University of Virginia Library

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.