University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.—The Abbey of St. Colombe.

Becket, alone.
Bec.
Each day more clearly, like two mighty peaks
Of one veiled mountain, shine two truths before me:
My hope is not from England—that I learned
Deserted at Northampton: not from Rome—
Deserted when those legates, later missioned,
Cancelled my two years' work, and from me hurled
A penitent realm, returning. Not from France—
Deserted by her king. That hour, methinks,
I stood within Death's porch. That hour, it may be,
Some inmost ill, my soul's chief Tempter, died.
Twice was the victory from my hand down dashed
When all but won.
Immeasurably Rome helps me—needs she must—
Simply by being—merely by existence;
Help me by act she cannot. She doth well:
To invoke her now were base. But thou, my country,
The on-rolling centuries, whose fateful hands
Shall bind the purple or the death-robe round thee,
Engrain their deep-dyed tissue here, and now!
Thy son I am not less than Christian bishop:
Thy martyr, if God wills it, I would die.
[Llewellen enters.
A legate's powers are mine as yet: I use them.
These be the Papal mandates. Place them, friend,
Within their hands—the hands of York and London;
But when the eyes of men are on them set:
Your labour else is vain.

Llew.

It shall be done.

[Departs.
Bec.
There should have been no need to send those missives—
I must not think it. Once I was unjust.
The Pope sits throned upon the Church's tower;
Sees all: I fight below: my time is short,
And in it much to expiate. I must act.
(After a pause)
I strove for justice, and my Mother's honour;
For these at first. Now know I that God's Truth
Is linked with these as closely as body and soul.