmed to the sea's brink, spite of his malison.
And passing me she dropped the mantle, while they all
Pursued her through the waves which rose to meet them tall
As a ship's side, it seemed,—or may be 'twas a ship
Tall as a wave. And there the whole dark fellowship
Mounted in haste with her, while the mist shut them in,
And the wind's roaring drowned their voices' impotent din,
Which suddenly grew still. For she, as she left the cloak,
Cried, “Shake it in their faces.” And I stood up and shook
The robe as she had bidden, and the ocean's roar
Ceased, and the waves dropped down and fawned upon the shore,
Like spaniels at the lash, while through the silence came
A last word of command, and she named Cuchulain's name,
And cried, “Go back to him and tell him, with my kiss,
It is Manannan's robe of full forgetfulness.
Shake it before Cuchulain; it shall cure his hurt.”

Laeg.
It is the robe of power, Manannan's magic shirt,
The healer of all sorrow.

Cuchulain.
Were it a robe of death,
Yet shake it in our faces. That which quickeneth
Shall it not also kill?

Emer.
Ay, Eithne, for us all,
We need it sore each one, since each of us is thrall,
Of his own happier past, which asks to be forgot.
Shake it in all our faces. Shake it. It matters not
Whether it was good or evil, pain or lesser pain.
The past is only sorrow.—O to begin again
With a clean memory, purged alike of love and hate!

Cuchulain.
We are grown weary all, and death is to forget.

[Eithne sings, waving the cloak slowly to and fro, and becoming more animated in the last verses. At the end of verse two the stage, which has gradually become lighter, shows full sunlight, while the countenances of all grow gay.

Song—“Away, thou Thief.”

THE BRIDE OF THE NILE

AN EXTRAVAGANZA IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• The Makawkas, Prince of Egypt.
• Barix, the Roman Governor.
• Alexis, his Son.
• Boïlas, his Official Secretary.
• Benjamin, a Samaritan.
• Hatib, the Caliph's Envoy.
• Amru, Emir of the Saracens.
• Coptic Patriarch.
• Belkís, Daughter of the Makawkas.
• Jael, Daughter of Benjamin.
• Courtiers, Priests, Magicians, Citizens, Roman Soldiers, Arabs, Servants, etc.

Act I Governor's Palace at Alexandria.
Act II Garden House of the Makawkas at On.
Act III On the Banks of the Nile. Time, 7th Century, A.D.

ACT I Governor's Palace at Alexandria

Alexis, a young man, a dandy, is seated alone at his desk looking through official correspondence. He opens a private letter languidly, then, with a look of vexation.
Alexis.
It is time I made a change. My father says it. Yes,
It is folly to go on. Love holds me less and less,
And I am tired of all life gives us in that way.
These Alexandrian maids amuse one for a day.
But there are things in life of larger interest
Even than unbought love, the passionatest and best.
I am tired of Jael's tears. It is always the same tale,
I know it every word—the indestructible
Devotion of her soul—it always is her soul—
To an ideal man, sublimely beautiful,
Sublimely wise and good,—and christened with my name,
In compliment, no doubt, to all that I least am,
With hints that I should wed her. Yes, I know it all—
Her raptures, her remorses, the things past recall,
The hardness of my heart, the vow she now will make
Of being a fool no more—with firm intent to break.
Her letters! Oh, I know them. I want something fresh,
A new sea for my nets, and those of larger mesh.
New worlds to win—male worlds—not women's.
(Reads the letter.)
Ah, just so,
Exactly as I thought—“a new absorbing woe,
Added to all the rest”—“a last and fatal stroke
Which separates our lives.” No, no. She is in joke.
She talks of “an espousal,” of herself as “bride.”
To whom? To what? Good heavens! Religion? Suicide?
What does the woman mean? But I am “to hear all soon,
On Monday next.” To-day! This very afternoon!
Here! At the Prefecture, in my “official heaven”—
What monstrous foolishness—“in hope to be forgiven
If she still claims my aid.” I understand this word,
But she will not find me here. The nest without the bird,
That is our wisest course in cases of the kind.
And yet it worries me, her marriage? Am I blind?
Who, who can the man be? If she should prove untrue,
This Jael after all? O women! None of you,
Not one of you then constant! Even Jael! No, no;
It would be too base of her,—though perhaps better so.
But see, my father comes.

(Enter Barix, announced by Servant.)
Servant.
The Prefect, sir.

Barix
(heartily).
Dear boy.
I find you at your desk. This is indeed a joy.
You will live to be my comfort. Well. What news? Yes, yes.
Our famous draft is ready?

Alexis
(looking puzzled).
Which?

Barix.
His Highness'?
Our note to the Makawkas.

(He takes up Jael's letter.)
Alexis.
No sir. No, not that.
This is the document

(giving another paper).
Barix
(reading).
In high affairs of State
Use the third person. Right. The Makawkas is a prince
With whom we can do much by show of deference.
Yes, a good draft, quite good.
(In a pompous voice.)
I think we have made clear
Now, even to their dull wits who read the circular,
That Rome must be obeyed. How childish it all is,
Alexis, after all, this prate of policies,
This tenderness for forms and antiquated shams,
When all the force is ours. We have played too long with names;
It is time we came to facts. A veiled authority
Was well in the past years. But now with this decree
We shall take stronger ground. Rome has too much on hand
To trifle with loose ways of action and command,
Too high a duty. Here in Egypt more than all
We need to prove our strength, to be equipped, like Saul,
Taller than all our brethren, with the actual show
Of kingship in the world—since Heaven has willed it so,
And given us this high mission for the world's more good.
Rome's task will be achieved with the whole Nile subdued,
Its tribes reclaimed to law, its wealth to revenue,
Its idle hands to toil. Here is good work to do
For all our officers.

Alexis.
Good work, yes, and good pay.

Barix.
Good trade, too, for Rome's millions clamouring day by day
To Caesar for more bread. And Caesar's will must wait
Forsooth on the Makawkas! the machine of State,
On the dull childish whim of a blind Coptic prince,
Sad phantom of the Pharaohs, left us for our sins
By the too tender conscience of Heraclius!
No, no. This draft shall teach them that no noise nor fuss
Can drive us from our course of large humanity
Towards a suffering world. Alexis, they shall see
That Barix overbears.

Alexis
(aside).
He does it well.

Barix.
There, there,
You shall take it him yourself. It will need all your care
To get the Prince to sign it. Though his wit is dense,
He is apt to be suspicious. Give him the general sense,
Or read it in translation—an old trick, but one
That very seldom fails if at all deftly done.
It helps you to make light of phrases indiscreet,
And screens you if detected. You must use your wit,
And your good feeling too-to give it just that turn
His jealousy demands. If he refuse blank, burn,
But do not leave the Note. Of course, you understand,
Our ways are above board. We like an open hand,
Best where we safely can. He knows the Roman word
Is never given in vain.

Alexis
(aside).
Oh, never.

Barix.
Let him see
Rome is his truest friend.

Alexis.
Of course. Most certainly.

Barix.
Tickle his fancy too. He likes our horse races,
Our football, our gymkhanas. Show him your manliness,
Talk of the cup you won—where was it? These things tell
Much with the native mind. It will make him tractable.

Alexis.
I will talk of the Nile Bride. You know, Sir, the great show
Announced for Saturday, a thing quite rococo
In its barbarity, all actual tears and rage,
With the chief actress put to true death on the stage—
You should see it, Sir, yourself.

Barix.
Well, talk of what you will,
So he but hear you out and be amenable,
And sign. Get the thing signed, and signed with a good grace.
Were I a younger man. Alexis, with your face
You might work miracles. They say he has a daughter
Not altogether plain.

Alexis.
Belkís. She has made slaughter
Of half the Egyptian youth, who are susceptible,
And drown themselves by scores in the Pharaonic well
Her windows overlook. Krenfil has set a guard
To keep them from the place, our Sanitation Board
Objecting formally to these malpractices
On the score of public health. A furlong round, the trees
Were fruited with their corpses. Oh! she is beautiful,
They say, as a young heifer—the Copt beauty rule—
And sings like Philomel. She knows our literature
From Hesiod to Haggardus, talks a Greek as pure
As Socrates himself, and last year made in verse
A history of the Pharaohs, ancestors of hers.
And then her dancing!

Barix.
Ha! She dances?

Alexis.
Yes, with grace
Transcending, so they tell me, even the Herodias.

Barix.
A wonderful young lady! But, to be serious, look,
The thing needs all our skill. When first we undertook
To save these bankrupt lands from possible mischance
And claim of the Makawkas Rome's inheritance
I gave you my full mind. I let you see within
The secret springs of power, the pulse of the machine,
And made you share my hopes in this last glorious task
Of my life's public toil. I drew aside the mask,
And showed you my ambition, all that I designed
Of honour for Rome's name, uncabined, unconfined,
In African dominion. And for ourselves—ah, well,
There, too, we had our hopes, high set, impregnable.
I sent you to Byzance. You saw the Emperor.
He listened and approved. You crossed the official door
Which leads to dignities and places largely paid.
You came back my sub-Prefect. Your career was made.
Yet you were grateful. Yes, Alexis, you, my son,
Were worthy of my pride. I felt my fight half won,
An Empire in my hand. All that remains now is
To put our final stone upon the edifice.
It lies here in this draft. If the Makawkas signs,
The government is ours. In practice he resigns;
And we, I, you in turn, mere simple citizens,
Reign with the Pharaohs, kings by grace of Providence,
And our high Emperor's will and the great name of Rome,
Accepted as crowned heads by all in Christendom.
What say you to it, boy?

Alexis.
Father, you may count on me
In such a noble work.

Barix
(with emotion).
We will set Egypt free,
And make her the first realm of all the Roman State,
A model to the Nations, rich, regenerate.
This hardly is ambition. Duty were a name
Truer to call it by.

Alexis
(aside).
The two things are the same
In all the lexicons our honest statesmen use.
He is a past phrase-master. Yet I share his views.

Barix.
But why thus count our chickens? We have work to do.
You go to the Makawkas, you, Alexis, you,
With your fine air of candour. He is a gentleman,
And will not dare to show it, even if he doubts your plan.
Yet to make doubly sure, address the lady.

Alexis.
Sir?

Barix.
Oh, in the way of honour, Caesar's officer
Must come with fair proposals, and a son of mine
I trust with honest purpose.

Alexis.
What? As Valentine
To the brown beauty? Her? Belkís?

Barix.
My son, even so,
As Valentine to one whose hand, if not of snow,
Will bring him a white fortune and a Viceroy's crown.
Alexis, you are not a mere light-headed clown,
Like most of our young Romans, boys who strut and brawl
And ballyrag the natives, holding one and all
Slaves to their wit, forsooth, because of a dark skin.
You have a higher sense. You hold each citizen
Equal before the law and our great Emperor's eye,
Be he of shade or shape what Heaven has made him. Why,
This lady is a princess. In her veins there runs
The blood of all the Pharaohs. She shall breed you sons,
Each one of them a prince. And you hold back?

Alexis
(hesitating).
Why, no.
I had not thought to marry yet a year or so.
The idea perplexes me.
(Aside.)
And Jael? Good God, and Jael?
What will she say to it? Yet I forgot the tale
Of her own marrying—that makes the danger less.
(Aloud).
Sir, I will think it over in all carefulness,
And let you know to-night.

Barix.
Not now? Why, 'tis a chance
To jump at in the dark, to seize with your two hands.
A kingdom pocketed! a noble service done
To Caesar and your country! Think of that, my son.
And give me here your word.

Alexis.
Forgive me. I was slow.

Barix.
Of course. I knew you would. (He takes Alexis' hand.)
Shake hands on it. Now go
And do your duty, boy. And Heaven be with you. [Exit Alexis.
(Pompously.)
Thus
Rome marches on her way, humane, victorious!
[Barix goes back to his desk.
And now to common things—the day's work, the routine
Of this great government. Men talk of the divine
Pleasures of youth. Give me the joys of middle age.
The age of fifty-two. There stands life's happiest page,
With honest work each day enough to stir the blood.
'Tis worth all wine and women, if men understood.
Here, Boïlas (calling).


(Enter Boïlas, a serious young man with an eyeglass and a sarcastic manner.)
Barix.
Your report? What of the Provinces?
We will take the farthest first.

Boïlas.
My Lord. The Soudanese.

Barix.
The messenger, then, has come?

Boïlas.
He came last night much spent,
Having killed four dromedaries. The last fell at his tent,
A mile outside the town, and he was carried in
Half-dead with the despatches. There, it seems, has been
Another small affair which has entailed some loss,
A skirmish at the outposts—half a troop of horse
Trapped in an ambuscade. Our fellows showed good fight,
But were overpowered by numbers. With the morning light
We got in all the bodies, and identified
Young Phædo, of the guard, and a score more beside.

Barix.
What? Romans?

Boïlas.
No, Blacks only. Just a small affair
With the native force.

Barix.
That's well. I should not just now care
To report much Roman bloodshed to Heraclius.
They are touchy at Byzance with the long incubus
Of the Moslem raid in Syria. Nothing surer quells
The warlike itch than life lost. But mere blacks! What else?

Boïlas.
The Nile, my Lord, they write still from all sides to me
Gives grave cause for alarm. It is already three
Full weeks behind its time, and even this messenger
From the extremest south had no good news to bear.

Barix.
It needs our careful thought.

Boïlas.
My Lord, indeed it needs.
Each post brings blacker tidings of the fear that breeds
Like a worm in idle brains. The Copts, in their dull rage,
Already meet and talk. They claim their privilege
Of choosing a Nile bride to pacify the drought.
All Egypt is in turmoil and perplexed with doubt,
Each maiden being in fear lest the lot fall on her.
Already three are named, and every officer
Is deluged with petitions on this side and that
That Rome should intervene.

Barix
(pompously).
Because the Nile is late
And they are children all and need a mother. Rome
Has a large bosom truly where all woes come home,
Like pigeons to their cote when the kite sweeps the sky.
We are their Providence, to bid them live or die.
Yes, Boïlas, we are great. But, practically, what
Is our best course to take? What say those on the spot?
Have we no precedents?

Boïlas.
The last case of the kind
Was in the year fifteen. I have looked it up and find
A mass of correspondence, queries, notes, replies,
With the sub-governors. This human sacrifice
Is a time-honoured right of the Copt heresy.
The girls are chosen by lot, each province sending three,
And sometimes four or five. They must be beautiful,
Well-bred, young, and in health. Strict virtue is a rule
All hold as absolute.

Barix
(with unction).
Most right.

Boïlas.
The ultimate choice
Is left to the Makawkas, as presiding voice,
Who gives away the bride in solemn ritual,
With dirge accompaniment and the Dead March in “Saul,”
By the Nile bank at On. A barge new-gilt and decked
From stem to stern with flags, is moored, a derelict
In the mid-river. To it with banners, fifes, and drums
They bring the lady down, and the Chief Sorcerer comes
To crown her with fresh flowers. She is already dressed
As a bride in white and gold, the sacrificial vest
Of the old pagan days, with veils that hide her face.
The Patriarch himself sings the high nuptial mass.
The keel bolt is withdrawn. The barge is left to sink
In mid-stream while crowds kneel in prayer on either brink.
The last case caused some talk, and not a little mirth
To our officials here beyond its actual worth.
It was sent home to Byzance, where certain busy fools,
Tourists in search of facts, had preached it to the schools
And moved the Patriarch to threaten interdict
On the score of superstition. They were nicely tricked
When it came before the Court. The living bride they saw
Was proved by the defence to be a bride of straw,
The dummy sacrifice which every year we make,
Even when the Nile is good, for the mere custom's sake.
The laugh was turned on them, and those here had their way.
The pageant was approved.

Barix.
And did we not say nay,
Boïlas, on moral grounds? The girl was sacrificed
Really in flesh and blood?

Boïlas.
The Makawkas was apprised
Of the finding of the Court, but with a private Note
Suggesting some reform—a more secluded spot
Was ordered for the function, should the case arise
Again, than just at On under the whole world's eyes.

Barix.
Yet it was not condemned?

Boïlas.
Why, no. In principle
The thing was right enough. The ceremony fell
Under the religious head and so beyond our sphere,
As it has since remained. We could not interfere.

Barix.
Humph! Boïlas. That is sad. Think you, we could not try
This year some further rule, if not full remedy?
Is it so popular?

Boïlas.
Ah, there, my Lord, no doubt—
The masses like the show and will not do without.

Barix.
Yet we might introduce (Well, what do you say to this?)
An anaesthetic drug. It much diminishes
The corporal pain of death if duly ministered—
And saves appearances. It sounds, perhaps, absurd,
Yet it is more humane, and we as Romans, should
Stand always to the front in sparing human blood
And human suffering.

Boïlas.
I will speak of it, my lord,
To-night with the Chief Eunuch. One more serious word,
The war news from Arabia and the Caliphate.

Barix.
I thought the whole thing done.

Boïlas.
Indeed, I fear, not yet.
Our news is less assuring. The fanatic host
Still pushes on in Syria and has reached the coast.
Tadmor is lost to us. The trans-Euphratean towns
Are opening all their gates. A hundred thousand crowns
Were paid last month at Hama for a two years' truce.
Nor is this all of it. The worst and latest news
Tell Antioch beleaguered by these Saracens,
And Kurdan, who was sent in haste to its defence,
At his last hero shifts, with treachery within
And the Emirs without.

Barix.
I really half begin
To think the matter serious. They have let things run,
Boïlas, too far ahead. 'Tis time the war was done.
It does not pay with Easterns thus to give them rope;
They only flout at you; your patience feeds their hope,
And they grow fierce as wolves at first sight of your back.
O, Lord, the fools men are! Let them come here, the pack,
And they shall learn of us what Rome's true schooling is,
When she finds time to strike and chide their childishness.
Boïlas, it makes me angry.

Boïlas.
Would to heaven, 'twere so.
(Aside.)
Yet I would not see them here.

[A noise of people outside. Barix goes to the window.
Barix.
What have we down below?
A crowd of women folk. Are these the suppliants
You spoke of in your note? Let them come in.

(Enter Benjamin with Jael and other women. They kiss the hem of Barix's coat.)
Boïlas
(to Jael).
Off hands,
Madam. It is the Prefect.

Barix.
Let the women be,
Good Boïlas. (To Jael.)
Now, then, speak. Your nationality?

Boïlas.
The most of them are Copts.

Barix.
(to Jael).
And yours, young lady?

Jael.
Sir,
My Lord! (Aside.)
It is his father. Why is he not here?

Benjamin.
We are Samaritans. We come to claim that thing
Said to be Rome's high gift to all beneath her wing,
Protection for the weak, justice, to man, to woman.

Barix.
Rome is all justice.

Benjamin
(aside).
Bah! (Aloud.)
And to be counted Roman.

Barix.
Speak on.

Benjamin.
These ladies here, my Lord, are innocents.
They have done wrong to none in actions or intents,
And are the Emperor's subjects. Wherefore must they die?

Barix.
What is their grievance, then? We are all clemency.

Boïlas
(expostulating).
My Lord!

Barix
(correcting himself).
Within our scope, and sit with open ears.

Benjamin.
It is the Nile, dread Sir, and the high officers.
They have doomed a maid to die this year in sacrifice,
And these are of their choice, maidens discreet and wise,
Unblemished in their lives and, as you see them, fair.

[Jael throwing herself on her knees with the rest before Barix.
Jael.
Great Lord, we kneel to you.

Barix
(retreating).
Boïlas, are these aware
They should not thus approach me? Ladies, I supplicate.

Boïlas
(to Benjamin).
Remember what I warned you. It is an affair of State.
Bid them control themselves. The Prefect is not moved
Thus idly by your tears.

Jael
(aside).
Has he then never loved
That his eyes cannot weep? He has a face like his,
Half tender and half hard in its imperiousness.
It is ill to love a Roman.

Benjamin.
One of these three must die,
My Lord, if you withhold your promised clemency.
I am an old man. See. This child is my sole staff
Of comfort in the world, the thing which makes me laugh
Each morning in my tears. O great Lords, look at her
In her fresh womanhood, so innocent, so dear.
Look at her cheeks, her eyes.

Barix
(aside, and coming forward to the front with emotion).
I once saw a gazelle
On the Sakhara plain, a lone secluded dell,
With scattered thorn bushes, a green sweet paradise
In the chaotic waste, brown pebbles and blue skies,
And with her her one fawn. My greyhound gave them chase,
And holding a good start made short work of the race,
And had the fawn by the throat, a bloody strangled heap,
Before I could say “off,” that just before could leap
A dozen yards at a bound. The old doe, bleating by,
Refused to leave the spot, but lingered piteously,
Running this way and that till the hound had her too,
And both had got their death who but an hour ago
Were the beauty of the place, and filled it with strange life.
Then I was grieved for them. The sand about was rife
With little marks of feet, and round the bushes still
I saw where they had nibbled at their idle will
Only that happy morning always two and two.
It almost made me weep. (He weeps.)
Boïlas, could we not do
Some bountiful high act to stop this savagery?
Could we not intervene? This Nile bride seems to be
A purely pagan custom handed down from days
Strange to our Roman morals and humaner ways.
I am inclined to spare.

Benjamin.
These Romans, then, have hearts?
He seems about to yield.

Boïlas.
My Lord, you have more parts
Than that of prince to play. The girl's is a hard case.
But where is there not hardship in these modern days?
And if we stopped to think each time where the wheels go,
How should we drive the State machine at all? No, no,
We may not make exceptions on mere sentiment.
Of course, Sir, you know best. Only I must dissent.

Barix.
Boïlas, you do me wrong. But might it not perhaps
Be a wise policy, a feather in our caps,
Here to protect the weak?

Boïlas.
I fear not with the strong
Whose privilege it is to make things right or wrong.
Think of the priests and elders. Why, for one of these
Women who come to you with their small miseries,
There are an hundred men, all taxpayers, who look
To the State's Chief for aid. Not one of them would brook
Infringement of their right. The superstition is
The Nile flood will not rise without the sacrifice.
And if you intervene to baulk them in their fears,
You have a hornet's nest at once about your ears.
There, listen in the yard.

[A noise below.
Barix.
What is it?

Boïlas.
A procession
Headed by drums and fifes. They escort the chief magician
And all the highest priests of the Copt heresy,
In State towards our doors.

Women.
O save us. We must flee.

Jael.
How? Whither?

Benjamin.
They are come to claim these women here
For their Nile butchery. Save them, great Lord. Declare
In the high name of law that all men in your hands
Are safe while innocent. These are Rome's suppliants.
Cast over them Rome's robe. Bid forth the Pretorian Guard.
Arrest the ringleaders. Keep them in watch and ward,
And hold them from their prey.

Barix.
'Twere noble thus to do.
How say you, Boïlas?

Boïlas
(with indignation).
Risk the Empire? For a Jew?
Look at the enormous crowd. Think of Rome's precedents,
A thousand years of fame, built up—on sentiments?
No, but on principles. My Lord, this should not be.
Let the law take its course.

Barix
(bewildered).
Good ladies, were I free,
I gladly would befriend you. But, alas, your case
Is not my own to judge, but the Makawkas',
I may not intervene.
(He points to the window.)
Speak to them, Boïlas. Say:
(Stammering).
“The Imperial word once given, not now, nor yesterday,
But generations since, in spite of change holds good.
We leave all to His Highness—be that understood—
Only commending mercy.”
(To the ladies.)
No, I hear no more.
Ladies, I am your servant. By this postern door,
You issue through the garden. Be advised. Go home.
You have my tears.

Benjamin.
And you the curse of the poor, O Rome!

ACT II Garden House of the Makawkas at On.

Alexis and Belkís are found seated under a verandah, with a palm garden in the background.
Belkís.
Come, come, Alexis, come. Look up. Why should I take
Such trouble to be gay and keep us both awake,
If you are only dumb? You have sat the morning through
And have hardly said a word. What would you have me do?
My father has arranged it. I have given consent.
We are to marry soon.

Alexis.
But when?

Belkís.
Oh, after Lent,
Perhaps at Whitsuntide. We will see when the time comes.

Alexis.
Why not at Easter? Say.

Belkís.
I cannot do these sums
So long before the date. In the meanwhile talk to me.
I want to be amused. Life will go drearily
If we are to be like this. Let us play at something—chess,
Or draughts, or dominoes. Ask me a thing to guess—
An intellectual game.

Alexis.
Belkís! in mercy, no.
I will not try again. (Aside.)
I cannot run that show,
I played with her last night. She made a fool of me,
In prose first, then in rhyme. Mere raving lunacy,
That will be the end of it.
(Aloud, with sentiment, offering to embrace her.)
You know what I would have.

Belkís.
Nonsense, my noble Lord. I am not yet your slave.
Besides, my hand is brown.

Alexis.
(expostulating).
Belkís!

Belkís.
You know it is.

Alexis.
I swear by all the gods it is divine to kiss.

Belkís.
You are really too absurd. I am a native girl,
With a natural fuzz-head I cannot keep from curl,
And you a white sub-Prefect. Faugh! Ridiculous!
Come, shall I sing to you? But do not make a fuss
If it is not quite Greek music. Say, what shall it be?

Alexis.
A melancholy lilt without much melody.
You know how I adore your Coptic monotones
With their little quiver-quavers, and their little ups and downs.
See, here is your rebáb.

Belkís
(taking her rebáb and tuning it, fiercely).
You will not like it much,
If you understand the words.

[She plays a prelude.
Alexis.
You have a glorious touch.

Belkís
(aside).
How foolish the man is. Hush—hush.

[She sings.
Alexis.
Quite beautiful.

Belkís
(aside).
What does he know of it? These Romans are too dull,
Too full of their own selves to know the worth of song.
The sweetest songs are those where men have suffered wrong.
And I am to marry him! For reasons of high state,
My poor blind father says—one whom we Copts all hate,
One of these Roman Lords with their high insolence,
And love and honour him! The pitiful pretence!
I have taken his pride down a little, though, already,
And taught him what was due at least to one young lady.
Yes, he is tame enough. I will give him one more chance.
(Aloud.)
You have heard me sing, Alexis. Now you must see me dance.

Alexis.
Indeed, it will be a treat.

Belkís.
You must stand up with me
And take your part in it. And do it cheerfully,
Not like a galley slave. There, stand in front and make
Signs with your arms like this. Look pleased, for mercy's sake,
Whatever you may feel. And follow with your eyes
As I dance round you—thus.

Alexis.
These are the mysteries
They used to call of Isis.

Belkís.
Yes, a country dance.
He is too plain a fool to know the difference.
There, that is pretty well.

[They dance.
Alexis.
Stop, mercy—stop. I am dead.

Belkís.
No, no, a little more.
[They stop.
Alexis, when we are wed,
You shall dance like this all night. There, kiss my hand, just once,
To show you are in love. And do not be a dunce.
I will teach you more next time.

Alexis
(aside).
If this is Coptic love
I had rather be with Jael, who put me to less proof.
Poor Jael! Poor, quiet Jael! Your love was a sweet dream,
Kinder than this.

(Enter the Makawkas—he is blind—with his suit.)
Belkís.
My father.

Alexis.
Now for our further scheme.

Makawkas.
Leave all the windows open. What a sweet scent comes in!
Not one of them must be shut. I know what the fields mean
When I smell the beans in flower. It is not all pure loss
This blindness of my eyes when I am gladdened thus.
Is that you here, my child?

Belkís.
Yes, father, at your side,
Ready to read to you, to talk.

Makawkas.
What, you a bride?
You are too busy now; too happy, is it not?
How glorious it must be to love in such a spot.
This once was Pharaoh's garden. Potiphar lived here,
The Captain of the Guard and Pharaoh's officer,
And Joseph in these walks, as you, my child, now do,
Wandered the morning long and heard the wild doves coo.
I like to live with them in thought and circumstance
Near their own pyramids—one scene in the romance
Of their six thousand years. And you? What else can you
Find time, in spite of love, for your poor sire to do?

Belkís.
I will sing to you and dance. You know you love the beat
My steps make, and the wind my skirts whirl and my feet.

Makawkas.
This is no time to dance. Our age is too sedate.
Will you advise me, child, on high affairs of state?

Belkís.
Yes, father. (Aside.)
He is here, Alexis, listening.

Makawkas.
Is he not one with us?

Belkís.
The tamest asp may sting.

Makawkas.
Alas! she loves him not. (Aloud.)
My Lord Alexis.

Alexis.
Sir?

Makawkas.
How goes it in your world? The High Commissioner,
Your father, is he well? How of the provinces?
Is there good news from Homs? Are Caesar's enemies
Vanquished and pacified? Has the Nile risen not yet?
We in this garden here, remote from the world, sit
And hear the water-wheels turn round with their long drone,
And half forget the rest, our lost dominion,
Our day of glory gone. Some say there is distress.

Alexis.
Not yet, but grave concern. The long formalities
Of the Dual Government, to sign and countersign
Each order with two hands, your Highness' and mine—
Mine in my father's place—delay the public work,
And aggravate the ill. But neither of us shirk
A fraction of our duty, and we trust to bring
All to a pleasant end. Your Highness is the spring
Of the great State machine. We Romans are the wheels,
And where there friction is we need to grease our heels
And show ourselves alert. My duty, sir, these days
Has been a happy service.

Makawkas.
She deserves your praise,
Though I, her father, say it, being indeed a child
Worthy a wise man's love. I am half-reconciled
To what you asked of me. (Aside.)
If I but knew his heart!

Alexis.
You mean the draft decree. It will relieve in part
The burden on our backs of the Nile Government
And be for all our goods. Your Highness' consent
Will make the matter easy—a mere form, and yet
I would not urge it now save for the overset
Of things in Syria and the Nile's wayward way,
Which stands in front of us and will not brook delay.

Makawkas.
Is it so urgent then?

Alexis.
Quite urgent. The Nile Bride
Is just a case in point—one we dare not decide
Of our own competence, yet pregnant with more ill
If left ungrappled with, while with a single will
The whole knot were untied. Your Highness is aware
How the case stands for us, how dangerous, how unfair.
We held responsible, without authority,
You legally the lord, yet neither hand set free
To execute a judgment should it chance to clash
With the mad popular voice, to oppose which were as rash
Perhaps as to consent. The net result of all
A scandalous abuse grown quite phenomenal—
(Aside.)
That's a well-sounding phrase my father would approve.
(Aloud.)
Whereas, the decree signed, all fits like a new glove.
What say you to it, Princess?

Belkís.
These are politics
You must decide yourselves by privilege of sex.
I offer no opinion. But this Nile Bride? Say,
What is her history? Who is she? Yesterday
I heard one had been named and was already here
At On for our approval—gloriously fair
And full of high resolve.
(After a pause with a change of voice.)
It must be a sweet thing
To die thus for one's country and escape life's sting
For ever by one act of perfect constancy.
I envy her her lot.

Alexis
(expostulating).
Belkís!

Makawkas
(expostulating).
My child!

Belkís
(with enthusiasm).
Set free
For ever from life's load, the thought of age to come,
The laughter one endures, the heart's ache answering dumb
In bitter self-reproof. If one, indeed, must die,
A fair, a precious one, who stands in the world's eye
As its most worthy thing; whom no unhappiness
Has yet touched—that men know; who is not loved the less,
Perhaps, that she loves none; whose loss would threaten pain,
More than the bodily pang, to some at least of men:
If one, indeed, must die—how well to be that one,
Chosen before the rest, all girlhood's champion,
With no sad marriage rite, save this with Father Nile,
To mar the maiden joy of an unmastered smile!
Oh, the divorce of death! And better now than after,
While she can hide her tears, a girl, with a girl's laughter

(Enter Servant.)
Servant.
A deputation, sir, from his most Holiness,
My Lord the Patriarch.

(Enter Patriarch, Magicians, and Attendants; with them Jael veiled.)
Belkís.
The Bride of the Nile—no less.

Alexis
(aside).
Her face is veiled, and yet—

Makawkas.
Let them approach me close.
Welcome, your Reverences. I am as the world knows
An old man and a blind. Whom have you with you here?
I seem to hear a step.

Patriarch.
A lady's, most dread Sir;
She comes a suppliant, to join her prayers with ours
For the high right to die.

Belkís.
She stands here crowned with flowers,
Father, the Nile Bride's self, a true bride, beautiful
As any in the world.

Makawkas.
Walk, sirs, within.

[The Makawkas, the Patriarch, and their suites retire to the back of the stage and seat themselves for a formal audience and converse. Belkís takes Jael's hand and leads her forward to the front of the stage, where they sit apart from the rest.)
Belkís.
This stool
Will do for you and me. Sit down. We will talk alone
For a few minutes here and let the rest go on.
I want to know it all, and from yourself. This dress
[She handles Jael's robes.
Is a most lovely thing, and suits your loveliness
Exactly. Does it not?

Jael.
It is the old costume
Of the priestesses of Isis, with the lotus bloom
Embroidered on the hem, symbol of Eternity.

Belkís.
And do you love to wear it, though in the thought to die?

Jael.
I am not afraid of death. Life is too sad a thing
To make its loss a grief. Death is the ransoming
Of many captive tears.

Belkís.
You are unhappy then?
Perhaps you have learned the truth, the worthlessness of men.
Is it not so?

Jael.
Perhaps.

Belkis.
Your lover? What was he,
Soldier or citizen, of low or high degree,
Wise, foolish, froward, fond? I find them all alike
Slaves of their own weak wills, too indolent to strike,
Too insolent to spare. Or have you met with one,
The man one dreams about, born for dominion
Over his fellow men, yet to oneself a friend
Tender and wise and true, who seeks no selfish end,
And is content to serve, and in his service wait
The moment of your love, not too importunate
Nor yet too proud to feel?

Jael.
Ah, Princess, you are wise.
I never dared to ask impossibilities.
I think men do not love. At most in their high will
They suffer we should love them and be constant still
Even when they grow cold. And then, perhaps, one day
When other pleasures fail and grief has come their way,
And life of its delights begins to give them less,
They think of us and grieve in a new tenderness.
This was the way I saw it, all I hoped to see.
A pebble, I thought, cast down, by law of gravity
Makes the whole Earth leap up to it ne'er so little.
And so, if I threw too my whole heart, some small tittle
Of love should answer me. I tried it.

Belkís.
And what came?

Jael.
A readiness to die. Alexis

(she stops).
Belkís.
Was that name
Your lover's?

Jael
Did I tell it? Yes. Alexis knew
Only too well I loved him.

Belkís.
Did he not love you?

Jael.
I said men do not love. Perhaps a little while
It soothed his idleness to know there was a smile
Always in wait for him, should his eyes turn my road.
It gave him a light conscience and a sense of good,
And never any pain—no, never any pain.

Belkís.
'Tis plain, my dear, you spoiled him! 'Tis a bad way with men.
But tell me all—the end. What happened? Did he go?
Was he untrue to you?

Jael.
Alas! I hardly know,
I think it was ambition and his father's whim
To push his fortunes higher. I always urged on him
His duty as a son and to his own career.
For men need upward flights. It makes them happier.
Only, I never guessed. It was a cruel letter
In which he told me all, the alliance which should better
His fortunes in the world, if I but stood aside.

Belkís.
And she? Who was she then, this unauspicious bride?
Did he not tell her name?

Jael.
I did not care to ask.
And then kind Providence set me this other task,
To die a worthy death—for others. It is well.

Belkís.
My dear, you shall not die. You shall yet wear the veil
Of a real happy bride, or I am no Princess here.
You shall wed the man you love, be he thrice officer,
Thrice Roman, thrice sub-Prefect. Come to them with me
And tell them all your tale in its simplicity.
My father will be touched. And he, Alexis, look,
He too is here with them. I was that bride he took
For purposes of State and had proposed to wed.
But not in love. Oh no. Of that be comforted.
There was no love-making—on his side or on mine.
Only a protocol, a treaty we must sign.
They are talking of it now.

[They rise. The Makawkas and the rest come forward.
Makawkas.
You say then she consents.
I would not grant it else—and that to all intents
Her dying injures none? her father, the good Jew,
Yields to necessity and takes a generous view
Of his own personal loss? Of this you say you are sure.
Nor has she special friend whose grief time would not cure,
Also that one must die?

Patriarch.
My Lord, it is just so.
The land needs its release from this impending woe.
The Nile is a brave river, bountiful to all,
Yet cruel in his wrath. His rage we must forestall
By this one sacrifice of this one precious thing,
And save thereby the rest, a world from suffering.

Makawkas.
'Tis an old prejudice. Who knows if it be true?

Patriarch.
There are strange rules with heaven, to do and not to do.

Alexis.
'Tis thus they argue it. We did well to stand by
And leave it to themselves.

Belkís
(appealing to Makawkas).
This lady shall not die,
Father, while I live here. She is my suppliant.
I give her my asylum—'tis no idle vaunt.
[She throws her robe round Jael.
She lies beneath my robe. I take on me her doom,
My Lord the Patriarch. And you, Alexis, come.
Look on the face of her I leave here in my stead
To be the wife to you I shall not be. You dread
To find a stranger's face. It is an idle fear.
Hers is more fair than mine and more familiar.
She stands before you. Look. I draw aside the veil,
(Aside).
And clothe myself with death.

[She draws aside Jael's veil and veils her own face with it.
Alexis.
By all that is holy! Jael!

Jael.
Alexis!

(A noise is heard without. Enter a Messenger.)
Makawkas.
What is this?

Messenger.
My Lord, three Saracens
Stand at the gate without, demanding audience.
They are importunate. They come as nuncios,
They say from their high Caliph—they, the Emperor's foes,
To Egypt their best friend. They stand armed to the teeth,
And proud of countenance, as men who fear not death,
And will not be denied.

Alexis.
This cannot be.

Messenger.
My Lord,
They are already here, having driven in the guard.

Belkís.
Bid them a welcome, father, as ambassadors,
Who knows, perhaps from Heaven, at least no foes of ours.

Messenger.
Foeman or friend, they come.

(Enter Hátib and other Arabs.)
Alexis
By God! the savages!

Hátib.
The peace of God be with you.

Makawkas.
Strangers. With you be peace.

Belkís.
Father, these men are kings, lords born for the world's rule,
Entreat them courteously.

Hátib
(aside).
Her face is beautiful
As Eve's in paradise.

Makawkas.
Be seated, sirs.

Hátib.
Our mission
Admits no courtesies till it has found fruition.
We come in the name of God.

Makawkas.
In God's name, sirs, speak on.
We listen in respect, returning benison.

Hátib.
Thus speaks my Lord the Caliph, servant of the Lord,
“To all and sundry princes, wielders of the sword,
Set in authority, and first of all to him
The Makawkas of the Copts, Lord of the later time,
Peace be and salutation. Ay and to all men peace
Who follow the right guidance. This. And after this,
Accept ye Islam. God will give it you twofold,
And save you from the fire. Be not like him of old,
The Pharaoh whom God slew, lest turning He should smite
Your kingdom down with you, in mercy infinite.
O People of the Book, who worship the one God,
Why will ye serve another? Do ye love the rod?
We offer you your freedom, as ourselves are free,
Save only from God's service. In simplicity
Pronounce the words of Islam. Testify aloud
‘There is no God but God.’”

Belkís.
It is a message proud
To all who bear Rome's yoke, a message to the poor.

Alexis
(to the Makawkas).
My Lord! This is rank treason. Show these men the door.

Makawkas.
Have patience, good Alexis.
(To the Arabs.)
Sirs, we wish you well—
Only for Caesar's right and the imprescriptible
Allegiance that we owe.

Alexis.
It must not, shall not be.

Belkís.
Alexis, you forget. Here the authority
Lies only with my father. If he choose to give
Good welcome to this Prince, 'tis not for you to grieve.

Alexis.
A Prince! A Mountebank!

Hátib.
Be silent, infidel,
Lest I should send thee straight by the red road to Hell.
(To Belkís.)
Lady, may God befriend thee on the day of wrath.

Alexis.
Princess, I take my leave. This champion of the faith
Is better here than I. And you, my Lord, take note,
I raise a formal bar and protest on the spot
Against these men's reception as most treasonous
To Rome's imperial name and personally to us.
I hold you to your act in its full consequence—
(Aside.)
Whatever that may mean—and warn you and this Prince
That Rome will stand no trifling.

Belkís.
Be it so.

Makawkas.
My Lord!

Belkís.
No matter, father dear. We have this stranger's word.
And God shall be our shield though all Hell should assail.
Here stands our champion—here.

Hátib
(with tenderness).
Lady.

Alexis
(turning to go).
Come with me, Jael.

ACT III On the banks of the Nile, a landscape open towards the river, a barge with flags flying in the distance.

(Enter Barix and Boïlas conversing.)
Barix.
I always said it, Boïlas, it must come at last,
The day of annexation. Things have moved on fast,
Faster than we quite thought a week or two ago.
The mills of Rome grind slowly—quite absurdly slow.
It comes to the same thing.

Boïlas.
This, Sir, is the full text
Of the proclamation issued. Egypt is annexed
To the First Cataract. The Makawkas we depose.

Barix.
By his own fault and doing, Boïlas. Heaven knows
We did our best to spare him. He would take no warning,
But chose to go his way. We have wished him now good morning,
And shown him to the door. Besides, these crimes of his!
Who would have thought it, Boïlas, blind man that he is,
And quite respectable in all his outward ways,
He should be so black a villain as your report now says?
You tell me the very day he took our subsidy
He had his cousins strangled, all, to the third degree,
And twelve slaves crucified one Sunday afternoon
For bringing him cold coffee in his state saloon.
And then, the wine he takes! O, Boïlas, it is strange
How Eastern Princes drink!

Boïlas.
Yes, when Rome needs a change.

Barix.
'Tis quite a Providence.

Boïlas.
Indeed a Providence
Provided by the State for its own public ends.

Barix.
You do not, then, believe it?

Boïlas.
Oh, my Lord, my rule
Is always to believe. I was bred in the old school
Which holds official truth sacred as Holy Writ,
No matter what the fact. I make no face at it,
But swallow it down whole. Rogue, thief, or honest man,
Drunkard, blue-ribbonite—I back the published plan
And add my word of faith to the State legend still.
It is only in raw boyhood that one bites one's pill.
The Makawkas is deposed.

Barix.
And what was his demeanour
When you conveyed the news?

Boïlas.
His face grew a shade greener,
As a doomed patient's might who feels the surgeon's knife
And knows his hour has come and bids good-bye to life.
But he did not say a word.

Barix.
And she, the tragedy Queen,
Belkís, who egged him on? Did she, too, sit serene?

Boïlas.
Serene as a scirocco in the month of March,
Calm as a Khamsin piling heaven to one black arch.
She stood and stared at me an instant, and then said,
“May the Lord God confound thee in the day of dread.”
She has caught the Moslem jargon, and can curse or bless
With the best Arab of them—a mad lioness.
Some say she is affianced to young bare-legs, him
Who was the Caliph's envoy, Satan's sturdiest limb,
If ever one there was. No matter. Luckily
She is better now disposed of, with more modesty,
As volunteer Nile Bride. We took her at her word—
The best way with such ladies—and so cleared the board.
There was a Hebrew damsel, as it seems, by lot
Chosen to play chief part in their religious plot,
And brought before the Makawkas. The Princess was there,
And moved with a fine feeling must needs interfere
To save the other's life, giving her own instead
As victim in her place. And so the matter sped,
Not quite, perhaps, in earnest, when we took the reins.
The priests, however, now insist on the full pains
And penalties of her act, and all the more that she
Has openly espoused the Moslem heresy.
It will end for her to-day, here at the river side.
Look, here comes the procession!

[A noise of shouting without.
Voices.
Three cheers for the Nile Bride.

Barix.
I cannot countenance a thing so barbarous.
Boïlas, my cloak! Come with me. O Romana jus!
The common law must not be violated now
That Egypt has the franchise.

Boïlas
(sarcastically).
And let treason grow
Till Egypt is disrupted! No, my Lord, 'tis well
Things take the turn they do. Let us stand by and tell
Our beads for her soul's sake, if you will, but leave the rest
For Father Nile to purge in the public interest.
Remember, too, Alexis.

Barix.
Ha! that's true. The girl
Was a bit impudent. He was quite out of curl
For a fortnight after it, nor yet is quite consoled.
Boïlas, maybe you are right.

Boïlas.
My Lord, she is a scold,
And a dangerous character. Let the priests deal with it.

Barix.
Well, well. But here they come. Boïlas, maybe, you are right. [Exeunt.
(Enter procession of Patriarchs, Priests, Magicians, etc., with them Jael and Belkís.)


Jael
(to Belkís).
You will not then relent?

Belkís.
Alas! dear Jael, no.
Even if I could, I would not. What I undergo
Is little in the sum of the world's bitterness,
Little in the count of wrong. And I will make it less
By thinking of your gain. You must be happy, Jael,
Happy a thousand years, if but to tell the tale
Of one who died too young.

Jael.
Too young! Ah, you regret
Your beautiful life now, in spite of all the fret,
Of all the sorrow. Look how glorious the sun is,
How wonderful the world. I see tears in your eyes,
I see that you would live.

Belkís
(aside).
This weakness must not be.
(Aloud.)
No, Jael, no. These things are not so dear to me
Except for one mad thought.

Jael.
And what is that? Speak! Speak!

Belkís.
He told me that he loved me, and my heart is weak
To see him once again. (She weeps.)
He promised to be here.

Jael.
Hátib?

Belkís.
Yes, Hátib, he, the Caliph's messenger.
He made his oath to me upon his father's sword,
And in the name of God. Will he not keep his word?

Patriarch.
Ladies, it is time to part. Rome waits on you.
Despatch.

(Enter Alexis with soldiers—on the other side Hátib and Arabs with Benjamin. These stand apart.)
Jael
(clinging to Belkís).
My lot is one with hers.

Alexis.
(to soldiers).
Here, bring along the batch
And drive the business through. Is this the sacred barge? Where is the Patriarch? (To the Patriarch.)
I hand over my charge
To you, most reverend sir. All that Rome asks is this,
The lady's signature to prove her willingness.

Patriarch
(showing paper).
The signature is here attested in due form.

Alexis.
Then march.

Jael.
Alexis, stop. Your heel is on the worm,
Beware lest it should turn.

Alexis.
The best way is to crush,
Dear Jael, worms that hate us.

Jael.
Or that love us.

Alexis.
Tush!
This is no case of love. And, if it were, my duty
Would make me deaf to all, and blind to her and beauty.
You had better now go home. These priests will deal with her
For her soul's greater good. I, as Rome's officer,
Remain to see it out. But you, my love, go home.

Benjamin
(aside).
A curse be on his tongue.

Hátib.
A double curse on Rome.

Jael.
(to Alexis).
I have no home but hers. If Belkís weds the Nile
I go with her as bridesmaid. So we may beguile
The pain of death together. Oh, the shame of life!
I would rather die with her than live to be your wife,
Unmerciful Alexis.

[Alexis motions the guard to advance. They come forward to seize Belkís. Hátib and Benjamin interpose.
Alexis.
Soldiers, stand by me,
Pretorians, to your arms. What is this foolery?

Benjamin.
Most noble Roman lord, your day of arrogance
Ends with this insolent hour. Fate needs to make amends
And needs that you should perish.

Alexis.
Seize the crazy rogue,
And send him to the guard-house.

Hátib.
Unbelieving dog,
See, with this sword I smite thee.

[The Arabs rush in—fighting on the stage.
Alexis.
Treason! Help!
[Alexis is wounded.
By Heaven,
These blacks have done for me.

[Dies.
Benjamin.
Ay, die—and unforgiven.
Your place is best in Hell. Brothers in arms, fight on.
To-day shall seal the doom of Rome's dominion. [Exeunt fighting, all but Belkís and Jael.


(Re-enter Benjamin.)
Benjamin.
Now, by the God of Moses, we are avenged to-day.
Our debt is paid in full, the wrongs that made us grey,
The stripes with which we ached, our hopes so long deferred
Of an ideal reckoning, insolent word with word,
Insolent act with act. To see these Roman clowns
With their long arrogance, who ruled it in our towns,
Masters and Lords of all, and prated of their law
As the one saving fact the Eastern world yet saw,
And of themselves in it as missioners divine
Incalculable in blessings, scattering oil and wine
And lavish wealth on us, with their great Roman peace—
The impudent imposture—on their bended knees
To a mere shouting horde of shoeless Ishmaelites!
O, it is noble!

Jael.
Father.

Benjamin.
There are sounds and sights
Dear to Jerusalem, the clamour of death's wings
After a flying foe, the night which vengeance brings
Upon a stricken host. I saw old Barix's face
Pale with the agony of a supreme disgrace,
Mounting his horse to fly. He trembled, spite the grim
Smile on his lips, at me. I wagged my head at him,
And wished him a safe journey to Heraclius,
Advancement and more pay, as one victorious.
He had just signed with his proud hand the final act,
Yielding all Egypt up, to the third cataract,
To 'Amru's camel-riders. Their beasts idly browsed
Already in his garden, and themselves were housed
As idly in his palace. I could hear them shout
Their orders to his slaves; and they were leading out
His own white heifer herd for slaughter at his door.
A regular Belshazzar. Scarce a broken score
Remained to him in force of his Pretorian guard,
Stern in their discipline, erect, unbending, hard,
Imaging Rome's lost headship of the world that was.

Jael.
And these, the Saracens? Is there more certain cause
To see them as new friends? Their faces frighten me,
Their eyes, their gesturings.

Benjamin.
They come with liberty
And in the name of God, the God that is our own,
To purge a weary world of Rome's dominion.
It is the God of Israel smiting with their sword.

Jael.
And of their prophet, what?

Benjamin.
Commissioned by the Lord,
As Amos was commissioned. Think you, my sweet child,
That prophets are all princes, with hands undefiled
By the world's common work, and sitting clothed like kings,
And singing in soft voices news of pleasant things?
Not so. The voice of power speaks from the wilderness.
It chooses untaught men, lone wanderers of the rocks,
Shepherds with slings and stones, young psalmists from their flocks,
And naked insane priests, God's instruments of wrath.
And so, too, this Mohammed. Math and aftermath
He has mowed their cities. Princes, kings, and potentates,
The proudest heads of them, like weak inebriates,
Have fallen back staggering, and confess because they feel
His heavy hand upon them and his pricks of steel,
Their eyes bent to the earth. Priests, who the heresy
Banned yet a moment since, constrained as from on high,
Bear witness to his truth, and with unsandalled feet
And rope-bound heads attest the promised Paraclete,
Mohammed the foretold, last of God's messengers.
There is no God but God.

(Enter 'Amru, Hátib, and the Lords of the Arabs.)
Jael.
My doubt disappears.
It is His Angel host, so beautiful, so proud,
So noble in its bearing.

Belkís.
They have swept the crowd
Of base white faces back. The Nile no more shall see
Those visages of death disgraced with leprosy
Upon its alien shores. Rejoice, O glorious land,
Thy day-dream is fulfilled. Join hand with happy hand,
Ye daughters of despair. Dance, clap your hands and sing
For your salvation all, ye sons of sorrowing.
Give me the cymbals, Jael. I feel that I must dance
In honour of this day which works deliverance.

Jael.
Nay, but the dead.

Belkís.
What dead?

Jael
(pointing to Alexis' body).
He once was dear to me.

Belkís.
No matter, Jael. Our lives we gave. This sets us free.
We will forget the past.

Jael.
You swore not to forget.

Belkís.
The old life is no more. The new has paid the debt.

[She sings.
'Amru.
The promised houris these.

Hátib.
They are both beautiful,
Fair as the sun, the moon—each one a star, a jewel
Hung in the firmament. It were a glorious fate
To be beloved of them.

'Amru.
For me it comes too late,
I am already wed—to duty and my sword.
You, Hátib, are more free.

Hátib
(aside).
My heart leaps at his word.

(Enter Patriarch and Priests.)
'Amru.
But who are these vain men? Speak, reverend seniors,
What is your will with us?

Patriarch.
To pay you our devoirs
As princes of our land, since God hath given it you
And to our Lord the Caliph. This first, as is due,
—And next to make petition.

'Amru.
Speak, in the Lord's name.

Patriarch.
We crave you an indulgence, and to ease the shame
That rests upon our land through the Nile's waywardness.
The river is in drought and needs a sacrifice.
This lady is his bride. We ask authority
To celebrate our rite. The need is she should die,
According to our law and custom luminous,
To give the land its rest.

Voices without.
We ask it, all of us.

'Amru.
What is this folly, Hátib?

Hátib.
'Tis an evil creed
Of the days of ignorance. They deem the Nile has need
Of a pure virgin life to pacify the drought
And bring it to full flood. And so the people shout.
This noble lady here is daughter of their prince,
A maiden without stain, supreme in innocence
Of all in Roman lands, and they demand her death
As bride of their proud river.

'Amru.
'Tis a pestilent faith
And lawless superstition we do well to end.
Bring me a pen and paper.

Hátib.
Here.

'Amru.
Most reverend
And worthy gentlemen. You ask an impious thing,
This innocent lady's death. The Lord alone is King
Of the wide Earth and Sea and all that therein is,
The lakes and streams and rivers in their fall and rise,
The plenty and the dearth. It is a crime ye seek.
Be, rather, merciful, seeing yourselves how weak,
And leave to God the judgment. Ladies, have no fear.
We take you in protection. And you, reverend sir,
Go with this written word and message clear of guile,
And you shall see a wonder.
He writes.)
“To the River Nile,
“Peace be and salutation. We, in the Caliph's name,
“Demand your service thus: O river of old fame!
“If that indeed thou be the servant of the Lord,
“The Lord God, the Almighty, hearkening to His word,
“Hear and obey this message; Set thy waters free
“According to their wont in full fertility
“Upon this land of Egypt. She is a land of peace
“With claim to all protections and immunities.
“So may God succour thee. But if, as these men say,
“Thou heedest not our counsel, going thy own vain way,
“Then, go to thy more hurt. The Lord God shall provide
“Or with thee, or without thee.” Fling this message wide
Into the stagnant flood, and bring me word again.

[He gives the paper to the Patriarch, who exit with suite.
Benjamin.
Most wise of magistrates! Most glorious of men!
We do thee reverence, all.

Belkís
(coming forward).
A princess kneels to thee.

[Belkís and Jael make show of kneeling.
'Amru
(raising Belkís).
Not so. Thy hand I kiss, most fair one. Were I free,
I would in my own person do thee right for this
That I have marred awhile thy bridal happiness
With our good Father Nile. Forgive it me. Here stands
A noble officer shall do thee more amends.
Hátib, your hand for her.

Hátib.
Ah, Princess, might I dare
Aspire to your high favour in this world of care,
How blessed were my lot.

Belkís
(pointing to Jael).
My lot and hers are one.
We have made oath together not to live alone.
(Aside.)
And yet, alas! I love him.

Jael.
Ah, you love him. Yes.
Let not the thought of mine prevent your happiness.

Belkís.
No, no, I will not wed him.

Jael.
Yes. You must, and shall.

Belkís
(smiling).
We will be old maids together, grave and musical,
But we must not be parted.

Hátib
(speaking slowly).
Ladies, why dispute?
Is love so poor a thing, so spiritless to boot,
That it should frightened be to pledge a double troth?

Belkís.
Ah, Hátib. By your law?

Hátib.
Why not?

Belkis
(triumphantly).
He weds us both,
Dear Jael.

Jael.
Ah, what bliss!

Hátib
(giving to each a hand).
Ladies, I kneel and pray.

'Amru.
This is a happy ending to a happy day.

(Shouting is heard outside. A crowd rushes in. Enter a Messenger with dripping clothes.)
'Amru.
O, wonderful! My letter!

Messenger.
(showing his wet clothes).
See the answer to it.
The Nile is in full flood.

'Amru.
Thank God.

Benjamin
(with fervour).
Oh! Roma fuit.

THE LITTLE LEFT HAND

A MID-VICTORIAN DRAMA IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Sir John Leicester, a Revolutionary Soldier of Fortune.
• General Lord Bellingham, in command of the Queen's Troops.
• Colonel Warren, serving under him.
• Sergeant Mullens, a Non-Commissioned Officer.
• Davis and leaders of the Idealist Movement.
• Bradshaw leaders of the Idealist Movement.
• Paul, an Idealist.
• Lady Marian (Lady Bellingham).
• Rosina, her Maid.
• Phoebe, an Idealist.
• Town Councillors, Soldiers, Idealists, etc., etc.

Place A Country Town in England.
Time Mid-Victorian.

ACT I

Scene I A large Room scantily furnished.

Leicester, Davis, Bradshaw.
Leicester.
Is all in readiness? The plan well understood?
The ground marked out and flagged? How many will face blood,
Think you, when the pinch comes? I have seen soldiers fly
From a sudden shower of stones who had scorned cavalry,
Ay, and artillery too, but without special drill
Bolted like boys. 'Twas thus we lost Majuba Hill
In the Boer War. Mind this, strength lies in discipline,

Davis.
And a good cause,

Bradshaw.
And chief. What fear but we shall win
With you, Sir, for our leader?

Leicester.
Truce to compliments.
This is a soldier's battle. Drill and common sense,
And the mot d'ordre to act distinctly in their heads,
There lies our generalship.

Davis.
Our men will face the reds
If you only wave your hand.

Bradshaw.
Your name's a guarantee
With every one of them for certain victory
Wherever freedom's fought for. Pueblo, Puttenden,
Canea, Cansfield, Crete, the Bridge of Sittingen,
These have become their watchwords. They all know your face,
Although they never saw you till this year of grace.
The women have your portrait framed in every room
Clothed in the heroic white renowned through Christendom.
They know your motto “Jamais,” and the left-hand glove
Pinned to your forage cap, and look for it with love;
It is your badge of fortune now become their own.
The children strut like you and imitate your frown.
Oh! we are well prepared.

Leicester.
This is all excellent.
But how about your strength? Have you the complement
Of small arms for your force? Eight hundred men, you say,
Of the volunteers are yours. How are they armed?

Davis.
To-day
The force will be complete. We have advice from York
Announcing their dispatch by the first train.

Leicester.
Close work,
Even if they come to time. And if they are delayed?

Davis.
We have the invoice, Sir.

Leicester.
The invoice, I am afraid,
Will be of little use if the Queen's troops are here.

Bradshaw.
They dare not send the troops!

Leicester.
Of that I am less clear.
These are the days of force, and Governments to live
Must use the powers they wield, even if they next forgive.
All must have heart to fight if they would hold their own,
The Priest to hold his creed, the King to hold his throne.
Strength justifies alike coercion and revolt,
And Jove would not be Jove but for the thunderbolt.

Davis.
We are Idealists and take no count of Kings.

Leicester.
Yet a King's constables are facts and stubborn things.

Davis.
The constables are ours, all but the Officers.

Leicester.
The greater reason then to expect the regulars.
There should be news in town at the High Council Board.
Go, Gentlemen, I pray, and bring me the last word;
Tell them my message is to stand fast by the plan
Resolved upon last night, doing the best we can,
Troops or no troops. We meet to-morrow on Pains Hill
The whole strength of the League, calm but inflexible.
At the first stroke of noon we march, each separate band
Led by a Councillor holding the chief command,
The wards have their own drums and flags. A signal gun
Will order the advance and notify the town.
Our first point is the churches. These in your possession,
You have half gained your cause, and half fulfilled your mission.
A faith proclaimed in church is a faith justified.
(Aside.)
Just as a woman wronged becomes in church a bride.
(Aloud.)
Here is your moral triumph. The material fight
Needs your more active thought, for right still lies with might.
We need ten thousand men well armed to hold the ground
Against all possible force. See that the men be found.
And come again with news.

Davis.
You shall not wait for us.

Bradshaw.
Your fortune leads our own. Both are victorious.

[Exeunt Davis and Bradshaw.

Scene II

Leicester
(alone).
Like all the rest of them, they think a fight is won
By the noise of shawms and trumpets blown in the new moon.
Jericho's their precedent. They mock at the old faiths
But still seek miracles at life's hand and death's.
Why have they sent for me? Because my luck was good,
And they were in straits, poor fools, to save their Brotherhood.
My name alone, they say, is to work prodigies,
A gambler's argument. But is it so unwise?
No, or I were not here. All faith is a wise thing,
Compared with the lack of it. And therein lies the sting
Of my own unreal life. What a mad lot is mine,
Called to this leadership of a cause half divine,
And pushed to martyrdom by my plain act and deed,
Yet being what I am, a man without a creed,
Almost without a hope of the world's better way,
And mired with a dark past, my sins of yesterday.
Their virtue shames me. Ah! if they could see in truth
Their trusted leader's heart, his insolence of youth,
His violent manhood—ay, the rebellious instincts still
Ruling his better reason, his enfeebled will
Battling with memories of an unburied past.
If they could learn her name, the dearest loved and last,
Who sent him forth to deeds the nations now applaud
For her sole vanity, with vain love for reward,
They would disown his help, and cast him out from them,
A treachery unmasked, a fraud, a stratagem,
Spite of their need to-day and his help timely given,
These poor Idealists with their unselfish heaven.
And yet their leader loves them. All that is best in me
Thrills at their touch, my pride which is not vanity,
My consciousness of right, my new-born rectitude,
My love of virtuous deeds, their own the ideal good.
No, no, this is not vanity. Say rather a fire
Lit by consuming shame, the unfulfilled desire
Of an heroic youth which would obliterate
The memory of its fall and so be quits with fate.
What else is Man's ambition, even at the best?
To do some worthiest deed before he takes his rest?
And who knows rightly what? We are too ignorant
To do good to the world except by accident.
The sole sure good is to ourselves. And who dares die
Unjustified by deeds while deeds can justify?
To-morrow will prove all. If we outride the storm,
We found a new religion for the world's reform
And our undying fame. If we are overcome
The world will weep for us achieving martyrdom.
Oh, Marian, Marian! With that little white left hand
What kingdoms have you rent!

Scene III

Leicester seated.
Phoebe
(entering).
I did not understand
You were alone and busy. Oh, excuse me, Sir.
I see you are in thought.

Leicester.
No, dear petitioner,
You do not trouble me. It was but idleness
Made me look sad. It does me good to see your face.

Phoebe.
Do you mean it so?

Leicester.
Yes certainly. Sit down awhile,
And tell me all your wish.

Phoebe.
I wished to see you smile
Instead of frowning.

Leicester.
How?

Phoebe.
You have so stern a look
When speaking to the crowds.

Leicester.
This is a bad rebuke
For a popular leader, one who would persuade mankind.

Phoebe.
Oh! Now you laugh at me. This was not in my mind.
Only I watch you daily when you speak, and then
I wonder at your sadness more than the rest of men.
And often I have wished—

Leicester.
For what, you foolish child?

Phoebe.
That I could make you happy. See, now you have smiled.

Leicester.
You are very young.

Phoebe.
Sixteen.

Leicester.
And an Idealist!

Phoebe.
Yes.

Leicester.
And you speak your thought?

Phoebe.
We all do. It is best.

Leicester.
Then tell me the whole truth. I would like to learn your art,
Being myself of those who search the human heart,
And try to make the world, if may be, happier.
How would you cure my grief?

Phoebe.
I would be your follower,
To guard you from all peril. In your hours of pain
I would talk till you forgot. Grief would be silent then,
And I should need no word. You would rest still as now
And listen to my voice as to a river's flow,
And you would sleep—

Leicester.
'Tis well. And what else?

Phoebe.
I would sit
Your daily worshipper, a Mary at your feet,
Gathering in the pearls of wisdom you let fall
And give them back to you new strung.

Leicester.
And is that all?
It would not be enough. Let me know all your store.

Phoebe.
Oh, I would love you too, now and for evermore.

Leicester.
You are pretty, far too pretty.

Phoebe.
What has prettiness
To do with what I ask?

Leicester
(aside).
Perhaps more than you guess.

Phoebe.
I cannot help it.

Leicester.
No. To be pretty is no crime.
You shall have lovers yet, and in a happier time
It is pleasant to be loved.

Phoebe.
I would rather die for you
Than be loved by all the world—even if that were true.
(With emotion.)
That were the ideal ending of the ideal life:
To fall, a flower cut down, and not to feel the knife
Because of the great joy transcending pain. How often
I have thought of this in dreams, till tears have come to soften
Pain to an ecstasy. Struck thus—by the last dart
Of the last flying foe aimed at the hero's heart,
Leaving the victory his and the world's battle won,
And so faint in his fame as clouds faint in the sun!

Leicester.
And if your hero loved you, and you did not die?

Phoebe.
I would then live for him.

Leicester.
In what capacity?

Phoebe.
As the companion of his thoughts. All men, they say,
Need some poor woman's wit to help them on their way.
Mine is intelligent. I have observant eyes.
He would not find me childish if not always wise,
And then—

Leicester.
And then what?

Phoebe.
It is pleasant to be loved
(You said it, Sir, just now), and he should find it proved.

Leicester.
You are talking nonsense. Love? What do you know of it?
Love is a malady, a grief, a fever fit,
A darkening of the soul, which hides the ideal light.

Phoebe.
How then can it be sweet?

Leicester.
Sweet things are seldom right.

Phoebe.
And you condemn it? Love, our missionaries teach,
Is a sacrament of fire uniting each to each—
We need it for our lives—the initial principle
Which gives the mind its power to work for good and ill;
For good if we love right, and our soul meets a soul
Large in its purposes, and the two make a whole
Possessed of double strength and wise in loveliness.

Leicester.
Under what visible sign?

Phoebe.
The sacramental kiss.
This surely is for good. You do not doubt it?

Leicester.
No.
But if it work for ill?

Phoebe.
That is the tragic woe
Of the world's wickedness, yet unregenerate;
The cause of half its pain, the cause of all its hate.
They would stamp this out in blood; there is no other hope.

Leicester.
And it, too, has a sign?

Phoebe.
That is beyond my scope.
I would not know of it. But love is not to blame
If men do evil things and call it in love's name.

Leicester.
Dear child, you are too sweet. (Aside.)
Alas! and innocent.

Kisses her.)
Phoebe.
What is it? He has kissed me! It is the sacrament!

Scene IV

Paul entering surprises Leicester holding Phoebe's hand.
Paul
(aside).
Phoebe with the chief! How's this? She has an ecstatic look,
Like the Virgin with the Angel, drawn in a missal book.
I do not like his smile.
(Aloud.)
Sir John, I come with news
Most urgent from the Board.

Leicester.
Your haste needs no excuse.
Speak.

Paul.
It is ascertained the forces of the crown
Have been reinforced in strength. Two regiments, sent down
In the night from Liverpool, now hold the central square
In front of St. Jude's Church and the main thoroughfare
From Langley waterworks to the “Cock” at Chesterton.
The side streets are patrolled by the new garrison
Who question all who pass. There are three field-pieces
Posted in Worship Street near the old granaries.
The lower town alone is in the City's hands.
Moreover, a troop of Horse—

Leicester.
It must be Westmoreland's.
Did I not say it? Quick, give me my sword. Stay here,
Paul, till I come again or send a messenger.
This news needs all our thought, perhaps a change of plan.
(Aside.)
My hour has come at last and I must play the man.

Phoebe
(aside).
He is gone, without a look, without a thought of me.
And Paul, what does he think? Oh, this is misery.

(Weeps.)

Scene V

Paul and Phoebe alone.
Paul.
Phoebe, you are in tears. What is the meaning, say!
This is no hour to cry, be the cause what it may,
To-morrow we may need it. But to-day our grief
Needs other arms than these. Shame on your handkerchief,
Shame on your foolishness.
This hero, what is he
That you should weep? A God, of poor humanity!
A God? A mountebank! He has a tragic face
And a voice that trembles well, and that is all his case.
What is he to you, Phoebe, but a name in print?
Poser and partisan? I do not trust the mint
Where he was coined. He was a soldier, too—the name
Stinks in all honest nostrils. 'Tis a double game
These soldiers play for honour in their fool's career—
This side a patriot, that a licensed buccaneer.

Phoebe.
Hush, you blaspheme a saint.

Paul.
Leicester is virtuous
As a man looks grave in church. Before the world and us
He stands with a face bowed and his eternal frown.
But who has seen his heart?

Phoebe.
His heart, like his renown,
Is high above our world.

Paul.
They tell another tale
Who knew him in his youth. Phoebe, you are looking pale.
What is your secret, girl? This great man's confidence
Is yours. He held your hand and smiled a minute since.
What does he say when smiling?

Phoebe.
You are too cruel, Paul,
Unjust, irreverent.

Paul.
Love then is lord of all,
As the unconverted teach. And our chief Puritan
Stands feebly bandying words as between maid and man
With one a Hedonist. You blush now. Your cheeks speak
More strongly than your words, showing you more than weak.

Phoebe.
It is true I love him.

Paul.
What! Love! And at such a time,
With the world's fate at issue! Phoebe, it is a crime!
You have no right to folly! Look me in the face
And say this shall not be! A crime—and a disgrace!

Phoebe.
No, neither. You are mad. My love is not like this,
A thing to count for shame or count for foolishness.
It is a strength to me, a buttress to our cause,
A glory to my heart, a law transcending laws,
The love that casts out fear.

Paul.
But if your leader shrink?

Phoebe.
The shame is yours to doubt. The shame is yours to think.
Leicester has never failed.

Paul.
He never yet has stood
Opposed to what he loves dear as his flesh and blood.
He is a soldier still. His fetish is the rag
Borne by his regiment. The honour of the flag
Excuses all dishonour in a soldier's mind.
He will not strike at it, or strike as one being blind.

Phoebe.
You mean he will betray us? (Aside.)
This is jealousy
Because he loves me too.

Paul.
To-morrow we shall see.

Scene VI

(Re-enter Leicester, Davis, Bradshaw, and Town Councillors.)
Leicester.
We fight then? That is fixed? I understand you right?
Your minds are all made up?

Bradshaw.
Happen what will, we fight.

Davis.
We do not shrink from it.

A Town Councillor.
We only asked your thought
To strengthen our decision.

2nd Town Councillor.
Your experience bought
Upon so many fields, the instinct of your eye
Used to command the fight and snatch the victory.

Leicester.
I thank you, Gentlemen. Keen measures are my trade.
I am a soldier bred and dare not be afraid,
Even where the odds are great. If all are of your heart
We need not doubt to play a creditable part
And pull the matter through. In the game of battle chance
Has always a last word which means deliverance
For him who fights the hardest. We shall win the day
In spite of the Queen's troops, do they the worst they may.
My mind is clear to risk it.

Phoebe
(to Paul).
You have heard him, Paul?

Paul.
I hear him and I watch.

Town Councillors.
We are determined all.

Leicester.
Then each man to his post. (Aside.)
It is a desperate plan.
But what have I to lose? Ah! Marian, Marian! [They turn to go out.
Enter Messenger who stops Leicester.


Messenger.
A message for the chief.

Leicester.
A moment, Sirs—what now?

Messenger.
There is an Officer with a white flag below,
The bearer of this letter from their General, sent
To you, Sir John, our chief.

Leicester
(looking at the envelope).
From the Queen's Government.
It is too late—too late. We cannot look at it.
And yet this handwriting! I know it, but forget,
I cannot put a name. Here! Stop! I will speak with him,
If I do not open it. It all is like a dream
This monogram and badge, “Loyaulté me oblige.”
How strangely things come back.—Sebastopol, the siege,
The fight at Inkerman, when I a subaltern
Took glory in it all. What nonsense! My cheeks burn
Even at this late day to picture certain scenes,
And certain words, and men “So proud to be the Queen's
Servants and Officers!” I dreamed of it last night,
And thought myself insulted at some trivial slight
Hurled at Her Majesty by God knows what mad fool
Whom I must teach his lesson in the fencing school,
And bring to better manners.
(Looking at Paul and Phoebe.)
That child's eyes on me
Are a reproach, and his, with their sincerity. (Enter Warren.)
(Aloud.)

Leave us, good Paul and Phoebe. The Town Councillors
Should know this new arrival. It may need some course
Of action not discussed. Go, both, and call them back
Once more for one last word.

Phoebe
(to Paul).
My heart is on the rack
To leave him with this man. I fear some treachery.

Paul.
On which side, Phoebe? His?

Phoebe.
Distrustful!

Paul.
We shall see.

[Exeunt Paul and Phoebe.

Scene VII

Leicester and Warren alone.
Leicester.
Well, Sir! You would speak to me!

Warren.
My orders were, Sir John,
To press you for an answer.

Leicester.
Frankly, I have none.
I have not read the letter, nor intend to read.
Things are too far advanced—or not enough—and need
Their settlement elsewhere. When we have paid that score
There may be room perhaps for parleying—not before.

Warren.
I understand you, Sir. And yet my duty is
To press you to consider the full penalties,
Not to yourself, Sir John, I do not speak of that,
But to these ignorant fools who run upon their fate
Without a full fore-knowledge. They are at best—

Leicester.
A mob.

Warren.
No, but an untried mass—

Leicester.
Of heroes on the job,
(We will put it so) poor heroes to their shirt-sleeves stripped
Against scientific strength professionally equipped.

Warren.
You do not doubt the issue?

Leicester.
Doubt it! Pardon me,
I never doubt my star. 'Tis my sole vanity.

Warren.
I see I shall not move you. Yet before I go
Forgive me if I speak my pain it should be so
As a man and Officer. (Aside.)
I must play my strongest card.
(Aloud.)
You were, Sir John, I know, like me in the Queen's Guard
Some years before I joined, in the old fighting days
Of the Crimean War, which our tradition says
Was a battle of the Gods. There is in the Brigade
A record extant still of your great escapade
In which you first won fame. We all are proud of it,
Believe me, to this hour as a regimental feat,
And even, if I may say it without disloyalty,
We are proud of the rest too, the career of victory
In many a strange land which you have made your own,
Abroad, on the Continent. We admire your wide renown.
Only, excuse me, Sir, if I speak plainly, we
Like it less well at home—for the Queen's loyalty
And the old regiment, you understood me, Sir,
And why I brought this letter as interpreter
Of a last hope of peace from—

Leicester.
Whose, Sir, is this hand?
(Aside.)
His pleading touches me.

Warren.
The General's in command.
Who once was your best friend.

Leicester.
My friend, Sir? And his name?
(Aside.)
I seem to clutch at shadows.

Warren.
General Bellingham.

Leicester
(aside).
Her husband! The old man! Fool, that I did not guess.
(Aloud.)
He was my Colonel once. Your General now?

Warren.
No less.

Leicester
(after a pause).
Give me the letter back. (Aside.)
It half unmans me. (Opens it—while he is reading re-enter Davis, Bradshaw, Town Councillors, Paul and Phoebe.)
(Aloud to Davis.)

Read.
You all should know the contents.

Warren.
They deserve your heed.

Leicester.
What says he, Mr. Davis?

Davis.
'Tis from the General
To you, Sir, in command of the rebel forces all.
I give its sense in brief. It deprecates the strife
Impending on both sides, the causeless loss of life,
The pain Her Majesty—it says the “personal pain”—
Feels at the unhappy issue for misguided men,
Whose cause, but for the force, would merit sympathy.
It promises redress, a parliamentary
Commission on the case, and such remedial acts
As prudence shall desire with due regard to facts.

Paul
(aside).
Et cetera, et cetera, the usual jargon used
By Governments in straits till they have got you noosed.

Davis.
An amnesty to all but common law-breakers.

Paul
(aside).
Which means a loophole left to hang malingerers.

Davis.
In the meanwhile under truce—

Paul
(aside).
To gain time.

Davis.
—he invites
The chief to a conference.

Leicester.
What say you?

Paul
(aside).
Ha! He bites.
We shall see him presently my Lord Chief Advocate
Upon the Government side. All comes to those who wait.

Phoebe
(aside).
I only fear betrayal. (Aloud.)
Can we trust them, Sir?

Bradshaw.
If there were treachery meant?

Leicester.
I have no personal fear.
Their General I know.

Paul
(aside).
Ha!

Leicester.
A comrade of old days.
He would not condescend to disingenuous ways.
I should not fear to go. The Government? Ah, well,
That is another thing as all our histories tell.
And yet the terms seem good.

Town Councillor.
We pray you counsel us.

Leicester.
I hardly dare advise. It is too onerous.
My friend here, Paul, would say—

Town Councillor.
No matter, Sir. The boy
Shall hold his bitter tongue. Speak on without annoy.

Leicester.
I will tell you then my thought. The terms proposed seem good,
The best that could be hoped to save your Brotherhood
And, if agreed to, screen the cause from further hurt.
Though Governments are false, they dare not eat the dirt
Of their own written word made false by treachery.
They twist, equivocate, but seldom in terms lie.
Holding this letter, signed by their commissioner,
The General in command, we may treat them without fear.
A common ruse of war? A trap to catch me in?
I cannot see it so. I would trust my head within
The lion's jaws unmoved. I know he would not bite.
All soldiers have one code, one rule of wrong and right,
And treachery could not be under a flag of truce.
The question therefore is: Shall we or not make use
Of the occasion given of peace? Do you so far trust me
As to send me with full powers and your authority
To do the best I can? Before I go, be sure
All shall be ready set for fight in half an hour.

Town Councillor.
We only fear their wiles—the price set on your head.

Phoebe
(aside).
He shall not go alone.

Warren.
I stay here in his stead
If you have doubt for him.

Leicester.
We have no doubt at all,
Only to be prepared and loyally forestall
All possible accident and casual surprise
From whatsoever cause. (It is best to be forewise.)
This be our plan of action: if at the stroke of noon
I still be unreturned, fire a first signal gun;
It will warn me to break off a useless argument,
And bring me back to you at speed the way I went.

Town Councillor.
And if you should not come?

Leicester.
Give me ten minutes law,
Then forward in full force and give them tooth and claw.
(With his hand to his sword.)
I will fight my way to you.

Phoebe
(aside).
He shall not go alone.

Paul.
He shall be closely watched.

Town Councillor.
Go, Sir.

Warren
(aside).
The game is won.

[Exeunt.

ACT II

Scene I A Sitting-room at an Inn with a recess partly screened.

Lady Marian and her Maid.
Lady Marian.
Have the flowers come, Rosina?

Rosina.
No, Milady.

Lady Marian.
Send
For others then. I see a girl at the street's end
Selling some mignonette. What do you say? (Putting on a bow.)
This bow,
Is it too bright for the rest?

Rosina.
Indeed, Milady, no.
It lights the dress up well. Milady is too young
For only greys and greens.

Lady Marian.
You have a foolish tongue,
Rosina, I am thirty. And to-day, who knows
What tragedies may be if it should come to blows?
I am getting old and sad. Rosina, look at this.

Rosina.
A first grey hair means luck. It is for happiness.

Lady Marian.
And you, Rosina?

Rosina.
I? Milady knows me well.
I have no time to be sad.

Lady Marian.
You have your Cœur fidèle?
Is he still nice to you?

Rosina.
Oh, all that I desire,
Generous, devoted, gay, a temperament of fire,
And then a Sergeant, too! The men of his company
Are all afraid of him—And he is afraid of me.

Lady Marian.
You are a fortunate girl. Find me a pair of gloves
Less soiled than these.
(While Rosina looks in the drawer.)
Well, well, yours are the best of loves.

Rosina.
There are none left.

Lady Marian.
What, none?

Rosina.
Here is an odd right hand.

Lady Marian.
(snatching it).
Give it.

Rosina.
The left is gone.

Lady Marian.
No matter. Go now, and
Bring me that flower girl here.

Exit Rosina.

Scene II

Lady Marian alone.
Lady Marian
(looking at the glove).
How strange! And just to-day
Of all the days in the year, the twenty-first of May,
Our anniversary. Strange, wonderfully strange!
And the years which still go on without perceptible change.
[Goes to a looking-glass and sits before it.
What is the use of beauty? Am I a happier woman
Because of this weariful beauty of face? Or is there a human
Being in the world to-day who goes with a lighter heart
Because I am what I am, the type of romantic art?
Rossetti called me so. I see men in the street
Who stop and turn their eyes. I heard one call me sweet
Only the other day. Lord Lightfoot writes me verse,
Just as he always did, no better and no worse.
The press still praises me. The prophets find me wit.
Am I the happier? Does it amuse me? No, not a bit.
I always was Fair Marian, beautiful Marian, names
My father gave me first, who loved to see the flames
Burn in my girlish cheeks—“The Pirate Flag” he said.
It was his dear delight, and fairly turned my head.
But the rest—the rest of them—no. They only weary me. See,
I would give it all for an hour of folly—if folly could be.
I have been married, how many years? Six? Eight? No, ten.
Husbands are blind to all, be they the best of men.
What does he know of me? Nothing. What has he seen of it all?
The ghosts that come in the dark? The tears that in secret fall?
He is an honest soul, a brave man, all you please,
Only not with the eye that understands and sees.
Wrapped in ambition's fold, his “Duty to his Queen,”
He hardly knows how chaste, how faithful I have been.
Ah! to be pretty and wise! It sounds well. But, in sum,
Years of silent regret for a folly that might have come.
Once in my life, once only, and then for how short a day,
I saw the man I could love. But fate has swept him away,
Fate and my own sad virtue. He stood like this, my hand
Pressed to his heart, that throbbed in a way I could understand.
He hardly told me he loved me, hardly more than a word,
But my fingers fluttered in his like the wings of a prisoned bird,
And his eyes looked in my eyes. Such joy was in my heart
I could have danced and sung. But I played my woman's part
Bravely, and bade him go. I gave him only my glove—
Who would have given how much?—a world of passion and love—
My glove, the fellow to this. He wears it still, they say,
With our last words for motto: “Jamais! À jamais!”
Leicester, the rebel Leicester, the arch-reprobate,
The outcast from the world, the man whom all men hate,
Yet whom all women love. It lies here in its woe,
The glove that covered the hand he told me he treasured so.
Ah, this little left hand, a beautiful, wonderful thing,
With its little useless fingers, its little useless ring!
How has it played with my life! A hand is a soul. We give it
When we are married lightly, and later try to outlive it.
We face the world with a smile. We spread our sails in the sun.
We want it for some one else. It is lost and given and gone.
The deluge comes apace. The storm howls on the track.
Vainly the hand goes forth. Time heeds not, nor gives back,
And the soul is drowned in tears. (Weeps.)
(Drums outside.)

I hate this soldiering life
With its dull mummeries and make-believe of strife,
Ending perhaps as now in a real butchery.
[Goes to the window.
How sweet the morning is. It should be hard to die
On a bright day like this, even here in this black town.
Yet all are wild for blood.

Scene III

(Re-enter Rosina with Phoebe disguised as a flower girl.)
Lady Marian.
Where is my lord?

Rosina.
Gone down,
Milady, to the Square. He bade me tell you this,
And not to fear the result. Ah, what a sight it is
To see them marching past in their new uniforms!

Lady Marian.
Nonsense, Rosina, nonsense! When this business warms
We shall see them with less paint, not quite such demigods.
But is your Sergeant with them?

Rosina.
Yes. Though what's the odds?
He will get his clasp and medal—with no risk, they say.

Lady Marian.
And that would please you?

Rosina.
Yes. 'Tis as good as another way.

Lady Marian.
Well, let us hope the best.
(To Phoebe.)
Ah, you have brought the flowers!
Are you not frightened, child?

Phoebe.
At what?

Lady Marian.
These troops of ours,
The chance of blood being shed. The streets are full of men.
It is not safe for you.

Phoebe.
I have a life to gain (pointing to the flowers)
,
As well as one to lose.
(Aside.)
This is their General's house
And this his wife, whom Paul denounced as scandalous.
Her eyes are kind and good. I will make pretext to stay.
Leicester must soon be here.

Lady Marian.
You shall not go away;
I will buy your mignonette—yes, the whole basketful—
And you can sit with me till things come to a lull.

Phoebe.
Lady, you are most good. [She sits in a corner.
(Enter General Bellingham.)


General Bellingham.
My dear, I bring good news
From the rebel camp. Their chief has not dared to refuse
The message that I sent him. It appears that he
Is one well known to us. But (seeing Phoebe)
you have company?

Lady Marian.
It is only a poor girl who brought these flowers.

General Bellingham.
Well! Well!
You shall know all when he comes. A strange tale! a strange tale!
But set your mind at ease, my dear. It is to treat
The terms of their surrender. There, down in the street
I hear them challenging. I will ask you for this room
To hold our conference in. Could you, my love, sit dumb
While we debate the terms? Or should we worry you?

Lady Marian.
I will sit behind the screen. I have my own work, too.
(To Phoebe.)
We will arrange the flowers.

[They sit behind the screen.
General Bellingham
(coming forward).
It will be a surprise to her
To see who our guest is—the arch-conspirator!
She used to like him well, if I remember right,
Spite of his mock heroics. Who knows but she might
Be of some use to us if he should prove too keen
In driving a hard bargain? With this sort of men
Women have influence—and Marian is no fool
For all her prettiness. That public ass, John Bull,
Has small mind here for fighting, and Her Majesty
Insists on coming to terms, if terms at all there be.
We must try diplomacy. And yet, by God, I swear
We will hang you yet, Sir John, or I am no Officer.

(Enter an Aide-de-Camp with Leicester, Paul following. Leicester motions Paul to stay in the background.He comes forward. Lady Marian and Phoebe arepartly hidden by the screen.)

Scene IV

Leicester and Bellingham in front of the stage. The rest out of hearing. A servant brings in wine.
Leicester.
Good morning, Sir.

Bellingham.
Good morning. Sit down, General,
I am glad to see you here. Years pass, but after all
They leave us not much older. No, upon my word,
I find you hardly changed.

Leicester.
You sent for me, my lord?

Bellingham.
To talk this business over. We must find a plan
Less tragical than fighting. Here, as man with man,
It should be an easy thing to come to honest terms.
We are neither of us tyros in the trade of arms,
And can afford to treat without false modesty.
You will have a glass of wine? What! No?

Leicester.
Sir, pardon me,
I do not drink.

Bellingham.
At all! Why, in our fighting days
You were counted a good man in this as in most ways.

Leicester.
I find it wiser so.

Bellingham.
Nor smoke? Here is a brand
You with your Eastern ways, no doubt, will understand.
[Leicester refuses.
By the soul of Wellington, the man is off his head.
He neither smokes nor drinks. It is all true what was said.
[Pouring out for himself.
I am younger still than you. I give you, Sir, “The Queen.”

Leicester.
The Queen with all my heart.
(Aside.)
The one that might have been—

Bellingham.
There, that was better spoken. We shall find the way
To make a fair deal yet. Forgive me if I say,
Leicester, how strange it seems, you who were one of us
In all your thoughts and feelings, not more scrupulous
Or proud than the rest were, if I remember right,
In taking pleasant things in the most pleasant light,
A good man for all sport with saddle, rod, and gun,
And popular too with the women—when all is said and done,
An Officer of the Guards—that you should choose to spend
Your life in such a way—I speak as an old friend
And husband of my wife, who was your friend once too—
You will not have forgotten Marian?—that just you
Should take so strange a turn, I cannot make it out.
You must despise it all, the lunatics that shout,
The fools that follow you, the seeing your name in print
Always on the noisy side with knaves of every tint
And tinge of rascaldom, in furtherance of a cause
Always against your order and its social laws—
That is the thing astounds me. And then last and worst
This rising here at home. Forgive me the outburst,
But we all feel it. Now you come to me to treat
And say, “The Queen, God bless her.” What is the sense of it?
I make appeal to you. You know as well as I
The reason why we use our strength unwillingly.
There is no glory here to be gained on either side;
For these Idealists to fight is suicide,
While for ourselves, God knows, we have better work to do
Than firing on a mob, even though led by you.
Will you not help us then? The Queen is all clemency
I give my word for it. Trust her—at least trust me.

Leicester.
My lord, I feel your kindness. I have not yet lost
The sense of early friendships—and of all yours most.
It touches me and moves. Be sure, in what I can,
Within my line of duty as a serious man
Who has a cause to serve which is not quite his own,
I am at one with you. Yes. If I stood alone
I would not care to bargain, here a little more
Or there a little less. I would throw wide the door
And let in all your terms unquestioned as they came,
Content that they were yours and made in a friend's name.
But I am here an agent, one responsible
To others for his work. I dare not stop to feel,
Or stop to recollect. The Imperial Government
Is not a moral force with honourable intent
On which a man may lean in perfect confidence.
All governments have ways of coming to their ends
Right-minded men would scorn. The terms you sent us stood
Fair in their general sense. If you can make them good
With a more personal pledge on certain points laid down—
Reform, the amnesty, our friends here in the town
Who have made cause with us and need immunity
As well as we ourselves, a pardon plenary
In the Queen's royal name, as you suggest, and signed
By you on her behalf and with no second mind—
I have authority to bring the matter through
And on our own side sign,—this without more ado,
Only time presses us. See here—our protocol
Is easily drawn up. What shall we say? A full
And unconditional pardon to all those concerned,
Their friends, and their adherents?

Bellingham.
What, the rogues that burned
The Council Hall at York? No, no, you go too fast.

Leicester.
Exactly those that burned it—all, even the last,
There must be no exception. This is not a case
Of civil misdemeanour, but of personal grace
For acts political.

Bellingham.
I really must take time
To think the matter out. Where there was actual crime
You hardly would expect it.

Leicester.
What is crime? The breach
Of an Act of Parliament, which in our common speech
We have confused with things theologians once called sin.
The criminal? Poor wretch, one whom our discipline
Has happened to immesh by rules of evidence,
Friends who have sworn against him, or the lack of friends,
Not any moral guilt. If I conceded this,
What would you do with it? Array your witnesses,
Mere common men and fiars till they take the oath,
When straight their words are gospel and their stammerings “proof,”
And hang the men you hate. No. What is done is done.
There must be no law, no crime, but plain oblivion.
On this point I am strict. A second is their right
Of corporate recognition. These men, if they fight
Affirm themselves a section in full form and free.
Winning they would shake the base of England's monarchy,
Perhaps all thrones in Europe, for the popular will
Is with them in their task.

Bellingham.
Of rolling stones uphill!
This really passes all. The claim is too absurd.

Leicester.
We do not claim so much. We put aside the sword,
And enter on new paths of plain legality,
Converting not coercing. You have proposed it. We
Propose in turn a status, a frank recognition
Of rights political in line with our condition,
In a word we ask a Charter, will you give it us,
My lord? Again time presses.

Bellingham.
'Tis preposterous.

Leicester.
And the alternative?

Bellingham.
Relief through Parliament.

Leicester
(raising his voice.)
Relief, Sir, through damnation. Time is idly spent
In riding that old warhorse. Look to its broken knees.

Phoebe
(aside).
Well spoken, Leicester. Now, who doubts his sympathies?
Who doubts his loyalty? He is true, and true to me.

Lady Marian
(aside).
Leicester. It is his voice.

Bellingham.
We hardly shall agree,
General, I fear, this way.

Leicester.
As you please, my lord. I go.

[Moves as if to go.
Bellingham.
I had hoped for better things. Yet, if it must be so,
I suppose it must. This fight, the blood shed here to-day
In the streets of this great city, 'tis you shed it, not they;
The ruin and destruction, war and civil war,
All the long hates engendered there is no reason for,
All this lies on your head. Remember, Sir, on yours—
The responsible cause of evils far beyond our cures.
Yet, Leicester, take my hand. I acknowledge your good heart.
I would have us part as friends. Ay, and before we part
I would like you to see her.

Leicester.
Who? Lady Marian?

Bellingham.
Yes, Marian, my wife. She would resent the plan
Which left her wholly out. She often talks of you,
And always with kind feeling, just as she used to do.

Leicester.
(who is looking at the clock).
I must be back at noon.

Bellingham.
That clock is ten minutes fast,
You have an hour to spare. I will tell her to make haste,
Indeed she is here now.

[Goes behind the screen and talks aside with Marian.

Scene V

Leicester.
To be or not to be?
To see her or not see her? What fatality!
A trouble dogs my steps in all this episode.
I seem to hear a voice pleading twixt bad and good,
A voice as of a conscience. But the question lies
Still on which side right is, the unwise and the wise.
The common run of men when they are in doubt say “No.”
I always have said “Yes.” It has been my rule to go
When others have hung back, to speak where they sat dumb,
To confront the imprudent thing they called too venturesome,
And always with success. What is she, Marian,
That I should fear to-day to see her? I a man
Broken to women's wiles? Yet I mistrust me here.
My heart beats at her name.

(Bellingham enters with Marian.)
Leicester
(withdrawing).
My lord, to be sincere—

Marian
(aside).
He has forgotten me.

Leicester
(to Bellingham).
I have no time to wait.
No, Lady Bellingham. It is too unfortunate,
To-day of all the days.

Bellingham.
She has something she would say
In reference to this business. Be persuaded. Stay,
If only for five minutes.

Paul
(pushing forward in Leicester's ear).
Pay no heed to them.
These people are rogues all.

Leicester
(impatiently).
Sir!

Paul.
'Tis a stratagem.
Their wish is to detain you. Come away from hence.
Beware, Sir, of the woman.

Leicester.
Damn his insolence!
This is too much—too much. This youth's ill-tempered game
Decides me to stay on. My Lady Bellingham,
I am wholly at your orders. (Aside.)
Fate has said its word.

Bellingham.
I leave you two together. You will want no third
To talk it out.

Paul.
Just so. I said he was a traitor.
He will wait dangling on, her aider and abettor,
Until the hour is past. (Aloud.)
The Council shall know this.

Leicester.
Go on. I follow you.

Phoebe.
I will see what the end is.

[Exeunt all but Leicester and Marian. Phoebe in the background hidden.

Scene VI

Lady Marian.
How strange we should have met. Sit down and talk to me,
Just for a short five minutes, nicely, quietly,
As in old times. You know what day it is to-day,
Our anniversary?

Leicester.
Yes.

Lady Marian.
We both have much to say,
And little time to say it. Where shall we begin?
But first of all believe me it was no fault of mine
They claimed me for this talk. Their thought was to deceive,
But I am not with them. I only of course grieve
And want to help and warn you. Must you really go?

Leicester.
I am bound and more than bound. What would you have me do?
You know I do not blame you, not for this at least.

Lady Marian.
Men must arrange their lives as they know and think best,
And I have sympathised as far as a woman dare,
Who has no politics, whose duty lies elsewhere,
In all that you have done. I hate to think you wrong,
You with your great ideas, so generous, so strong.
Oh no! It was not this. And yet I weep to think
How wide we are apart, you standing on the brink
Of what they will call crime, and I in the camp with those
Who every day are counted your more bitter foes,
Yes, even Bellingham, your friend, as I was too.
This is my grief.

Leicester.
And yet you drove me from you. You!

Lady Marian.
No, no. You do me wrong. Unjust! Unkind! A man!
You were too quick with me, too eager in your plan.
You did not give me time to learn your happiness.
And then too unforgiving. Oh, you did not guess,
And how was I to tell you?

Leicester.
You loved me then?

Lady Marian.
Who knows?
If you had had more patience with my woman's woes?

Leicester.
Marian!

[He takes her hand and sits beside her.
Lady Marian.
Yes, it is yours. Your little white left hand,
The one I gave you once. Do you now understand
How hard it was for me that morning to say no?
How bitter when you left me?

Leicester.
Was it really so?
Were you not callous then, not cruel, not unkind?

Lady Marian.
How could you fancy it? Oh, truly, men are blind.
Unless we write a label to each idle scene,
They see in our lives nothing—never the might-have-been,
Never the inner thought in instinct with their own.

Leicester.
And is it still mine, this?

(Kissing her hand.)
Lady Marian.
It has been given to none.

Leicester.
Nor lent?

Lady Marian.
Nor lent—it is yours if you like still,
Only, too late, too late.

Leicester
(half aloud).
Too late! Incredible
That it should come like this—the hour foreseen, foreknown,
The hour of all the hours my fortune counted on—
And only to delude—for lack of what? The leisure
Of a few foolish minutes cheated of their pleasure,
Whereby I lose a world. (Taking her hand—then after a pause.)
How beautiful it is
This hand, the holiest of human mysteries,
With its five delicate tips, each one a separate fate
Worth all the world's desire, so frail, so passionate,
So full of sentient life—and for one moment mine
To have and hold, my own, a precious thing, divine
Beyond all human hope. What are the joys men prize?
Ambition, glory, duty? Empty mummeries!
Even in their best ideals! Nothing to this sweet hand
That soul or reasoning sense should care to understand,
(Kissing her hand.)
Nothing, nothing, nothing!

Lady Marian.
You have my glove still?

Leicester.
See,
Here in my hat it flies, my flag of victory,
And never yet defeated. 'Tis an amulet,
The superstitious say, preserving from defeat,
As long as she who gave it shall remain unkind.

Lady Marian.
To-day it has lost virtue. She has changed her mind.
It only can undo you.

[She takes it from his hat and puts it in her bosom.
Phoebe.
He has given it her!
Ah, God! He has betrayed.

[She covers her face with her hands—then rises hurriedly and goes out.
Leicester
(rising).
I heard a sound in there
As of one weeping. No?

Lady Marian
(calling).
Rosina! There is none.
The room is empty.

Leicester.
Sweet, time is I should be gone.
Bid me to say good-bye. I have no strength to go.
[Embracing her.
Henceforth we are each other's for all weal and woe,
Throughout time and eternity. You swear it? On the faith
Of all that we have suffered? In this life and death,
And till the day of Judgment to be lead and true,
And live for our sole love?

Lady Marian.
I swear it.

Leicester.
Sweet, adieu.
This fight shall be my last. If I prove victor, well
My fame shall be my dowry—large and laudable
In the face of all the world. The world forgives success,
It will forgive our love its sin of happiness.
Defeated we elude them.

Lady Marian.
The Queen's clemency
Is not invoked in vain where men fail honourably.

Leicester.
Or fall? No matter, love. The battle lost or won
Seals our great victory.
(A cannon shot is heard.)
Great God! the signal gun.

ACT III

Scene I

Interior of a Church—Davis, Bradshaw, and others.
Davis.
The sword of the Lord and the sword of Gideon!
It was good To see the red-coats run before our multitude.
We broke them by sheer numbers—

Bradshaw.
Say the Almighty's power.

Davis.
Yes, and our bodily weight, in less than half an hour.
Oh! if the people knew the brute strength of their hands,
There would be no more kings propped up by tolerance,
No more of these mad soldiers. All night long they sat
Taking God's name in vain, a devil's syndicate,
Roaring and ranting out their music-hall lewd songs
In stark profanity. I heard them—their rank tongues
Hissing with imprecations, foul, libidinous,
Till the night stank.

Bradshaw.
God's hand has been stretched out to us
Because we prayed.

Davis.
'Twas great. And Leicester at the nick
Appearing on their flank. The chief was choleric
To-day to a good purpose, and his rage struck home.
He came on like a madman.

Bradshaw.
He was late to come—

Davis.
But not too late. They say he escaped by miracle
From the arrest they planned him. The Queen's General
Had set his wife to trap him, but he knew their ways
And broke out of their hands in the fair lady's face.
And once on horseback! Ha! They dared not bar his road,
The chief is a great soldier.

Bradshaw.
And a man of good?
Hum. There are some distrust him. His past life—

Davis.
Is past.
To-day he is one with us; his lot with ours is cast,
A rebel and a martyr—what would you have more?
He has unsheathed his sword against the sovereign power,
He cannot now go back.

Bradshaw.
In things political,
Perhaps. But of the spirit? Deeds are of light avail
When the man's wanton heart lives unregenerate.

Davis.
We need him for a leader. Our cause trembles yet.

Bradshaw.
In the Almighty's balance, not in Man's. (Ho, there!
You with the blunderbuss, keep the door fast.) 'Tis prayer
Not prowess wins the day, virtue not violence,
Or how should we have prospered?

Davis.
God needs means for ends.
Leicester's his instrument. But hark—the shouts—the drums,
It sounds like victory. See—the conquering hero comes.

Scene II

Doors are thrown open. Enter Leicester and others. Paul and Phoebe in the background.
Davis.
Is it over?

Leicester.
For the moment they are driven back.
According to the tactics all young armies lack,
Having got them on the run we should have kept them there,
But without guns or cavalry we had no luck to spare,
And so may shout a bit though not clear of the wood.

Bradshaw.
Thank God for a great victory.

Leicester.
Ay, indeed, thank God.
(Aside.)
It was a narrow shave, none more surprised than I
To see them trun their backs.

Bradshaw.
The cause and liberty!

(They cheer.)
Davis.
You are a great man, Leicester.

Leicester.
Nonsense. It was luck.
War is but pitch and toss. I came in with the ruck,
Just as the battle turned and gave it a last shove.

Paul.
(advancing)
With whose hand? Yours? Or whose? The little left-hand glove,
Your badge of victory, was in the front to-day,
With a new miracle.

Leicester.
Sir!

Paul.
So the vulgar say.
I did not myself see the angel with the sword,
The angel with the glove, commissioned of the Lord,
Yet all vow the glove did it. One more victory!
For the little white left hand! Shout, comrades, lustily
The little left-hand glove!

All.
The Glove!

Paul.
Ay, shout again,
The noise will do you good. (Aside.)
Such happy fools are men.
Look at it!

(Points at Leicester's cap.)
Bradshaw.
Where?

Davis.
'Tis gone.

Bradshaw.
The glove is lost.

Paul.
Or strayed.
It has wandered gaily back to its fellow glove, mislaid.

Leicester.
It is true the badge is gone. I dropped it in the press.
(To Paul.)
Why, Sir, this insolence? Luck holds us none the less.
It shall forgive this loss, this lapse,—

Paul.
With other sins.

Bradshaw.
What does he mean?

Paul.
You laugh.

Leicester.
Sir, let him laugh who wins.
This boy is beyond bearing. To your sense as men
I turn me from this fooling.

Bradshaw.
What is it, Paul?

Paul.
Hear then,
Our leader talks of fooling. Which is the fool, think you,
The man that does and dares, that fights at the time due,
Or he that plays with harlots, till the hour is past?
Ay, or is played with by them, comes in at the last,
Just as the act is over and the stage scene drops,
To gather in the pence and share the lollipops?
The chief is a great soldier, but the game of war
Is not the only trick of his soul's repertoire.
Alas for the poor ladies—when he mows them down!
A wonderful fighting man! Heaven help the overthrown.

Leicester.
(advancing)
Now by the Lord Almighty!

[Menaces Paul.
Davis.
(intervening).
Paul, have done with this.
Time is and place for all things.

Paul.
Ay, a time to kiss!
A time to toy and trifle! To make amorous strife
At a fair lady's knees, and she a neighbour's wife!
Oh glorious ideal for the Idealists!

Davis.
Enough, good Paul. To-morrow—

[Others intervene. They struggle with Paul.
Paul.
Let them go, my wrists.

[Turning on Leicester.
I charge him with the obscene!
[They drag him away.
Bradshaw.
The obscene?

Paul.
(as they thrust him out)
Adultery!

Leicester.
(aside)
The boy knows nothing. Marian? No, it cannot be.
He fires at a mere venture. (Aloud.)
Gentlemen, I pray,
Relieve me of this trifling—for at least to-day.
I know of no such failure. 'Tis an ugly word.
I know of no such mistress, none, Sir, but my sword.
(Aside.)
Marian must be protected. (Aloud.)
In my earlier time,
Who knows, I may have fooled it. Love was not a crime
In the company I kept. But here, among you all,
No, Sirs, upon my life, we keep no festival,
We none have time for folly. Comrades, once again,
Remember we are fighting. Let us act as men,
Not boys, till it is over. When we have grasped our fate
Then we may hound each other with our love and hate
To our best heart's content, but not this battle day.
Back, all men to the field!

All.
Hurray! the chief! hurray!

[They hurry out

Scene III

Phoebe is left alone—she walks up and down for some instants in silence. Then passionately.
Phoebe.
It moves me still to hear him. Was it a dream I saw,
A dream, or an enchantment, a mysterious flaw
In my eyes' judgment? What? Paul, who saw nothing, swears
All that I saw and more. Her lover, he declares,
She his once paramour, his fast confederate still.
What is the truth? Ah, God! We see but what we will.
We think but what we choose. We have no certain guide
But our own heart's desire at death-grips with our pride.
Paul always hated him. I loved him as a flower
Loves the white sunlight, ay as a wave of the sea the power
Of the storm shaking it, as a child's voice loves the sound
Of its own echo shouted from the hills around,—
As something loftier, mightier than itself, divine
And far beyond these arms to reach to or entwine,
Far, far beyond these tears. And yet I saw him, how?
He held her in his arms. Their lips touched—yes—I vow
He kissed her on her lips—a woman not his own,
One plighted to another—and she did not frown,
Nor chide, nor strike. She was pleased—ay, pleased—she smiled at him,
And he at her. I have seen a soul lost, one of the Seraphim
Cast out into the darkness, a crime done to law,
A sacrament profaned! All this with my eyes I saw.
And yet, yet. Paul denounced him, he did well, but I,
I could not move my lips. I felt it treachery.
He would have scorned me had I spoken—he would have said
It was a girl's foolish jealousy had turned my head.
What to him are our laws, our thoughts, our consciences?
Even now I dare not grieve him or take part with these.
I could not be a witness. Yet the faith? the cause?
I am in doubt of all things, of all faiths, all laws,
All duties, even of pain. I know not how to act,
Seeing the world thus shortened of the love it lacked,
Of virtue, truth, obedience. I must await some sign.
A flash of light may come, a wisdom more than mine.
God may inspire my hand if he leaves blind my heart.

[A sound of cannon is heard and of fighting approaching nearer.
Phoebe.
(looking out into the street)
They are fighting by the Court House and the Cattle Mart.
The dragoons have turned on them. They are charging up the street.
They are riding down our people, every one they meet,
Men, women, children, all. There must be many dead.
The crowd waves like a field cut down and harvested.
Ah God! If we should fail—if we indeed should fail!
If this should end it all! Our faith of no avail!
Our life's design a dream! And we deserve it. See
What sins we have sinned through weakness, through inconstancy.
Complicity in wrong! And he, where is he? There!
That was a cannon shot. The shell burst in the air
Above their heads. They fly from it! Our people fly!
What am I doing here? They are on us! Let me die!
Oh, let me die with them!

[She rushes to the door, but it is burst open in her face, and a crowd of fugitives pours in, with whom Davis and Bradshaw. Phoebe is thrust aside and sinks on the ground by the door, where she remains crouched.

Scene IV

Bradshaw.
All's lost. All's lost.

Davis.
How? What?
Is it true we are betrayed? I warned you of the plot.
The chief is where?

Bradshaw.
He's taken. It was an ambuscade
The reds had laid for him in the new esplanade.
They made a feint of flying, and he followed on
And fell into their trap—

Davis.
Like any tailor's son.
I told you he was a traitor. We have been bought and sold.
Paul said it. Where is Paul?

Bradshaw.
Where we shall be—enrolled
In Heaven among the saints. His last word as he fell
Was “Fight on for the Ideal, and the reds to Hell!”
He had his eye on Leicester. He was close behind him,
And when the chief surrendered. Bah! It seemed to blind him.
The blood rushed to his eyes. They shouted, “Hands up, boy,”
But he only laughed at them with a new furious joy
And ran upon their swords. And so they ran him through.

Davis.
The boy was a good hater.

A voice.
And a comrade true.
If all had been like him!

Bradshaw.
A curse is on our state
Because we gave our trust to one a reprobate,
In whom we all have sinned.

A voice.
Let us repent and pray!

[They put themselves in an attitude of prayer, the doors are again thrown open and enter Sergeant Mullens and Corporal Carver with a detachment of soldiers, and Leicester as their prisoner.

Scene V

Mullens.
Surrender, every man! Here, Corporal, clear the way,
Take all the rogues in charge; this is the rebel lot
And these the ringleaders, and give them something hot.
They want a bit of schooling. Use the butt, men. There!
You have left them sensible with half their wits to spare.
[The soldiers club their muskets and cudgel the crowd
It is a good rule always in affairs like these
To give a drubbing first. Then you may stand at ease
And wait for the Court's verdict with a tranquil mind.
The prisoner goes acquitted, but he's sore behind.
Round them up, Carver, so, under the pulpit screen.

Carver.
(putting a guard over them)
Lie still, ye happy scoundrels, prisoners of the Queen!
We'll teach ye to rebel.

Mullens.
That is enough. They'll sit
As quiet now as mice, while we take stock a bit.
(To Leicester deferentially.)
You, General, take a seat kindly in this front pew;
It will save me setting a guard to have you here in view,
And you are not like these. You will excuse my tongue
For its rough edge. (To his men.)
Come, boys—I'm thirsty as a bung.
It's been a thirsty morning, thirsty work all round,
Who'll show us to a drink? You, prisoners, I'll be bound,
Know where the publics are. If there's a house near by,
In God's name, name it us.

Bradshaw.
Silence. Make no reply.

Davis.
They have got us by the neck — it's time to temporise.

Mullens.
What? None of you know nothing?

One of the Prisoners.
There's the “Compasses”
At the next corner, Sir, and the “Imperial Crown,”
And the old “Fighting Cocks,” the best name in the town,
They're all within a stone's throw.

Another Prisoner.
Give us leave a minute.
We'll show you the way gaily.

Mullens.
There's no money in it,
You understand, young man. We're on the loot this turn.

Prisoner.
Money or not, they'll serve you.

Mullens.
That they'll have to learn.
(To the soldiers.)
Come, Joyce and Parsons, you run out with this good chap
And bring a can back handy from the nearest tap.
I've got a thirst that kills me.

Leicester.
You're a cheerful fellow,
And should receive promotion. Here's a bit of yellow
To make the matter sure. I'll stand you all your stuff.

Mullens.
General, we thank you kindly.
(To Joyce and Prisoner.)
Off! and bring enough.
(To Leicester.)
I like these ways in war, “My friend the enemy,” That's a good motto, Sir, or where would soldiers be?
You were out of luck to-day. But you are a hero, Sir,
You must serve the Queen again, and cut the bushranger.

Leicester.
(aside)
The fellow strikes me hard, but I must humour him.
(Aloud.)
I seem to knw you, Sergeant, though my memory's dim,
We've served together somewhere. Where was it? Your face
Is quite familiar to me.

Mullens.
Sir John Leicester. Yes,
You honour me by naming and remembering it.
If I might make so bold, and it was not indiscreet,
I should say we have been comrades, served under the same flag.

Leicester.
Which?

Mullens.
Sir, the noblest known, though it's not for me to brag,
We have fought in company, and won together, won
In the only cause worth winning. Yes, indeed, Sir John,
I am proud to think of it. Love is a leveller.

Leicester.
You mystify me fairly.

Mullens.
How shall I tell you, Sir?
You have heard the name Rosina?

Leicester.
(aside)
What does the coxcomb mean?
(Aloud.)
Rosina?

Mullens.
Yes, Rosina. Her Majesty the Queen
Has her fair maids-in-waiting, and all ladies have.
Service is no reproach. You, General, are brave,
And ladies love the brave, and maids are as they are,
And women are—just women. So they are young and fair
And not too whimsical, they make our happiness.
Oh, we have served together—

Leicester.
God! Has it come to this?
Rosina! Marian's maid! It would be too laughable
In any strait less dire. The insolent dog! (Aloud.)
Well, well!
You shall drink the lady's health.

(Re-enter Joyce and the rest with a quarter cask.)
Mullens.
Here comes the liquor, boys.
Three cheers for Sir John Leicester. Shout! Don't spare the noise!
(They pour out and drink. Enter Marian and Rosina.)
And three cheers for the ladies.

[They shout

Scene VI

Lady Marian.
(aside to Leicester)
Thank God, you are here.

Rosina.
And Sergeant Mullens too—as senior Officer.

Lady Marian.
(advancing to Mullens).
You are in charge here, Sergeant? This is a happy chance.

Mullens.
My lady—and Rosina! (Saluting.)
Ladies, at your commands.
(To Marian.)
My Lady Bellingham, your servant.

Lady Marian.
We have come
Straight from Headquarters, Sergeant. General Bellingham
Has sent us with a message. All the fighting line
Is ordered to fall back, whether outside or in
The precincts of the town, and they are stopping fire
Already in the streets—this by the Queen's desire,
Resistance being at an end. My special message was,
To the first Officer I should chance to come across,
To order in all prisoners taken instantly
To the General at Headquarters. He desires to see
The rebel chief at once. You have with you a few
It seems of the most important. I make my bow to you,
Sergeant, on your good luck. I will see to it you get
Your brevet for this capture. Who knows?—an epaulet,
Or even the V.C.

Mullens.
My Lady. I am yours,
Entirely to command.

Lady Marian.
One of your prisoners
I would have a word with, Sergeant, while you rank the rest.
I will take a seat here. See—Rosina is distressed
That you have not noticed her. Five minutes and we start.
Rosina, go with him. The girl has got a heart,
Sergeant, and loves you. There—she was frightened in the street
And wants some comforting. Be her good paraclete,
Give her a kind word. Say you love her—she will believe it—
Then make your men fall in. I won't forget the brevet.

Scene VII

Mullens crosses the stage with Rosina, who drinks a glass with him, and they talk together while the soldiers leisurely put the prisoners in line, Marian sits down by Leicester.
Lady Marian.
I have come to save your life—thank God, you are alive—
And take you from their hands. Be prudent, and forgive,
If I have dared too much. A price is on your head,
Yours only, all the others being amnestied
By the Queen's clemency. My husband means you harm.
You must not come before him while his blood is warm
And you his prisoner. Listen—I have a plan,
Set with my maid Rosina, whose lover is this man
The sergeant of your guard. She will have him occupied
When the moment comes for action. Keep close to my side
As we march out with them, and when we reach the street
Mount in my carriage with me, quick. We must brazen it
As part of my lord's orders they must all obey.
They will not dare to stop us. Once we are clear away,
The game is in our hands. My name will pass us through.

Leicester.
(hesitating)
You are an angel, Marian, what can I say to you?
How thank you? How make clear?

Lady Marian.
You seem to hesitate.
Look at those men
(pointing to the soldiers drinking).
What hinders?

Leicester.
Nothing, but my fate.
I shall die happy, Marian, but I cannot fly.
My hour of fate has sounded.

Lady Marian.
Die? You shall not die,
You shall live to make me happy.

Leicester.
My duty lies with these

(pointing to the prisoners).
Lady Marian.
And mine with Bellingham, O man of subtleties!
Yet I am here for what? To save you from his hands.
These foolish souls are safe. Their manifest madness stands
Between them and the law which asks no punishment
More than their folly finds them. The Queen's grace was sent
An hour ago to all. And you? You would die forlorn,
The only unbeliever, for a creed you scorn?
What sense is there, what wit?

Leicester.
The wit of one that is
Weary of all things less than full realities,
Weary of only seeming in a world of dreams.
You gave me once a hope. Where did it lead? To schemes
That never had an issue, impotent desires
That burst into no flame and lit no kindred fires
And left me what I am, a wifeless, childless man
Depraved by his own virtue, a new d'Artagnan
Without the Gascon faith in his unchastity.
My fame has been false glory, my romance a lie,
My world's career a sham. To-day I am face to face
At last with a hard fact—defeat, disdain, disgrace,
The loud voice of the world dealing a traitor's death.
Why should I shrink from it more than the victor's wreath,
It set upon my brows? I stand where all in turn
Are forced, to honest dealing and the wage they earn.
Death has its own heroics, real, sublimely real.
I will not be dissuaded. 'Tis my last ideal.

Lady Marian.
Not even by my love, my whole and utter love?

Leicester.
Perhaps not even by that. You gave me once your glove,
Give it me back, sweetheart! My fortune has gone out.

Lady Marian.
It is here and it shall save you. (She takes it from her bosom and places it in his hat.)
Why should you now doubt
Your star which led to glory, and with me your friend
Henceforward at your side to point to each high end,
And aid you to achieve it. We have much to win
Together in the world of more worth than the sin
Of our great happiness—a fact which yet shall be.
Follow me quick. It is yours.
[She gives him her left hand which he lays upon his heart. He holds back, but she draws him towards her kissing his hands, and he gradually yields.

Leicester.
This is reality.
Lead on.

[She leads him towards the door, and the soldiers form up behind them with the prisoners; but as they reach it Phoebe rises and intercepts them. A pistol shot is heard, and Leicester falls as the curtain drops.