University of Virginia Library

II. PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

PART THE SECOND.

• Philip Van Artevelde, Regent of Flanders.
• Peter Van den Bosch. man of Flanders.
• Van Ryk, man of Flanders.
• Van Muck, man of Flanders.
• Vauclaire, man of Flanders in command at Ypres.
• Roosdyk, man of Flanders in command at Ypres.
• Father John of Heda, man of Flanders.
• A Page of Van Artevelde's.
• A Friar of Flanders.
• Van Winkel, Citizen of Ypres.
• Van Whelk, Citizen of Ypres.
• The Burgomaster and divers Burgesses of Ypres, Officers, Messengers,&c.
• King Charles the Sixth of France.
• The Duke of Burgundy, his Uncle and Heir Presumptive to the Earl of Flanders.
• The Duke of Bourbon, also Uncle to the King.
• Sir Fleureant of Heurlée, a Follower of the Duke of Bourbon.
• Sir Oliver of Clisson, Constable of France.
• Sir John de Vien, Admiral of France.
• The Lords of Saimpi, Sanxere, and St. Just; Sir Raoul of Raneval; the Lord of Coucy, and other Lords and Knights belonging to the French King's Council.
• Tristram of Lestovet, Clerk of the Council.
• Elēna della Torre, an Italian Lady.
• Cecile, her Attendant.
• Dame Voorst, a Woman of Ypres.

The Scene is laid sometimes in Flanders and sometimes in France.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—An Anteroom to the State Apartments of the Grand Justiciary in the Royal Palace at Senlis in France.—Several groups of Suitors holding Petitions in their hands. In front a Yeoman of Tournesis, and near him Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Sir Fleureant.
If I may be so bold, friend, whence art thou?
The times are stirring, and come whence thou may'st
Thou must bring news.

Yeoman.
So please your worship's grace
I come from this side Tournay; I am French,
And though I say it, Sir, an honest yeoman.

Sir Fleureant.
And, honest yeoman, what's thine errand here?

Yeoman.
I have a suit, Sir, to my noble Lord
The Duke of Burgundy?

Sir Fleureant.
Why, what?—what suit?

Yeoman.
'Tis but for justice, Sir; I crave but that.

Sir Fleureant.
Hast thou the price of justice in thy pocket?

Yeoman.
The price of justice? Nay, Sir, I am poor.

Sir Fleureant.
Poor and want justice!—where was thy mother's thrift
To bring thee up in such a poor estate
And yet to lack such dainties? Say wherein
Wouldst thou be justified? Who is't hath wrong'd thee?

Yeoman.
Last Wednesday, Sir, a troop of Flemings, led
By fierce Frans Ackerman, the frontier pass'd
And burn'd my homestead, ravaged all my fields,
And did sore havoc in the realm of France.

Sir Fleureant.
What say'st thou? is it so? Ha, ha! my friend,
This is high matter; thou'lt be heard on this.

Enter Usher.
Usher.
Depart ye, Sirs; his Grace is with the King;
He bids you all depart and come to-morrow;
To-day his Grace hath business with the King
And will not be molested; go at once;
Their Graces and the King are coming hither
And would be private;—prithee, Sir, depart.

[To the Yeoman, who lingers.
Sir Fleureant.
Take thou thy grievance to the outer hall,
But go no further hence. Soft, Master Usher;
My friend shall have an audience of the Duke.
Look he be carefully bestow'd without
Till he be call'd. He is an injured man;
An injured man, and welcome not the less.
The grief he hath is worth its weight in gold.
Bestow him carefully without.

Usher.
This way.

[Exit, with the Yeoman.
Enter the Dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon.
Burgundy.
Good morrow, Flurry. Not on us, good brother;
I grant you were we rashly to make war,
No Council summon'd, no Estates convened,
Then aught that should unhappily ensue
Might chance be charged on us, as natural guides,
And so reputed, of the youthful King.
But back'd by all the Council,—yea, by all,
For I'll be warranty no voice dissents,—
Back'd by the Council, wherein weighty reasons
Shall be well urged—

Bourbon.
Ay, brother, there it is!
That you have reasons of your own none doubts,
And Jacques Bonhomme will be bold to say
That reasons which are rank in Burgundy
Have been transplanted to the soil of France
That fits them not.

Burgundy.
In Jacques Bonhomme's throat
I'll tell him that he slanders me and lies.
No soil in Christendom but fits my reasons;
No soil where virtue, chivalry, and faith
Are fed and flourish, but shall fit them well.
When honour and nobility fall prone
In Flanders, think you they stand fast in France?
Or losing ground in France, have hope elsewhere?
This by no narrow bound is circumscribed:
It is the cause of chivalry at large.
Though heir to Flanders I am Frenchman born,
And nearer have at heart the weal of France
Than my far-off inheritance. Come, come;
Lay we before the Council the sad truth
Of these distractions that so rock the realm,—
Paris possess'd by Nicholas le Flamand,
Where law's a nothing and the King a name;
Armies with mallets but beginning there,
And gathering like the snow-wreaths in a storm
Before a man hath time to get him housed,
At Chalons on the Marne, Champagne, Beauvoisin,
At Orleans, at Rheims, at Blois, and Rouen,
And every reach of road from Paris south:
Then point we to the north, where Artevelde
Wields at his single will the Flemish force,
A hundred thousand swords; and ask what fate
Awaits our France, if those with these unite,
Bold villans both, and ripe for riving down
All royalty,—thereafter or therewith
Nobility!—Then strike whiles yet apart
Each single foe.

Bourbon.
But Philip speaks us fair.

Burgundy.
If fair, then false.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lords, there's proof of that
Here close at hand; a yeoman from Tournesis
But now arrived with news of ravage done
On the French frontier.

Burgundy.
There, good brother, there!
There's Flemish friendship, Flemish love of peace!
Shall we make nought of this?

Bourbon.
We'll sift the tale,
And find if it be true.

Burgundy.
Where is the man?

Sir Fleureant.
I'll bring him in, my Lord; he's here at hand.

[Exit.
Enter the King with a Hawk on his hand.
Burgundy.
How now, my royal cousin, have you done?
Can you repeat the speech?

King.
O yes, good uncle.
“Right noble our liege Councillors, all, We greet you!
We have required your—”

Burgundy.
Presence here this day.

King.
“We have required your presence here this day
On matters of high import, which surcharge
Our royal mind, that still affects the weal
Of our beloved lieges. Much to peace
Our tender years incline us, but—but—but—”
I'll fly my hawk, good uncle, now; to-morrow
I'll say the rest. Come, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!
He is a Marzarolt, uncle, just reclaim'd;
The best in France for flying at the fur.
Whew! Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!

Burgundy.
Cousin, stay.
Enter Sir Fleureant with the Yeoman.
Here is a worthy yeoman from Tournesis
Who hath a tale to tell of ravage done
Upon the realm of France.

King.
A yeoman, uncle?
Here, worthy yeoman, you shall kiss our hand.
Get off there, Jerry.

[The Yeoman kneels and kisses his hand.
Bourbon.
Now, Sir, from what place,
In France or Flanders, com'st thou?

Yeoman.
Please you, Sir,
'Twas a small holding from my lord of Vergues,
Close to the liberties of Fontenoy.

Bourbon.
This side the Bourn?

Yeoman.
Three miles, my Lord, no less.

Burgundy.
Three miles in France.

Bourbon.
And what befell thee there?

Yeoman.
My Lord, my wife and I, on Wednesday night,
Saw fires to the north and westward, up by Orcq
And round to Beau-Renard, and knew by that
The Flemish Commons had been there, that late
Have roam'd through Flanders, burning where they came
The houses of the Gentlemen and Knights.
Then said my wife (Pierilla, if it please you),
“'Tis well we're yeomen and of poor estate,
And that we're lieges of a mightier Lord
Than was the Count of Flanders: praised be God!
Or else might they that look from Beau-Renard
To south and eastward, see this house on fire
To-morrow night, as we this night see theirs!”
But hardly had she said it, when due south
The sky was all on fire; and then we knew
The Flemings were in France, and Auzain burn'd.
We fled at once, and looking back, beheld
Our humble dwelling flaming like a torch.
So then, quoth I, we'll to my Lord the King,
And tell what's come to pass.

Burgundy.
Thou hast done well;
Retire: His Grace will shortly bring thy wrongs
Before the Council. Hold thyself prepared
To tell thy story there.
[Exit Yeoman.
Wild work! wild work!
I think my royal cousin, though he's young,
Bears yet a mind too mettlesome to brook
Such injuries as these. Your Grace has heard:
The Flemish hordes lift plunder in your realm,
Driving your subjects from their peaceful homes,
Burning, destroying, wheresoe'er they reach,
And ever on nobility they fall
With sharpest tooth; let this have leave to grow,
And French insurgents shall from Flemish learn
The tricks of treason, German boors from both,
Till Kings and Princes, Potentates and Peers,
Landgraves, Electors, Palatines, and Prelates,
Dukes, Earls, and Knights, shall be no more esteemed
Than as the noblest and the loftiest trees
Which the woodwarden as he walks the forest
Marks for the axe. Our warlike cousin King
When once he takes the field shall give short shrift
To the base Flemings, and with one sharp blow
Cut off some twenty thousand treasons, hatched,
Accursed, pernicious brood! beneath the wings
Of this Van Artevelde, that chipp'd the shell
Two months agone when Paris grew too hot
To hold us, and that now are fledged and enter'd.
I would your Grace were even now in arms,
Leading your gallant troops.

King.
To-morrow, uncle!
We will be arm'd and lead our troops to-morrow.
We'll ride the chestnut with the bells at his heels.

Bourbon.
Nay, softly! Should the Council when it meets
Declare for war, your force can not so soon
Be drawn together as your Highness thinks,
Though lying mainly hereabouts.

Burgundy.
Well, well!
Speak boldly to the Council as to us,
And if you'd presently be in the field
Be diligent to learn your speech—come in—
Both that you have and something I shall add
Touching this yeoman's grief—come in with me—
Ho! take away this hawk—and you shall have it.

[Exeunt Duke of Burgundy and the King.
Bourbon.
My brother, Fleureant, is all too hot
In this affair; he's ever taking starts
And leaving them that he should hold in hand.
He'll fright the Council from their calmer sense
And drive them to some rash resolve.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord,
You shall perceive to-morrow at the board
How vast and voluble a thing is wit,
And what a sway a little of it hath
With Councillors of State. My Lord your brother
Will blaze and thunder through a three hours' speech,
And stamp and strike his fist upon the board,
Whilst casements rattling and a fall of soot
Shall threaten direful war.

Bourbon.
The Constable,
The Earls of Ewe and Blois, St. Poule and Laval,
Guesclin, St. Just, the Seneschal of Rieux,
Raoul of Raneval,—all these and more
Look, to my knowledge, clean the other way.
They deem a mission should be set on foot
Before the sword be drawn; and with my will
Nought else shall come to pass.

Sir Fleureant.
Van Artevelde,
Though obstinate at times, is politic too,
And lacks not understanding; he'll not brave
The wrath of France if he be well approached.

Bourbon.
I spake with one last night who came from Bruges
And on his way had sojourn'd in the camp
At Oudenarde, where, when the turbulent towns
Behind his back can spare him from their broils,
Van Artevelde o'ersees the leaguering force.
There was a market in the camp, he said,
And all things plentiful,—fruit, cheese, and wine,
All kinds of mercery, cloth, furs, and silks,
With trinketry, the plunder daily brought
By Van den Bosch's marauders. Went and came
All men that chose from Brabant, Hainault, Liege,
And Germany; but Frenchmen were forbidden.
Van Artevelde, he said, in all things apes
The state and bearing of a Sovereign Prince;
Has bailiffs, masters of the horse, receivers,
A chamber of accompt, an audience hall,
Off gold and silver eats, is clad in robes
Of scarlet furr'd with minever, gives feasts
With minstrelsy and dancing night and day
To damsels and to ladies,—whom amongst
Pre-eminent is that Italian minx
The girl Elēna, late a toy of mine.
To Bruges in company with me she came,
Where waiting till on my return from Liege
I could rejoin her, to the conqueror's hands
She fell when Bruges was taken.

Sir Fleureant.
Soh, my Lord!
That lady hath a hook that twitches still.
If what I heard in Gascony be true
In vain you claim'd her from Van Artevelde,
Who answer'd not your missives.

Bourbon.
True it is;
And he shall answer for so answering not,
If any voice of potency be mine
Touching this war. But he may yet take thought
And make amends; I'll send him once again
A message, and I know not who's so fit
To take it as thyself.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, my tongue
Can utter nought with so much grace by half
As what you bid it speak.

Bourbon.
Then thou shalt go.
Not that for foolishness and woman's love
I would do this or that, but thou shalt note
My honour is impawn'd. Some half-hour hence
Come to my chamber, where in privacy
We'll further speak of this; and bring thou there
The yeoman of Tournesis; he must learn
How to demean himself before the Board.
He has been tamper'd with, I nothing doubt,
And what he's tutor'd to must we unteach.
Things run too fast to seed.

[Exit.
Sir Fleureant.
What soldier's heart
By dotage such as his was e'er possess'd
Upon a paramour! To win her back
Peace, war, or anything to him were good,
Nought evil but what works contrariwise.
And still his love goes muffled up for shame,
And masks itself with show of careless slights
And giving her ill names of jade and minx,
Gipsy and slut.—The world's a masquerade,
And he whose wisdom is to pay it court
Should mask his own unpopular penetration
And seem to think its several seemings real.

Scene II.

—The Flemish Camp before Oudenarde. A Platform in front of Artevelde's Tent.
Enter Artevelde and Van Ryk.
Van Ryk.
You seem fatigued, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Look to that horse; he coughs. I think I am;
The sun was hot for such a long day's ride.
What is the hour?

Van Ryk.
The moon has not yet risen,
It cannot yet be nine.

Artevelde.

Van Ryk.
'Twas thereabouts, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Was anything of moment in your thoughts
As we were crossing?

Van Ryk.
In my thoughts, my Lord?
Nothing to speak of.

Artevelde.
Well now, it is strange!
I never knew myself to sleep o'horseback,
And yet I must have slept. The evening's heat
Had much oppress'd me; then the tedious tract
Of naked moorland, and the long flat road
And slow straight stream, for ever side by side
Like poverty and crime—I'm sure I slept.

Van Ryk.
I saw not that you did, my Lord.

Artevelde.
I did;
Ay, and dream'd too. 'Twas an unwholesome dream,
If dream it was—a nightmare rather: first
A stifling pressure compass'd in my heart;
On my dull ears with thick and muffled peal
Came many a sound of battle and of flight,
Of tumult and distracted cries; my own,
That would have been the loudest, was unheard,
And seem'd to swell the chambers of my brain
With volume vast of sound I could not utter.
The screams of wounded horses, and the crash
Of broken planks, and then the heavy plunge
Of bodies in the water—they were loud,
But yet the sound that was confined in me,
Had it got utterance, would have drown'd them all!
But still it grew and swell'd, and therewithal
The burthen thickened on my heart; my blood,
That had been flowing freshly from my wounds,
Trickled, then clotted, and then flow'd no more:
My horse upon the barrier of the bridge
Stumbled; I started; and was wide awake.
'Twas an unpleasant dream.

Van Ryk.
It was, my Lord.
I wonder how I mark'd not that you slept.

Artevelde.
I must be wakeful now. Who waits? who's there?
[To an Attendant, who enters.
The man I sent to Ypres with a letter—
Has he return'd?

Attendant.
But now, my Lord, arrived.
And with him Father John.

Artevelde.
Already he!
With more alacrity he meets my wish
Than I deserve. I'll see him now, at once.

Attendant.
He comes, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Then leave us—No, Van Ryk,
Not you; or if you will, lie down within
And rest you till I call.
[Exeunt Van Ryk and the Attendant.
Dreams are but dreams;
And if they falsify the past, why think
That they foreshow less falsely what's to come! Enter Father John.

My honour'd friend, if welcomes ten times told
Could carry more than one, I'd say the word
As oft as you your Ave and your Creed.
But welcome is enough.

Father John.
God's love, my son,
Be with you alway. We have lately been
In outward act more strangers than we were,
But inwardly, I fain would hope, unchanged.

Artevelde.
Unchanged, upon my soul! The storms of State
From time to time heave up some monstrous ridge
Which each from other hides two friendly barks;
Nought else divides us, and we steer, I trust,
One course, are guided by one steadfast star,
That so one anchorage we may reach at last.
The cares and mighty troubles of the times
Have kept me company and shut yours out.

Father John.
It is your place; the twitch of personal ties
Ought not to move you; 'tis no blame of yours.
But whence the present call?

Artevelde.
To that then straight.
France is in arms; yon exile, once an Earl,
From Hedin went by Arras to Bapaume
On Wednesday se'nnight, if my scouts say true;
And there my Lord of Burgundy he met,
And with him made a covenant; from thence
They came to Senlis, where the young King lies,
And there the Dukes his uncles in his name
Had gather'd from all parts a mighty force,
Some eighty or a hundred thousand men.
May that not startle me?

Father John.
'Tis a large levy;
But yet you muster more.

Artevelde.
Of men at arms
Not half the tale; and those for Senlis bound
Would double—so says fame—these now arrived.
It were a vain and profitless attempt
To disbelieve my danger, howsoe'er
I show a careless countenance to the crowd.
If Nicholas le Flamand call not back
The French King's force, wherein I fear he'll fail,
There's one sufficiency of aid can reach
The measure of my need; one, only one;
And that is aid from England. This not sent,
Or else belated,—coming in the dusk
And sunset of my fortunes,—where am I?

Father John.
At England's Council-board in Edward's days
Sloth and delay had never seats; no missive
Lay gathering dust and losing its fresh looks,
No business lodged: would that it were so now!
Yet surely if King Richard deem it meet
And useful to his realm to send you aid
'Twill come with speed.

Artevelde.
He knows not that despatch
Is now so all-important; nor from those
I sent him will he learn it. I myself
Thought not King Charles had sidled up so close,
Else had I put your kindness then to proofs
Which I intend it now,—else had I ask'd
Your presence then in England.

Father John.
Nay, my son,
Six have you sent already—on their way
Our humble hospitality they shared
At Ypres.

Artevelde.
Then their quality you saw.
They were the best, methought, that I could spare
For foreign service while thus press'd at home.
The first for state and dignity was named;
He whom Pope Urbayne, after Ghent rebell'd,
Appointed Bishop to receive the dues
Which else had fallen to Tournay's traitorous See,
Where Clement is acknowledged; for this end
Was he a Bishop made, and to say truth
He's equal to his function. Next in rank
Comes our sagacious friend John Sercolacke;
None better and none safer in affairs,
Were it but given to ponder and devise
Beforehand what at every need to say;
But should King Richard on the sudden ask
What brought him there, confounded will he stand
Till livelier tongues from emptier heads ring out,
Then on the morrow to a tittle know
What should have been his answer.

Father John.
Lois de Vaux
And master Blondel-Vatre have glib tongues.

Artevelde.
Than Lois de Vaux there's no man sooner sees
Whatever at a glance is visible;
What is not, that he sees not, soon nor late.
Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,
But never solving questions; vain he is—
It is his pride to see things on all sides,
Which best to do he sets them on their corners.
Present before him arguments by scores
Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,
He'll see them all, successively, distinctly,
Yet never two of them can see together,
Or gather, blend, and balance what he sees
To make up one account: a mind it is
Accessible to reason's subtlest rays,
And many enter there but none converge;
It is an army with no general,
An arch without a key-stone. Then the next,
Good Martin Blondel-Vatre—he is rich
In nothing else but difficulties and doubts:
You shall be told the evil of your scheme,
But not the scheme that's better; he forgets
That policy, expecting not clear gain,
Deals ever in alternatives; he's wise
In negatives, is skilful to erase,
Expert in stepping backwards, an adept
At auguring eclipses; but admit
His apprehensions and demand, what then?
And you shall find you've turned the blank leaf over.

Father John.
Still three are left.

Artevelde.
Three names and nothing more.
To please the towns that gave them birth they're sent,
Not for their merits. Verily, Father John,
I should not willingly disturb your peace,
Or launch you on my fortune's troubled tide,
But I am as a debtor against whom
The writs are out—I'm driven upon my friends;
Say, will you stead me?

Father John.
With my best of aid,
Such as it may be. To King Richard's Court
I will set forth to-morrow.

Artevelde.
Ever kind!
Of all my friends the faithfullest as the first.
Early to-morrow then we'll treat in full
The matter of your mission. Now, good night.

Father John.
God's peace be with your slumbers.

[Exit.
Artevelde.
In good time;
Their hour is yet to come. What ho! Van Ryk! Enter Van Ryk.

You're sure, Van Ryk, it has not yet transpired
That I am in the camp?

Van Ryk.
Certain, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Then come with me; we'll cast a casual eye
On them that keep the watch;—though, sooth to say,
I wish my day's work over,—to forget
This restless world and slumber like a babe;
For I am very tired—yea, tired at heart.

Van Ryk.
Your spirits were wont to bear you freshlier up.
If I might speak, my Lord, my humble mind,
You have not, since your honour'd lady's death,
In such a sovereignty possess'd yourself
As you were wont to say that all men should.
Your thoughts have been more inwardly let loose
And led by fancies: should I be too bold
And let my duty lag behind my love
To put you thus in mind, forgive my fault.

Artevelde.
That was a loss, Van Ryk, that was a loss.
The love betwixt us was not as the flush
And momentary kindling in warm youth,
But marriage and what term of time was given
Brought it an hourly increase, stored for Heaven.
Well—I am now the sport of circumstance,
Driven from my anchorage;—yet deem not thou
That I my soul surrender to the past
In chains and bondage;—that it is not so,
Bear witness for me long and busy days
Which jostling and importunate affairs
So push and elbow, they but seldom leave
Shy midnight uninvaded. No, Van Ryk;
At eve returning wearied to my tent,
If sometimes I may seem to stray in thought,
Seeking what is not there, the mood is brief,
The operative function within call;
Nor know I that for any little hour
The weal of Flanders (if I may presume
To hook it on my hours) is yielded up
To vacant retrospect or idle thought.
But now this body, exigent of rest,
Will needs put in a claim. One round we'll take,
And then to bed.

Van Ryk.
My Lord, you must be tired.
I am too bold to trouble you so late
With my unprofitable talk.

Artevelde.
Not so:
Your talk is always welcome. There within
You'll find a wardrobe, with some varlets' cloaks
For use at need; take one about yourself
And meet me with another at the gate.
[Exit Van Ryk.
A serviceable, faithful, thoughtful friend
Is old Van Ryk,—a man of humble heart,
And yet with faculties and gifts of sense
Which place him justly on no lowly level—
Why should I say a lowlier than mine own,
Or otherwise than as an equal use him?
That with familiarity respect
Doth slacken, is a word of common use.
I never found it so.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The interior of the State Pavilion.— Artevelde seated at the head of his Council, with Attendants. The French Herald and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée. Artevelde rises to receive the Herald and reseats himself.
Artevelde.
France, I perceive, Sir Herald, owns at length
The laws of polity and civil use,
A recognition which I hardly hoped;
For when the messenger that late I sent
In amity, with friendly missives charged,
Was sent to prison, I deem'd some barbarous tribe
That knew no usages of Christian lands
Had dispossess'd you and usurp'd the realm.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, you have your messenger again.

Artevelde.
Ay, Sir, but not through courtesy, I think,
Nor yet through love.
[To the Herald.
Sir, you have leave to speak.

Herald.
My Lord, I humbly thank you. I entreat
That in my speech should aught offend your ears
You from the utterer will remove the fault.
My office I obey and not my will,
Nor is a word that I'm to speak mine own.

Artevelde.
Sir, nothing you can say shall be so gross,
Offensive, or unmannerly conceived,
As that it shall not credibly appear
To come from them that sent you; speak it out.

Herald.
Philip of Artevelde, sole son of Jacques,
Maltster and brewer in the town of Ghent,
The realm of France this unto thee delivers:
That forasmuch as thou, a liegeman born
To the Earl of Flanders, hast rebelled against him,
And with thy manifold treasons and contempts
Of duty and allegiance, hast drawn in
By twenties and by forties his good towns
To rise in fury and forget themselves,—
Thus saith the puissant and mighty Lord,
The Earl's affectionate kinsman, Charles of France:
Thou from before this town of Oudenarde
With all thy host shalt vanish like a mist;
Thou shalt surrender to their rightful Lord
The towns of Ghent, and Ypres, Cassel, Bruges,
Of Harlebeque, Poperinguen, Dendermonde,
Alost and Grammont; and with them all towns
Of lesser name, all castles and strong houses,
Shalt thou deliver up before the Feast
Of Corpus Christi coming, which undone,
He the said puissant King, Sir Charles of France,
With all attendance of his chivalry,
Will raise his banner and his kingdom's force,
And scattering that vile people which thou lead'st,
Will hang thee on a tree, and nail thy head
Over the gates of Ghent, the mother of ill
That spawn'd thee;—and for these and sundry more
Just reasons and sufficient, thou art warn'd
To make thy peace betimes, and so God keep thee!

Artevelde.
Sir Herald, thou hast well discharged thyself
Of an ill function. Take these links of gold,
And with the company of words I give thee
Back to the braggart King from whom thou cam'st.
First of my father:—had he lived to know
His glories, deeds, and dignities postponed
To names of Barons, Earls, and Counts (that here
Are to men's ears importunately common
As chimes to dwellers in the market-place),
He with a silent and a bitter mirth
Had listen'd to the boast: may he his son
Pardon for in comparison setting forth
With his the name of this disconsolate Earl.
How stand they in the title-deeds of fame?
What hold and heritage in distant times
Doth each enjoy—what posthumous possession?
The dusty chronicler with painful search,
Long fingering forgotten scrolls, indites
That Louis Mâle was sometime Earl of Flanders,
That Louis Mâle his sometime earldom lost
Through wrongs by him committed, that he lived
An outcast long in dole not undeserved,
And died dependent: there the history ends,
And who of them that hear it wastes a thought
On the unfriended fate of Louis Mâle?
But turn the page and look we for the tale
Of Artevelde's renown. What man was this?
He humbly born, he highly gifted, rose,
By steps of various enterprise, by skill,
By native vigour, to wide sway, and took
What his vain rival having could not keep.
His glory shall not cease though cloth of gold
Wrap him no more; for not of golden cloth
Nor fur nor minever his greatness came,
Whose fortunes were inborn: strip me the two,
This were the humblest, that the noblest, beggar
That ever braved a storm!

Sir Fleureant.
Your pardon, Sir:
Nothing was utter'd in disparagement
Of your famed father; though a longer life
And better would he assuredly have lived
Had it seem'd good to him to follow forth
His former craft, nor turn aside to brew
These frothy insurrections.

Artevelde.
Sir, your back
Shows me no tabard nor a sign beside
Denoting what your office is that asks
A hearing in this presence; nor know I yet
By what so friendly fortune I am graced
With your good company and gentle speech.
But we are here no niggards of respect
To merit's unauthenticated forms,
And therefore do I answer you, and thus:—
You speak of insurrections: bear in mind
Against what rule my father and myself
Have been insurgent: whom did we supplant?—
There was a time, so ancient records tell,
There were communities, scarce known by name
In these degenerate days, but once far-famed,
Where liberty and justice hand in hand
Order'd the common weal; where great men grew
Up to their natural eminence, and none
Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great;
Where power was of God's gift to whom he gave
Supremacy of merit, the sole means
And broad highway to power, that ever then
Was meritoriously administer'd,
Whilst all its instruments from first to last,
The tools of State for service high or low,
Were chosen for their aptness to those ends
Which virtue meditates. To shake the ground
Deep-founded whereupon this structure stood,
Was verily a crime; a treason it was
Conspiracies to hatch against this State
And its free innocence. But now, I ask,
Where is there on God's earth that polity
Which it is not, by consequence converse,
A treason against Nature to uphold?
Whom may we now call free? whom great? whom wise?
Whom innocent?—the free are only they
Whom power makes free to execute all ills
Their hearts imagine; they alone are great
Whose passions nurse them from their cradles up
In luxury and lewdness,—whom to see
Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn
Their station's eminence; the wise are they
Who wait obscurely till the bolts of Heaven
Shall break upon the land and give them light
Whereby to walk; the innocent,—alas!
Poor Innocency lies where four roads meet,
A stone upon her head, a stake driven through her,
For who is innocent that cares to live?
The hand of Power doth press the very life
Of Innocency out! What then remains
But in the cause of Nature to stand forth
And turn this frame of things the right side up?
For this the hour is come, the sword is drawn,
And tell your masters vainly they resist.
Nature, that slept beneath their poisonous drugs,
Is up and stirring, and from north and south,
From east and west, from England and from France.
From Germany, and Flanders, and Navarre,
Shall stand against them like a beast at bay.
The blood that they have shed will hide no longer
In the blood-sloken soil, but cries to Heaven.
Their cruelties and wrongs against the poor
Shall quicken into swarms of venomous snakes
And hiss through all the earth, till o'er the earth,
That ceases then from hissings and from groans,
Rises the song—How are the mighty fallen!
And by the peasant's hand! Low lie the proud!
And smitten with the weapons of the poor—
The blacksmith's hammer and the woodsman's axe:
Their tale is told; and for that they were rich
And robb'd the poor, and for that they were strong
And scourged the weak, and for that they made laws
Which turn'd the sweat of labour's brow to blood,—
For these their sins the nations cast them out,
The dunghills are their death-beds, and the stench
From their uncover'd carrion steaming wide
Turns in the nostrils of enfranchised man
To a sweet savour. These things come to pass
From small beginnings, because God is just.

Sir Fleureant.
Sir, you are bold in prophecy, but words
Will not demolish kingdoms. This alone
Is clear, that we are charged to carry back
A warlike answer.

Artevelde.
You have caught my sense.
Let no more words be wasted. What I said
Shall be engross'd and render'd to your hands
To spare your memories. And so, farewell
Unto your functions. For yourselves, I pray you
To grace our table with your company
At dinner time and taste of what we have.
Rest you meantime. And you, my honour'd friends
And Councillors, I bid you to the board.
Adieu till then. Good Father, by your leave
I will detain you.
[The Council breaks up. The Herald and Sir Fleureant are conducted out, and only Artevelde and Father John remain.
Did I say too much?
What think you? Was I rash?

Father John.
My son, my son!
You've spoken some irrevocable words,
And more, in my weak judgment, than were wise.
Till now might accident have open'd out
A way to concord. Casualties or care
Might yet have counsell'd peace; and was it well
To send this challenge?

Artevelde.
Judge me not unheard.
We have been too successful to be safe
In standing still. Things are too far afoot.
Being so high as this, to be no higher
Were presently to fall. France will not brook
To see me as I am, though I should bear
My honours ne'er so meekly. With bold words
I magnify my strength,—perhaps may dim
Their fire-new courage, their advance delay,
And raise the spirits of my friends.

Father John.
My son,
These are the after-thoughts that reason coins
To justify excess and pay the debts
Of passion's prodigality.

Artevelde.
Nay, nay!
Something of passion may have mix'd with this,
Good Father, but I lost not from my thoughts
The policy I speak of.

Father John.
Might I use
The liberty of former days to one
That's since so much exalted, I would tell
How it is said abroad that Artevelde
Is not unalter'd since he rose to power;
Is not unvisited of worldly pride
And its attendant passions.

Artevelde.
Say they so!
Well, if it be so, it is late to mend;
For self-amendment is a work of time,
And business will not wait. Such as I am
For better or for worse the world must take me,
For I must hasten on. Perhaps the state
And royal splendour I affect is deem'd
A proof of pride;—yet they that these contemn
Know little of the springs that move mankind.
'Tis but a juvenile philosophy
That strips itself and casts such things aside,
Which, be they in themselves or vile or precious,
Are means to govern. Or I'm deem'd morose,
Severe, impatient of what hinders me:
Yet think what manner of men are these I rule;
What patience might have made of them, reflect.
If I be stern or fierce, 'tis from strong need
And strange provocatives. If (which I own not)
I have drunk deeper of ambition's cup,
Be it remembered that the cup of love
Was wrested from my hand. Enough of this.
Ambition has its uses in the scheme
Of Providence, whose instrument I am
To work some changes in the world or die.
This coming of the French distrubs me much,
And I could wish you gone.

Father John.
My horses wait
And I am ready. I will bear in mind,
With the best memory that my years permit,
Your charges; and if nothing more remains,
God's blessing on your enterprise and you!
I go my way.

Artevelde.
So long as lies the Lis
Between our hosts, I have the less to fear.
Say to King Richard I shall strive to keep
The passes of the Lis; and if his aid
Find them unforced, his way to France is straight
As that to Windsor. I shall guard the Lis
With watch as circumspect as seamen keep
When in the night the leeward breakers flash
But if he linger and the Lis be forced,
Tell him our days are number'd, and that three
Shall close this contest. I am harping still
On the same string; but you, my friend revered,
Will pardon my solicitudes, and deem
That they are for my cause and not myself.
I keep you now no longer; fare you well,
And may we meet again and meet in joy!
God grant it! fare you well.

Father John.
To horse at once.

Artevelde.
Let me attend you.

Scene II.

—A Platform near Artevelde's Pavilion.— Van Muck is seated at some distance in the background.
Enter Sir Fleureant and the Herald.
Sir Fleureant.
Then be it as I said; the sun shall set
'Twixt seven and eight; ere then I'll know my course;
And if the Regent lend a willing ear
To the Duke's message and this lady send
Upon his summons, merrily we go
Together, and who meets us on the road
Shall say, “A goodly company, God bless them!
A man, a woman, and a pursuivant.”
But 'twill not be so.

Herald.
Let us hope it may.

Sir Fleureant.
Assure yourself 'twill otherwise befall.
He will retain her, or herself hold back.
Then shall it be your prudence to depart
With your best speed, whilst I invent a cause
For lingering. I will not understand,
But spin the matter of my mission out
Into such length as with that web to hide
My underworkings. Be you gone yourself
Fast as you may, and far, when this falls out;
And you shall tell the Duke with what good-will
I hazard in his service loss of all
I have to lose,—my life.

Herald.
Loth should I be
To leave you so; but rest assur'd the Duke
Shall hear, as through a trumpet, of your zeal.

Sir Fleureant.
(discovering Van Muck)
Whom have we here? a listener? God forbid!
And yet he seems attentive, and his ears
Are easy of approach; the cover'd way,
Scarp, counterscarp, and parapet, is razed.
Halloa, Sir, are you there! Give you good-day!
What think you we were saying? Troubled times!

Van Muck.
Your pardon, Sir; I'm hard of hearing.

Sir Fleureant.
Oh!
We well can pardon that. What, deaf—stone-deaf?

Van Muck.
No, Sir, thank God! no deafer than yourself,
But slowish, Sir, of hearing.

Sir Fleureant.
What, snail-slow?

Van Muck.
No, Sir, no slower than another man,
But not so quick of hearing, Sir, as some,
Being a little deaf.

Sir Fleureant.
Content thee, friend;
Thine ears are sharper than thine apprehension.
But wherefore want they flaps? Who dock'd them thus?

Van Muck.
It is no trouble nor no loss to you,
Whoever did it.

Sir Fleureant.
Pardon me, my friend,
It troubles me and doth offend mine eyes
To see thee lack those handles to thy head.
Tell me who snipp'd them?

Van Muck.
'Twas the Regent.

Sir Fleureant.
Ho!
The Regent? [To the Herald.]
Upon this I go to work.
The Regent? and you wait upon him here?

Van Muck.
I wait to ask him for my company:
I was the Captain of a company.

Herald.
What, took he thy command away besides?

Van Muck.
Yes, Sir.

Herald.
And wherefore? what was thine offence?

Van Muck.
I was a little master'd, Sir, with drink,
The night we carried Yerken, and a maid
That ran upon me, Sir, I know not how,
Forswore herself and said I did her wrong.

Sir Fleureant.
Well?

Van Muck.
And 'twas this that lost me my command.

Sir Fleureant.
Impossible! I've done as much myself
A thousand times.

Van Muck.
'Twas nothing, Sir, but this.

Sir Fleureant.
Oh, monstrous! And what askest thou?

Van Muck.
What ask?
I ask him to replace me, as I said.

Sir Fleureant.
And wilt thou ask him to replace thine ears?

Van Muck.
No, Sir.

Sir Fleureant.
Why not? for thou'lt succeed as soon.
I've heard that never did he change his mind
But once, since he was Regent; once he did;
'Twas when he kindly pardon'd Peter Shultz:
He changed his mind and hung him.

Van Muck.
By St. Giles!
I would not ask him if I knew for certain
He would deny me.

Sir Fleureant.
What! deny thee? hang thee!
Take service with another Lord—leave him;
Thou hast been foully dealt with! Never hope
To conquer pride with humbleness, but turn
To them that will be proud to use thee well.
I'll show thee many such; and to begin,
Here is myself. What lack'st thou? Money? See—
I am provided: hold me forth thy hand;
The Regent left thee hands: was that his skill?
The injury that disables is more wise
Than that which stings: a hand he left to take—
And here's to fill it; and a hand to strike—
Look not amazed, I bid thee not do that;
I ask thee but to take a missive hence
As far as Bruges.

Van Muck.
Sir, I'll be bound to take it.

Sir Fleureant.
And are there many men besides thyself
That have lost rank and service in the camp?

Van Muck.
It was but yesterday two constables
Had their discharge.

Sir Fleureant.
And why were they dismiss'd?

Van Muck.
'Twas by the Regent's order; 'twas, he said,
Because they made more riots in the camp
Than they prevented.

Sir Fleureant.
He is hard to please.
What are they call'd?

Van Muck.
Jock Bulsen and Carl Kortz.

[Trumpets are heard at a little distance.
Herald.
Hark to the Regent's trumpets.

Sir Fleureant.
Thou must go.
But name a place of meeting.

Van Muck.
The west dyke
Behind the sutler Merlick's tent.

Sir Fleureant.
Do thou,
And Kortz, and Bulsen, at the hour of nine,
Be there to take my orders. Get thee gone,
And be not seen till then. Go this way out,
That so the Regent meet thee not.
[Exit Van Muck.
That seed
Is sown, but whether I shall reap the fruits
Is yet in Artevelde's arbitrement;
Let him comply, and those three hens shall meet
To hatch an addle egg.

Herald.
'Tis more than time
That I were fairly on the road to France.
You're pushing on apace.

Sir Fleureant.
Our thrift lies there.
Spare time, spend gold, and so you win the day!

Trumpets again.
Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde.
You are equipp'd, I see, for taking horse:
I pray you have Sir Charles of France inform'd
It was your diligence despatch'd you thus,
And not my lack of hospitality.

Herald.
My Lord, we surely shall report in France
We were entreated bounteously and well.
Thankfully now, my Lord, I take my leave:
Sir Fleureant follows, and ere night will reach
The hostel where we rest.

[Exit Herald.
Artevelde.
What! in such haste?

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, not many hours I stay behind,
And not for idleness. My Lord, I'm charged
With a strange mission, as to you 'twill seem,
But to his Grace of Bourbon full of pith.

Artevelde.
Sir, I attend; his Grace has all my ears.
What would he?

Sir Fleureant.
He has voices more than ten
In the King's Council, and as they may speak
Touching this war, 'twill likely be resolved.
Now he is not implacably, as some,
Envenom'd, and if justice were but done him
He might be pacified and turn the course
Of these precipitate counsels.

Artevelde.
On my soul,
If there be justice I can render him
He should receive it from my ready hands
Although his voice in Council were as small
As a dog-whistle. What may be his grief?

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, he sent you letters that portray'd
His grief in all its blackness. To be short,
He wants his paramour; the damsel fair
Whom you surprised, sojourning at the Court
Of Louis Mâle, the day that Bruges was lost.

Artevelde.
Sir, he's thrice welcome to his paramour.
I never have withheld her.

Sir Fleureant.
Then to me,
A servant of the Prince, 'tis his desire
She be consign'd to take her to the palace
At Senlis.

Artevelde.
To the hands of whom she will
I yield the lady, to go where she will,
Were it to the palace of the Prince of Darkness.
But at the lady's bidding it must be,
Not at the Prince's.

Sir Fleureant.
Do I learn from this
The lady is reluctant?

Artevelde.
By no means.
The dangers of the journey kept her back
From taking my safe-conduct heretofore,
When, at the instance of the Duke your friend,
I offer'd it; but having come thus far
Toward the frontier, she may travel hence
In your protection safely.

Sir Fleureant.
May I learn
Her pleasure from herself?

Artevelde.
'Twere best you did;
And I will be your usher if I may.
Attendance here! Enter an Attendant.

Apprise the foreign lady
That with her leave, and when her leisure serves,
I will entreat admittance for some words
Of brief discourse.
[Exit Attendant.
We'll walk towards her tent,
If that's your pleasure.

Sir Fleureant.
Still at your command.

Scene III.

—A Pavilion richly hung and furnished. Elena and her Attendant Cecile.
Elena.
Art thou not weary of the camp, Cecile?

Cecile.
Oh no, my Lady, 'tis a stirring life;
There is good sport upon the market-days
And women are much made of.

Elena.
Well, I am.
Or rather, I am weary of myself,
And carry dulness with me as the wind
Carries the cloud, and whereso'er I go
An atmosphere of darkness and of storm
Girdles me round. I wish that I were dead.

Cecile.
For shame, my Lady! you that are so young
And beautiful, with all the world your own:
It is a sin to be so discontent.

Elena.
Give me my lute, and I will answer that.
(She sings.)

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
The Regent, Madam, would attend you here
For some few moments' conference apart,
If it might please you to admit him.

Elena.
Say,
I wait upon his pleasure.
[Exit Attendant.
How is this?
What can he want! he never ask'd before
To speak with me in private. It is strange;
But it will end in nothing. Go, Cecile.
Stop; I've forgotten how my hair was dress'd
This morning; put it right. Look, here he comes;
But there's one with him—said he not apart
He wish'd to see me? I will go within
And thou canst say that I expect him there.

[Exit.
Enter Artevelde and Sir Fleureant.
Cecile.
My Lady waits your pleasure, Sir, within.
[Artevelde passes into the inner apartment.
Your servant, Sir; would you too see my mistress?

Sir Fleureant.
If it so please your master.

Cecile.
Who is he?

Sir Fleureant.
Your pardon, is it not the Regent?

Cecile.
No,
The Regent is no master, Sir, of mine.

Sir Fleureant.
No?

Cecile.
By no means.

Sir Fleureant.
But he is often here?

Cecile.
No oftener than it pleases him to come
And her to see him.

Sir Fleureant.
Which is twice a-day.

Cecile.
Who told you that?

Sir Fleureant.
A Cupid that brake loose
From the close service he was sent upon,
Which was to watch their meetings.

Cecile.
Said he so?
A runaway, then, told a fool a lie.

Sir Fleureant.
Nay, but he had it from yourself.

Cecile.
If so
He gave it out, this was the great horse-lie
Made for the other to mount.

Sir Fleureant.
Come, then, the truth?

Cecile.
The well is not so deep but you may see it.
The Regent sometimes at the close of day
Has fits of lowness and is wearied much
With galloping so long from post to post;
And then my Lady has the voice of a bird
Which entertains his ears.

Sir Fleureant.
The live-long night?

Cecile.
An hour or two, no more.

Sir Fleureant.
Which being past—

Cecile.
Which being past, he wishes her good rest,
And so departs.

Sir Fleureant.
And all the while he's there
Are you there too?

Cecile.
Never an instant gone.

Sir Fleureant.
Will you swear that?

Cecile.
Assuredly I will.

Sir Fleureant.
Or anything beside.

Cecile.
Your pardon, Sir;
I would not swear that you had learnt good manners;
That you'd been whipp'd as often as need was
In breeding of you up, I would not swear;
I would not swear that what you wanted then
Has not been since made good; I would not swear—

Sir Fleureant.
Quarter, quarter!—truce to your would-not swearing!
Here is the Regent.

Enter Artevelde with Elena.
Artevelde.
Sir Fleureant, I have pled in your behalf
And gain'd you audience; for the rest your trust
Is in your eloquence.

Sir Fleureant.
Alas! my Lord,
In nothing better? I had placed my trust,
Not in the eloquence of rugged man,
But woman's fair fidelity.

Elena.
Sir Knight,
I will not task your tongue for eloquence
Though it be ne'er so ready.

Artevelde.
I am here
But an intruder. I will say no more;
Save that the lady's choice, be what it may,
Commands my utmost means and best good-will.

[Exit.
Elena.
Stay, stay, Cecile; you will attend me here.
You come, Sir, from his Grace of Bourbon. Why,
And with what message, I can partly guess
From what the Regent spake. The Duke's desire
Is that I join him presently in France.

Sir Fleureant.
Such is his—what?—his madness had I said
Before I saw you,—but I call it now
Only his bitter fate, that nothing gay
In palaces or courts can win him off
From thoughts of you, that nothing high or great
In policy or war can move him more,
Nothing which fame awaits, ambition woos,
Whilst you are absent can so much as twitch
The hem or border of his soul.

Elena.
Indeed!
I'm sorry if my absence vex the Duke;
Sorry if it offend him.

Sir Fleureant.
Tis a grief
More cutting as anticipated less;
For though the tie had not the Church's stamp,
He had not deem'd it therefore less secure.
Such faith was his in what he thought was faith
In her he lov'd, that all the world's traditions
Of woman's hollow words and treacherous wiles
Could not unfix him from his fast belief.
Moreover, he has proffer'd deeds of gift
As ample as the dowry of a duchess
Would you but meet his wishes and return
But for a day; and should you find thenceforth
Just cause of discontent, with this rich freight
Might you depart at will.

Elena.
The Duke, I own,
Has been most liberal of his proffer'd bribes,
And I have said I'm sorry to fall out
With what his Grace desires:—that is not all—
His Grace has been as liberal of reproaches;
But what, then, is his grief? Alas! alas!
The world's traditions may be true that speak
Of woman's infidelities and wiles,
But truer far that scripture is which saith
“Put not your trust in princes.”

Sir Fleureant.
This is strange
And would amaze him much. In what, I pray,
Has he deceived you?

Elena.
Men, Sir, think it little;
Tis less than little in a prince's judgment;
In woman's estimation it is much.

Sir Fleureant.
But say what is it? Let him know his fault.

Elena.
So I design:—this tell the Duke from me:—
I could have loved him once—not with the heat
Of that affection which himself conceived—
(For this poor heart had prodigally spent
Its fund of youthful passion ere we met)—
But with a reasonably warm regard.
This could I have bestow'd for many a year,
And did bestow at first, and all went well.
But soon the venomous world wherein we lived
Assail'd the Prince with jocular remark
And question keen, importing that his soul
Was yoked in soft subjection to a woman;
And were she of good life and conversation,
Insidious slanderers said, 'twere not so strange,
But he is vanquish'd by his paramour!
So the word went, and as it reach'd his ear
From time to time repeated, he grew cold,
Captious, suspicious, full of taunts and slights,
Asserting his supremacy in words
Of needless contradiction. This I bore,
Though not by such sad change unalienate;
But presently there came to me reports,
Authentic though malignant, of loose gibes
Let fall among his retinue, whereby
His Grace, to keep his wit in good repute
For shrewdness and to boast his liberty,
Had shamefully belied his own belief—
For firm belief he had—that I was chaste.

Sir Fleureant.
Oh mischief! you gave credence to such tales?

Elena.
This which I speak of, carry to the Duke;
'Tis therefore I relate it—he well knows
If it be true or false. Say further this:
Finding his Grace thus pitiably weak,
Alternate slave of vanity and love,
I from that moment in my heart resolved
To break the link that bound us: to this end
I parted from his company at Bruges,
And by the same abiding, I have made
This free deliverance of my mind to you.
Which task fulfill'd (I'm sorry from my soul
If it offend), I wish you, Sir, farewell.

[Exit, Cecile following.
Sir Fleureant.
'Tis a magnanimous harlot! By my faith,
Of all the queans that on my humble head
Have pour'd the vials of their wrath and scorn
This is the prettiest, and, I think, the proudest.
If one might bolt the bran from her discourse
I should take leave to guess her firm resolve
Was not fast clench'd till Artevelde took Bruges.
Howe'er that be, my path, albeit self-sought,
Is slippery. Sir Fleureant, my good friend,
I bid thee, as thou lov'st thyself, take heed.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—Night. A Dingle in the outskirts of the Camp behind a Sutler's Tent.
Van Kortz, to whom enter Van Muck.
Van Kortz.
Who's there—Van Muck? halloa, you, boy! what speed?

Van Muck.
Hush, hush! speak low; is no one here but you?

Van Kortz.
No jolly soul beside.

Van Muck.
Has the watch past?

Van Kortz.
By my permission, yes. I drew a shaft
Chock to the steel, and from behind this tree
Aim'd it at Serjeant Laubscher's black old heart
In quittance of a debt I've owed him long;
But, pooh! I let him pass.

Van Muck.
Why, were you mad?
It would have baulk'd our meeting.

Van Kortz.
What care I?

Van Muck.
It is a matter of five hundred marks,
White money down.

Van Kortz.
Ay, let me see it down
And I'll believe you.

Van Muck.
He will soon be here,
And then you'll—here he is——no, 'tis but Bulsen.

Enter Jock Bulsen.
Bulsen.
Well, is all right? 'tis close upon the hour.

Van Kortz.
Nothing is stirring. Forth from the trees —stand forth
That he may see us, lest he miss the spot.
Art certain that he'll bring the money?

Van Muck.
Yes,
I saw it in his hands.

Van Kortz.
Why, hark ye then—
What need to go elsewhere for gold that's here?

Van Muck.
He gives it us for taking letters hence
To Ghent and Bruges and Yypres.

Van Kortz.
Hold thy peace
Thou nick-ear'd lubber; what have we to do
With whys and wherefores? Here he brings the gold;
And hence he takes it not, if we be men.
What say ye?

Bulsen.
Cut his throat.

Van Muck.
How now! how now!
I would not for the world.

Van Kortz.
Pluck up thy heart.
Hast courage but for half a sin? As good
To eat the Devil as the broth he's boil'd in.

Van Muck.
What would ye do? for mercy's sake for bear!
'Twas I that brought him here, and God He knows
I did not go about to take his life.

Van Kortz.
Why, go thy way then; two like me and Jock
Are men enough.

Bulsen.
Enough to win the spoil,
And by that token, friend, to share it too.

Van Kortz.
Go to the Devil with thy dolorous cheer;
There is no manhood in thee. Get thee gone,
Or I shall try six inches of my knife
On thine own inmeats first.

Bulsen.
Thou'dst best begone;
Thou art but in the way.

Van Kortz.
Go, pudding-heart!
Take thy huge offal and white liver hence,
Or in a twinkling of this true-blue steel
I shall be butching thee from nape to rump.

Bulsen.
Go thou thy ways, and thank thy prosperous stars
Thou art let live.

Van Muck.
I am rewarded well
For bringing this about! but ye shall see
If it be better for you.

Bulsen.
Hold, come back—
What, fast and loose—is that your game?—soho!
I see him coming.

Sir Fleureant
(without).
Soft! was that the tent
He spoke of? surely then—or—nay, I know not—
Where am I going?

Van Kortz.
Come along, Sir, come—
Where art thou going?—I will tell thee where—
Going to grass, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée,
With thy teeth upward—may that serve thy turn?
Holloa, then, come along!

Bulsen.
Beware, beware!
Thou art the noisiest cut-throat of them all;
Will nothing stop thy tongue? This way, Sir, here.

Enter Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Van Muck
(passing between Sir Fleureant and the others.)
Your sword, Sir Fleureant! stand upon your guard;
We are not safe—there oft are men about
At such dark hours as this that lie in wait—
Look to your guard—but we shall be a match
For more than one such!

Bulsen.
Never fear, Van Muck;
If any such should break upon us here
We'd parley with them first and see what good
Might come of fighting or of speaking fair.

Sir Fleureant.
Where is the danger? you are dreaming, friends!
Let me explain the matter I've in hand.

Van Kortz.
Come, come, Sir Hurly-Burly! where's your metal?
Write us the matter down in yellow and white.
No danger! but there shall be danger. Come,
Out with this money! What if the Regent knew!
Are men like us to be entrapp'd and sold
And see no money down, Sir Hurly-Burly?
We're vile crossbow-men and a knight are you,
But steel is steel and flesh is still but flesh,
So let us see your chinkers.

Sir Fleureant
(to Van Muck)
Sure he's drunk!
Why brought you me a drunken knave like this?

Van Muck.
He is not drunk, Sir; better that he were;
If they are for foul play, so am not I,
Nor did I mean it.

Sir Fleureant.
Ay, is that their game?
Sirs, ye mistook our honest friend Van Muck!
I could not in hard money bring you here
More than a moiety of the sums you'll earn
By carrying of my letters; it is thus
So much I'll pay you now, and as much more
You will receive in France from Hetz St. Croix,
King Charles's master of accompt. The King
Gave order for the payments.

Bulsen.
It is well;
We will convey your letters, Sir, with speed.

Van Kortz.
We'll trust to meet you afterward at Court
To see us justly paid.

Sir Fleureant.
Inquire for me
When you arrive at Senlis or at Lisle,
Or wheresoe'er the Court may then abide.
Here are the letters and the skins of gold
I give with each. The word is now “Despatch!”
Speak not, nor eat nor drink with friend or foe,
But each man take his wallet on his back
And steal away. No lack of Frenchmen's friends
You'll find at Bruges or Ypres. Who they are
These letters will inform you: and at Ghent
Though France may find less favour with the herd,
Still are there some that will befriend you. Hence!
What noise is that?

Van Muck.
The second watch.

Sir Fleureant.
Away!
[Exeunt Van Muck, Kortz, and Bulsen.
Now if one miscreant of the three play false,
A potsherd squares the value of this head.
Speed is my best safe-conduct, then, to France.

Scene II.

—The Pavilion, as in Scene III. of Act II. Artevelde and Elena. Cecile attending in the background.
Elena.
On your way hither, then, you passed through Ghent,
The city which you saved. How sweet a joy
Revisiting a place which owes to you
All that it hath of glory or of ease!

Artevelde.
Truly it should have overjoy'd me; yes;
How diverse, how contrarious is man!
I know not wherefore, but I scarce was pleased
To see that town now wallowing in wealth,
Which last I saw—and saw with hearty courage—
Pinch'd like a beggar wintering at death's door.
Now, both the mart was full and church; road, bridge,
River, and street, were populous and busy,
And money-bags were toss'd from hand to hand
Of men more thriftless than a miser's heir.
I liked it not; my task, it seem'd, was done;
The arrow sped, the bow unbent, the cord
Soundless and slack. I came away ill-pleased.

Elena.
Perhaps you suffer'd losses in the siege?

Artevelde.
Not in the siege; but I have suffer'd something.
There is a gate in Ghent—I pass'd beside it—
A threshold there, worn of my frequent feet,
Which I shall cross no more. But wherefore thus
Divert me from my drift? Look round; look on;
Think once again upon the proffer'd choice
Of French protection. Though my army wear
This hour an aspect of security
A battle must be fought ere long.

Elena.
My Lord,
You have been very kind to me. Oh, yes!
And in your nature's bounty and its wealth,
Despite those ineradicable stains
That streak my life, have used me with respect.
I will not quit your camp,—unless you wish it.

Artevelde.
Am I in life's embellishments so rich,
In pleasures so redundant, as to wish
The chiefest one away? No, fairest friend;
Mine eyes have travell'd this horizon round
Ending where they began, and they have roved
The boundless empyrean up and down,
And 'mid the undistinguish'd tumbling host
Of the black clouds, have lighted on a soft
And solitary spot of azure sky
Whereon they love to dwell. The clouds close in
And soon may shut it from my searching sight;
But let me still behold it whilst I may.

Elena.
You are so busy all day long, I fear'd
A woman's company and trifling talk
Would only importune you.

Artevelde.
Think not so;
The sweets of converse and society
Are sweetest when they're snatch'd; the often-comer,
The boon companion of a thousand feasts,
Whose eye has grown familiar with the fair,
Whose tutor'd tongue by practice perfect made
Is tamely talkative,—he never knows
That truest, rarest light of social joy
Which gleams upon the man of many cares.

Elena.
It is not every one could push aside
A country's weight so lightly.

Artevelde.
By your leave
There are but few that on so grave a theme
Continuously could ponder unrelieved.
The heart of man, walk it which way it will,
Sequester'd or frequented, smooth or rough,
Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks,
Or 'mid the clang of trumpets and the march
Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt,
Its hour of truce, its instant of repose,
Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek
The food of its affections, still must slake
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure
And pleasant to behold.

Elena.
To you that thirst,
Despite inebriating draughts of glory,
Despite ambition, power and strife, remains;
But great men mostly lose the taste of joy
Save from such things as give their greatness growth:
Which, spreading still, o'ershadows more and more
Of less enjoyments, until all are sunk
In business of the State.

Artevelde.
'Tis otherwise,
And ever was with me. It was not meant
By Him who on the back the burthen bound
That cares, though public, critical and grave,
Should so encase us and encrust, as shuts
The gate on what is beautiful below
And clogs those entries of the soul of man
Which lead the way to what he hath of Heaven:
This was not meant and me may not befall
Whilst thou remind'st me of those heavenly joys
I once possess'd in peace. Life—life, my friend,
May hold a not unornamented course
Wherever it shall flow; be the bed rocky,
Yet are there flowers, and none of brighter hue,
That to the rock are native. War itself
Deals in adornments, and the blade it wields
Is curiously carved and gaily gilt.
For me, let what is left of life, if brief,
Be bright, and let me kindle all its fires;
For I am as a rocket hurl'd on high,
But a few moments seen of earthly eyes,
Which ended, all is dark.

Enter Cecile.
Cecile.
My Lady! oh!
My Lord, my humble duty—Might I speak?—

Artevelde.
What hinders you, Cecile?

Elena.
Nay, ask not that;
Nought ever did, my Lord, nor ever will;
When she has breath you'll hear her.

Cecile.
Oh, my Lady!
That frightful man I've told you of so oft
That comes for ever with his vows of love
And will not be denied,—I always said,
“Begone! How dare you! Get you gone forsooth!
To bring such tales to me!” But still he came,
And now to-night—

Artevelde.
Who is it that she means?

Elena.
His name is—nay, God help my memory!
What is his name, Cecile?

Cecile.
Van Kortz, my Lady.

Artevelde.
Not he that once was marshalsman?

Cecile.
The same.

Artevelde.
I know him well—his quality at least
And his career I know. Right, right, Cecile;
Deny him stoutly, for he means no good.

Cecile.
I did, my Lord,—I heartily denied him;
I said I never would so much as touch him.
I told him if he'd hang himself for love
I'd love the rope that hang'd him,—nothing else.

Artevelde.
And yet he comes again?

Cecile.
Even now, my Lord,
He came as though it were to wreak his spite,
And show'd me bags of gold, and said that now
He was so rich that he could wed a dame,
Let pass a waiting wench, and from this time
He'd mend his fortune, nor e'er look so low.
I told him he might seek his fortune far
Ere he should find his match for pride and greed;
So with that word he set his spleen abroach
And cursing all the camp, and most yourself,
Swore he could buy and sell the best amongst you.

Artevelde.
What! said he so? and show'd you bags of gold?
He has been selling something. Ho, Van Ryk!
Van Ryk is waiting, no?

Cecile.
He is, my Lord.

Enter Van Ryk.
Artevelde.
Van Ryk, a word:
Thou know'st Van Kortz, the marshalsman that was—
He parted hence but now, and I have cause
To wish his person seized without delay
And brought before me, with all scrips or scrolls
That may be found upon him. Take my guard
And see it done.

[Exit Van Ryk.
Elena.
What is it you suspect?

Artevelde.
The gold is French.
He has not lately had the means to thrive
By Flemish gold. He was a man disgraced.

Cecile.
You're right, my Lord; 'twas not of guilders; no,
'Twas still of crowns and francs he talk'd.

Elena.
But whence
Has he French gold?

Artevelde.
From him whom France sent here
Doubtless to bring it,—from Sir Fleureant.

Elena.
Oh, surely, surely not,—a man who came
With sacred mission charged, to seek for peace!
It were but common honesty—

Artevelde.
My friend,
Say in what time has honesty been common?
Soft! silence, I beseech you; here's Van Ryk
And he has found his man. Enter Van Ryk, with Van Kortz guarded.

Whom hast thou there, Van Ryk, thus manacled,
And what is his offence?

Van Ryk.
My Lord, Van Kortz.

Artevelde.
Van Kortz! The gudgeon whom Sir Fleureant hired
To do French service, then betray'd to save
His proper head! Down, Sir, upon thy knees,
And tell what wiles the crafty Frenchman used
To cheat thee of thy loyalty.

Van Kortz
(kneeling).
My Lord,
I tell the simple truth. Sir Fleureant sware
The paper which he charged me with for Ghent
Was for his private ends and nothing touch'd
The faith I owed your Highness, and—

Artevelde.
Van Ryk,
Bring me Sir Fleureant hither. Soft a while!
What found you on Van Kortz?

Van Ryk.
This scroll, my Lord.

Artevelde
(reading the paper).

“Worthy masters of Ghent,—this is to make it known unto you that we are hastily to come down into Flanders with a hundred

thousand men, and with God's help to reseat our worthy cousin, Lois of Flanders, in his ancient estates and royalties, reducing to his obedience all that be rightfully bound thereunto and punishing the guilty. Wherefore we pray and counsel you, that at the receiving hereof, you return to your allegiance and send to us in our army the heads of these following: that is to say, Jacob Maurenbrecker, John Stotler, and Ralph of Kerdell; which done, we shall receive all others whatsoever to our friendship, and promise by these presents that none, saving these only, shall be called to answer what is past.

“Written and sealed with the broad seal of France, in our host before Senlis, the 2nd day of October, in the year of grace 1382, by the King in his Council.”

“You are to know that we have sent the like letters patent to the good towns of Bruges and Ypres, to which lest they reach not, we pray you to convey the contents hereof.”

Van Kortz.
My Lord
Bulsen to Ypres and Van Muck to Bruges.
They have set forth.

Artevelde.
Convey him hence to gaol.
Let fifty men be mounted—some pursue
Sir Fleureant of heurlée, some Van Muck,
And others Bulsen on the roads to France,
To Bruges, and Ypres;—for the head of each
Proclaim a thousand florins;—haste, Van Ryk!

[Exit Van Ryk, with Van Kortz guarded.
Cecile.
Oh Lord, the villain! and he came to me
So proud and saucy! Truly it is said
Give rope enough to rogues they'll hang themselves.

Elena.
And must he die, my Lord?

Artevelde.
What plea can save him?

Cecile.
That he should jeopardize his wilful head
Only for spite at me!

Elena.
'Tis strange!

Artevelde.
Not so;
That Providence which makes the good take heed
To safety and success, contrariwise
Makes villains mostly reckless. Look on life
And you shall see the crimes of blackest dye
So clumsily committed, by such sots,
So lost to thought, so scant of circumspection,
As shall constrain you to pronounce that guilt
Bedarkens and confounds the mind of man;
Human intelligence on murders bent
Becomes a midnight fumbler; human will,
Of God abandon'd, in its web of snares
Strangles its own intent.

Elena.
How fortunate
Was this man's malice thus conceived to thee,
My good Cecile! All woman as I am,
I can forgive thy beauty that hath bred
This love-engender'd hate.

Cecile.
I thank you, Madam.
The scornful knave! to bring his gold to me
That never would have looked upon him twice
Though he'd been made of gold!

Elena.
How came you first
To give him that authority and rank
Which late you took away?

Artevelde.
Those are there here
That hardly will be govern'd save by men
Of fierce and forward natures. He was known
For daring deeds from childhood; in his youth,
Famed for his great desire of doing evil,
He was elected into Testenoire's troop
Of free companions: so in field or forest,
Or in wall'd town by stipend lured, or vill
Surprised and sack'd, by turns he lived at large,
And learn'd the vice indigenous to each.
Nought in dark corners of great cities done
Of lewdness or of outrage, was unknown
By him or unpartaken, nor the woods
Lodged in their loneliest caves a beast so wild.
Clashings of swords, groans, cries of murder, all
Were to his ears indifferently common.
Thus grown at length more reckless than was safe
For his fraternity, they cast him off,
And hanging loose upon the world what time
My name was noised abroad, he join'd my camp.

Enter Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Sir Fleureant.
So, my Lord Regent! what is this I hear
Blown through the camp with trumpets? what's my head
That you should price it higher than the sum
Of good repute for honour's laws observed
Which you must part withal to take it? Much
I've heard of dangers in the Holy Land
Amongst the heathen, Jew or Turk or Moor,
But never thought in Christendom to find
Such bloody breach of hospitable laws!

Artevelde.
This is well spoken.

Cecile.
Oh, my Lord, for that,
He's free enough. . . . .

Elena.
Cecile, be silent: peace.

Artevelde.
What you have here deliver'd, Sir, I say
Hath been well spoken: it remains to ask
If that which you have perpetrated here
Hath been well done. Know you this writing?

Sir Fleureant.
Yes;
I know it well; 'twas by the King my Liege
Writ to the Mayor and citizens of Ghent.

Artevelde.
By you brought here; by you to one Van Kortz
Deliver'd for despatch; by him to me,
Upon his apprehension, yielded up.
Such is the story of these scrolls and scrawls
Which were to scribble out the loyalty
Of three good towns, to undermine the faith
Of my best friends; and having fouled and blurred
The record of my glory in the page
Of history past, blot it from that to come!
This was a worthy business.

Sir Fleureant.
Ay, my Lord;
Who shall gainsay the King of France his right
To send what letters or what words he will
To the good towns of Flanders?

Artevelde.
Let him try;
And gainsay those that can my privilege
To hang the bearers. Thou, Sir Fleureant,
Hast by thy treachery betray'd thyself
And unavoidably must suffer death.
Thou cam'st a sharer in a herald's charge
Ensuing peace; and, cloak'd in that disguise,
With money for thy purposes provided,
Thou hast bought treason. This may never pass;
Else what security is mine that faith
Is not put up to auction in my camp,
Till each man sell his brother? Who provokes
Treason in others, to a traitor's death
Justly condemns himself. Such is thy lot:
Yet do I rue the judgment I pronounce
And wish it undeserved; for thou hast lit
The darkness of thy indirect attempts
With a more lively cheer and gallant mien
Than most could brighten their best deeds withal.
Sir, I am sorry for thee.

Sir Fleureant.
Spare your pity,
And use your power. You see before you one
Who would more willingly confront the worst
Unpitying power inflicts than cry for mercy!
I have been used to deem the loss of life
But as a dead man's loss, that feels it not.

Artevelde.
Thou shalt do well of mortal life to think
Thus lightly, and with serious thoughts prepare
For that which is celestial and to come.
'Twixt this and daylight is thy leisure time
For such purgation as thou need'st. Cecile,
Send to St. Hubert's for some barefoot friar
And bid him come so stored and with such speed
As on a death-bed summons.

[He steps to a door of the tent and calls some Soldiers of his guard.
Cecile.
Yes, my Lord,
I'll go myself and say what duty calls him.

Sir Fleureant.
And prithee, wench, find me a merry friar,
Who shall beguile the time.

Cecile.
A merry friar!

Sir Fleureant.
Ay, wench; if any in the camp there be
They will be known to thee; a hearty man;
For I have ever look'd on life and death,
The world which is and that which is to be,
With cheerful eyes, and hoped the best of both;
And I would have Death's usher wear a smile
As through to-night's rough road he shows the way.
So send a merry friar.

Elena.
Oh, Sir Knight!
If die you must so soon, for God's dear love
Take thought for your immortal soul's behoof!
Confess yourself and pass the night in prayer.

Sir Fleureant.
Confession will not hold us long; I'm young
And have not yet had time enough to act
Sins that are long in telling:
[Then to Artevelde, who returns with two Soldiers of the Guard.
You, my Lord,
Cut short the catalogue betimes, I thank you.
To you, sweet Lady, for your counsel kind
And monitory speech, my last poor prayers
I give,—more worth than thanks from dying men;
And in your supplications of to-night
When you lie down to rest, I humbly crave
To be remember'd in return.

Elena.
Alas!
Would I could stead you more than with the prayers
Of such a sinful creature!

Sir Fleureant.
Lady, soon
You'll need them for yourself. This fair array
Of warlike multitudes you see around
Will sunder and dissolve like wreaths of snow
Pelted and riddled with the rains in March.
Then should my Lord of Bourbon find you here,
'Twill be a rude rencounter; if at Bruges
You found a lover in an enemy,
The tables will be turned at Oudenarde,
And in a lover shall you find a foe.
I pray you think upon it.

Artevelde.
Fare thee well.
These will conduct thee to thy place of rest,
And all thy needs or wishes may require
To make the night pass easily, supply.
Again, Sir, fare thee well.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, farewell.
I hardly know what words should thank your bounty
That grants me everything—except my life.

[Exit, guarded.
Elena.
O would, my Lord, that you could grant him that!
He is a gallant gentleman.

Artevelde.
He's stricken;
Which makes the meanest hold his courage high
In presence of his Lady: not the less
He is a brave and very noble knight,
And nothing moves me in his favour more
Than what he spake to you. I'm grieved, in truth,
That stern necessity demands his death.
No more of that. Turn we another leaf.
The world declares us lovers, you have heard.

Elena.
My Lord?

Artevelde.
The world, when men and women meet,
Is rich in sage remark, nor stints to strew
With roses and with myrtle fields of death.
Think you that they will grow?

Elena.
My Lord, your pardon;
You speak in such enigmas, I am lost
And cannot comprehend you.

Artevelde.
Do I so?
That was not wont to be my fault. In truth
There is a season when the plainest men
Will cease to be plain-spoken; for their thoughts
Plunge deep in labyrinths of flowers and thorns,
And hardly to the light of day break through,
Whilst much they wander darkling. Yet for once
Let love be marshall'd by the name of love,
To meet such entertainment as it may.

Elena.
I have been much unfortunate, my Lord;
I would not love again.

Artevelde.
And so have I;
Nor man nor woman more unfortunate
As none more blessed in what was taken from him.
Dearest Elena,—of the living dearest,—
Let my misfortunes plead, and know their weight
By knowing of the worth of what I lost.
She was a creature framed by love divine
For mortal love to muse a life away
In pondering her perfections; so unmoved
Amidst the world's contentions if they touched
No vital chord nor troubled what she loved,
Philosophy might look her in the face,
And like a hermit stooping to the well
That yields him sweet refreshment, might therein
See but his own serenity reflected
With a more heavenly tenderness of hue!
Yet whilst the world's ambitious empty cares,
Its small disquietudes and insect stings,
Disturb'd her never, she was one made up
Of feminine affections, and her life
Was one full stream of love from fount to sea.
These are but words.

Elena.
They're full of meaning.

Artevelde.
No,
No, they mean nothing—that which they would speak
Sinks into silence—'tis what none can know
That knew not her—the silence of the grave—
Whence could I call her radiant beauty back
It could not come more savouring of Heaven
Than it went hence; the tomb received her charms
In their perfection, with nor trace of time
Nor stain of sin upon them; only death
Had turn'd them pale. Would you had seen her once,
Living or dead!

Elena.
I wish I had, my Lord;
I should have loved to look upon her much;
For I can gaze on beauty all day long
And think the all day long is but too short.

Artevelde.
She was so fair that in the angelic choir
She will not need put on another shape
Than that she bore on earth. Well, well, she's gone,
And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief
Are transitory things no less than joy,
And though they leave us not the men we were,
Yet they do leave us. You behold me here
A man bereaved, with something of a blight
Upon the early blossoms of his life
And its first verdure, having not the less
A living root, and drawing from the earth
Its vital juices, from the air its powers:
And surely as man's health and strength are whole
His appetites regerminate, his heart
Re-opens, and his objects and desires
Shoot up renew'd. What blank before me lay
From what is said you partly may surmise;
How I have hoped to fill it, may I tell?

Elena.
I fear, my Lord, that cannot be.

Artevelde.
Indeed!
Then am I doubly hopeless. What is gone
Nor plaints nor prayers nor yearnings of the soul
Nor memory's tricks nor fancy's invocations—
Though tears went with them frequent as the rain
In dusk November, sighs more sadly breathed
Than winter's whispering of the fallen leaf,—
Can bring again: and should this living hope
That like a violet from the other's grave
Grew sweetly, in the tear-besprinkled soil
Finding moist nourishment—this seedling sprung
Where recent grief had like a ploughshare pass'd
Through the soft soul and loosen'd its affections—
Should this new-blossom'd hope be coldly nipp'd,
Then were I desolate indeed! a man
Whom heaven would wean from earth, and nothing leaves
But cares and quarrels, trouble and distraction,
The heavy burthens and the broils of life.
Is such my doom? Nay, speak it, if it be.

Elena.
I said I fear'd another could not fill
The place of her you lost, being so fair
And perfect as you pictured her.

Artevelde.
'Tis true;
A perfect woman is not as a coin,
Which being gone, its very duplicate
Is counted in its place. Nature on you
Hath stamped an impress—regal—but of hers
Rather the contrast than the counterpart.
Colour to wit—complexion; hers was light
And gladdening; a roseate tincture shone
Transparent in its place, her skin elsewhere
White as the foam from which in happy hour
Sprang the Thalassian Venus: yours is clear
But bloodless, and though beautiful as night
In cloudless ether clad, not frank as day:
Such is the tinct of your diversity;
Serenely radiant she, you darkly fair.

Elena.
Dark still has been the colour of my doom,
And having not the brightness in my soul
How should I wear the aspect?

Artevelde.
Wear it not;
Wear only that of love.

Elena.
Of love? alas!
That were to scatter this so mournful mist
By calling up the hurricane. Time was,
'Tis true, that this foolhardy heart would brave,
Yea madly court, an enterprise of passion,
And like a witch would whistle for a whirlwind.
May time not tame it? Is it wild as ever?
And you too should have learnt what time and pain
Can teach of wisdom.

Artevelde.
Brightly upon me
Love breaks anew beneath the gathering clouds
That roll around; and brightly upon you
I see it break, but verily as you say,
'Tis with a stormy gleam; and looking forth,
I ask myself, too late, what lot is this,
What destiny that links you with a love
Whose sunset is at hand, whose midnight lamp
May chance be lighted at a funeral torch
And show the way to Fate?

Elena.
What destiny?
Think what you will, but think not that I fear
To be your yokemate in calamity;
Yes, or in death, should death be threaten'd; nay,
What loftier fortune could a wild-flower find
Than to be cast upon a noble corse?
Oh God! that I were worthier!—that the joy,
The greatness of the destiny, were deserved!
But speak not now of darkness, death and night:
Believe, as I believe, redeemed by you
From all that Nature clothed me with of gloom,
That many a sunrise shall be yours, and Hope,
Rising with every sun, irradiate
The long procession of the prosperous days,
Triumphal, crowned with glory.

Artevelde.
Crowned with love.
Give to this day, this sumptuous day, that crown;
Let others run their course; give me this heart
That beats itself to pieces. . . . .

Elena.
No, I cannot,—
I cannot give you what you've had so long,
Nor need I tell you what you know so well.
I must be gone.

Artevelde.
Nay, sweetest, why these tears?

Elena.
No, let me go—I cannot tell—no—no—
I want to be alone—
Oh! Artevelde, for God's love, let me go!

[Exit.
Artevelde
(after a pause).
The night is far advanced upon the morrow,
And but for that conglomerated mass
Of cloud with ragged edges, like a mound
Or black pine-forest on a mountain's top,
Wherein the light lies ambush'd, dawn were near.
Ay, truth to say, the night is sped and gone.
Was it well spent? Successfully it was.
And yet of springs and sources taking note
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Thrice gifted girl! The conqueror of the world
In winning thee might deem he won a prize
More precious far, yet count the prize he won
As portion of his treasure, not his pride;
For when was love the measure of desert?
The few hours left are precious—Who is there?
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—when we think upon it
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest
And propp'd with most advantage; outward grace
Nor inward light is needful; day by day
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of sex
And ridicules the very name of choice.
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—what, then, do we sleep?
Are none of you awake?—and as for me,
The world says Philip is a famous man—
What is there women will not love, so taught?
Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.
Enter an Officer.
Have me a gallows built upon the mount
And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day.
No news of Bulsen or Van Muck?

Officer.
My Lord,
Bulsen is taken; but Van Muck, we fear,
Has got clear off.

Artevelde.
Let Bulsen, too, be hung
At break of day. Let there be priests to shrive them.
Who guards the Knight, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée?

Officer.
Sasbout, my Lord, and Tuning.

Artevelde.
Very well.
Mount me a messenger; I shall have letters
To send to Van den Bosch upon the Lis.
Let Grebber wait upon me here. Go thou
Upon thine errands.
[Exit Officer.]
—So,Van Muck escaped!
And Ypres will receive its invitation.
I think, then, Van den Bosch must spare a force
To strengthen us at Ypres for a season.
I'll send him orders. And Van Muck the traitor!
Stupidity is seldom soundly honest;
I should have known him better. Live and learn!

Scene III.

—The interior of a tent.—Sir Fleureant of Heurlée is seated at a table on which wine and refreshments are placed. Guards are seen without, walking backwards and forwards before the doors of the tent.
Sir Fleureant.
I oft before have clomb by rotten boughs
To frail tree-tops; but this will be the last.
Were it to do again, ten thousand Dukes
With all their wealth of folly and want of wit
Should tempt me not to such fool-hardihood.
Here is the end of Fleureant of Heurlée!
I know it; for my heart is dead already—
An omen that did cross me ne'er before
In any jeopardy of life.
Cecile enters with a Friar.
This wind
Is cold, methinks, that comes through yonder door.
I thought I had a cloak.

Cecile.
The Friar, Sir.

Sir Fleureant.
Well, this is strange; I surely had a cloak.

Cecile.
Sir, would you see the Friar?

Sir Fleureant.
Eh? what? who?

Cecile.
The Friar, Sir.

Sir Fleureant.
What Friar?—oh, your pardon!
What? is it time?

Friar.
This wench, my son, brought word
That you would fain confess yourself o'ernight
And then make merry like a noble heart
Till break of day that brings your latter end.

Sir Fleureant.
What is't o'clock?

Cecile.
I have not told the chimes
Since midnight.

Sir Fleureant.
Yes, I wish'd myself confess'd;
But, by your leave, not now!—my eyes are heavy
And I was fain to wrap me in my cloak
And lay me down to sleep as you came in.
I think I had a cloak.

Cecile.
'Tis here, Sir, here.

Sir Fleureant.
Ah, there it is. The air, I think, is sharp.

Friar.
'Tis a cold air, my son, a cold and dry;
But here's an element that's hot and moist
To keep the other out. I drink your health.

Sir Fleureant.
My health! ha! ha! I'll lay me down and sleep,
For I've a mortal weariness upon me.
My body's or my soul's health do you drink?

Friar.
I drink, Sir, to your good repose.

Sir Fleureant.
I thank you;
I shall sleep sound to-morrow.

Cecile.
Put this cushion
Under your head.

Sir Fleureant.
Ah, you are kind, wench, now;
You're not so saucy as you were. So,—there.

Friar.
And this I drink to your dear soul's salvation.

Cecile.
I'd tend you all night long with all my heart
If it might do you good.

Sir Fleureant.
Good night, good night.

Friar.

Cecile.
Be not so loud, good Friar, let him sleep.
He'll pass the time more easy.

Friar.
Let him sleep!
What hinders him to sleep?—not I, my lass;
I've shriven many a sinner for the gallows;
There's nothing wakes them but a lusty tug.
I'd rather he should sleep than you, sweet wench;
What, are you wakeful? Ah, you fat ribs! Ah!

Cecile.
Begone, you filthy Friar! At your tricks
With here a dead man lying, one may say,
Amongst one's feet!

Friar.
Who's dead, my merry soul?
Not I, nor near it yet.

Cecile.
Out! ancient blotch!

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde
(stumbling against Sir Fleureant, who wakes and sits up).
So, what is this? what wrangle ye about?
What mak'st thou, Friar, with the wench?

Friar.
Who, I?

Cecile.
Ay, tell his Highness how you'd use a maid.

Friar.
Alack! we Churchmen, Sir, have much ado!
We are but men, and women will be women.
Fie, they are naughty jades!—sluts all! sluts all!
Fie, how they steal upon our idle hours!

Cecile.
Thou liest, thou scandalous Friar—

Artevelde.
Soft, Cecile!

Friar.
Oh, she's a light-skirts!—yea, and at this present
A little, as you see, concern'd with liquor.

Cecile.
A light-skirts! If it were not for thy cowl
I have that lesson at my fingers' ends
Should teach thee how to lay thy carrion's sins
Upon a wholesome maid.

Artevelde.
Peace, peace, I say!
I would discourse some matters with this Knight.
Leave us together. Friar, go thy ways;
Thy hands are not too clean. I know the wench;
She would not tempt thee. Get thee gone, I say.

Friar.
My Lord, the peace of God be with your Grace,
And with this Knight, and with that sinful woman.

[Exit.
Cecile.
I thank your Highness—Oh the mouldy knave!
I thank you, Sir. Good-even to your Grace.

[Exit.
Artevelde.
Good-night, Cecile.—Sir, I disturb'd your rest;
I saw not that you lay there.

Sir Fleureant.
Oh, my Lord,
It matters not; to-morrow I shall lie
Where you will not disturb me.

Artevelde.
So you think.

Sir Fleureant.
So you, my Lord, have said.

Artevelde.
You stand condemn'd;
Yet 'tis a word that I would fain unsay.

Sir Fleureant.
You are most kind; the word was ever rife
You were a merciful man and fearing God,
And God is good to such and prospers them;
And if my life it please you now to spare
You may find mercy for yourself in straits
According as you show it.

Artevelde.
Nay, thy life
Is justly forfeited: which if I spare
It is not that I look for God's reward
In sparing crime; since justice is God's due.
Thou hast an intercessor, to whose prayers
I grant thy life, absolving thee not freely,
But on conditions.

Sir Fleureant.
Whatsoe'er they be
I will be bound by oath and honour's pledge
Most faithfully to fulfil them.

Artevelde.
Well thou may'st.
'Tis but to pay thy debt of grateful care
To her whose charity redeems thy life
That I would bind thee. At the prayer much press'd
Of thy Lord's sometime Lady thou art spared.

Sir Fleureant.
I'm bound to her for ever.

Artevelde.
Sometime hence
Mischances may befall her. Though I trust,
And with good reason, that my arms are proof,
Yet is the tide of war unsteady still;
And should my hope be wreck'd upon some reef
Of adverse fortune, there is cause to fear
Her former Lord, thy master, who suspects
Uneasily her faith, in victory's pride
Would give his vengeance and his jealousy
Free way to her destruction. In such hour,
Should it arrive, thou might'st befriend the Lady
As in thy present peril she doth thee.

Sir Fleureaint.
I were ungrateful past all reach of words
That speak of baseness and ingratitude
Should I not hold my life and hand and heart
Purely at her behest from this time forth.
And truly in conjunctures such as those
Your Highness hath foreseen, to aid her flight
Were service which no Fleming could perform
How true soe'er his heart, and yet to me
It were an easy task.

Artevelde.
I trust the day
Will never come that puts thy pledge to proof;
But should it come, I charge thee on thy faith
And duty as a Knight, be stout and true.
Prudence, meantime, demands that thou remain
In close confinement.

Sir Fleureant.
As you please, my Lord.

Artevelde.
(after a pause)
What, watch there, ho!
Enter two Guards.
You will give passage to Sir Fleureant
To go at large. My mind you see is changed;
It ever was my way, and shall be still,
When I do trust a man to trust him wholly.
Thou shalt not quit my camp; but that word given,
Thou art at large within it.

Sir Fleureant.
Sir, your trust
Shall not appear misplaced.

Artevelde.
Give thee good rest!
And better dreams than those I woke thee from.

Sir Fleureant.
With grateful heart I say, my Lord, God keep you!

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Ypres.—The Burgomaster of Ypres, with several Burghers of the French Faction, and Van Muck.
Burgomaster.
Well, well, God bless us! have a care—oh me!
Be careful how thou speak'st; wear a white hat;
And ever, mind'st thou, when thou see'st Vauclaire,
Uncover and stand back.

Van Muck.
I will, your worship.

Burgomaster.
Nay, but thou must. And Roosdyk—speak him fair:
For, give him but a saucy word, he's out,
And twinkling me his dagger in the sun,
Says, “take you that,” and thou art dead for good.

Van Muck.
I'll speak him fair.

Burgomaster.
Nay, but I say thou shalt.
Tis a good rule to be more civil-spoken
Than wantonly be cut and stabb'd for nothing.

Van Muck.
'Tis so, your worship.

Burgomaster.
Cast not away thy life.

Van Muck.
'Tis as your worship pleases.

1st Burgher.
But if Vauclaire, or Roosdyk, on their rounds,
Should ask him whence he comes or what's his craft,
Being strange-looking for a citizen,
What should he answer?

Burgomaster.
Say thou com'st from Dinand—
From Dinand, say, to sell Dinandery,
Pots, pitchers, mugs and beakers, and the like.

Van Muck.
Suppose I'm question'd where they are?

Burgomaster.
Thou'st sold 'em.
Say thou thank'st God. Say thou'rt a thriving man.

1st Burgher.
(aside to 2nd)
This matter will be out.

2nd Burgher.
Why so?

1st Burgher.
Good friend,
Did'st ever know a secret to lie close
Under a goose's wing?

2nd Burgher.
I think 'twill out.
'Twill surely out.

1st Burgher.
The frighten'd fox sits fast;
Folly with fear will flutter still and cackle. [Aloud.]

This will be known. I am for rising now,
Slaying Vauclaire and Roosdyk in their beds
Before they nose it, sounding through the streets
King Charles's pardon and the town's submission,
And so to present issue with it all.

Burgomaster.
Mercy! what foolishness will young men talk!

1st Burgher.
Under your favour—old men too at times.

3rd Burgher.
De Vry, a word. I marvel at thy rashness;
We are not ripe for action: in a week,
Perchance a day,—nay, it may be this hour,
Or Van den Bosch will conquer at Commines,
Or the French force the passage. If the first,
In vain were this revolt, for Van den Bosch
Would quell us in a trice; and if the second,
Then were the time to rise, for all the town
Would then rise with us.

2nd Burgher.
In good time, Verstolken;
The axe's edge is turned toward us now,
And what shall save us if this mooncalf here
Should let his errand out?

Van Muck.
A mooncalf, I?
I am an honest man; I dare you, Sir,
To signify me other.

2nd Burgher.
Hold thy peace.
Whilst the French King is looked for at Commines
Too wise is Van den Bosch to break his strength
With sending soldiers hither. He but counts
Nine thousand men.

4th Burgher.
The double were too few
To be divided.

5th Burgher.
More than some two thousand
Would hardly march on Ypres should we thrive,
And if they did, what then? We'd bowl them down
Like ninepins.

2nd Burgher.
Nay, no fear of Van den Bosch;
He'll never waste his forces upon us
Whilst the French King's to come; and then the news
Of Ypres fallen off will cheer the French,
Sicken the White-Hoods, and make sure the loss
Of that famed passage, which shall magnify
Our merits with King Charles.

Enter a Sixth Burgher.
6th Burgher.
Away, away!
Vauclaire has word of all you do; a troop
Despatch'd by Van den Bosch to give him aid
Is riding into town; Van Muck's commission
Is whisper'd of, and loudly.

Burgomaster.
There now, there!
I told you so—I told you this would come;
But still you talk'd of rising. Run, Van Muck,
Thou villain, run, and be not seen abroad
With honest citizens.

2nd Burgher.
Ay, get thee hence;
Best quit the town and make thy way to France.

Van Muck.
I will, your worships.
[Exit, but returns immediately.
Please you, Sir, they come;
The street is full of men-at-arms.

Burgomaster.
There—there!
I said so; there! and still you hearken'd not!
Oh Time and Tide! Oh wala-wa! Oh me!

3rd Burgher.
What shall we do?

2nd Burgher.
Van Muck, stand fast; they come:
It is Vauclaire himself.

Burgomaster.
Say you sell pots.

Enter Vauclaire and Roosdyk, followed by a troop of Men-at-Arms.
Vauclaire.
Ah, Master Burgomaster, here thou art!

Roosdyk.
Make fast the doors.

Vauclaire.
And thou, Verstolken—nay!
Here's Goswin Hex, and Drimmelen, and Breero!
And thou, De Vry—Van Rosendaal, and thou!
How rare a thing is faith! Alas, my masters!
Here is a work you put me to!

Roosdyk.
Stand forth,
Master Van Muck! where art thou?—which is he?

3rd Burgher.
What is it, Sirs, you charge us with?

Roosdyk.
What think ye?
Say treason and I'll call you conjurors.

Vauclaire.
I have my orders—stand thou forth, Van Muck—
Which I must needs obey. What art thou, say?

Roosdyk.
A villain.

Van Muck.
No, Sirs, I am not a villain;
I am a travelling trader; I sell pots.

Roosdyk.
Thyself—a precious vessel!—that thou sell'st.
Where is the Provost Marshal? Hark you, Sir!
Put irons on them all, and give Van Muck
A taste of what you have.

Burgomaster.
Hold off! what's this?
I am your master.

Roosdyk.
Knock him on the head;
Bid him be patient.

Vauclaire.
I am amazed at this!
So sweetly as you all demean'd yourselves!
A guileful world we live in! God forgive us!
Make fast the gyves and take them off to gaol.

Burgomaster.
Sirs, hear me, oh!

Roosdyk.
Gag me this grey-beard!

Burgomaster.
Oh!

1st Burgher.
Thank God!

Vauclaire.
The Stadt-house. You shall all be heard
Except Van Muck, whose treason is too rank
To be excused. My orders I obey;
First to the rack they doom him, then to the block.

Van Muck.
Oh! mercy, Sirs; I'm not a traitor; no,
I'll tell it all.

Roosdyk.
That shalt thou, or the rack
Is not so good a singing-master now
As it was wont to be.

Van Muck.
Oh Lord! oh Lord!

[He is taken out.
Vauclaire.
Bring them away: the Stadt-house—hear them there,
Each by himself. Bring them away at once;
Keep them apart and let them not have speech
One of another.

Roosdyk.
If any man make signs,
Despatch him on the spot. Master Vauclaire,
We follow you.

Scene II.

—The French Court at Arras.—An Antechamber in the Maison de Ville. Tristram of Lestovet, Clerk of the Council, and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Sir Fleureant.
When I forgive him, may the stars rain down
And pierce me with ten thousand points of fire!
His whore! his leman!

Lestovet.
Had she been his wife
A small transgression might have pass'd. Learn thou
To keep thy hands from meddling with men's whores;
For dubious rights are jealously enforced,
And what men keep for pleasure is more precious
Than what need is they keep.

Sir Fleureant.
He'll be the worse,
And knows it. When I fled I left behind
A notion of my purpose. There's none here
Can know like me his weakness and his strength.
Let but the Council hear me, I shall tell
What shall be worth to them ten thousand spears.

Lestovet.
'Tis now their time; but youth lies long a-bed;
The King is always tardy. Who comes here!
My Lord of Burgundy, I think—yes, he.

Enter Duke of Burgundy.
Burgundy.
Good-morrow, Sirs, good-morrow! So, your stars,
They tell me, are your good friends still, good Flurry;
You always come clear off;—well, I'm glad on't.

Sir Fleureant.
I give your Highness thanks.

Burgundy.
Well, Lestovet,
My brother of Bourbon keeps his mind, they say;
He is for Tournay still! 'tis wonderful,
A man of sense to be so far astray!

Lestovet.
His Grace of Bourbon is misguided much;
He is deluded by a sort of men
That should know better.

Burgundy.
They shall rue it: Lo!
To turn aside ten leagues, ten Flemish leagues,
With sixty thousand men!—mad, plainly mad.

Lestovet.
Sir Fleureant here, who left the rebel camp
No longer past than Wednesday, says their strength
Lies wholly eastward of the Scheldt.

Sir Fleureant.
The towns
Betwixt the Scheldt and Lis, your Grace should know,
Are shaking to their steeple-tops with fear
Of the French force; and westward of the Lis
You need but blow a trumpet and the gates
Of Ypres, Poperinguen, Rousselaere,
And Ingelmunster, gape to take you in.

Burgundy.
They are my words, they are my very words;
Twenty times over have I told him so.
But he's as stubborn as a mule; and oh!
That Constable! Oh, Oliver of Clisson!
That such a man as thou, at such a time,
Should hold the staff of Constable of France!
Well! such men are!

Lestovet.
My Lord, forgive my zeal
For so exorbitantly shooting past
The line of duty as to tender words
Of counsel to your Highness; but my thoughts
Will out, and I have deem'd that with his Grace,
Your royal brother, you have dealt too shortly;
The noble frankness of your nature breaks
Too suddenly upon the minds of men
That love themselves and with a jealous love
Are wedded to their will: not he alone,
But others of the Council at his back
Would on a gentler provocation yield
That stiffen with a rougher.

Burgundy.
That may be;
But, Lestovet, to sue to them to yield!
I cannot do it.

Lestovet.
May it please your Grace
To leave it in my hands. With easier ear
They listen to a man of low condition;
And under forms that in your Grace to use
It were unseemly, I can oft approach,
And with a current that themselves scarce see
Can turn the tenour of their counsels.

Burgundy.
Nay;
But how can I be absent from the board
At such a time as this?

Lestovet.
A seizure, say,
Of sudden illness. They'll be here anon;—
I think I hear them now.

Sir Fleureant.
A sound, I think,
Of horses' feet.

Burgundy.
Then try it, Lestovet;
You are a wise and wary man; this day
I leave the field to you; say that the gout
Confines me to my chamber.

Lestovet.
Hark, my Lord,
They come.

Burgundy.
Farewell to you; improve your time.

[Exit.
Lestovet.
Ha! ha! the Council! they are mettlesome men.
Arouse their passions, and they'll have opinions;
Leave them but cool, they know not what to think.

Sir Fleureant.
You'll tell them I am here.

Lestovet.
Before they rise
You shall be heard at large; but leave to me
To choose the fitting moment. Hide without
Until the Usher have a sign: the mace
Shall trundle from the board, which he shall hear;
Then come at once as one that from his horse
Leaps down, and, reeking, hurries in to tell
A tale that will not wait.

Scene III.

—The Council Chamber.
The Chaplain to the Council and an Usher.
Chaplain.
Beasts of the People called in Holy Writ;
Beasts of the People proved in France to-day.
And such as we are leaving them in France
In Flanders shall we find them. Is't not so?

Usher.
Yea, Sir; but not now first, or here or there.
In France,—I think 'tis twenty years foregone,—
When I was but a boy,—twenty and more,—
That ramping to a Demon's trumpet-call
The beasts of burthen changed to beasts of prey.
Our Aubriot of to-day was Claremont then,
And then in Flanders Philip's father ruled,
As now the son.

Chaplain.
Worse villain of the two.
And how comes he, not skilled nor bred to war,
To deal such deadly strokes? I'll tell thee how:
The father, knowing to what wicked work
The babe was destined, at the Font of Grace
Took order with a catamountain priest,
A hungry priest whose mouth he filled, to leave
(Oh! sacrilege, and horrible hell-born sin!)
The right hand unbaptized.

[A flourish of trumpets.
Usher.
Ho! there they come.
Here is thy book—this door—just show thyself
Before we go—if they but see thy back
They are content and take their prayers as read.

[Exeunt Chaplain and Usher.
Enter the King, who is brought in by the Duke of Bourbon and seated on a Chair of State at the head of the Board; three seats are placed below, on two of which the Dukes of Bourbon and Berry place themselves. The other Councillors take their seats in succession to the number of twelve; to wit, Sir Oliver of Clisson, Constable of France; Sir John of Vien, Admiral of France; the Lord of Coucy, Sir William of Poictiers, Sir Aymenon of Pumiers, the Bastard of Langres, Sir Raoul of Raneval, and the Begue of Villaine. A desk is placed opposite the lower end of the Board, at which is seated Tristram of Lestovet, Clerk of the Council.
Bourbon.
My brother of Burgundy is sick to-day;
And keeps his chamber, which the King permits,

The King.
We do.

Bourbon.
Save him, our number is complete.
Sir Oliver of Clisson, unto thee,
By virtue of thine office, appertains,
More than to any here, to point the course
Of the King's armies: wherefore he desires
Thou open this day's business.

The King.
'Tis our will.

The Constable.
May it please your Highness; and my good Lords, you!
So much was said on Friday of the choice
'Twixt Lille and Tournay—that the more direct,
And this, 'tis justly held, the safer road—
That I should waste your patience and your time
Did I detain you long. To Lille, my Lords,
Were two days' journey; thence to Warneston
Were one day, let or hindrance coming none;
But should the rains continue and the Deule—

The King.
What ails my Lord of Burgundy, good uncle?

Bourbon.
The gout, sweet cousin. May it please your Grace
To hearken to the Constable.

The Constable.
My Lords,
If with these luckless rains the Deule be flooded
As there is cause to think it is, at least
From Armentières to Quesnoy, and the Marque
Be also fuller than its wont, what days
Should bring us to the Lis were hard to tell.
But grant we reach so far, all over-pass'd
Without mishap the waters in our way,
The bridges on the upper Lis, we know,
Are broken down, and on the further shore
Lies Van den Bosch—and where are we to pass?
I put it to you, where are we to pass?
How do we cross the Lis?

Saimpi.
May it please your Grace,
I would be bold to ask the Constable
Hath not the Lis a source?

Sanxere.
Yea, one or more.

Saimpi.
Why then it may be cross'd.

The Constable.
My Lord of Saimpi,
Surely it may be cross'd, if other ways
Present no better hope. My Lords, ye all
Have voices in the Council; speak your minds,
And God forefend that any words of mine
Should blind your better judgments.

Pumiers.
Higher up,
A few leagues south, by Venay and St. Venant,
The Lis is fordable and is not kept.

Raneval.
Not kept, my Lords! why should it? Van den Bosch
Were doubtless overjoy'd to see us strike,
Amidst the drenching of these torrents, deep
Into the lands of Cassel and Vertus;
An English force, for aught we know, the while
Borne like a flock of wild geese o'er the seas
And dropp'd at Dunkirk. On the left are they,
The Flemings on the right, strong towns in front;
And so we plunge from clammy slough to slough
With fog and flood around us.

Sanxere.
Yea, wet-footed.

Raneval.
What say you?

Sanxere.
For the love of God, my Lords,
Keep we dry feet. Rheumatic pains, catarrhs,
And knotty squeezings of the inward man
Thus may we fly the taste of.

Raneval.
Soft, Sir Lois;
Spare us thy gibes; I've stood more winters' nights
Above my knees in mire than thou hast hairs
Upon the furnish'd outside of thy skull.

Sanxere.
I say, my Lords, take heed of mists and swamps;
Eschew rain-water; think on winter nights;
Beware the Flemish on the Lis; beware
The English, that are in much strength—at London.
You've brought the King to Arras in November,
And now you find that in November, rain
Is wont to fall; you find that fallen rain
Swells rivers and makes floods; whereof advised,
Take the King back with all convenient speed
And shut him up at Senlis.

The King.
Hold, Sir Lois;
I will not go.

Sanxere.
I crave your Grace's pardon;
I little dream'd you would; you are a man.

Raneval.
Lois of Sanxere, I ask thee in this presence,
Fling'st thou these girds at me?

The Constable.
My Lords, my Lords!
I do beseech you to bethink yourselves.
Remember where ye are.

Raneval
(drawing off his glove).
Lois of Sanxere—

[Here Tristram of Lestovet, in arranging some parchments, touches the mace, which rolls heavily from the table and falls close to the feet of Sir Raoul of Raneval. He starts up.
Lestovet.
Not hurt, my Lord, I hope? Thank God! thank God!
Most humbly do I sue to you, my Lord,
To grant me your forgiveness.

Raneval.
Nay, 'tis nought;
It might have been a bruise, but——

Enter an Usher, followed by Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Usher.
Please your Grace,
Sir Fleureant of Heurlée waits without,
Hot from the Flemish camp, which he but left
Two days agone, and he can tell your Grace
How all things stand in Flanders.

Bourbon.
Now we'll see;
This is an apt arrival. Welcome, Sir!
What is the news you bring us?

Sir Fleureant.
Please your Grace,
The letters patent I sought means to send
To Ghent and Bruges and Ypres; to the last
Alone they found their way, although from thence
Doubtless the terms have spread. The Regent, warn'd
Of what was machinated, as I hear,
Sent orders to the Lis for Van den Bosch
To split his power, and throw a third to Ypres
To fortify Vauclaire: whilst he stood fast,
But held himself prepared, if Bruges should rise
Or Ghent, to drop adown the Lis to Heule,
Or Disselghem, or Rosebecque, there to join
The Regent's force, that then should raise the siege
Of Oudenarde, and gather on the Lis.

Bourbon.
These are good tidings; yet I deem the Lis
Is still too strongly guarded for our force
There to make way.

The Constable.
Your Grace is ever just
In all your views.

Villaine.
Sir Constable, some thought
Let us bestow on tidings whence we learn
The fears o' the adverse and the slide this way
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges.

Raneval.
Should these towns turn,
The Regent were constrain'd to keep i' the west
A larger force and passing down the Scheldt
By Tournay, we are less opposed.

Sanxere.
Not so.

Raneval.
I say we meet with opposition less
Upon the Scheldt at Tournay.

Sanxere.
I say, no.
Turning our faces from these doubting towns,
What can they but fall back?

Raneval.
Wilt have it so?
Methinks, my Lords, if turning and backsliding
And lack of loyalty——

Lestovet
(to Sir Fleureant).
Hilloa, Sir, ho!
You cannot go, you must not quit the board;
My Lords will further question you anon.
Spake you not of the Scheldt? doubtless my Lords
Would hear you upon that.

Bourbon.
Ay, ay, the Scheldt;
What say'st thou of the Scheldt?

Sir Fleureant.
My Lords, 'tis true
With mine own eyes I have not view'd the Scheldt
Higher than Oudenarde, yet what I know
More sure than common rumour I may tell,—
That reach by reach from Elsegem to Kam,
At sundry stations, say Kerckhoven first,
'Twixt Berkhem and Avelghem, where the Ronne
Its tide contributes elbowing Escanaffe,
At Pontespiers and Pecq and divers points
Betwixt them interposed, strong piles are driven
Deep in the belly of the stream athwart.
Thus neither up nor down can make their way
Boat, raft, nor caravel.

Langres.
We see, my Lords,
The Scheldt is no purveyor of our victual
Should we proceed by Tournay.

Saimpi.
I surmise
We shall find spears as thick upon the banks
As stakes within the stream.

Raneval.
Then let us—Ha!
Who is it now that flinches and postpones?
I say, once pass'd the Scheldt, and better far
We should confront the Flemish spears; so be it!
We'd give the villains such a taste of France
That thence for evermore “Mon Joye St. Denis”
Should be a cry to make their life-blood freeze
And teach rebellion duty.

Sanxere.
Fee, faw, fum!

Lestovet.
The Admiral would speak; the Admiral
Hath not yet spoken.

The Admiral.
Here we lie, my Lords,
At Arras still, disputing. I am a man
Of little fruitfulness in words; the days
That we lie here, my Lords, I deem ill spent.
Once and again the time of year is told,
That we are in November: whiles we vex
This theme, what follow?—why, December? True,
The time of year is late, my Lords; yea, truly,
The fall of the year, I say, my Lords, November,
Is a late season, when it rains, my Lords.
I have not, as you know, the gift of speech,
But thus much may a plain man say,—time flies;
The English are a people deft, my Lords,
And sudden in the crossing of the seas;
And should we linger here with winter coming
We were not call'd good men of war, forsooth.
So truly, Sirs, my voice, with humbleness,
Is for short counsel; in good truth, my Lords—

The King.
Dear uncle, what's o'clock?

Bourbon.
'Tis noon, sweet cousin.

The King.
I want my dinner.

Bourbon.
Presently, fair cousin.

Sanxere.
Your Grace, I see, is of the Admiral's mind;
You love short counsel; marry, and of mine;
I love it too; more specially I love it
With mallets at our backs and winter near.
We talk so long that what is said at first
What follows sponges from our memories.
Pass to the vote, my Lords, nor waste your breath
In further talk.

Bourbon.
Then pass we to the vote.

The Constable.
So be it; to the vote.

Others.
Agreed: to the vote.

Lestovet.
My Lords, may it please you, ere I take your votes,
That briefly I rehearse what each hath said
As noted with a hasty pen, or writ
In a weak memory?

Bourbon.
So do, so do.

Lestovet.
First, my Lord Constable: he bade you think
What length of way and waters lay between
Ere you could reach the Lis; where when you come
You find no bridge, and on the further bank
The Flemish power: my Lord of Saimpi then
Told of a passage nearer to the springs
By Venay and St. Venant; whereunto
My Lord of Raneval made answer meet
That though the Lis were fordable above,
Yet in the lands of Cassel and Vertus
There dwelt a dangerous people, sulking boors,
Who, when we straggled, as perforce we must,
Through bye-ways sunder'd by the branching waters,
Should fall upon us, founder'd in the sloughs,
And raise the country round:—thus far, my Lords,
Had you proceeded, when the tiding came
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges upon the turn,
Repentant of their sins and looking back
For their allegiance; with the sequel fair
Of much diminish'd squadrons at Commines.
Then though my Lord of Raneval spake well
Of clearance on the Scheldt, through direful need
That now must westward suck the Flemish force,
Yet in abatement came the shrewd account
Of how the Scheldt was grated, gagg'd, jaw-lock'd,
With here a turnpike and with there a turnpike,
And Friesland horses. Said the Knight of Langres,
How shall our victual reach us? To which adds
Sir Hugh of Saimpi, that the banks are kept;
Whereat my Lord of Raneval rejoin'd
That he, as best became him, took no heed,
So it were soon, to whereabouts he faced
The Flemish scum in arms, or on the Scheldt
Or on the Lis—

Raneval.
Permit me, Sir, the Lis
I spake not of.

Lestovet.
I humbly crave your pardon;
My memory is but crazy, good my Lords:
It oft betrays me vilely. Sir Raoul,
I do beseech you pardon me; I deemed
(Misled perchance by that so rife renown
Which plants you ever foremost) that your voice
Was mainly raised for speed.

Raneval.
I grant you that:
No man is more for speed, my Lords, than I,
So we outrun not wisdom.

Bourbon.
Next—proceed.

Lestovet.
My Lord the Admiral was next, and last
The Souldich of Sanxere; the English fleet
Expected shortly; winter distant now
But few days' journey; mallets at your backs,—
These were their fruitful topics: on the last,
An't please your Lordships to vouchsafe me audience,
Some tidings have I gather'd, here and there,
Which haply not unworthy of your ears
You might, when heard, pronounce.

Bourbon.
Say on, Sir; well?

Lestovet.
At Paris, when the commons, serfs, and boors,
Beat in the prison doors, ye know, my Lords,
That Aubriot their friend, the sometime Provost,
Who lay in prison then, made good his flight
To Arc in Burgundy; and thence, I learn,
He look'd abroad, and journeying up and down,
He practised with the towns upon the Marne,
With Rheims and Chalons, Toul and Bar-le-duc,
With sundry villages in Vermandois,
And Brieche and Laon; so he moved the poor
(Through help, as I believe, of something evil,
From which God shield good men!) that straight they slew
The chatelains and farmers of the aids.
They next would march to Paris in hot haste;
But Nicholas le Flamand bade them wait
Until the Scheldt were 'twixt the King and them,
Which shelter found, he trusted with their aid
To bring the castle of the Louvre low,
And not of Paris only, but of France
And Burgundy to make the mean folk Lords.
This have I gather'd from the last that left
Champagne and Beauvoisin.

Bourbon.
Something of this
Reach'd me last night.

The Constable.
I had some tidings too.

The Admiral.
And I.

Bourbon.
I think, my Lords, this matter asks
A further inquest. If the whole be true,
We were not wise to overlook it. No,
Let us take order so to sift the truth
That we may meet to-morrow clear of sight;
Till when I deem it prudent we should hang
In a free judgment.

St. Just.
Till to-morrow, then.

The Constable.
One day's delay will hurt us not.

Sanxere.
To-morrow.

Saimpi.
To-morrow be it, then.

The Admiral.
At noon, my Lords?

Bourbon.
To-morrow noon. Sir Oliver of Clisson,
Wilt please you ride?

The Constable.
Your Highness does me honour.

The King.
Dear uncle, is the Council up?

Bourbon.
It is.

The King.
Take that, old Tristram.

Bourbon.
Soberly, fair cousin;
You do not well to toss about the parchments.
Ho! tell my serving-men we ride to Vis,
The Constable and I. Adieu, fair Sirs.

[Exeunt the King and the Lords of the Council. Manent Tristram of Lestovet and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Lestovet.
Go to the Duke; tell him his end is gained.

Sir Fleureant.
But is it so?

Lestovet.
It is as good.

Sir Fleureant.
They seek
Some further knowledge.

Lestovet.
Tut! they know it all;
They knew it ere I told them; but my mind
As touching it they knew not of till now.
Run to the Duke; pray him to keep his chamber;
Let him but stand aloof another day,
And come the next, we march upon Commines.

[Exit.
Sir Fleureant.
Run to the Duke? Run to the Devil. Yea,
Tis thither Lestovet would have me run,
With him to lead the way. And, to say truth,
I for a small consideration now
Would sell myself to Satan—or the Duke.

Scene IV.

—The Market-place at Ypres. In front, Van Whelk, a Householder, driving the last nails into a Scaffolding erected against his House. Van Winkel, another, looking on. A Woman is scouring the doorstead of the next house. At some little distance six Gallows-trees are seen, opposite the Stadt-House.
Whelk.
Room for five ducats at a groat a head.

Winkel.
'Twill be a piteous spectacle! Good-day,
How do you, Mistress?

Woman.
Thank you, how's yourself?

Winkel.
'Twill be a sight most piteous to behold!
A corporation hung!

Woman.
Alack a day!

Whelk.
'Twill be a sight that never yet was seen
Since Ypres was a town. A groat is cheap;
A groat is very reasonable cheap.

Winkel.
The Burgomaster was confess'd at seven;
He is the first.

Whelk.
Van Rosendael the next,
And then comes Drimmelen, Verstolken then,
And Goswin Hex, and Breero, and De Vry.

Winkel.
This ancient corporation!

Woman.
Wo's the day!
Poor gentlemen; alas, they did not think,
Nor no man else, the Regent would take life
So hastily.

Whelk.
The like was never seen,
Nor ever will be after.

Winkel.
Hold you there;
Come the French King and we shall see this square
More thick with gallows than with butchers' stalls
Upon a market day.

Woman.
Nay, God forbid!
Master Van Winkel, sure you say not so?

Winkel.
It is not saying it that hangs them, dame:
I tell you it is true.

Woman.
There's some have said
King Charles was tender-hearted as a lamb;
The Dukes his uncles likewise; and that none
Were loather to shed blood.

Winkel.
Those burghers said it
Whom yonder gallows wait for; and if lies
Were worthy hanging they deserved their doom.

Woman.
Well, Sirs, I know not.

Winkel.
Tut! King Charles, I say,
The Dukes his uncles and his Councillors all
Are of one flesh and follow after kind.
There are humane amongst them! how humane?
Humane to Lords and Ladies, Kings and Counts.
Humane to such as we? Believe it not.

Whelk.
The Earl of Flanders is the French King's cousin.

Winkel.
To show his cousin kindness, good King Charles
Would canter over acres of our dead.
His cousin is in what he calls distress;
To succour the distress'd is kind and good;
So with an army comes the good King Charles
And kindly to his cousin cuts our throats.
And that is their humanity, and such
Is Man's humanity the wide world through.
Men's hearts you'll find on one side soft as wax,
Hard as the nether mill-stone on the other.

Whelk.
How is it with your own, Dame Voorst?

Woman.
God's love!
I would not hurt a hair upon the head
Of any man alive.

Winkel.
Look you—the Earl—
But hearken to a tale: Once in my youth—
Ah, Mistress Voorst! years, years, they steal upon us!
But what! you're comely yet,—well, in my youth
Occasion was that I should wend my way
From Reninghelst to Ronques, to gather there
Some moneys that were owing me; the road
Went wavering like jagged lightning through the moors,—
For mind, Van Whelk, in those days Rening Fell
Was not so sluiced as now;—the night was near
And wore an ugly likeness to a storm,
When, weary and misdoubting of my way,
I spied the flickering of a cottage fire
Thorough the casements; thither sped my feet:
The door was open'd by a buxom dame
Who smiled and bade me welcome, and great cheer
She made me, with a jocund, stirring mien
Of kindly entertainment, whilst with logs
Crackled the fire, and seem'd the very pot
To bubble in a hospitable hurry
That I might sup betimes. Now say, Dame Voorst,
Was not the mistress of this cottage lone
A kind good soul?

Woman.
Yea, truly was she, Sir.

Winkel.
Master Van Whelk, what think you?

Whelk.
Let me see;
Did she take nothing from you?

Winkel.
Not a groat.

Whelk.
Why, that was charitable; that was kind;
That was a woman of the good old times.

Winkel.
Now mark, Van Whelk; now listen, Mistress Voorst.
The seething-pan upon the fire contain'd
Six craw-fish for my supper; as I stood
Upon the ruddy hearth, my addle head
As empty as my stomach but more at rest,
My eyes chanced fix upon the bubbling pot:
Unconsciously a while I gazed, as one
Seeing that sees not; but ere long appear'd
A tumbling and a labouring in the pot
More than of boiling water; whereupon,
Looking with eyes inquisitive, I saw
The craw-fish rolling one upon another,
Bouncing, and tossing all their legs abroad
That writhed and twisted as mix'd each with each
They whirl'd about the pan. God's grace! quoth I,
These craw-fish are alive! Yea, Sir, she answered,
They are not good but when they're sodden quick.
I said no more, but turn'd me from the hearth
Feeling a sickness here; and inwardly
I cried Heigh-ho! that for one man's one meal
Six of God's creatures should be boil'd alive!

Woman.
Lord help us, Sir! you wail about the fish
As they were Christians.

Winkle.
Look you, Mistress Voorst;
The King will be as kind to Louis Mâle
As this good wife to me; for us mean folk
We are but craw-fish; in his noble zeal
To serve his cousin 'twere to him no sin
To boil us in a pot.—Back, back, Van Whelk!
Here be the Captains!

[They retire.
Enter Vauclaire, Roosdyk, and Van Den Bosch's Lieutenant.
Vauclaire.
Shrewd news! whence cams't thou last?

Lieutenant.
From St. Eloy.

Roosdyk.
On Monday did they cross?

Lieutenant.
On Monday night,
And all night long; they crossed by nines and tens;
The boat would hold no more.

Roosdyk.
And seen of none?
Were there none watching of those jobbernowls
That follow Van den Bosch?

Lieutenant.
The night was dark;
The most part of our men were sent to sleep
In quarters at Commines, that they might rise
Fresh on the morrow, when the French, 'twas thought,
Would try the passage by the bridge. The rest
Kept guard upon the causeway. Two miles down
The river crankles round an alder grove;
'Twas there they brought the boats; strong stakes were driven
In either bank, and ropes were pass'd betwixt,
Stretching athwart the stream; by aid of these
Hand over hand they tugged themselves across
And hid within the thicket; when day dawn'd
They still were crossing, but the Constable,
Who always kept his ground, made show to force
The passage of the bridge, and brought us there
To handy-strokes, which so misled our eyes
That nothing else was seen.

Roosdyk.
Ha, ha! I love you!
Set you to watch the cat!

Lieutenant.
When first we knew
Their stratagem, six banners could we count,
And thirty pennons on the hither bank,
The Lord of Saimpi leading them: were there
Sir Herbeaux of Bellperche, Sir John of Roy,
The Lords of Chaudronne, Malestroit, Sanxere,
All Bretons, with Sir Oliver of Guesclin,
Sir Tristram de la Jaille, and, to be short,
The flower of all their host, from Poictou, Troyes,
Artois and Hainault, Burgundy and France,
That had their station marshall'd in the van.

Vauclaire.
And there they stood?

Lieutenant.
As yet they had not fought
When I was order'd thence: for Van den Bosch
Upon the eminence beside the bridge
Awaited them as on a vantage ground,
Whilst they abode below to gather force
From them continually that cross'd the stream.

Vauclaire.
Then went you to the good towns near?

Lieutenant.
To Bergues,
To Poperinguen, Rolers, Warneston,
To Mesiers and Vertain, with strict command
From Van den Bosch to muster all their men
And send him succour; thence I hasten'd here
To pray you do the like.

Roosdyk.
Oh rare! What next?
Didst ever see one beggar dropping alms
Into another's hat?

Lieutenant.
My master sware
If he should lose the day the cause should lie
In that misfortunate wasting of his strength
By sending aid to Ypres.

Vauclaire.
Send it back
And he shall lose the battle, we the town,
Ere it shall reach him; from the nearer posts
He may get aid more opportune; meanwhile,
Lest evil hap betide him, which when known
Would bring a wild destruction upon us,
Behoves us send the Regent instant news
Of our predicament. Christoffel Waal,
Mount thee thy horse and hie to Oudenarde,
And bid the Regent know the Lis is pass'd.
That said is all said: he shall know by that
We shall have much ado with this good town
Ere many days be gone, or many hours.
If he can help us, so.

Roosdyk.
Ay, mount thy nag
And make his heels strike fire: away, begone!

Vauclaire.
Know'st thou thy message?

Waal.
Sirs, from point to point.

[Exit.
[A bell tolls. Muffled drums are heard, and the head of a Procession appears entering the Marketplace. The Procession is formed chiefly by Friars and Guards; and lastly appear the Burgomaster and Aldermen of several Guilds as Malefactors, with their arms pinioned. They form a line between the Gallows and the Stadt-house. The Market-place suddenly fills with the Populace.
Vauclaire.
This folk looks strangely! guess you what's toward?
Is the news known?

Roosdyk.
I see no women here;
There is a mischievous intent.

Vauclaire.
Go you
And get our men of battle under arms;
This means a rescue; we shall have to fight.

Roosdyk.
Let the clerks hold the culprits unconfessed
Some fifteen minutes, and I'll bring you here
The most I can; and till I come again
Let no knave swing, for that should be their sign
Doubtless for rising. I'll be here anon.

[Exit.
Enter a Pricker.
Vauclaire.
Thy spurs are bloody—what, from Commines, ha!
A battle lost?

Pricker.
'Tis so, Sir. Van den Bosch
With what remains of us is flying hither
And wills you arm.

Vauclaire.
We shall be arm'd anon:
And some of us you see.
[He beckons to the Captain of the Guard who has charge of the prisoners.
Sir, draw your men
More close upon their charge and look about,
For here's foul weather.
[Cries begin to be heard and stones are thrown, one of which hits the steel cap of Vauclaire.
Said I not? look here!
These drops forerun the storm.
[A cry is heard at the opposite corner of the Marketplace, and Van den Bosch's Page is seen approaching.
Lo,—stand aside;
There is a face I'll swear I've sometimes seen
Attending Van den Bosch.

Pricker.
His page, I think.

Page.
My master, Sir, is near—

Vauclaire.
Say'st thou!—how near?

Page.
Close on the town; he enters now.

Vauclaire.
What force
Comes with him?

Page.
It is hard to say; they ride
So scatter'd and so broken, wounded most,
And mile by mile, now one and now another,
They tumble from their horses. He himself
Is sorely piked and gash'd, and of his hurts
One, the leech deems, is mortal.

Vauclaire.
Christ forbid!

Page.
They bear him in a litter, and each jog
They give him, when the bearers change their hands,
Makes him to bleed afresh.

Pricker.
See, there he comes!

[The tumult, which had been increasing, is in some measure stilled as Van den Bosch is borne across the Market-place to the front of the scene.
Van den Bosch
(raising himself in the litter).
Who's that? Vauclaire? We're ruin'd, Sir, we're lost!
How stand ye here?

Vauclaire.
The worst is what I see.
Yet hath the town an evil inclination,
And we shall feel it suddenly.

Van den Bosch.
Send forth—
Be still, thou jumping villain, with thy jolts!
Thou grind'st my bones to powder. Oh! oh! oh!
I would thou hadst my shoulder.—Send abroad,
And bid the Commons to the Market-place.

Vauclaire.
Nay, here they are, as thick as they can stand.

Van den Bosch.
Are they? My eyesight fails me. And is this
The Market-place? Oh, ho! then lift me up
Upon some cart or tumbril or the like
To make a preachment to the people.

Vauclaire.
Nay,
Leave that to me: betake thee to thy bed;
Roosdyk is making muster of our force,
And what is instant to be cared for here
We will perform.

Van den Bosch.
Not whilst I live, Vauclaire.
The leech, I think, has patch'd me up this body
To last a season. Hoist me—have a care—
Mount me upon this scaffolding: up, up—
Smoothly and all together—there we go—
Oh! oh! that's thou again, uneasy whelp!
Hast the string-halt? Now set me down;—so—so.
Let silence be commanded.
[The soldiery fall back so as to admit the people to the space immediately in front of the scaffolding. Sundry officers pass to and fro, vociferating “Silence!” which is obtained.
Friends, Sirs of Ypres!
Dear friends of Ypres! we have lost a battle.
This once, by evil hap, the day is theirs:
Which is no fault of mine; for, Sirs, I'll tell you
How this hath chanced.
By the Black Art (which Frenchmen dare to use
For lack of godlier courage)—by this art
They brought a cloudy film upon the eyes
Of half our host, the half that should have watch'd;
Which was on Monday night: and thus ere dawn
They cross'd the Lis. Then, Sirs, what force had I
Without advantage to affront the flower
Of the French van? Solely twelve thousand spears!
Yet like a hedge-pig tuck'd I up my power
The softer parts within, and when Sanxere
Came nuzzling like a dog to find some flesh
Whereon to fix and turn me inside out,
I'll warrant you I prick'd his snout a little!
Well, Sirs, we might have conquer'd but that then
The Commons of Commines—bell, book, and candle
Curse them that pass for Flemings and are none!—
They of Commines, that call'd themselves so stout,
Show'd such a fear and faintness of their hearts
As makes me sweat with shame to think upon;
And, traitors in their flight, they fired the town
To stay the following French. From that time forth,
Seeing we had no holding-place behind,
The best began to falter; and in brief
Ye see us here.—Fellow, some wine! I tire;
I've lost some blood.

Vauclaire.
Prithee go in-a-doors,
And let thy hurts be tended.

Van den Bosch
(a cup of wine having been brought, which he drinks off).
Softly, Sirs:
There's more to say.
[An arrow, shot from the crowd, strikes the scaffolding close to Van den Bosch, whereupon loud cries are heard from both parties and some blows pass between them, followed by great uproar and confusion.
Who hinders my discourse
With shooting croos-bow shafts? Oh, there you are!
See you you villain there that gapes and shouts?
Send me an arrow down his throat.—I say
This battle lost is nothing lost at all.
For thus the French are wiled across the Lis,
Which ne'er shall they repass. Inveigled on
By wheedling fortune, they shall thus be snared:
For hither come the Regent from the Scheldt,
And hither come the English, that are now
Landed at Dunkirk—landed now, I tell you;
The news was brought me yesterday; which heard,
Verily I was glad I lost this battle,
Although it cost me something—(for ye see
How I am troubled in my head and shoulder)—
Yea truly I rejoiced that thus the French
Should run upon a pit-fall, whilst we sweep
A circle round them, so that none—more wine—
Sinks suddenly back in the litter.
Here is a bandage loose—stanch me this blood—
Look ye, I bleed to death—oh, doctor vile!
Oh treacherous chirurgeon!—endless fire
Crumble his bones in hell!—I die! I die!

Vauclaire.
(helping to re-adjust the bandage).
Another ply; how draw it tight; anon
Roosdyk will come and give us escort hence;
Meanwhile defend yourselves and shoot again
If ye be shot at.

Van den Bosch.
Now the trumpets sound!
Chains for the King! The trumpets sound again!
Chains for the Knights and Nobles! Victory!
Thou gaoler, shut the doors. 'Tis very dark!
Whose hand is this?—Van Artevelde's?—I thank you:
'Twas fortune favour'd me. Chains, chains and death!
Chains for the King of France!—You've shut me in.
It is all over with me now, good mother.
Let the bells toll.

Vauclaire.
Bring him behind these boards;
The arrows now come quickly. Send a flight—
They've loosed the prisoners. See, they bear this way.
Shoot well together once and then fall back
And force a road to Ghent with Van den Bosch
Alive or dead. I follow if I can.
Incomparably shot!—they're flutter'd; aye,
And well they may; there-steadily, my friends;
Take forth the litter first; now close your ranks;
Show a back front; so—off ye go—well done!

ACT V.

Scene I.

—Van Artevelde's Tent in the Flemish Camp before Oudenarde.
Elena and Cecile.
Elena.
(singing).

Cecile.
Fie on such truth!
Rather than that my heart spoke truth in dumps
I'd have it what it is, a merry liar.

Elena.
Yes, you are right; I would that I were merry!
Not for my own particular, God knows;
But for his cheer; he needs to be enliven'd;
And for myself in him; because I know
That often he must think me dull and dry,
I am so heavy-hearted, and at times
Outright incapable of speech. Oh me!
I was not made to please.

Cecile.
Yourself, my Lady;
'Tis true to please yourself you were not made,
Being truly by yourself most hard to please;
But speak for none beside; for you were made,
Come gleam or gloom, all others to enchant,
Wherein you never fail.

Elena.
Yes, but I do;
How can I please him when I cannot speak?
When he is absent I am full of thought,
And fruitful in expression inwardly,
And fresh and free and cordial is the flow
Of my ideal and unheard discourse,
Calling him in my heart endearing names,
Familiarly fearless. But alas!
No sooner is he present than my thoughts
Are breathless and bewitch'd, and stunted so
In force and freedom, that I ask myself
Whether I think at all, or feel, or live,
So senseless am I!

Cecile.
Heed not that, my Lady;
Men heed it not; I never heard of one
That quarrell'd with his lady for not talking.
I have had lovers more than I can count,
And some so quarrelsome a slap in the face
Would make them hang themselves if you'd believe them;
But for my slackness in the matter of speech
They ne'er reproach'd me: no, the testiest of them
Ne'er fish'd a quarrel out of that.

Elena.
Thy swains
Might bear their provocations in that kind,
Yet not of silence prove themselves enamour'd.
But mark you this, Cecile: your grave and wise
And melancholy men, if they have souls,
As commonly they have, susceptible
Of all impressions, lavish most their love
Upon the blithe and sportive, and on such
As yield their want and chase their sad excess
With jocund salutations, nimble talk,
And buoyant bearing. Would that I were merry!
Mirth have I valued not before; but now
What would I give to be the laughing fount
Of gay imagination's ever bright
And sparkling phantasies! Oh, all I have,
(Which is not nothing though I prize it not,)
My understanding soul, my brooding sense,
My passionate fancy, and the gift of gifts
Dearest to woman which deflowering Time,
Slow ravisher, from clenched'st fingers wrings—
My corporal beauty, would I barter now
For such an antic and exulting spirit
As lives in lively women. Who comes hither?

Cecile.
'Tis the old Friar; he they sent abroad;
That ancient man so yellow! Od's my life!
He's yellower than he went. Note but his look;
His rind's the colour of a mouldy walnut.
Troth! his complexion is no wholesomer
Than a sick frog's.

Elena.
Be silent; he will hear.

Cecile.
It makes me ill to look at him.

Elena.
Hush! hush!

Cecile.
It makes me very ill.

Enter Father John of Heda.
Father John.
Your pardon, Lady;
I seek the Regent.

Elena.
Please you, sit a while;
He comes anon.

Father John.
This tent is his?

Elena.
It is.

Father John.
And likewise yours.— (Aside.)
Yea, this is as I heard;
A wily woman hither sent from France.
Alas! alas! how frail the state of man!
How weak the strongest! This is such a fall
As Samson suffer'd.

Cecile
(aside to Elena).
How the friar croaks!
What gibbering is this?

Elena.
May we not deem
Your swift return auspicious? Sure it denotes
A prosperous mission?

Father John.
What I see and hear
Of sinful courses and of nets and snares
Encompassing the feet of them that once
Were steadfast deem'd, speaks only to my heart
Of coming judgments.

Cecile.
What I see and hear
Of naughty Friars and of—

Elena.
Peace, Cecile!
Go to your chamber; you forget yourself.
Father, your words afflict me.

[Exit Cecile.
Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde
(as he enters).
Who is it says
That Father John is come? Ah! here he is.
Give me your hand, good Father! For your news,
Philosophy befriend me that I show
No strange impatience; for your every word
Must touch me in the quick.

Father John.
To you alone
Would I address myself.

Artevelde.
Nay, heed not her;
She is my Privy Councillor.

Father John.
My Lord,
Such Councillors I abjure. My function speaks,
And through me speaks the Master whom I serve;
After strange women them that went astray
God never prosper'd in the olden time,
Nor will He bless them now. An angry eye
That sleeps not follows thee till from thy camp
Thou shalt have put away the evil thing.
This in her presence will I say—

Elena.
Oh God!

Father John.
That whilst a foreign leman—

Artevelde.
Nay, spare her;
To me say what thou wilt.

Father John.
Thus then it is:
This foreign tie is not to Heaven alone
Displeasing, but to those on whose firm faith
Rests under Heaven your all; 'tis good you know
It is offensive to your army—nay,
And justly, for they deem themselves betray'd
When circumvented thus by foreign wiles
They see their chief.

Elena.
Oh! let me quit the camp.
Misfortune follows wheresoe'er I come;
My destiny on whomsoe'er I love
Alights: it shall not, Artevelde, on thee;
For I will leave thee to thy better star
And pray for thee aloof.

Father John.
Thou shalt do well
For him and for thyself; the camp is now
A post of danger.

Elena.
Artevelde! Oh God!
In such an hour as this—in danger's hour—
How can I quit thee?

Father John.
Dost thou ask? I say,
As thou wouldst make his danger less or more
Depart or stay. The universal camp,
Nay more, the towns of Flanders are agape
With tales of sorceries, witcheries and spells,
That blind their chief and yield him up a prey
To treasons foul. How much is true or false
I know not and I say not: but this truth
I sorrowfully declare,—that ill repute
And sin and shame grow up with every hour
That sees you link'd together in these bonds
Of spurious love.

Elena.
Father, enough is said.
Clerk's eyes nor soldier's will I more molest
By tarrying here. Seek other food to feed
Your pious scorn and pertinent suspicions.
Alien from grace and sinful though I be,
Yet is there room to wrong me. I will go
Lest this injustice done to me work harm
Unto my Lord the Regent.

Artevelde.
Hold, I say;
Give me a voice in this. You, Father John,
I blame not, nor myself will justify:
But call my weakness what you will, the time
Is past for reparation. Now to cast off
The partner of my sin were further sin;
'Twere with her first to sin, and next against her.
And for the army, if their trust in me
Be sliding, let it go; I know my course;
And be it armies, cities, people, priests,
That quarrel with my love, wise men or fools,
Friends, foes, or factions, they may swear their oaths,
And make their murmur—rave, and fret, and fear,
Suspect, admonish—they but waste their rage,
Their wits, their words, their counsel: Here I stand
Upon the deep foundations of my faith
To this fair outcast plighted, and the storm
That Princes from their palaces shakes out,
Though it should turn and head me, should not strain
The seeming silken texture of this tie.—
To business next:—Nay, leave us not, Beloved;
I will not have thee go as one suspect;
Stay and hear all. Father, forgive my heat,
And do not deem me stubborn. Now at once
The English news?

Father John.
Your deeds upon your head!
Be silent my surprise—be told my tale.
No open answer from the English King
Could we procure, no honest yea or nay,
But only grave denotements of good-will,
With mention of the perils of the seas,
The much tempestuous season, and the loss
Unspeakable that England suffer'd late
In her sea strengths; but not the less, they said,
By reason of good love and amity,
The King should order reckonings to be made
By two sufficient scholars of the charge
Of what we sought; his Parliament then called
He would take counsel of, and send you word
What might be done.

Artevelde.
A leisurely resolve.
The King took counsel of his own desires,
Ere of his Lords and Commons. Had he wish'd
To do this thing, he had not ask'd advice.
In the pure polity of a Monarch's mind
The will is Privy Councillor to the judgment.
When shall his answer reach us?

Father John.
In my wake
Sir Richard Farrington, I found, came fast,
And sped by favourabler winds than mine
Reach'd Dunkirk with me. Letters seal'd he brought;
But hearing how far forth the French had fared,
He halted, and would neither bring nor send
His letters, nor their purport would disclose.

Artevelde.
But you, I think, can guess it.

Father John.
Surely yes:
They promised, doubtless, largely; but were meant
To be deliver'd should you thrive—not else.
The English nobles, though they'd use your arms
If victory crown'd them, to encumber France,
Much in their secret minds mislike your cause.
Jack Straw, Wat Tyler, Lister, Walker, Ball,
That against servage raised the late revolt,
Were deem'd the spawn of your success: last year
Has taught the Nobles that their foes at home
Are worthier notice than the French. In truth
They should not be displeased at any ill
That might befall you.

Artevelde.
Father, so I think.
Lo! with the chivalry of Christendom
I wage my war—no nation for my friend,
Yet in each nation having hosts of friends.
The bondsmen of the world, that to their Lords
Are bound with chains of iron, unto me
Are knit by their affections. Be it so.
From Kings and Nobles will I seek no more
Aid, friendship, nor alliance. With the poor
I make my treaty, and the heart of man
Sets the broad seal of its allegiance there
And ratifies the compact. Vassals, serfs,
Ye that are bent with unrequited toil,
Ye that have whiten'd in the dungeon dark
Through years that knew not change of night and day—
Tatterdemalions, lodgers in the hedge,
Lean beggars with raw backs and rumbling maws
Whose poverty was whipp'd for starving you,—
I hail you my auxiliars and allies,
The only potentates whose help I crave.
Richard of England, thou hast slain Jack Straw,
But thou hast left unquench'd the vital spark
That set Jack Straw on fire. The spirit lives;
And as when he of Canterbury fell
His seat was filled by some no better clerk,
So shall John Ball that slew him be replaced;
And if I live and thrive, these English Lords
Double requital shall be served withal
For this their double-dealing.—Pardon me;
You are but just dismounted, and the soil
Of travel is upon you; food and rest
You must require. Attendance there! what ho!
Enter two Serving-ment.
These will supply your wants. To-morrow morn
We will speak more together. Father John,
Though peradventure fallen in your esteem,
I humbly ask your blessing, as a man
That having pass'd for more in your repute
That he had warrant for, should be content,
Not with his state, but with the judgment true
That to the lowly level of his state
Brings down his reputation.

Father John.
Oh, my son!
High as you stand, I will not strain mine eyes
To see how higher still you stood before.
God's blessing be upon you! Fare you well.

[Exit.
Artevelde.
The old man weeps. Let England play me false,
The greater is my glory if the day
Is won without her aid. I stand alone;
And standing so against the mingled might
Of Burgundy and France, to hold mine own
Is special commendation; to prevail
So far as victory were high renown;
To be foredone no singular disgrace. Enter an Attendant, followed by a Man-at-arms.

Whom have we here,—Rovarden?

Attendant.
Please your Grace,
A scout from Van den Bosch.

Artevelde.
And with ill news
Thy face would say. What is it?

Scout.
With your leave,
My master bids you know that yesterday
Some cunning Frenchmen stole across the Lis
In boats and rafts, a league below Commines,
And now they press him hard upon his rear;
Wherefore he warns you that you look to Ypres,
Which he can do no longer.

Artevelde.
The Lis pass'd!
Mischief, be welcome, if thou com'st alone!
Is that the worst?

Scout.
'Tis all, my Lord, I know.

Elena.
Is it so very bad?

Artevelde.
No, no, 'tis not.
Let him have food and wine; he has ridden hard
And lacks refreshment. Go, repair thy looks,
And make me no such signals in my camp
Of losses and mishap. Speak cheerily
To whomsoe'er thou seest.
[Exeunt Attendant and Scout.
No, 'tis untoward,
Luckless, unfortunate; but that is all.
If Ypres bear as stoutly up against it
As I can do, we're not so much the worse.

Enter Van Ryk,followed by a Messenger.
Van Ryk.
A messenger, my Lord, from Ypres.

Artevelde.
Ha!
Here is another ugly face of news!
What now?

Messenger.
My Lord, sure tidings came last night
That Van den Bosch was worsted on the Lis,
And with a broken force was falling back
On Ypres for protection.

Artevelde.
Is that all?

Messenger.
It is, my Lord.

Artevelde.
It is enough. What news
Had ye of Menin, Werwick, and Messines?

Messenger.
The bells were rung in each and they were bid
To send all aid that they could muster straight
To Van den Bosch; but little went or none.

Artevelde.
And doubtless now the Frenchman has them all?

Messenger.
I know not that, my Lord.

Artevelde.
But I do. Go;
Thou art a wofuller fellow than the last,
Yet cheerfuller than what is like to follow.
Get thee to dinner and be spare of speech.

Messenger.
My master bade me to entreat your Grace
To send him instant aid.

Artevelde.
To Ypres? What!
He's mad to think it! How should aid get there,
With all the Upper Lis, as past a doubt
It must be now, from Warneston to Courtray,
O'errun with French? I will not send a man.
It were but to lose more.

Messenger.
My master, Sir,
Was fearful of the burghers.

Artevelde.
So he might,
And I am troubled at his jeopardy;
Far liefer would I part with this right hand
Than with Vauclaire, his service and his love.
I think the burghers will hold off a while
To see the issue of my personal arms.
If not, I cannot help him. If they do,
That which is best for all is best for him.
Go: keep thy counsel; talk not in the camp.

[Exit Messenger.
Van Ryk.
Rumour goes further in the camp, my Lord,
Than where his story stops.

Artevelde.
Ay, does it? How?

Van Ryk.
Ypres revolted; Van den Bosch, Vauclaire,
And Roosdyk slain or taken; so it runs
Since noon.

Elena.
Oh! this is worse than all.

Artevelde.
If true;
But be not hasty of belief. Go in.
No matters for a feminine Council these.

Elena.
Oh, let me stay with you!

Artevelde.
Not now, my love.
[Exit Elena.
Worst rumours now will still be likest truth,
And yet if Ypres truly had been lost,
Undoubted news of such a deadly blow
Had surely reach'd us.

Van Ryk.
If you mark, my Lord,
Mostly a rumour of such things precedes
The certain tidings.

Artevelde.
It is strange, yet true,
That doubtful knowledge travels with a speed
Miraculous, which certain cannot match.
I know not why, when this or that has chanced,
The smoke outruns the flash, but so it is.
Why who comes here? Vauclaire himself!
Enter Vauclaire, in disordered apparel and covered with the soil of travel.
Vauclaire,
Thy coming speaks; it tells of Ypres lost;
Perhaps of worse; and thou art welcome still!
Can friendship speak thee fairer?

Vauclaire.
Thanks, my Lord,
You have lost Ypres; 'tis no worse nor better.

Artevelde.
I can spare Ypres so I keep Vauclaire.
Let the town go. How came you off alive?

Vauclaire.
The rascal burghers tied me hand and foot
And on a hurdle trailed me like a thief
Toward King Charles's camp upon the mount;
Half way to which some twenty of my guard,
With Roosdyk at their head, brake boldly in,
Crying a rescue, and ere aid could come
We were safe mounted upon chosen nags
That distanced all pursuit.

Artevelde.
Why that is well.
Where's Roosdyk?

Vauclaire.
Eating, I'll be sworn, and drinking.

Artevelde.
And Van den Bosch?

Vauclaire.
That is a sadder tale;
I fear he lives no longer.

Artevelde.
Ay, Vauclaire!

Vauclaire.
Much wounded from Commines he came to Ypres,
Whence we despatch'd him, less alive than dead,
Upon the road to Ghent. I hardly think
That he can live the journey through.

Artevelde.
Farewell,
Brave Van den Bosch! and God assoil thy soul!
Vauclaire, we must be stirring; to the dead
An after time will give the meed of mourning;
Our present days are due to them that live.
Let us to Council with my officers:
And sit by me; for in my host henceforth
Thou shalt be next me in authority.

Vauclaire.
Deep are my debts to your good-will, my Lord;
More than my life can pay.

Artevelde.
Nay, say no more;
You owe me nothing; what I have to give
Is held in trust and parted with for service;
Value received is writ on my commissions,
Nor would I thank the man that should thank me
For aught as given him gratis. Let's to Council.
I'll lie no longer here at Oudenarde
To hear of towns betraying me. Our camp
We must break up to-morrow and push on
Boldly to Courtray and the Lower Lis.
The towns to the North and West will falter else
And Frenchify their faith. It is God's mercy
That some seven thousand citizens of Bruges
Are in my host, whose heads will pledges be
For what might fail me there. From Damme and Sluys,
From Dendermonde, the Quatre-Metiers, Ghent,
From Ardenburg and Grammont and Alost,
We'll bring the rear-guard up. The Lis, the Lis!
Let me but reach the Lis before King Charles!

Vauclaire.
The Upper Lis were easily regain'd
Could we but keep the Lower.

Artevelde.
We shall see.

Enter Van Ryk.
Van Ryk.
A countryman, my Lord, arrived from Heule
Says that King Charles is on his march to Rosebecque.

Artevelde.
To Rosebecque let him come! With God's good-speed.
I shall be there before him. Sirs, to Council.

Scene II.

—The French Camp at Winkel St. Eloy. Enter from opposite sides the Duke of Burgundy and Tristram of Lestovet.
Burgundy.
Another town come in, I hear; that's ten.
Now, Lestovet, they'll own I knew my way.
Ypres and Dunkirk, Cassel, Thorout, Bergues,
Make five wall'd towns, and Popperinguen six;
And then there's Werwick, Vailant, and Messines,
And now comes Rousselaere, which rounds the tale.
Anon they'll say that I had reason, ha?

Lestovet.
They will, my Lord. Success will couch the blind.
The wise by speculation know to trade,
And give their wits long credit and they thrive;
A scrambling wit must live from hand to mouth
On issues and events. Prosperity
Is warranty of wisdom with the world;
Failure is foolishness. Now all will prize
Your Grace's judgment at its worth.

[A cry within, “Place ho!”
Enter the King, with the Constable, the Lords of Saimpi and Sanxere and others; and lastly, some-what apart from the rest, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
The King.
Well, uncle, here we are! Get supper ready.
How fast you rode! I gallop'd half a mile—
But then St. Poule, he blew—oh, he's too fat!
Is not the Bastard of St. Poule too fat?

Saimpi.
May't please your Highness, he is grossly fat.

The King.
I gallop'd—uncle, what is this? Lo me!
A span-new sword—by God, of Spanish steel
And longer than mine own—uncle, by God,
A King's sword should be longer than a Duke's;
I must have this; this is a royal sword.

Burgundy.
Cousin, you are not tall enough to wear it.

The King.
Not tall enough indeed! Is supper ready?
When shall we get to Rosebecque? Here's St. Poule.
Enter St. Poule.
So, here you come, you broken-winded bastard,
You're always left behind. How long to Rosebecque?
Tell me, my Lords, to-morrow will it be?

Constable.
Your Highness, having weather to your wish,
Might lodge at Rosebecque with your vanguard force
To-morrow night.

The King.
And when shall come the rear?

Constable.
On Wednesday morning.

The King.
And on Thursday night
The Bastard of St. Poule. For Rosebecque, ho!
Remember, uncle, when the armies meet,
I am to make the knights; four hundred Knights;
The Constable himself will tell you so;
Four hundred fire-new Knights there should be made
Before the battle joins; and I'm to make them.
My Lord of Clisson, am I not? Thwack, thwack,
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, will go my sword, thwack, thwack.
You, Lestovet, you, Tristram, kneel you down
And I will—thwack—I'll try my hand—thwack, thwack.

Burgundy.
Come, cousin, come, you're wanton. Go within
And eat your supper.

The King.

[Exit, followed by all but the Duke of Burgundy and Lestovet.
Burgundy.
You southern sky is black; were rain to fall
Our van could hardly, in but one day's march,
Arrive at Rosebecque; or if press'd so far,
'Twould tell against their strength the morrow morn
And stop them there.

Lestovet.
My Lord, that there they'll stop
I doubt not; for I'm inmostly assured
That we shall find upon the Lower Lis
The total Flemish host: the Lower Lis
They to the utmost will dispute, for there
Their Chief, who lacks not capability,
Will justly deem their all to be impledged.
'Twere not amiss to slack the vanguard's pace
And quicken up the rear, that like a worm
The army's tail should gather to its head
Before it move again.

Burgundy.
It may be well.
Your thought is mine touching the Flemish host;
It will be found at Rosebecque, and, God willing,
It shall be left to feed the vultures there.
Where'er 'tis met, that such will be its fate
I am as sure as that this glove is steel
And I am Duke of Burgundy.

Lestovet.
My Lord,
That yonder Flemish scum, with coats of mail
Not worth three folds of cloth, should hold at bay
The spear-heads of Bourdeaux, were doubtless strange;
And yet such things have happen'd. In their Chief
Resides the spell which makes this herd so mad
To brave the chivalry of France in arms.
Their Chief is either leagued with Hell himself
Or hath some potent necromancer's aid;
If he be not the Devil's feudatory
He holds in soccage of a Fiend that is.
You'll see a hundred thousand spell-bound hearts
By art of witchcraft so affatuate
That for his love they'd dress themselves in dowlas
And fight with men of steel.

Burgundy.
At Bruges, 'tis true,
They dared but little less.

Lestovet.
Methinks, my Lord,
The Knight of Heurlée is of late much changed.

Burgundy.
It may be so; what, since he joined us last?

Lestovet.
He hath a dirty, wild, neglected mien;
Is careless of his garb, gets drunk alone,
Lies late a-bed as skulking from the day,
Curses his serving-men, avoids his friends,
Is quarrelsome and very meagre-witted
To what he was, save only in his gibes,
And them less savoury season'd; what was once
An ounce of venom to a pound of mirth
Apportion'd t'other way. In truth he's changed;
A moody, heavy, sad-condition'd man,
That had from nature a most mounting heart,
And revell'd formerly in joys to him
As native and as unsolicited
As to the lark her song.

Burgundy.
Whence comes this change?

Lestovet.
In truth, my Lord, I know not.

Burgundy.
Hear'st thou nought?
Is nothing said, surmised? what think'st thou, ha?
Some secret discontent?

Lestovet.
Not that, my Lord.
More likely that he finds his knightly name
Something bedimm'd and held in less esteem
By reason of his flight from Oudenarde:
For though he will not own it, 'tis believed
He was at large upon his honour's pawn
To keep within the Flemish camp, and fled,
Leaving the pledge behind him.

Burgundy.
Nothing more?

Lestovet.
That is one wound; but there's another yet;
Whether by word or blow or both 'twas dealt
I know not, for he's reticent and shy
To a close question; but this much I know,—
That in the sleeping-chamber of a maid
(So called for courtesy) he was caught at night,
Concealed for no good purpose, whereupon
The Regent (so by courtesy again—
As much a Regent he as she a maid)
Who entertain'd the damsel for himself,
Moved by his anger, offer'd to the Knight,
In act or threat, some dire indignity,
That ever since hath poison'd all the springs
At which his spirit drank, and is the cause,
If my conjecture err not, that he stands
The wither'd, blacken'd, and disfigur'd stump
We see him now.

Burgundy.
If that be all, his grief
Touches not us.

Lestovet.
The contrary, my Lord;
It touches more the enemy. Your Grace
Has possibly had read to you the tale,
Long chronicled, of an Earl of Conversana,
Who in the day of battle met his death,
Not from his opposites in the field, though brave,
But one who rode beside him. An old hate,
An ancient grudge, was hoarded up till then
When death was doubly bitter, bringing down
Defeat and overthrow and loss of lands
And ruin to his friends. 'Twere strange, my Lord,
If such a fate befell Van Artevelde.

Burgundy.
Yes, it were very strange.

Lestovet.
Your Grace was right;
We shall have rain: the sky looks wondrous thick.
I know not if your Grace gave heed to it,
But yesterday at noon or thereabouts
I heard some grumblings up amongst the clouds
That much resembled thunder: Pish! quoth I,
The year is too far wearing from its prime
To speak in thunder now.

Burgundy.
Who was that Earl?
The Earl of Conversana?

Lestovet.
He, my Lord.
But yet again I heard it, and more plain;
And then, quoth I, if this be aught but thunder
The God of thunder keeps a mocking-bird,
And it is that we hear.

Burgundy.
Upon what ground
Deem'd you the Earl of Conversana's fate
Should figure forth Van Artevelde's?

Lestovet.
My Lord?

Burgundy.
What mean you by this history of that Earl?
How doth it typify Van Artevelde's?
How lights the one the other?

Lestovet.
Nay, my Lord,
'Twas but a stumbling comment of my thought.
When we have strained our foresight past its power
Fantastic flashes oft will come across it,
And whence we nothing know.

Burgundy.
Come, Lestovet,
Let us be open and direct. Thy drift?
What did thy thought contain that, being stirred,
Sent to the top this story from the past?

Lestovet.
The honest truth to tell, my Lord, a dream,
Whether by good or evil spirit drawn
Upon the vacant canvas of my sleep
Your Grace shall be the judge,—a dream it was
Show'd me Van Artevelde upon his horse—
Though whether mounted to survey the ground,
Or to array his host, or lead the charge,
I saw not,—but there sitting as he gazed
Upon an undistinguishable blank
Of anything or nothing—what, I know not—
Struck from behind he fell—and with his fall
Vanish'd his host.

Burgundy.
This was a waking dream.

Lestovet.
I mused upon it waking.

Burgundy.
And this dream
Thou think'st will peradventure come to pass?

Lestovet.
If fate so orders it, my Lord.

Burgundy.
And fate
Will find some human furtherance; is it so?

Lestovet.
Were it a thing well warranted, my Lord,
It might be well attended.

Burgundy.
Truly fate
Should do the King a singular good service
If this should happen.

Lestovet.
Destiny, my Lord,
Is oft-times worked upon by mighty names
Of Dukes and regal potentates, whose power
May currently avouch her doubtful deeds
If haply called in question.

Burgundy.
Six o'clock
Were not too soon to be afoot to-morrow,
If, as is likely, there be waters out
Upon our lines of march.

Lestovet.
There's light at six.
Two words, my Lord, were warranty enough.

Burgundy.
Why, very well then; six is late enough.
Tell my Lord Constable before he sleeps
To let the trumpets sound us a reveillée
Some half an hour to six.

Exit.
Lestovet.
Well said, my Lord.
Your Grace's scruples master not your heart,
But serve your reputation. This is conscience;
A herald marshalling each act its place
By its emblazonry and cognizance.
My Lord of Burgundy, your Grace is wary;
So, by your leave, is humble Lestovet.
If policy stick fast, be tried revenge;
And where's revenge more sharp, my Lord of Bourbon,
Than what is sprung of jealousy. That bites.
My Lord, I'll pluck your jealousy by the ear,
And if it wake not, why your Grace's bosom
Is not the serpent's nest I take it for.

Scene III.

—The Flemish Camp on the Eastern Bank of the Lis, between Disselghem and Rosebecque.— Artevelde's Pavilion.
Artevelde and Elena.
Elena.
What is it that disturbs you?

Artevelde.
Nothing, nothing;
I am not disturb'd.

Elena.
You are not like yourself.
What took you from your bed ere break of day?
Where have you been? I know there's something wrong.
Tell me now, what has happen'd?

Artevelde.
Be at rest.
No accident, save of the world within;
Occurrences of thought; 'tis nothing more.

Elena.
It is of such that love most needs to know.
The loud transactions of the outlying world
Tell to your masculine friends; tell me your thoughts.

Artevelde.
They stumbled in the dusk 'twixt night and day.
I dream'd distressfully, and waking knew
How an old sorrow had stolen upon my sleep,
Molesting midnight and that short repose
Which industry had earn'd, so to stir up
About my heart remembrances of pain
Least sleeping when I sleep, least sleeping then
When reason and the voluntary powers
That turn and govern thought are laid to rest.
Those powers by this nocturnal inroad wild
Surprised and broken, vainly I essay'd
To rally, and the mind unsubjugate
Took its direction from a driftless dream.
Then pass'd I forth.

Elena.
You stole away so softly
I knew it not, and wonder'd when I woke.

Artevelde.
The gibbous moon was in a wan decline,
And all was silent as a sick man's chamber.
Mixing its small beginnings with the dregs
Of the pale moonshine and a few faint stars
The cold uncomfortable daylight dawned,
And the white tents, topping a low ground-fog,
Show'd like a fleet becalmed. I wander'd far,
Till reaching to the bridge I sate me down
Upon the parapet. Much mused I there,
Revolving many a passage of my life
And the strange destiny that lifted me
To be the leader of a mighty host
And terrible to Kings. What follow'd then
I hardly may relate; for you would smile,
And say I might have dreamed as well a-bed
As gone abroad to dream.

Elena.
I shall not smile;
And if I did, you would not grudge my lips
So rare a visitation. But the cause,
Whate'er it be, that casts a shadow here,
[Kissing his brow.
How can it make me smile? What follow'd, say,
After your meditations on the bridge?

Artevelde.
I'll tell it, but I bid you not believe it;
For I am scarce so credulous myself
As to believe that was, which mine eyes saw—
A visual not an actual existence.

Elena.
What was it like? Wore it a human form?

Artevelde.
That such existences there are, I know;
For whether by the corporal organ framed
Or painted by a brainish fantasy
Upon the inner sense, not once nor twice,
But sundry times have I beheld such things
Since my tenth year, and most in this the last.

Elena.
What was it you beheld?

Artevelde.
To-day?

Elena.
Last night—This morning—when you sate upon the bridge?

Artevelde.
Twas a fantastic sight.

Elena.
What sort of sight?

Artevelde
(after a pause).
Once in my sad and philosophic youth—
For very philosophic in my dawn
And twilight of intelligence was I—
Once at this cock-crow of philosophy,
Much tired with rest and with the stable earth,
I launch'd my little bark and put to sea
Errant for geste and enterprise of wit
Through all this circumnavigable globe.
I cavill'd at the elements—What is earth?
A vast congestion of unmethodised matter
With but a skin of life—a solid huge,
Which Nature, prodigal of space, provides
For superficial uses: and what air?
A motion and a pressure: fire, a change;
And light the language of the things call'd dumb.

Elena.
I have been told the studies of your youth
Were strangely thought of, but I'm well assured
They never were unlawful.

Artevelde.
You are right:
My meditations in their outset wore
The braveries of ignorance and youth,
But cast them, and were innocent thenceforth,
For they were follow'd with a humble heart,
Though an inquisitive, and humbler still
In spirit wax'd they as they further went.
The elements I left to contemplate.
Then I considered life in all its forms,
From sentient to percipient—small advance—
Next to intelligent, to rational next,
So to half-spiritual human kind,
And what is more, is more than man may know.
Last came the troublesome question—what am I?
A blade, a seedling of this growth of life
Wherewith the outside of the earth is cover'd:
A comprehensive atom, all the world
In act of thought embracing, in the world
A grain scarce filling a particular place.
Thus travell'd I the region up and down
Wherein the soul is circumscribed below;
And unto what conclusion?

Elena.
Nay, your promise;
Tell what you saw; I must not be denied
After a promise given; tell me of that?

Artevelde.
I say to what conclusion came I then
These winding links to fasten?

Elena.
I surmise
To none; such ramblings end where they begin.

Artevelde.
Conclusions inconclusive, that I own;
Yet, I would say, not vain, not nothing worth.
This circulating principle of life
That vivifies the outside of the earth
And permeates the sea; that here and there
Awakening up a particle of matter,
Informs it, organizes, gives it power
To gather and associate to itself,
Transmute, incorporate other, for a term
Sustains the congruous fabric and then quits it;
This vagrant principle so multiform,
Ebullient here and undetected there,
Is not unauthorized nor increate,
Though indestructible; life never dies:
Matter dies off it and it lives elsewhere
Or elsehow circumstanced and shaped; it goes;
At every instant we may say 'tis gone,
But never it hath ceased; the type is changed,
Is ever in transition; for life's law
To its eternal essence hath prescribed
Eternal mutability: and thus
To say I live—says, I partake of that
Which never dies; but here begins, not ends,
The spiritual Unit's quest of what concerns
Its integral self: and here doth reason meet
Her more than match.

Elena.
Philosophy, I know,
Darkened your dawn of youth; but surely day
Divulged the light divine.

Artevelde.
I saw it soon:
Philosophy's shortcomings I discerned,
And in man's instinct knew the voice of God.
Man's immortality that voice declared
Even from the first; but what of him should die
Was for God's other and his after voice
Left to be told; and then but told in part,
Lest faith should sicken by satiety
And lose its titles to reward. Much dies,
More lives, is all we know.

Elena.
Love is immortal;
Whatever dies, that lives in Death's despite.
But, Artevelde, you shall not lead me off
Through by-ways. Tell me of this sight you saw,
Or dreamt you saw.

Artevelde.
This eye-creation;—yes,
What is it to surprise us? Here we are
Engender'd out of nothing cognizable.
If this be not a wonder, nothing is;
If this be wonderful, then all is so.
Man's grosser attributes can generate
What is not and has never been at all;
What should forbid his fancy to restore
A being passed away? The wonder lies
In the mind merely of the wondering man.
As for this creature of mine eyes—

Elena.
What was it?
The semblance of a human creature?

Artevelde.
Yes.

Elena.
Like any you had known in life?

Artevelde.
Most like;
Or more than like; it was the very same.
It was the image of my wife.

Elena.
Of her!
The Lady Adriana!

Artevelde.
My dead wife.

Elena.
Oh God! how strange!

Artevelde.
And wherefore?—wherefore strange?
Why should not fancy summon to its presence
This shape as soon as any?

Elena.
Artevelde!
Felt you no fear at such a sight?

Artevelde.
No, none.
Dejected I had been before: that sight
Inspired a deeper sadness but no fear.
Nor had it struck that sadness to my soul
But for the dismal cheer the thing put on
And the unsightly points of circumstance
That sullied its appearance and departure.

Elena.
For how long saw you it?

Artevelde.
I cannot tell.
I did not mark.

Elena.
And what was that you saw
So saddening and unsightly?

Artevelde.
She appear'd
In white, as when I saw her last, laid out
After her death; suspended in the air
She seemed, and o'er her breast her arms were crossed;
Her feet were drawn together pointing down,
And rigid was her form and motionless.
From near her heart, as if the source were there,
A stain of blood went wavering to her feet.
So she remain'd inflexible as stone
And I as fixedly regarding her.
Then suddenly, and in a line oblique,
Thy figure darted past her, whereupon,
Though rigid still and straight, she downward moved,
And as she pierced the river with her feet
Descending steadily, the streak of blood
Peel'd off upon the water, which, as she vanish'd,
Appear'd all blood, and swell'd and welter'd sore,
And midmost in the eddy and the whirl
My own face saw I, which was pale and calm
As death could make it:—then the vision pass'd,
And I perceived the river and the bridge,
The mottled sky and horizontal moon,
The distant camp, and all things as they were.

Elena.
If you are not afraid to see such things,
I am to hear them. Go not near that bridge;—
You said that something happened there before—
Oh, cross it not again.

Artevelde.
Not cross the bridge?
The river cannot otherwise be passed.

Elena.
Oh, cross it not!

Artevelde.
A strange resolve were that,
And to the French most acceptable: yes,
You will be held of counsel with King Charles,
Opposing thus my passage. Enter Vauclaire and Van Ryk.

Sirs, good day!
You're soon astir for men that watch'd so late.

Vauclaire.
And you, my Lord.

Artevelde.
For me, these eyes of mine
Almost forget they once could close in sleep.
Have any scouts come in?

Van Ryk.
Yes, two, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Ah! and with tidings? Nothing good I know,
But let me hear.

Vauclaire.
In truth it is not good.
They say that Popperinguen, Rousselaere,
And Thorout have declared for France.

Artevelde.
Three more!
That is a heavy falling-off, my friends,
And arrantly ill-timed. Despatch! despatch!
The cure for these defections must be found
At any hazard. Forward must we press
And try our fortune ere another town
Can find occasion to play foul.

Vauclaire.
To-night,
If I mistake not, they would reach us here;
And better were it, in my mind, the stream
Should be betwixt us than as much dry land.

Artevelde.
We will to Council, and consider there
What may be best. If they be here to-night,
We may abide them. Whither away, Vauclaire?

Vauclaire.
You'll wish, my Lord, to have the scouts and spies
Before you in the Council.

Artevelde.
It were well.
[Exit Vauclaire.
And thou, Van Ryk, go round, and gather in
The Captains of the host.
[Exit Van Ryk.
This troubles me.
Three towns, and two before!—Two leaks and three—
The vessel sinks: I vainly climb the mast.

Elena.
Oh, say not so; when once they know you're near
The towns will all hold out—all will be well;
Your presence ever righted your affairs
Whatever was amiss.

Artevelde.
Two months ago
My presence was a spell omnipotent
That seem'd of power to win me all the world.
But fortune wears a faded beauty now;
And as some dame, her hour of conquest past,
Repairs her ravaged charms, and here a tooth
Replaces where the flesh had else fallen in
Making a wrinkle in the rounded cheek,
And there the nevermore redundant locks
Replenishes, so do I waste my pains
In patching fortunes which are past their prime.
All, all is vain endeavour, labour lost.
So soon as my advance made Courtray sure,
Thence sent I with all speed to Rousselaere
My best of Chatelains, Walraven. Nay!
Toiling and striving, watching and warding, all
Null, fruitless, fond!

Elena.
Too anxious, Artevelde,
And too impatient are you grown of late.
You used to be so even and so calm
That nothing ruffled you.

Artevelde.
I stand reproved.
'Tis time and circumstance that tries us all;
And they that temperately take their start
And keep their souls indifferently sedate
Through much of good and evil, at the last
May find the weakness of their hearts thus tried.
My cause appears more precious than it did
In its triumphant days.

Elena.
You prize it more
The more it is endanger'd.

Artevelde.
Even so.
A mother dotes upon the reckling child
More than the strong: solicitous cares, sad watchings,
Rallies, reverses, all vicissitudes,
Give the affection exercise and growth.
So is it in the nursing a sick hope.

Enter Vauclaire's Lieutenant.
Lieutenant.
The Captains are in Council met, my Lord,
And wait upon your leisure.

Artevelde.
So; I come.

Lieutenant.
My master, Sir, has heard, he bade me say,
That Cassel has revolted.

Artevelde.
What of that?

Lieutenant.
He wish'd that you should know it first, my Lord,
And judge if it were fit to be disclosed
Before the Council.

Artevelde.
Fit to be disclosed!
Pooh! Tell the Council I am coming. No;
I'll have no secrets. And for this, forsooth,
What is it but that we are in the moult
And here's a feather fallen? Say I come.
[Exit Lieutenant.
Another stab, and in a vital part!
For Cassel's defalcation is no less.
'Twere hard to keep a secret that is shared
By yonder ape; my nose took note of that,
Admonish'd by the musk upon his beard
As up and down his salutations tost it,
Like a hen drinking. Well, it matters not.
The battle now is all, and that to win
Were to win back my losses; that to lose
Were to make all that I had lost before
Into one sum of loss.

Elena.
I feel assured
That you will win the day.

Artevelde.
You choose to say so.
Elena, think not that I stand in need
Of false encouragement. I have my strength,
Which, though it lie not in the sanguine mood,
Will answer my occasions. To yourself,
Though to none other, I at times present
The gloomiest thoughts that gloomy truths inspire,
Because I love you. But I need no prop;
Nor could I find it in a tinsel show
Of prosperous surmise. Before the world
I wear a cheerful aspect, not so false
As for my solace you would fain put on;
Nor in my closet does the oil run low
Or the light flicker.

Elena.
Lo now! you are angry
Because I try to cheer you.

Artevelde.
Angry? no—
Not angry; that I never was with you;
But as I deal not falsely with my own,
So would I wish the heart of her I love
To be both true and brave; nor self-beguiled,
Nor putting on disguises for my sake,
As though I falter'd. I have anxious hours,
As who in like extremities hath not?
But I have something stable here within
Which bears their strain.
Enter Van Ryk.
I make the Council wait;
Here comes Van Ryk to tell me so.

Elena.
'Twas I,
Master Van Ryk, that stay'd him; 'tis my fault,
And lest I make it more, I'll take me hence.

[Exit.
Van Ryk.
The Council can abide your time, my Lord.
There waits without a stranger just arrived
Whom it were well you speak with ere you go.
He will not lift his beaver save to you,
But boldly calls himself an arrant traitor
That left the French last night, and seeks your camp
To tell you what he knows.

Artevelde.
Desert to me!
I thought desertion look'd the other way.
What is he like?

Van Ryk.
I think he is of rank;
In his deportment knightly eyes might see
What they would gladly imitate.

Artevelde.
Of rank!
The very madness of desertion this!
Go, fetch him in.
[Exit Van Ryk.
Thorout and Popperinguen!
Cassel and Rousselaere! And who, I wist,
Can keep a town's allegiance on its legs
If not Walraven?
Re-enter Van Ryk, conducting Sir Fleureant of Heurlée, in armour, with his vizor closed.
Give us leave, Van Ryk.
[Exit Van Ryk.
Well, Sir! your pleasure? and say first by whom
My camp is honour'd thus.

Sir Fleureant.
By one, my Lord,
Known to your host by all reproachful names
Of miscreant, perfidious traitor, knave,
Caitiff and cur.

Artevelde.
These, Sir, are shrewd additions,
And not, I hope, deserved.

Sir Fleureant.
They have been so:
Had not contrition wash'd desert with tears,
They were so still. I am that perjured Knight
Fleureant of Heurlée.

Artevelde.
Art thou he indeed?
What brings thee hither?

Sir Fleureant.
That which brings the proud
To crave a low equality with dust;
Which arms the lover lorn, the suitor cast, the sinner caught,
The courtier supplanted, with the knife,
Or bowl or halter—for their several griefs
The sovereign cures. My Lord, what brings me here
Is of that grain—a loathing of my life;
And, to come closer, such a sort of grief
As wrung Iscariot's heart when forth he went
And hung himself upon the field of blood
Has made me thus (in my Aceldama
The sin of self-destruction partly spared)
To run upon your sword.

Artevelde.
I am not bound
To find thee in a hangman. Go thy ways!
Thou art a slight, inconstant, violent man.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, I come prepared for your disdain,
And slender were I in my penitence
If I should not confess it well bestow'd.
But light and fickle as you deem me, still
To one fix'd purpose am I wedded now
For better and for worse—'tis to repair
The wrong that I have done you, and to die.

Artevelde.
Sir, you may live or die as likes you best;
It is your own affair; to me all's one.
The hurt your treachery has done to me
Can neither be repeated nor repair'd.
No further harm can follow from your life
Save in the sundering of my time and thoughts
From matters of more moment.

Sir Fleureant.
Pause, my Lord,
Ere you pronounce me as inept for good
As I am harmless. Slight me as you may,
You cannot cast me in mine own esteem
More low than where I lie; I scorn myself
With such a bitterness as bars all taste
Of other's scorn. But from this bitter tree
Good fruitage, if so please you, you may pluck.
I have been well esteem'd for soldiership,
And none can better know your enemy's host,
Where soft, where hard, where rotten, and where sound,
Their hopes and fears, the order of their march,
Their councils and intents. If all I know,
With what small service I by deeds might render,
May be accepted as a sacrifice
My conscience to appease, I die content.

Artevelde.
Methinks I barely comprehend your conscience;
For sicken'd with one treasonable poison,
'Twould seem to seek another for a cure.
What says your conscience on your King's behalf?

Sir Fleureant.
It says that there all claims are cancell'd; yea,
All ties dissolved; for never was a Knight
Of prowess known, more thanklessly repaid,
More scurvily entreated, than by him
And by his ingrate uncles and his court
Was Fleureant of Heurlée.

Artevelde.
Are you there!
Ah! now I understand you. Come this way.
My Council is awaiting me. Ere night
I will speak further with you. Until when—

Scene IV.

—The Royal Pavilion in the French Camp at Mount Dorre, on the western bank of the Lis, at the distance of a league from Rosebecque. The King is discovered rising from supper and bidding adieu to his Uncles, the Admiral of France, the Lord of Coucy, and a number of other guests who are leaving the Pavilion. Sir Guy of Baveux is in attendance, and the Duke of Burgundy remains behind the others.
The King.
My Lords, we wish you all a sweet good-night.
Sir Constable—he's gone—Sir Constable—
Run after him, Sir Guy, and bring him back.
[Exit Sir Guy of Baveux.
Uncle of Burgundy, what says your Grace?
Shall it be now?

Burgundy.
Fair cousin, now or never.

[Exit.
The King.
He will be mightily displeased! I swear
I have no heart to speak it! Me! I quake.
Re-enter Sir Guy of Baveux with the Constable of France.
We call'd you back, Sir Oliver; you heard not.

Constable.
Your Grace shall pardon me; my ears are dull;
A blow was dealt upon my head at Nantes
That something stunn'd my hearing.

The King.
Sir, the love
We bear you is well-known; and for this night
And for the morrow, out of love and grace,
We would that you should tarry by our person
And give your baton to my Lord of Coucy.

Constable.
Most gracious Sir! I am amazed at this!
I do beseech you hear me. Well I know
No greater honour can your servant share
Than to help guard your person; but, dear Sir,
Think how the van should marvel, were I missed
At such a time! Sir, do not shake them so:
Nor do not, I entreat you on my knees,
Unsettle what advisedly was fix'd
To be for your advantage. Be assured
(I say it with all deference to such counsel
As may have moved your Highness unto this)
The parting from your purposes thus late
Will put you in much peril. For myself
I have perform'd my function with such zeal
As doth not, I am bold to say, deserve
That I should be degraded.

The King.
Constable,
Your office you have well discharged, I know,
In my time and my father's; 'tis the great trust
And sure affiance that both he and I
Have ever placed in you, which makes me speak
To have you in this business at my side.

Constable,
Most noble Sir, you are so well begirt
With valiant men, and all is so well sped
That nought can be amended. Wherefore, Sir,
You and your Council ought to be content.
I pray you, Sir, maintain me in mine office,
And if I err not, you will find no cause
To-morrow to repent it.

The King.
By St. Denis,
Good Constable, your pleasure shall be mine;
So exercise your office at your will
And I will say no more: for by St. Denis,
You have seen further into this than I,
Or they that moved me in the matter first.
To-morrow come to me at mass.

Constable.
Kind Sir,
Most willingly I will. God keep your Grace!
All has been well disposed. The rear is up,
Save only skeletons of squadrons dropp'd
Upon our line of march: with tents and fires
They make a show of forces left behind,
So to beguile the Fleming, who will deem
We are not whole. God give your Grace good rest!

The King.
Good-night, good Constable. To bed, to bed!

Scene V.

—Artevelde's Pavilion in his Camp on the eastern side of the Lis, as in the last Scene but one. It is night. Artevelde is discovered sleeping upon a low couch beside the embers of a fire.Elena enters.
Elena.
My Lord—Van Artevelde—up, up, my Lord!
I never knew him to sleep sound before!
Awake, my Lord, awake!

Artevelde.
Charge once again!

Elena.
Awake, Van Artevelde!

Artevelde.
Fall back! all's lost!
Not by the bridge—no, no, no, no, no, no.

Elena.
Arouse yourself, Van Artevelde, awake!

Artevelde
(awaking).
Elena, love, fly fly—Eh! what's the matter?

Elena.
Nay, start not—it is only my surmise,
But I could deem the Frenchman was afoot.

Artevelde.
Why think you so? Van Ryk! what ho! Van Ryk!

Elena.
I could not sleep, and sate without the tent,
And sudden from the river seem'd to rise
A din of battle, mix'd with lengthen'd shouts
That sounded hollow like a windy thaw.
I look'd, and in the cloudy western sky
There was a glow of fire, and then the cries
Were less confused, and I believed I heard
“Mount Joye, St. Denis!” “Flanders and the Lion!”
With that I came to waken you.

Artevelde.
Van Ryk!—
I'll go myself and hearken. Where's my page?
Send for Van Ryk, I say.

[He passes to the door of the tent.
Elena.
Courage, my soul!
Play thou the heroine's part for one half-hour
And ever after take thy woman's way.

Artevelde.
(returning).
Who is within?
Enter an Attendant.
Bid them to sound my trumpet.

[Exit the Attendant, and soon after a reveillée is sounded without. Then Van Ryk enters.
Artevelde.
What watch is this we keep? Here's battle join'd
And none of us astir!

Van Ryk.
Not so, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Heard you not war-cries coming from the river?

Van Ryk.
'Tis true, my Lord, both they that had the watch,
And I myself, believed we heard a fight
With shouts and hootings on the river's marge;
But sending there, nought was there to be seen,
Nought to be heard, nor was a Frenchman found.
This thus made sure, we deem'd to rouse yourself
Or waken up the host, should bring us blame;
Wherefore we let it pass.

Artevelde.
'Tis very strange.

Van Ryk.
It was as much a battle to the ear
As sound could make it.

Elena.
Saw you not besides
A redness in the sky?

Van Ryk.
Yes, a red light;
But that was cast from fires beneath the hedge
Upon Mount Dorre.

Artevelde.
This is a phantom fight.
The ghosts of them that are to fall to-morrow
(Rather to-day, for day begins to break)
Rehearse their parts. Van Ryk, we'll sleep no more
My trumpet has been sounded, and by this
The host is half in arms. We'll sleep no more
Till we have tried our fortune. Bid Vauclaire
And Ukenheim and Roosdyk, when they're arm'd
Meet me below beside the willow-grove.
Bid silence to be kept through all the host.
What think'st thou of the day? Will it be bright?

Van Ryk.
A mist is spreading from the river up:
I think, my Lord, it shall not clear away
Till sunrise, or it may be not till noon.

Artevelde.
That is all well. Send me the Captains thither.
[Exit Van Ryk.
I go, my fairest! Should I not return,
There's nothing here that I shall leave with pain,
My beautiful Elena, save thyself.
What strange forgetfulness appears it now
So many mis-spent moments to have given
To anything but love! They're gone for ever
With all their wasted sunshine! Now is left
One moment but to spare, one word to speak;
Farewell, my best beloved!

Elena.
Farewell, my Lord.

Artevelde.
And if we meet no more, a heart thou hast,
Though heretofore misled, and like mine own
Bedarken'd in the gloom of devious ways,
Yet surely destined from the first by Heaven
To issue into light. My shade removed,
The radiance of redeeming love shall shine
Upon thine after-life and point the path
Through penitence to peace. Pray for me then,
And thou shalt then be heard.

Elena.
Farewell, my Lord.

Artevelde.
And is it thus we part? Enough, enough;
Full hearts, few words. But there is yet another
I would not leave unsaid. If time be short
To seek for pardon of my sins from Heaven,
To thee and for my sins against thyself
I shall not in the shortest sue in vain.
For reparation of one fatal fault
I would that I might be preserved to-day;
If not, I know that I shall fall forgiven.

Elena.
Try me no further, Artevelde; go, go;
If I should speak to thee one word of love
I should not hold myself on this side reason.
Go whilst I have my senses, Artevelde;
Or stay and hear the passion of my heart
Break out,—and not in words; if throes and shrieks
Thou wouldst be fain to witness, stay; if not,
Content thee with one bitter word—adieu!

Artevelde.
Dearest, be brave; no Fate forbids us yet
To trust that we shall meet again. Take heart,
And with a God-speed send me on my way.
Oh! look, the Knight of Heurlée hither hastes
To chide my lingering.

Elena.
He! He! I hate him.
Why is he with thee wheresoe'er thou goest?
It sends a very horror to my heart
To see his fiendish face! Why is it he
That comes to bring thee?

Artevelde.
What imports it? Nay,
Elena, love, what ails thee? What is this?
She hears me not—What ho! Cecile!
Enter Cecile.
There, take her.

Cecile.
She will be better soon, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Say worse.
'Tis better for her to be thus bereft.
Go, take her in—nay, stop—one kiss—the last—
One kiss—and not return'd—and not return'd—
And on a brow so cold! but colder still
Perchance may mine be when thy passionate lips
Shall press it once again. Unhappy girl!
The curse of beauty was upon thy birth,
Nor love bestow'd a blessing. Fare thee well!

Scene VI.

—The western side of the Lis.—A watch-fire in advance of the French Encampment. Two Soldiers of the Watch.
1st Soldier.
(sings).
Four stakes and a mat
Make a very good house:
'Tis ill found, quoth the rat;
Not a whit, said the louse.

2nd Soldier.
The Devil catch thy breath and stop thy mouth!
The trumpets of the Flemish host may sound
And nothing but thy caterwauling heard.

1st Soldier
(still singing).
More happy are we than the Count and the Earl,
More happy are we than the gold-hatching churl,
Than the Squire and Friar and seller and buyer,
Than he that is high who still sees something higher:
Your ear and I'll tell you
The why and the wherefore—
He that hath nothing,
Hath nothing to care for.

2nd Soldier.
Be still, I say; I hear a trumpet now.
Hark! hush! now—there—a trumpet clear as day!
Be brisk and handy; bundle up your blankets
And hie we to the Captain of the watch.

Scene VII.

—The eastern side of the Lis. Artevelde, his Page, Van Ryk, and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Artevelde.
The black flag hoisted! be it as they will.
On our side too up with it! But, Van Ryk,
Send Rutiler to the van with strict command
To spare the King; he's but a boy.

Van Ryk.
Look, look,
They gather on the left.

Artevelde.
Fly to Vauclaire
And bid him when he sees me pass the bridge
Drive on his force as though the Devil's self
Were at his heels.

[Exeunt Artevelde, Page, and Van Ryk.
Sir Fleureant.
He is at yours, my Lord.

Scene VIII.

—A rising ground, entrenched and strongly guarded in the rear of the French Host.—The King attended by the Lords of Coucy and Poictiers, the Bastard of St. Poule, &c. Messengers arriving and departing.
The King.
Here comes another—well, Sir—tell me—what?

Messenger.
Sire, when Van Artevelde had cross'd the bridge—

Coucy.
What! cross'd the bridge alive?

The King.
Well, well; what then?

Messenger.
He poured himself upon the Breton flank,
Which stumbled back a step, but rallied soon,
Spurr'd by the Lords of Saimpi and St. Just
Who hasten'd to the spot; and there it is
That now the battle rages.

The King.
Ho! my horse!
My Lords, do you your pleasure; it is mine
To get upon my horse and take what's going.

Poictiers.
Your Grace should bear in mind—another! See!

Enter a second Messenger.
The King.
Whence com'st thou? speak.

Second Messenger.
Sire, I was sent to say
Van Artevelde was kill'd—so went the cry
Where I was—on the right; but coming thence
The knight of Saimpi did I jump withal
Borne wounded to the rear, and learnt from him
That Artevelde was living, proof whereof
He bore upon his body, for his wounds
Were got in fighting with him hand to hand.

The King.
My horse! I'll fight him hand to hand myself!
Stay you, my Lords, or go; I mount my horse.

Coucy.
Have with your Grace! I cannot blame you much,
Though you shall fret your uncles.

The King.
By St. Denis
Rather than stay I'll fight my uncles too.

Scene IX.

—A part of the Field on the western side of the Lis.—Artevelde, attended by several Officers and Pages.
Artevelde.
Who's here? Fly, Sibrand, to the further left;
Bid Eversdyk and Alphen wheel their force
To prop me on my flank. [Exit Sibrand.
Enter a Messenger.

Run thou, De Roo—

Messenger.
Vauclaire, my Lord, is slain.

Artevelde.
Is slain—hah—slain—
Thou to the rear, De Roo, and bid Van Ryk
Keep open passage on the bridge. Thou, Paul—

Enter a second Messenger.
Second Messenger.
Roosdyk, my Lord, is dying of his wounds.

Artevelde.
I cannot help it. Keep the causeway clear,
And summon Reehorst to my aid. We shake.
The cry is still, Van Artevelde is slain.
Go make it known I live. Up with my cry!

Scene X.

—Another part of the Field still on the western side of the Lis.—The Duke of Burgundy, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée and Followers.
Burgundy.
Another charge like that—ill sorted knaves!
They stumbled on each other, each by each
Pegg'd in and pinion'd. Now they're loose enough.
Another charge—they scurry to Mount Dorre.
We'll drive them up the hill, and from the top
Like a staved cask shall they be trundled down.
What wait we for?

Sir Fleureant.
The cask rings hollow: yea,
The wine is spilt that made their hearts so bold.
Lo! yonder goes the King.

Burgundy.
What! breaking bounds!
He must not be before us. Scale the hill.

Scene XI.

—Another part of the Field on the same side of the Lis, near the Bridge.
Artevelde and Van Ryk.
Artevelde.
I bleed, Van Ryk. Can anything be done?
For if there can, my spirit's sight is dimm'd
And I discern it not.

Van Ryk.
To fly, my Lord,
Is what remains.

Artevelde.
To fly! Then mount my horse
And make away before the general flight
Chokes up the bridge.

Van Ryk.
Not I, my Lord. Your horse
Should bear his proper burthen: mount yourself.

Artevelde.
Never, Van Ryk. My errand upon earth
Ends in this overthrow. Bind up my wound;
Give me but strength again to reach the field
And I will carve myself a nobler death
Than they design'd me. God would not permit
That I should fall by any hand so base
As his who hurt me thus.

Van Ryk.
Whose hand was that?

Artevelde.
Sir Fleureant's: he stabb'd me on the bridge
And fled amongst the French.

Van Ryk.
Oh monstrous deed!

Artevelde.
I hid it whilst I could, which was not long:
And being seen so tottering in my seat
The rumour ran that I was hurt to death,
And then they stagger'd. Lo! we're flying all!
Mount, mount, old man; at least let one be saved!
Roosdyk! Vauclaire! the gallant and the kind!
Who shall inscribe your deeds upon your tombs?
May mine tell nothing to the world but this,—
That never did that Prince or Leader live
Who had more loyal or more loving friends!
Let it be written that fidelity
Could go no farther. Mount, old friend, and fly!

Van Ryk.
With you, my Lord, not else. A fear-struck throng
Comes rushing from Mount Dorre. Sir, cross the bridge.

Artevelde.
The bridge! my soul abhors; but cross it thou,
And take this token to my Love, Van Ryk.
Fly for my sake in hers, and take her hence;
It is my last command. See her convey'd
To Ghent by Olsen or what safer road
Thy prudence shall descry. This do, Van Ryk—
Lo! now they pour upon us like a flood!
Thou that didst never disobey me yet,
This last good office render me. Begone!
Fly whilst the way is free,

Van Ryk.
My Lord, alas!
You put my duty to the sternest test
It ever yet endured; but I obey.
I do beseech you come across the bridge;
This rush of runaways—

Artevelde.
Farewell, Van Ryk.

Van Ryk.
Fellows, stand back! What! see you not my Lord?
Stand back, I say!

Artevelde.
Ho! turn ye round once more!
Cry Artevelde! and charge them once again!
What! courage, friends! We yet can keep the bridge.
Three minutes but stand fast, and our reserves
Shall succour us. Heigh, heigh, Sir! who are you
That dares to touch me?

Van Ryk.
Nay, Sirs, nay, stand back.

[Van Ryk is forced off by the crowd.
Artevelde.
Shame on you, cowards! what! do you know me! back!
Back, villains! will you suffocate your Lord!
Back, or I'll stab you with my dagger. Oh!
Give me but space to breathe! Forgive me, God!
What have I done?—why such a death?—why thus?—
Oh! for a wound as wide as famine's mouth
To make a soldier's passage for my soul.

[He is borne along in the rout towards the bridge.

Scene XII.

—The same. Enter the Dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon with Followers on the one side, and Sir Lois of Sanxere with Followers on the other.
Sanxere.
Halt ye a space, my Lords, ye cannot pass:
The bridge has broken down beneath the weight
Of them that fly.

Burgundy.
A lath should bear up us,
We are so light of heart, so light of heel!
It was the leaden spirit of defeat
That brake the bridge. Shoot me a plank across
And see if I shall strain it!

Sanxere.
Stay, my Lord;
They're pushing beams athwart the shatter'd arch
And presently the passage shall be safe
For all the host; but farther down the stream
There are some boats, though but a few, for those
Who would be foremost.

Burgundy.
I am of them. Who else?

Scene XIII.

—A part of the Field on the eastern side of the Lis. It is strewn with the dead and wounded and other wreck of the battle. In front is the body of Van Artevelde. Elena is kneeling beside it. Van Ryk and one of Van Artevelde's Pages are standing near. Trumpets are heard from time to time at a distance.
Van Ryk.
Bring her away. Hark! hark!

Page.
She will not stir.
Either she does not hear me when I speak,
Or will not seem to hear.

Van Ryk.
Leave her to me.
Fly, if thou lov'st thy life, and make for Ghent.
[Exit Page.
Madam, arouse yourself; the French come fast:
Arouse yourself, sweet Lady; fly with me.
I pray you hear: it was his last command
That I should take you hence to Ghent by Olsen.

Elena.
I cannot go on foot.

Van Ryk.
No, Lady, no,
You shall not need; horses are close at hand.
Let me but take you hence. I pray you come.

Elena.
Take him, then, too.

Van Ryk.
The enemy is near
In hot pursuit; we cannot take the body.

Elena.
The body!

Van Ryk.
Hush!

Enter Duke of Burgundy.
Burgundy.
What hideous cry was that?
What are ye? Flemings? Who art thou, old Sir?
Who she that flung that long funereal note
Into the upper sky? Speak.

Van Ryk.
What I am,
Yourself have spoken. I am, as you said,
Old and a Fleming. Younger by a day
I could have wish'd to die; but what of that?
For death to be behind-hand but a day
Is but a little grief.

Burgundy.
Well said, old man;
And who is this?

Van Ryk.
Sir, she is not a Fleming.

Enter the King, the Duke of Bourbon, the Earl of Flanders, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée, the Constable, Tristram of Lestovet, the Lord of Coucy, and many other Lords and Knights, with Guards and Attendants.
The King.
What is your parley, uncle, who are these?

Burgundy.
Your Grace shall please to ask them that yourself;
I cannot make them tell.

The King.
Come on, come on!
We've sent a hundred men to search the field
For Artevelde's dead body.

Sir Fleureant.
Sire, for that
You shall need seek no further; there he lies.

The King.
What, say you so? What! this Van Artevelde?
God's me! how sad a sight!

Burgundy.
But are you sure?
Lift up his head.

Constable.
Sir Fleureant, is it he?

Sir Fleureant.
Sirs, this is that habiliment of flesh
Which clothed the spirit of Van Artevelde
Some half an hour bygone. Between the ribs
You'll find a wound, whereof so much of this
[Drawing his dagger
As is imbrued with blood, denotes the depth.

The King.
Oh me! how sad and terrible he looks!
He hath a princely countenance. Alas!
I would he might have lived and taken service
Upon the better side!

Burgundy.
And who is she?

[Elena raises her head from the body.
Bourbon.
That I can answer: she's a traitress vile,
The villain's paramour.

Sir Fleureant.
Beseech you, Sir,
Believe it not; she was not what you think.
She did affect him, but in no such sort
As you impute, which she can promptly prove.

Elena
(springing upon her feet.)
'Tis false! thou liest! I was his paramour.

Bourbon.
Oh, shameless harlot! dost thou boast thy sin?
Ay, down upon the carrion once again!
Ho, guards! dispart her from the rebel's carcase
And hang it on a gibbet. Thus and thus
I spit upon and spurn it.

Elena
(snatching Artevelde's dagger from its sheath).
Miscreant foul!
Black-hearted felon!
[Aims a blow at the Duke of Bourbon, which Sir Fleureant intercepts.
Ay, dost baulk me! there—
As good for thee as him!

[Stabs Sir Fleureant, who falls dead.
Burgundy.
Seize her! Secure her! Bind her hand and foot!
What! routed we a hundred thousand men
Here to be slaughter'd by a crazy wench!

[The Guards rush upon Elena; Van Ryk interposes for her defence; after some struggle, both are struck down and slain.
Bourbon.
So! curst untoward vermin! are they dead?
His very corse breeds maggots of despite!

Burgundy.
I did not bid them to be kill'd.

Captain of the Guard.
My Lord,
They were so sturdy and so desperate
We could not else come near them.

The King.
Uncle, lo!
The Knight of Heurlée, too, stone dead.

Sanxere.
By Heaven,
This is the strangest battle I have known!
First we've to fight the foe, and then the captives.

Bourbon.
Take forth the bodies. For the woman's corse,
Let it have Christian burial. As for his,
The arch-insurgent's, hang it on a tree
Where all the host may see it.

Burgundy.
Brother, no;
It were not for our honour, nor the King's,
To use it so. Dire reble though he was,
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts
Was he endow'd,—courage, discretion, wit,
An equal temper and an ample soul,
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults
Of transitory passion, but below
Built on a surging subterranean fire
That stirr'd and lifted him to high attempts.
So prompt and capable and yet so calm
He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the right,
Nothing in soldiership except good fortune.
Wherefore with honour lay him in his grave,
And thereby shall increase of honour come
Unto their arms who vanquished one so wise,
So valiant, so renown'd. Sirs, pass we on,
And let the bodies follow us on biers.
Wolf of the weald and yellow-footed kite,
Enough is spread for you of meaner prey.
Other interment than your maws afford
Is due to these. At Courtray we shall sleep,
And there I'll see them buried side by side.