University of Virginia Library

THE TRAGIC POEM OF WOLD.

PERSONS.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations for major characters are as follows:

• For Duch. read Duchess of Wold
• For Mar. read Martin
• For Dun. read Dunley
• For Zeb. read Zebra
• For Mount. read Mountnorris
• For Phil. read Philip
• For Hast. read Hastings
• For Rach. read Rachel
• For Lady Mer. read Lady Mervyn
• For Mor. read Morley

• Henry IV.
• Lord Wold.
• Lord Dunley.
• Dr Rowth.
• Hastings.
• Sir Lionel Chayr.
• Sir Hugh de Valma.
• The Duchess of Wold.
• Lady Staines.
• Lady Mervyn.
• Afra.
• Philip de Valma.
• Michael Zebra.
• Mountnorris.
• Martin.
• Morley.
• Gort.
• Blanche.
• Janet Mountnorris.
• Rachel.
• Nurse.
• A Captain of Besiegers, an Officer, a Gentleman, a Herald, the Loyal Harper, an old Seneschal of Wold, the Keeper of Wold Prison, a band of young Girls, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, Servants, &c.

The Scenes are laid in the west of England, near the borders of Wales, and in the city of Bristol. Time.—The Reign of Richard II., and the beginning of the Reign of Henry IV.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—The Mouth of a Cave, in the side of a rocky mountain. Wold Castle seen in the distance.
Afra, bearing a small black harp.
Afra.

[Afra retires into her Cave, striking her harp vehemently.

Scene II.

—A Court in Wold Castle.
Mountnorris and Martin.
Mount.
Aught of Lord Wold?

Mar.
Her Grace is forth to meet him.
Of course she would not own't; not she: Emotion
Is not in the Peerage: 'Tis a morning walk
With Dr Rowth, my family priest—that's all.

Mount.
France down on her knees to his dint, the old Wold dint!

Mar.
Peace cobbled up, he breathes; but shrewd the tokens,
He breathes not long.

Mount.
What's wrong next?

Mar.
What's not wrong?
Weak is our Second Richard, wroth the land
Against his curled minions. Homeward look
Angry the banished heads. If Wold's to prop
The Throne as wont, the sooner he were come
With great Sir Hugh, the better.

Mount.
What Sir Hugh?

Mar.
Who but De Valma? Know you not? Patroclus
To our Achilles: Knighted by his patron
Upon the field: Ballads he makes, they say
(And sings them, I suppose), on their own wars:
Isn't that a friend worth having? So to Wold
With Wold he comes.

Mount.
Let's look to our array.

[Exit Mountnorris.
Mar.

And Merlin speed thee! He was out, forsooth, with Madam's sire, old Boarship; so hallow she must the worm-eaten remnant. When fit for nothing else, he's good enough for my Captain! Captain of the Guard of Wold! And I'm to do Lieutenant to him! Our Duchess and her son don't trust me. Am I to waste my heart on such people? Dunley shall be Wold first.

[Exit.

Scene III.

—The Terrace of Dunley Tower.
Lord Dunley and Michael Zebra.
Dun.
Michael the Marvellous! Wold you know already,
Even to her Grace's posset!

Zeb.
Veil your eyes!
No mortal sops for her! Is not her porridge
Made of star-dust and milk o' the Milky Way,
Brought down by Charles's Wain express for her,
With all the bravery of its harness on,
Cut out of light, with studs and buttons of glory,
All for her Grace—great She of Wold—Duchess
In her own right? The cloudy fringe of fable
To history's web's all flourished o'er with Wold!
Yonder's the sun, shear me a sheaf o' his rays
For rushes to Madam's feet: Queen Mab to strew them!
But now for Me the Marvellous:—All my spells
Are simply Martin—Martin's our man, my Lord:
I've fixed him ours: He scorns, and would throw up
His present place, but that he waits to see
Dunley the Lord of Wold.

Dun.
Small chance there, Michael.

Zeb.
Mervyn, say I, then Wold. Wed, first of all,
Your cousin Mervyn: who so fair as she?

Dun.
My heart lies all that way, but Gloster's ghost
Stands in my path: he was her father's friend,
And I'm his murderer—so she thinks and says,
And spurns my suit; though I was but the doer
Of the King's will in that. And now, what boots it
That I'm next heir to Mervyn, after her?
She's young, she'll marry. As for Wold, there also
I'm next of kin; remote, 'tis true, yet heir,
Failing Lord Thomas. But he too may wed.
Even should he not, scarce is he middle-aged.

Zeb.
Forty's the keystone of our arched span,
He's over that. As for love, name it not;
Oh no, nor marriage: He is not your man
For that soft sort of thing. Look how he turns
The sharp, quick, lively corners of human nature,
Like a mail-plated, jointless crocodile,
All in one lumbering piece. The pert Old Adam
Within us has enjoyed his peccadillo
Afresh at the end o' the dovecot, and is off
Laughing and capering in his nimble eld,
Ere stiff, slow Thomas of Wold can heave himself
Round into view. Marry? Not he, indeed.
He's maidenly modest too: he'd blush young red
To have it named to him.

Dun.
We'll give him work
Weightier than blushing! He has thwarted me:
I'll pay him back!

Zeb.
To-day he's coming home
From his French wars. We'll keep an eye on him,
And see how he wears.

Dun.
Let Martin have our favour.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

—The Terraced Roof of Mervyn Castle.
The Loyal Harper, a blind, white-haired old man, with a harp, is seen passing by a little way off, led by his daughter Rachel. After them comes a band of young girls, dressed in white, and carrying baskets of flowers.
Enter Blanche hastily, followed by Lady Mervyn and her old Nurse.
Blanche.
Quick! here's our village welcome to Lord Wold:
This way, and now, he's looked for to ride in.

Lady Mer.
A sweet device! it makes me glad to see it.

Nurse.
Do watch the Silent Lord: see how he'll blush,
Finding it all for him.

Lady Mer.
The Silent Lord?
Ay, but his deeds, they speak.

Nurse.
I to see Wold
Welcomed at Mervyn gate!

Lady Mer.
Why not, good Nurse?

Nurse.
Ask, Sweetheart, do! as if the old feud were ne'er
Betwixt your lines!

Lady Mer.
Would I could end it here!
I'll wait and see Lord Wold. I've heard of him
For all that's good. It may be that the sense
Of something difficult and forbidding draws me
To Wold; but so it is, I'd like to know
The old Duchess well; I'm sure I'd love her.

Nurse.
Ay,
But see you don't. She's not for you to make
Or meddle with. Old sayings are out against her.
Keep out o' those prophetics!

Lady Mer.
She has seen
Much sorrow in her time?

Nurse.
That you may say.
Strange on her looked her father when he saw
She was his only child, thinking, no doubt,
She was the “She” o' the weird, with whom Wold's house
Was doomed to “perish.”

Lady Mer.
May not all this have made her
Sterner than she's by nature, for they say
She's gentle too?

Nurse.
Well, she grew up, and Wold
Had still a chance in marriage: she was married
To the last male o' the line, remote of kin.
He fell—oh what a day was that for her!—
In single combat 'neath your father's sword,
In her first moon of marriage. Sorrow, said you?
Was not this sorrow?

Lady Mer.
Heavy, heavy!

Nurse.
Days,
And nights, she sat in darkness, so they tell,
None with her. No one saw her when the pangs
Of travail were upon her. She brought forth
Her man-child thus—Thomas of Wold. And so
The old house yet stands. Oh how that mother's heart
Was set on her still boy—sad we may call him,
As if he had fed on the black milk of sorrow
Within her womb. In youth he dwelt apart,
Haunting the old woods with large white-breasted dogs.
And then he went to war—and who so great as he?
Fain would the Duchess see him wed, but he
Is shy as a virgin. Ay, the old prophecy
Is not for nothing: Wold has had its day.
How now, my Bird? Well, if there's not a tear
In my child's eye!

Lady Mer.
God bless them both!

Blanche.
Amen!

Lady Mer.
How dark it grows!

Blanche.
Look up.

Lady Mer.
'Tis black as thunder.

Nurse.
Let's in.

Blanche.
List, list! back comes the Harper, harping.

[The Harper, led by Rachel, passes back playing a welcome. The girls follow, singing the welcome.]
Lady Mer.
See what a strange unearthly glistering's cast
Down on those white young children! And their song,
What a wild sweetness in't! Look now, they're strewing
Their flowers i' the way: Lord Wold must be at hand.
Under that ominous gleam, is it not like
Some spiritual vision? Hark! the hollow sound
Of coming hoofs in the grim hush: Two riders!

Nurse.
That dark, staid, stately man's the Silent Lord.

Blanche.
And who's the fair young Knight that rides with him?
Why, what a goodly pair! A plague, say I,
O' their old world quarrels! What have we to do
With gear like that, eh? Let's wave to the brave.

[Blanche waves her handkerchief.
Lady Mer.
What a grave sorrow in that face! My heart
Would love to make him glad. But lo! he smiles
Down on the children.
[Lightning and thunder.
What a blinding burst
Of fire was there! Ah, mercy! Look! he's down!
The thunderbolt has smote him—'tis Lord Thomas.
Let's have him in.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—A Forest Walk near Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold and Dr Rowth.
Duch.
Only one peal.

Dr Rowth.
But what a peal!

Duch.
The bolt
Struck i' the vale, methinks.

Dr Rowth.
Where are those riders?
They should be seen now coming up this way:
They're tarrying long. Lord Wold was one of them,
I'm sure of that.

Duch.
Here's some one in great haste:
What can it be?

Enter Sir Hugh de Valma.
Sir Hugh.
Madam, I take you for
Her Grace of Wold?

Duch.
If you're Sir Hugh de Valma,
Welcome to our poor Castle.

Sir Hugh.
Let me tell
The end of my errand first:—Lord Wold's hurt somewhat,
But not severely: I do hope and think
'Tis only very slightly; I may venture
To assure your Grace of that. And yet the bolt
Smote him to earth. It struck at Mervyn gate.

Duch.
The Thunder!

Sir Hugh.
He's reviving. I've just left him
In Mervyn, tended by the Lady Mervyn.

Duch.
In Mervyn!

Sir Hugh.
Fearing the imperfect news
Might magnify the matter, and distress you,
I thought it best to come at once myself,
And tell you the strict thing.

Duch.
'Twas kindly done.

Sir Hugh.
With your leave, Madam, I'll now back and join him.
We'll be here straight.

[Exit Sir Hugh.
Duch.
The Thunder!

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.

—An Apartment in Mervyn Castle.
Lord Wold and Lady Mervyn.
Lady Mer.
Nay then, in the old times,
Such strokes of visitation were held sacred:
They fell on heads that the gods loved—none others.
Be it so still of you!

Wold.
Gentlest of maidens,
Do you say this of me? Here's a new thing:—
Wold hurt, and laid in Mervyn; yet so pitied,
So cared for, tended so, ay, and by one
Whom he was taught to think his enemy!
What should this mean?

Lady Mer.
Oh, do not think me that!
What should it mean but peace? Would I could stay
The old vents of blood betwixt us, I would do it
Even with my very heart!

Wold.
Your heart, you say?
Be it so, then. Surely the God of Heaven,
Thundering and lightening so, and bringing me
So to your house, meant you to be my wife
From this strange hour—you, and none else but you!
Were I not up in years, and from my youth
A man of blood, grave too, one not to be
Loved of young virgins, by my soul I'd ask you
To be my own true wife! You're the first woman
I ever set my heart on. How you tremble!
I fear you hate me now?

Lady Mer.
Oh no.

Wold.
By this chaste kiss, I take thee for my wife.
[Kissing her.
How I do love thee!

Lady Mer.
Mine own lord and husband!

Wold.
I'll never change from thee! I've been a man
Not of glad days, but I'll be glad in thee!
Oh, ever near me, ever with me,
Thou, like the beautiful, meek, silent light,
The all-moulding light, wilt go into the grain
Of my dull nature, clearing it with new life,
So spiritual and so gracious is thy presence!
But now, to see my mother.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

—A Court at Dunley Tower.
Michael Zebra.
Zeb.
Now then, we're ready for this hasty coming
Of Richard and his train. But here's my Lord.
What bent on next? He was restrained, they say,
Austerely when a boy. I've known such cases,
Where, the curb suddenly withdrawn, the youth,
Defrauded hitherto of due delights,
And losing self-respect from daring once
To taste some lighter joy, unwisely classed,
In teaching him, with things forbidden justly,
And knowing no gradations, has at once,
With a ferocity of liquorish relish,
Unknown to those of looser bringing-up,
Plunged into pleasure.

Enter Lord Dunley.
Dun.
The game's up: She's Wold's;
Wooed, won, and all but wed—all in a thunder-clap.

Zeb.
What means my Lord?

Dun.
Simply, that he of Wold
Home going fell, hurt by the lightning-stroke,
At Mervyn gate. The Lady had him in:
She won his heart, he hers: they are betrothed.

Zeb.
A jest! Who said so?

Dun.
Only she herself,
And frankly too. Hither to-night I pressed her
To meet the King, and grace our feast, my suit
Urging the while; when, with a serious sweetness,
She said she owed it to herself and me
To tell me at once she was the Lord Wold's bride.

Zeb.
The end o' the world's upon us! I've just seen
That springald Chayr: What think you, good my Lord?
He's in the metamorphoses! Last moon—
A peck o' wild oats; to-day—unbonnet you
To The Whole Duty of Man! So changed is he.
Love for our Mervyn has transformed him thus.
And here's my Silent Lord: Oh rare for Silence!
If not just one o' your mere sheer war-clubs knotted
And rude strength-gnarled, on whose outstanding knobs
Pity might hang herself in her own garters;
Yet who dreamt he could love! when lo! he melts,
Woos, wins, all in a flash, as if said flash
Had more than suppled our dull suitor's tongue,
Wildering the maid's brain too.

Dun.
Sooth be the saying
Thunder bodes ill to Wold.

Zeb.
Ourselves will do
The thunder that we need. Now then for Wold:—
We'll end this love of his, so end his line:
For like your grave, deep, quiet men, he loves
Once and no more. The lady—mark, my Lord—
Is his betrothed; but she's not yet his wife,
No, nor shall ever be.

Dun.
Fix me but that!

Zeb.
Thomas of Wold charged you with Gloster's murder
In presence of his captains, and compelled you
To leave the army?

Dun.
'S blood! why do you name it?
You had better tell me too, with twitting tongue,
(And look for thanks), he—Wold—the man I hate
Has robbed me of my love!

Zeb.
My Lord, that charge
Against you, was a charge against the King,
A foul, disloyal charge. He called it murder;
The King's a murderer then, for 'twas his will
And work you did, as any faithful subject
Was bound to do. Mark now: our Sovereign Sire
Comes here to-night. You know, my Lord, his wrath
At hearing Gloster named?

Dun.
Well?

Zeb.
Hereford
Is looking homeward from his banishment,
An angry man. Him the King fears. Sworn friend
To Wold is he. Richard is jealous too
Of Wold's great service, and can never wish him,
Quartering with Mervyn, to have more power still.
My Lord of Dunley is his man for that.
Let's draw all these converging points together,
And knit them thus to our purpose:—When the King
Is flushed with wine to-night, make bold, my Lord,
Doing your duty as a right leal servant,
To impeach Lord Wold with that disloyalty.
I'll bear your Lordship out i'nt: I was present,
I know it all—and more.

Dun.
(pacing the court).
Could this be done!

Zeb.
It can be—must be—shall be. Nay, this father:—
You're bound, my Lord, as Mervyn's last male head,
Not to allow that wedding—not to allow
Your orphan cousin, an unshielded girl,
Unpractised, trusting all, to wed a traitor.
By Nature's laws you are her guardian friend;
Befriend her, then.

Dun.
I'll do it. To-night, you said?

Zeb.
This very night: all at one heat. Our Liege,
Wroth about Gloster, and made prompt, by hints,
To awe proud Hereford, by keeping down
And humbling Wold, will straightway summon him
Into the presence: All this very night.
We'll have another thunder-clap.

Dun.
What then?
What will Wold say or do?

Zeb.
Down with his gage,
Daring Lord Dunley. 'Twill but aggravate
The King's displeasure: He hates gauntlets now.
It but remains to name Wold's punishment.

Dun.
What should it be?

Zeb.
Not one jot more than serves
Our purpose fully. But the King himself
Must seem to dictate, while we gently bend him
To what we wish. Say that Wold be confined
Within the limit of his own domain,
On pain of death to pass't. Doomed traitor he,
The King's command will give you yet your wife,
And Dunley shall be Mervyn. Thomas of Wold,
Struck thus, shall pine out of your way; and then,
Wold's large domain, mark me, her lodes of ore,
Quarries of slate, forests, and fishy rivers,
Her hills of sheep, green plains, and fruitful fens,
Far and wide, shall be yours.

Trumpets without.
Dun.
The King! Keep near me.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.

—A Chamber in Wold Castle.
Duchess of Wold and Lord Wold.
Duch.
What words be these? Ay, ay, their iron tongue,
Where day's safe covenants are all blotted out,
And the black jaws yawn, hungry to have us,
Tolls o' the Thing foregone! Thomas of Wold,
What have you done?

Wold.
Quenched an old feud in peace,
And holy wedded love.

Duch.
I wished thee wed;
But be thy bride the worm, not she of Mervyn!
Think of thy father's blood shed by her father:
Oh, it cries fie on thee! A love so rash,
So disproportioned, so unnatural,
Can't come to good!

Enter a Messenger.
Mess.
This from the King in haste.

[The Messenger gives a letter to Lord Wold, and retires.
Wold.
Leave from your Grace to read.
[Lord Wold opens and reads the letter.
I'm summoned straight
To Dunley Tower, where the King spends the night.
Wherefore, is not set forth; but the command
Is absolute. Give me your blessing, mother,
Lest I return not: Troublous times are near;
The King may need me.

Duch.
This I'll say, my son,
And bless thee for't:—For him, and for thy country,
A great far doer hast thou been—great things
Thou hast done, and yet wilt do!

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The Mouth of Afra's Cave.
Afra, striking her harp.
Afra.
Cloud upon Wold, I see thee!
Well done, thou bellying blackness! Leap on it,
Vengeance, with thy fierce feet; tread down the gloom,
Till it be dense—tread down the burdened gloom,
Till it be solid black on the doomed towers
And battlements: There let it rest! Be all,
Under that cloud symbolic, utter death!
Shall it not be? Ay, for the Prophet spake,
He looked into the seed of time and spake;
And from of old I, Afra, was ordained
His living Utterance o'er the House of Wold.
Hark! the Thunder-tongue hath knolled
Judgment to the House of Wold.
Mark! the love of enemies old
Folds in death the House of Wold.

[Afra goes into her Cave.

Scene II.

—The Aisle of Wold Church—lighted by a lamp. Rows of coffins are seen standing on trestles. Lord Wold is discovered sitting by a coffin.
Enter the Duchess of Wold.
Duch.
Peace with the dead! All my life, morn and even,
I've fed thee, lamp of love, with mine own hand,
With odorous oil, and never let thee out.
[The Duchess trims the lamp.
My time draws to an end: Who'll do this duty
When I'm laid here, dust with our dust? No matter;
Dark or light, we'll lie still
(observing Lord Wold dimly).
What thing art thou?

Wold.
That's the word! Not a man, no more a man!

Duch.
My Lord?

Wold.
Nay, thus:—

[He writes with his forefinger in the dust under the lamp.
Duch.
“Traitor?”

Wold.
Am I that, Madam?

Duch.
What means all this, my Lord?

Wold.
Did I not go,
Last night, in a right spirit to serve my King?
His countenance, as I passed into the presence,
Was dark against me. On my knee I knelt,
But, as I knelt, I was denounced a Traitor.

Duch.
Wherefore? By whom?

Wold.
By Dunley. Gloster's blood.
Hurt us in France, discrediting our arms:
He was the murderer: Off I drove him from us.
Hence his revenge. Our Liege's heart and ear
Are his. Made bold thereby, he dares to charge me
With slanderous and disloyal imputations
Upon the King himself, weakening his sway in France;
Nay, more, with actual treason in abetting
The exiled Hereford (who was my friend
In earlier days) in plotting rebel mischief
Back on the English throne: Such was his charge
Against me there and then. Ay, and our Sire
Let the bought tongue of some cloak-brushing fellow
Wag vouch against me.

Duch.
Back in Dunley's teeth
You hurled the lie?

Wold.
What boots it that I did?
My scorn, my gage, my lie-defying challenge
Were very aggravations: Here am I
An outcast Traitor! pent in Wold's domain,
On pain of death to pass it!

Duch.
Did King Richard
Pronounce that sentence?

Wold.
Yes. And out o' their wine
Flushed faces rose against me, frowning against me
As angry as their reeling drunkenness
Would let them frown it: This was our King's Council!
The Council of the Majesty of England!
Convenient pocket tool, the King bears't with him
Where'er he goes. I' their winking, lisping wrath,
They ratified the sentence. Think of it!

Duch.
Be calm, my Lord.

Wold.
Calm, Madam! am I not?
But yet I think of it. I sought me here
Death's house, to get me patience from our dust;
But oh, I think of it yet. This more, high Duchess:—
What right have I to bring my own disgrace
Within these honoured walls? What right had they
To foist a branded Traitor on your house?
Traitor, ay, that and more! a weakling scorned,—
Packed by my King home to my mother's house,
As if I were a suckling, not a man
That might be dangerous near him!

Duch.
'Twas a credit
Vouchsafed you rather, that you'd bow submiss
To your Liege, like all your sires. Whate'er your doom,
Just in itself or not, it stands our law
Till it be cancelled.

Wold.
I've reclaimed to him
Through Hugh de Valma: I demand just trial.

Enter Martin.
Mar.
Help! Help!

Wold.
What is't?

Mar.
They've hanged Sir Hugh de Valma.

Wold.
Who has dared?

Mar.
Richard. For yourself, my Lord,
Went the young Knight to plead. The King, incensed
At his presumption, sent out after him
Six fellows masked to overtake, and hang him
On the first tree. Two of them fell by his sword;
But the rest beat him down, disarmed, and hanged him
On the great tree called the King's Oak. And there
He's hanging still.

Wold.
Touch him not! England's people
Shall come and look at him there: In troops I'll bring them,
To look at him there—boys, virgins, matrons, men:
Good people all, look at him hanging there!
The gallant youth, so tender and so true!
My friend, and such a friend! Ay, and who fought
For Richard so! Look at him hanging there!
The King's Oak, said you? A fit gallows, then:
Ominous be it to kings!

Duch.
I won't believe
King Richard did it. I'll to him straight myself,
And learn the truth o't all.

Mar.
Madam, he's off
To Ireland in hot haste: He's needed there.

[Exit Martin.
Duch.
He hang a young knight thus? Never!

Wold.
And when
This peopled isle have seen the horrible sight,
I'll cut him down myself; ay, and I'll bury him
Beneath the tree—The King's Oak, that's the word—
I'll bury him there; and o'er his dust I'll put
A monumental stone, and I'll inscribe it
To all times with the record
Of this most bloody and most tyrannous act:
Bear witness if I don't, Ghosts of my Fathers!
And bear me witness this,—if I avenge not
His blood, perish my name, and may I never
Lie with you here!

Duch.
Go from this holy place!

Wold.
Wrong-banished Hereford, I call thee home;
King shalt thou be! Your towers, Duchess of Wold,
See that you keep them well: 'tis in my vow
That I do strike at them too: rest will I not
Till ne'er one strength i' the land call Richard master.

Duch.
These coffins! dare you leave them, rebelhearted?
Hear me!—the curse of each and every one
Of our far loyal line, that sleeps in them,
My curse with theirs, be on your going! Go!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—A Court at Dunley Tower.
Enter Lord Dunley and Zebra, meeting.
Dun.
White nostril pants! You've done it?

Zeb.
There he hangs!

Dun.
Varlet! he come betwixt my King and me,
Handling my name so!

Zeb.
'Twas a devil, though,
For fighting: Two of our fellows he struck dead,
Ere we could master him. At last we noosed him,
And tucked him up—hang there, Sir Hugh de Valma!
You rose in France: In England too you've risen
To this fair height!

Enter a Servant. He gives letters to Lord Dunley, and retires. Dunley reads them.
Dun.
Here's news! Wait me here, Zebra.
The bearer, ho!

[Exit Dunley.
Zeb.
Martin would take my hint:
So then, if he has made Wold think Hugh's hanging
Was Richard's work, wrenched from his King for ever
Is that proud heart. And when our Liege has learnt,
As learn we'll make him, how his men's rash zeal
Dealt with Wold's friend, he'll feel all terms with Wold
Closed. Thus they're foes for life. That's one point gained.

Re-enter Lord Dunley.
Dun.
Here's Hereford back, and pushing for the Throne:
The land's ablaze: Wold's out against the King.

Zeb.
Wold out?

Dun.
What think you now? Hot thanks he'll give us
For our device. An outer wheel is he,
Heavy, and black, and slow; but what a world
Of clattering powers within, annexed to him,
His slightest move sets on!

Zeb.
We strike for Richard?

Dun.
Our horses, there! yes, yes.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

—A Court in Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold and Mountnorris.
Duch.
Those volunteers?

Mount.
They're promised us by Chayr:
He's steel: they'll come.

Duch.
I trust they're not raw boys,
Unstiffened by deeds: mere gristles of service?

Mount.
Yeomen,
Tried all and true, proud for the Old Boar's sake
To man these walls.

Duch.
Get them in. We'll be sieged.
What stores have we? Get more: lay them in large,
That we may hold it out. Would we had here
Our blind old Minstrel and his daughter Rachel.
I wished them in for safety; but the Harper
Preferred his forest cottage, thence to harp
From place to place: skilful is he to touch
The faithful popular heart. [Exit Mountnorris.
Enter Dr Rowth.

How goes it, Father?

Dr Rowth.
Ill for the King. Too well for Hereford:
He's Lancaster now, and will be more anon.
Terrible things for him has Lord Wold done,
Riding from sea to sea, quelling down all.

Duch.
Where's Richard?

Dr Rowth.
Still in Ireland. Lionel Chayr
(Sir Lionel now, for York has knighted him)
Is the one man worth naming in his cause.
The other day—a mere wild slip of a lad,
To-day—more than a man,
This unexpected and thrice-valiant youth,
Loyal and true, what deeds has he not done!
But all in vain: The Kingdom's ta'en from Richard,
And given to another.

Duch.
That a son of mine
Should thus ride o'er his King's discrowned head!

Dr Rowth.
Even were our King deposed, the Throne by right's
Not Lancaster's?

Duch.
'Twere countenance to rebellion
To care one jot for that: If Principle
Go down on its knees even once to Accident,
Down with it once for all! The unjust excess
Is better for us, when reaction comes,
Than moderate wrong. Yet is this sorry work:
With blood for this, ay, dear shall England pay,
When Right reviving shall war back on Might,
Throned in the now usurping Lancaster.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—A Court before Barracks in Bristol.
Michael Zebra.
Zeb.

Save you, Sirs, in Bristol! Here we be! After hunting us over those Welsh hills, here has that fellow Wold fairly fixed us at last. Ay, ay, the days of siege and of thin cakes are upon us. Cousin Mervyn's here, drawn hither to wait on her aunt, Lady Staines, who has been sick. The venerable Auntship hates Wold with all the old family hatred, wrinkled and envenomed by her own ninety years. Ours is she entire. Dunley might make something of that, but he can't be screwed up to the doing point. As for poor Richard, though he's at hand with twenty thousand men from Ireland, he'll melt away like a snail in the sun of Lancaster: He was not born to raise sieges. His style of reigning won't do: Everything's hollow—false—a Lie. The overblown bubble must burst; hence Revolution, which is just the crack of an exploded Lie. Were I Wold now (for he has been scurvily used), I'd away with this Kingship for ever: I'd have everything down to the old turnipeating plainness of my own Roman grandfathers: No plaited folds of favour, crimped and goffered by Ceremony, should be left to hide minions and panders in: No curled, scented villain should live on the stark naked level of the iron shield to which I would bring down all things. But I must back to Dunley, and keep him up with hopes of the King. We must lacker our fronts with daring, and hold out.

[Exit.

Enter Philip de Valma.
Phil.
Hanged like a dog! My brother!
Yonder old beggar now, crooked and palsied,
Shaking all o'er with tatters, filth, and vermin,
And blear with rheum, look at him how he jerks
His red, raw, ulcerous, mortified pin of an arm,
Out of its linen bandage, tetter-stained,
Into the faces of the passers-by,
Chiefly if pregnant women, to enforce
Alms by disgust and fear: why he, and such as he,
Why reptile things, the vilest and most loathed,
Should be let live, ay, should be living now;
And my poor brother should be done to death,
Oh, he so beautiful, so brave, so good,
I see not why: can any tell me why?
But let me be a man: Where are we at?
Here I'm shut in, then; Thomas of Wold's without,
Out of my reach: ah me, should he escape me!
How oft I might have smote him! Nay, how oft
I've touched his naked sleeping throat, in token
I had him sure; and yet forbore, as if
I dallied in the luxury of my purpose!
Would I were near him now! I've been a fool.
What boots it that my mind still runs upon
The bloody footsteps of things done of old,
Back, and far back away,
Tracking them like a sleuth-hound, and I see
The grisly shadows of my ancestors
Waving me to revenge, and every night
My mother's pale and ineffectual ghost?
They've not yet stirred me up to do the deed.

Re-enter Zebra.
Zeb.
De Valma here! Have you, by any chance,
Seen my Lord Dunley?

Phil.
Villain! O villain!
[Grappling him.
If 'twas you did it! If you knew o't, even!

Zeb.
Are you drunk? mad? or both? You've drugged yourself
With some of your insane liquors, eh?
What would you, then? What mean you? Pray, don't gasp so,
Nor look so black i' the face. In Christian breath,
What is't?

Phil.
My brother! hanged!

Zeb.
Soho! that's it?
Now then, stand off. What do you take me for?
Am I that villain, eh, damned beyond fire?
Here's my bare breast—strike, and strike home, De Valma,
If you would kill your friend!

Phil.
Who did it, then?

Zeb.
Wold.

Phil.
No: He loved the lad: He's forth to avenge him.

Zeb.
All very pretty! True, he strung him not
With his own hand—

Phil.
Oh!

Zeb.
I forbear. But mark:—
Who thrust your brother on to brave the King,
Fearing to go himself? Wold, who but he?
What call you that? Granted, 'twas a base crew
O' the King's own grooms, miscounting it would please him,
Followed and hanged Sir Hugh: That's not denied.
But who set on the mischief? Was't not Wold?

Phil.
I knew not this before. Have at him now!

Zeb.
Whom? Ah! I see. Philip, you don't love Wold?
You meditate mischief there?

Phil.
How know you that?

Zeb.
I've noted your strange eagerness around him.
But why not strike at once? Strike, and be done:
Be a man even in that; and not Wold's weasel,
Hanging for ever at his jugular vein.
Look! in the waving of a midnight curtain,
I'd do it thus—'tis done! But come now, tell me
Why you hate Wold. I hate him too. I'll help you.

Phil.
You shan't. He's all mine own.

Zeb.
Ho, ho! you have
Monopoly there? Well, man, don't tremble so,
Don't look so eager jealous; I'll not touch
Your Wold, I swear.

Phil.
My fathers were of Ireland.
There warred and ruled the Boar of Wold—his sires
Had done't before him cruelly. He humbled
Our house of fame—Darconnell's ancient house.
My father, deepliest grieved to have led and lost
His folk in vain for freedom—for the Boar
Quelled them, and sunk their heads in blood and fire—
Perished, self-slain. The stranger got our lands.
My mother to her native Italy
Fled with her boys, Hugh and myself; and there
Heart-broken died she. We assumed her name.
Up there we grew. In me revenge grew up
Against Wold's house. Its state I learned, I learned
How fought its son in France: to France I went,
Taking young Hugh, and joined the English camp.
I need not tell you how we found you there,
Our fellow-townsman, strong in English favour;
Nor how, as my soul wished, good friends, through you,
Fixed me Wold's surgeon—near his helpless sleep!
For I was trained to healing. In his eye
My brother Hugh got a young soldier's post.
I might have smote Wold, might have drowned his heart
With lethargies, or simply touched his lips
With subtle drops—and let Death wipe his beard!
But somehow 'twas too easy. More than this,
Purely to kill him was not all I wished:
I wished his heart to bear and feel the load
Of retribution for ancestral crimes
Coming down heavy on his life and house,
With a long dark fall out of the times of old.
My scheme was not full-shaped, when my poor Hugh
Began to puzzle me in't: He knew it not;
He knew not even the history of our house,
So knew no cause to hate the Lord of Wold:
I kept the matter hid from him; I took it
All on myself, keeping his young soul clear.
Upspringing like a pyramid of flame,
How towered that soul in war! With zeal, with power,
With prowess all unparalleled, he Wold's life
Saved from a crush of foes bearing him down,
When mortal help seemed vain: Wold loved him thus:
And high of courtesy, plenteous of wit,
Music, and poetry, my brother grew
Closer and closer to the grave man's heart.
So what must I do now? Perplexed was I.
'Twas there and then you left us, following Dunley.
War ceased in France. To England came we. Hugh
Went with Lord Wold to Wold. Hither I turned
To see a noted sage. But oh, what next?
I've heard it all! Zebra, I'm stricken sore!
I knew it would be thus! Aye in mine ear
Were voices crying, “Sweep thy house, prepare,
Death is thy Guest!” He perished so—my brother!
Wold he the cause! Forth, forth! I'll do it now!

Zeb.
Think of thy father, man, and cut his throat.
'Twill serve me too.

Phil.
You shall not have one jot
Of what I do: Round and entire, the thing
Belongs to our house alone.

Zeb.
Well, see you do it.
And there an end. Come to me then, the King
Patron shall be to your Philosopher's Stone.

Phil.
Serve you the Court? I knew not this.

Zeb.
How could you?
When not i' the stars, with dim-eyed bearded Magi;
Or not i' the molten pot; or not i' the bowl,
With transcendental wassailers sublime,—
Your down-weighed heart, like a deep-laden waggon,
Weighed down with old black things, moves groaning on,
Heavily, slowly, groaning on, i' the deep
And narrow ruts of your progenitors,
Ploughed up by their inveterate wheels of usage,
And never mended since. Do but use, man,
Thine eyes, and see what a brave world's around thee,
With men and women in't. But you don't hear me?

Phil.
God rest thee, my poor boy! Well, I must thank him
That he did hide thee in the gracious earth
From horny ravens and death-smelling vultures,
And creatures crying in the stony desert
To tear and eat: No hungry cruel thing
Mangled thy comely body. But thou'rt gone
From this dead heart of mine with all thy love!

Zeb.
Now then for work: I'll let you out: Come on,
And as we go, I'll show you how Wold stands
In Dunley's way, therefore in yours: So you
Must take him off: All our plans thus go well.

Phil.
He shall die childless, and his house die with him.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.

—The Camp of the Besiegers, before Bristol.
Lord Wold and Hastings.
Wold.
We've Dunley penned!

Hast.
Now then for the assault!

Wold.
My bride's in the city. Back her troth I gave her,
When I became a rebel, and I prayed her
To weigh my fortunes well in their great change
Nor mix her life with mine; but her true heart
More than renewed the trust. So doubly dear,
Would she were safe! Dunley, at bay, twice wroth,
May do her hurt: Yet surely not. How think you?
He dares not do it?

Hast.
Strike: Give him no time.

[Exeunt. And the trumpets are heard sounding to the onset.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The Mouth of Afra's Cave.
Afra, striking her harp.
Afra.
Look out! The Princes ride, the armies forth
In dreadful pageantry and far procession
Shake the embattled land, all to work out
The great Fulfilment.
Wold's in my Ring of Doom. Mervyn, with all
The bleeding strings of her derivative life,
Has hold far back upon the loins of Kings,
Out of the which she came; but she's in too,
And so must die with Wold.
So sure are the weird words uttered o'er Wold,
Whoso is knit to him must die with Wold.
Stark and stern thy end shall be,
House of Pride and Cruelty!

[Afra goes into her Cave.

Scene II.

—In Bristol.
Lord Wold and Hastings, meeting.
Hast.
So then the kingdom's Henry's?

Wold.
All save Wold.
Wearing out siege, repelling all assaults,
Blowing defiance from her battlements,
My mother still holds out: Wizards, nor Thunder,
Nor Bloody Aspects in the House of Life,
Have power to shake her: even unto the death
She'll hold it out, so great is she of heart.

Hast.
Dunley?

Wold.
Not caught. Forth with a desperate few
Dashed he when we took Bristol. Pausing ne'er,
Out after him I rode. I hunted hard,
But lost him in the hills.

Hast.
What's our next move?

Wold.
We hold our camp outside the city walls
For two days more. On the third morn I take
The Lady Mervyn home—on my own way
To Wold, to strike it down; so runs the vow
That I have vowed. Were but my mother safe,
I sheathe my sword, and wed. I'm sick of blood.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—Dunley Tower.
Lord Dunley and Michael Zebra.
Dun.
As if we were not mere life-loving vermin,
Wold-hunted to our hole here, he the while
Lord Bridegroom where I loved, wooed—failed! Perdition!
Word me no words, look me no confident looks,
Till you're prepared to show me—can you show me
How I may baulk that marriage?

Zeb.
Yes.

Dun.
So bragged you
Of what the King would do when he came back
From Ireland with his host: Where's that host now?
Where he himself? His twenty thousand men
Are last year's snow. Himself lies fast in prison,
Kingdomless, hopeless. Can we give him hope,
We with our skulkers, our poor patch of serfs,
Driven to our hiding here? Nay, Wold, be sure,
Down on us whelming comes. What shall we do?
Can Italy's subtlest soul answer me there?

Zeb.
Stand at bay, then.

Dun.
That's all? So you confess
Your shifts are ended now?

Zeb.
Good night, my Lord;
I'll do't, then.

Dun.
Hang yourself?

Zeb.
Bring Mervyn hither.
Having her here, we have a hank o'er Wold,
Should he with bold effrontery dare to siege us,
Whilst his own mother's holding out hard by
I' the self-same cause as we.

Dun.
Fine work for knights!

Zeb.
Simply we'll make it seem Dame Staines has placed
Her niece with you in these distracted times,
As her next kinsman, to prevent that marriage
With a marked traitor. Lady Mervyn's young,
And there's the dignity of guardianship
In what you do. But wouldn't you stay, my Lord,
That wedding at all hazards?

Dun.
Bring her!

[Exeunt severally.

Scene IV.

—A Court in Wold Castle.
Duchess of Wold.
Duch.
The world of dreams, the disarrangèd world,
With all its huddled rack of fantasies,
And topsy-turvy troubles, cannot show us
Anything stranger than this actual day.
Richard deposed; Hereford all but crowned;
Through all the realm thick crops of jealousies,
Hatred, strife, blood, confusion! Even the Faith
Has lost its hold of men: Pestilent teachers,
Of no succession, and unconsecrate,
Scorning the Church's statutory furrows,
Sow their opinions broadcast o'er the land,
With torment-pointed threatenings harrowing in
The wild strange seed, seed in its after harvest
To fill the Arch-enemy's garners.
What wonder that the sympathetic heavens,
Coping this isle of mischief and of sorrow,
Hood us with prodigies?
Two suns were seen at once; black dews have fallen;
And warning voices have been heard i' the air;
The comet's unblest beard hangs in our skies;
The stars are quenched i' the glare of fiery meteors;
The vestal moon, lawlessly red and fierce,
Reels as if drunk with blood: These signs portend
Worse things to hap; for out of holes o' the earth
Come lean-faced prophets, never seen before,
And read them so, whispering of chance and change,
The fall and death of kings. Enter Mountnorris.

You've managed to communicate with Chayr?

Mount.
Himself was here: down i' the trees we met,
West o' the Castle.

Duch.
Well?

Mount.
We've fixed the day.
Out on the foe we rush. Chayr hears our trumpets,
Down on them comes he too. We'll beat them off.

Duch.
One thorough rally here may yet re-act
Through all the land for Richard.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—A Rocky Glen in a Wood. Rachel, gathering wild strawberries.
Enter Sir Lionel Chayr, disguised, and in great haste.
Chayr
(listening).

The enemy's after me still—what could have roused him? Ha! there's the cracking of dry twigs, too, at the head of the glen, before me. Some of them have got round upon me. Here's a natural cave of the rock, I'll bestow me here a while. But what have we now? (observing Rachel).
A woodland creature with her eye upon me. Come hither, damsel.

[Rachel advances to him. Chayr takes her by the curls with both his hands.

Rach.

Chayr.

Rach.

Chayr.

I am Sir Lionel Chayr in disguise, one of King Richard's captains. The King's foes are out after me. My life is in your hand. You'll give me up to them for a price?

Rach.

Chayr.

By your heart in your young face, No. I could trust you to the death. Here's some brush of ferns and ivy (cutting them with his sword).
I'll into

this caverned cliff, and you'll cover up the entrance neatly and naturally. Hold—don't smile, till I paint your face with these strawberries.

[He takes strawberries from the girl's basket, and paints her face.

Now the impudent soldiery won't see how fair you are: The better for you in these defenceless woods. Moreover, they'll take you for one weak of mind. Be so to them for the time, and parry their quest of me. Come back to me when they're fairly out o' the wood. Quick now, I hear them upon us. Cover me in, and then to your strawberry-gathering, with some simple song in your mouth.

[Chayr goes into the Cave. Rachel covers the entrance of it; and then retires out of sight, singing.
Enter Soldiers.

1st Sold.

2d Sold.

Look about among the rocks, here. He must be in some hole of hiding. Was it Chayr?

1st Sold.

No doubt of it. He does all the difficult work himself. A straggler from our camp saw him part from old Mountnorris of the Castle, and gave the alarm. But here's one may help us. Hither, sweetheart.

Enter Rachel singing, with wild flowers in her hair.

Ah! the poor thing's wits are gone. But she's woman enough to paint her face, and deck her hair: The simplest of the sex knows the virtue of that.

2d Sold.

Come, lass, you know that strawberries make your cheeks pretty; so you must know the value of white money. We're after one of King Henry's enemies. He's a young man in disguise, and came this way. Do,

now, show us where he is, and the Captain of the camp will fill your lap with crowns.

Rach.

2d Sold.
(taking out a coin).

Rach.
(proffering her basket of strawberries, with a smile).

1st Sold.

2d Sold.
[Exeunt the Soldiers.
Rachel listens and looks all around. She washes her face in a runnel, and takes the flowers out of her hair; and then strips the weeds off the mouth of the Cave. Chayr comes out.

Chayr.

Rach.

Thy handmaid, Rachel, is the daughter of the blind old Minstrel of Wold, who dwells in the skirts of the forest. True is he to his King, and has sung the deeds of Sir Lionel Chayr. They call him the Loyal Harper.

Chayr.
I've noted the gray harper. He has been
A soldier in his youth—that I can see.
The old fire's there, as he stands up and holds,
Steady, his sightless orbs against the day,
Snuffing the battle. Loyal songs, too, he,
Self-risking, casts, precious seed, on the hard
And stony ground of this rebellious age.
Your King shall hear of you both.

Rach.
You may go now.
The God of battles make you, heart and hand,
Strong for the King!

[Chayr takes off his bonnet to the girl, as she retires.
Chayr.
Amen, sweet child of virtue!
The benediction of the unworldly Heavens
Be on your good young head!

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VI.

—Wold's Camp outside of Bristol.
Philip de Valma.
Phil.
Heart of hare I! Wold lives. For aught I've done,
I might be thankful for a rat to gnaw
The veins o' his neck.

Enter Zebra, disguised.
Zeb.
The very man I sought!
But you've not cut his throat yet? Well, no matter:
What serves't to take mere life? Were he despatched,
You'd feel yourself a naked desolate being,
Wanting an object. Let's first kill his love,
And wait the rest, after his heart has been
Clean emptied out of joy: there's the thing for you!

Phil.
Show me the way o't, then: Give me the means,
I'll take it from you now.

Zeb.
For this I've sought thee,
Disguised so 'neath night's hood. One point achieved,
We pass from Richard's service to King Harry's.
I'll manage that. Philip shall pass from Wold,
And be the King's own man—his man of metals,
Starcraft, and so forth.

Phil.
Mock not the awful power
To read the stars, the figures on the face
Of Fate's dark dial to the sons of men;
To Wisdom's eyes foreshowing war and famine,
Plague, storm, and earthquake, and each stress of time.

Zeb.
A truce to the stars just now; save that we beg them
To light us on our way, as we bear off
Mervyn to Dunley.

Phil.
Ha?

Zeb.
It must be done,
Or you and I are nothing. Can you show me
Thomas of Wold's handwriting?

Phil.
Yes.

Zeb.
I'll catch
The trick o't to a hair. The lady meant
To start at morn for Mervyn, Wold himself
Her guide and guard. Hark, boy, she starts to-night:
You see it now? We write her in Wold's name,
Urging her forth to-night, here in his camp
To wait the morn; with reasons given why safety
Demands this step, and why he—Wold himself—
Can't go into the town to have her forth.
You bear the note, second it, bring her out;
We pick her up, and straight with her to Dunley.

Phil.
I who have loved all truth, am I to do
This practical lie?

Zeb.
Ho! ho! you'd thither
(Pointing downward with his forefinger)
By only one of the Seven Deadly Sins?
None of the other coal-black, long-tailed six,
Foaming out tar, must yoke for you? Oh no!
Come, come, revenge! The thing's no more a lie
Than all your present smoothness round your victim.
He's your own now—you've caught him by the heart.
Aha! you're panting thick. Come on, my bird:
I have thee now. Let's to old Staines's house,
And do it there. She's ours. I've been with her.
She gives us leave to do whate'er we list;
What's more, she helps us in't, so we but stop
Those hated nuptials. Lady Mervyn knows
I'm here to-night: I've ta'en good care she know it.
Means too I've found to make her fear a plot,
This night in Bristol, hatched by Dunley's friends,
Whilst he himself with a fresh host is coming
Back on the city, bloody resolute
That Wold she wed not. Lady Staines has promised
To enforce these fears, and shape the way for us.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

—A Room in Lady Staines' House in Bristol.
Lady Mervyn and Blanche.
Lady Mer.
Zebra, Lord Dunley's man—what can it mean?—
Twice in our house has he been seen to-night.
With a fresh force Dunley's at hand, they say;
And there's a plot to give him up the town,
This very night. My aunt being now restored,
Would we were hence!

Blanche.
Those words of hers meant mischief.
We're in their net. Could we not go to-night?

Lady Mer.
Soft! Some one comes.

Morley brings in Philip de Valma.
Phil.
This from Lord Wold in haste.

[Giving Lady Mervyn a letter, which she reads.
Lady Mer.
You know its purport? You are named therein
For service here.

Phil.
To take you to his Lordship?
Runs not the letter thus? Dunley's at hand,
And Wold's close kept to be prepared for him:
Bad men are near you, Dunley's tools; so must you
Straight to Wold's camp, there to abide till morn.
Home then he'll send you with a proper guard.
My office as physician to our men
In garrison here, and in the camp without,
Lets me free out and in; thus was I chosen
To be your safest guide. Now, now! Disguise.

Lady Mer.
This is Sir Hugh de Valma's brother, Blanche,
That good young Knight of ours, so loved, so mourned;
We'll go with him.

Phil.
You loved him, did you?
Quickly, or not at all! Oh, not at all!

Lady Mer.
How so?

Phil.
What did I say? Oh yes—come, come.
'Twas just a moment's fear some evil thing
Might thwart us in't.

Lady Mer.
A minute, and we're ready.
This way. You'll wait us at the garden gate.

Phil.
(half inwardly).
She loved the lad! Me, me!
I'm damned for this!

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.

—A Court in Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold and Mountnorris.
Duch.
Deal out the last o' the wine: bread for the push,
See the men get: Spare not; we'll have by sunset
Fresh stores, our gates being free. Yonder's the dawn
Curdling the east: go, take some rest, old man,
You're not just made of iron; 'twill prepare you
For what you've yet to do.

Mount.
My gracious Lady,
I need no sleep.

Duch.
Trumpeters on the towers,
Morning defiance, blow it loud and long.
(The trumpets blow defiance.)
Let's round and see the posts.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.

—A Chamber in Lady Staines' House in Bristol.
Lady Staines is seen sitting up in bed.
Lady Staines.
Good Wold, you're angry; but we can't help that.
Spell we've not used against you, blast nor ban,
Hot from the mystic synods of the night;
Hags of strange seed, we've set not their weird hands
To gather the wild gourds of sin and death,
And shred them in your pot; wrath we've not drawn
From evil stars to strike you: we've but done
As prudent parents do. Would I could sleep!

[She lies down.
Enter Morley.
Mor.
O Madam, where's the Lady Isabella?
She can't be found.

Lady Staines.
Aha! Is the Wold there?
Tell him from me,—To every wind of heaven,
Haste, send ye out. The shores and ocean isles,
Skirr ye them round. Through the city, too,
See that ye search: Do it with lighted candles:
Nothing but search! You've found her, then? Not yet.
You'll find her, though, at last—ay, soon enough!
Who's there?

Mor.
Thy servant, Madam.

Lady Staines.
Put him out!
I know he's here: Hence, traitor

Mor.
No one's here,
Save thine own servant Morley.

Lady Staines.
If I've sent her
To Dunley Tower, to her good cousin's keeping,
Who can say I've done wrong? Death, let me sleep!

Mor.
That's the key now! Wold waits my coming forth,
I'll to him with it: the full plot it opens,
Which we so far had traced Philip the Leech
And Zebra in—dark twain! Oh now to save
That good young maid of Mervyn!

[Exit Morley.

Scene X.

—Before Lady Staines' House in Bristol.
Hastings waiting with an escort.
Enter Lord Wold. Morley is seen retiring.
Wold.
Bid sound the march.

Hast.
Whither?

Wold.
To Wold: that first:
Come death or worse the while, I'll do my vow.
When Wold is fallen, then ho! for Dunley Tower.
My bride is there in her false cousin's hands,
Lured hence by some deep plot. Being there, she's in
The deadliest danger.

Hast.
March!

[The trumpets blow, and they all march out.

Scene XI.

—The Camp of the Besiegers of Wold.
Captain of the Besiegers and an Officer.
Off.
Wold Castle falls to-night?

Cap.
I think it must.

Off.
Pity for the old Duchess, and her Captain,
So tough and true! They're of the right old breed.
Would they were on our side!

[A trumpet blows from Wold Castle, another from a neighbouring wood.
Cap.
What's that? Ha! look.
They're sallying out on us. From yonder wood
Some foe is down on us, too! To arms! This way!

[Exeunt.

Scene XII.

—A Height, Wold Castle seen in the distance.
Enter Lord Wold, Hastings, and their troops.
Wold.
Yonder's my father's house! It shines as ne'er
I saw it shining: I could almost ken
My mother's head i' the light. What's yon strange lustre
An omen of? How I do shudder, Hastings,
Lifting my hand against that sacred house!
Surely the grace of life is going from me.
Come on, let's do it quickly, what we do. Alarms coming near.

What have we here? Some fugitives run by.
(Intercepting one of them.)
Stay, sirrah, what's ado?

Fug.

The old sow of Wold is out on us on the one side; and that fiend incarnate, Chayr, is after us on the other. In siege and assault we did our best, but the terrible old Dowager has the day at last. Out of her way's worth a life.

[The fugitive runs out.

Further alarms.
Hast.
Pell-mell on us, here they be.

Wold.
Now then for work!
Back must we turn the battle; else Wold stands,
And Dunley gets Chayr's help, my mother's too,
And baffles us.

[Wold and Hastings, and their troops, march out.

Scene XIII.

—Inside the Gate of Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold, in armour, and with a sword in her hand, heading a small party of defence at the gate, is seen stretching out her arms toward the battle without.
Duch.
The strength of angels ride upon your swords,
Ye men of might; strike swift and far for Richard! Enter Rachel. She brings out her Father's head from beneath her mantle.

Whence, Rachel? and what's this?

Rach.
Look at him, Madam!
Know you the face?

Duch.
Our minstrel?

Rach.
None but he!

[Kissing the dead face.
Duch.
How came he by this death?

Rach.
We wandered east.
Your Harper harped: he stirred the people's hearts:
He sent them west to help Chayr's final push.
Too bold for his own safety, him the rebels
Took, slew, and set high on a market cross
This faithful head! All night I sat below,
Keeping away from him the birds of air
And cruel things irreverent. Chayr had heard;
Dash through the dawn he came, and brought me it down.
I bore it thence to bury it by my mother.
Passing your gates, I saw the fighters fight.
Free were the gates. I entered in. On you
England's last loyal hope main rests. Self-stout,
You need no buttress. Still this head I bring—
Look at it—I do hold it up to you—
Be nerved, be stouter still.

Enter Sir Lionel Chayr and other Officers.
Chayr.
All's right, your Grace:
The day is ours.

Duch.
Thanks to the Lord of Battles!
Welcome, brave Sirs! At once to follow up
This stroke determine we: Sup here to-night,
And council hold.

Chayr
(and the rest).
In duty and in love
We'll wait upon your Grace.

Enter a Herald.
Herald.
Madam, I come
In Henry's name, Henry the Fourth of England,
(For Richard's fallen, and lies in Pomfret Castle)
To summon your Grace: I summon you to surrender
This Castle of Wold to Henry your liege lord.

Enter Mountnorris, Martin, and a party of soldiers, bringing in Lord Wold prisoner.
Duch.
We're doomed to death, of course, if we our Castle
Surrender not—doomed like our murdered Minstrel?
Hold up that bloody head, fatherless maiden.
[Rachel holds up her Father's head.
Look at it, Sirs! 'tis our old Minstrel's head,
His murdered head. Through all my father's wars,
A man of men, he fought, heart-knit to Wold.
Him, white, blind, tuneful, Henry's ruffians butcher!
But I'll avenge him!

Herald.
Madam, I'm not charged
Touching your lives.

Duch.
Hence! To thy so-called King
Bear our defiance: We defy thee, traitor,
Rebel, and regicide!
[The Herald departs.
Ay, regicide;
That too, be sure. Pontefract Castle, said he?
Or said he Berkeley Castle? Call it Berkeley,
And you scarce err. Go, and you'll see the ravens
Already there, smelling the blood of kings,
Hoarse croaking as they smell it, sailing low
Around the fated towers of Pontefract.
Berkeley rehearsed this Pontefract. O Sirs,
Edward the Second's woful tragedy
Is back on us afresh. Monstrous guilt thus,
Surer than common crime, self-propagates.
May Heaven strike in then, break, and stay at once
This rank succession of king-killing murders!
Stand forth, old man, what's this you bring us here?

[To Mountnorris.
Mount.
'Twas not man's work to take him: Heaven's self did it.
Terrible was his course; but his horse fell—
Where, do you think? On the sunk stone that marks,
In Mervyn's bounds, where his own father perished,
Stumbling it fell—even there! Thus was he ta'en.

Duch.
Our Minstrel's blood cries out for vengeance first:
Vengeance we'll give him. More, far more, the plague
Of strange unnatural deeds (shame to our land!)
With sternest hand we'll stay it if we can.
Him there—rebellious traitor to his King,
Caught quick in the hot act—rebel to nature,
Warring against his mother's house and life—
Seize, bear to prison: on the morrow have him
Forth to our place of death; there, where my sires
Did doom on traitors, let the traitor die.
Be it at noon. And, when the traitor dies,
Let the death-bell of Wold toll out the tidings
Far and wide round, that every rebel's heart
May quail within him.

Chayr
(kneeling).
Madam, hear me plead,
And hear these Captains with me: If we've done
Your Grace and our liege King some little service,
Spare the Lord Wold: we crave it on our knees.

Duch.
No more of this. 'Tis sealed. What! would you see
Our constituted England, pedigree'd old,
Large of investiture, with chartered awe,
Seat, jurisdiction, and prerogative,
Levies and marts, unions and corporate guilds,
Decline to individual savagery,
And dig the waste for roots, that you do ask
The evil thing not to be put away,
And the curse out of her? Mountnorris, you
We charge with this: take that doomed man to prison;
And see him executed on the morrow,
At noon precisely, as we've given the word,
And as you'll answer for't. Hold! take this sword—
My father's—be it the fit instrument:
Its greatest service shall be last, to strike
Wold's last son through the heart, being a traitor:
And let some arm that fought with the Old Boar
Strike the blow home to vindicate our house:
Be this the manner of the execution.
And when 'tis done, wipe not the sword, but hang it
Bloody up in the armoury of Wold,
To be a witness to all future times
Of this just judgment. See it done.

Mount.
(receiving the sword).
I will.

Chayr.
Madam, one word before your Captain goes:
I ask but this,—instruct him to permit me
Entrance to-morrow, come what hour I may.

Duch.
Our gates are open to Sir Lionel Chayr,
To come or go: bear that in mind, Mountnorris.

Mount.
I will. Now then, Lord Wold.

[Mountnorris and Guards take out Lord Wold.
Duch.
Our wounded first
Let's look to, then our dead. Keep near me, Rachel:
The chosen of our host shall go with you,
And bury that brave head, as your own heart
Would have it done.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—The Mouth of Afra's Cave.
Afra, striking her harp.
Afra.
Feuds, bloody vows, ill-omened love, revenge,
Treason, rebellion, war, the staff of bread
Broken in the land, echoes of falling thrones,
Kings—Heard ye that? Wa! Wa!
Twas the dull stroke of the brain-smiting axe:
See! see! they've staggered him—he's down—'tis Richard!
Yon son, yon mother, wrestling in their blood,
Behold them too! All this crowds thick upon us,
That the great Wizard's word, forth against Wold,
May have fulfilment. The Fulfilment's near.

[Afra goes into her Cave.

Scene II.

—A Banqueting Room in Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold and an old Seneschal.
Duch.
Where are the guests? We called them to our council,
As well as banquet.

Sen.
Madam, I suspect
They thought no congress would be here this night.

Duch.
They thought! What right had they? Must our Throned State
Lose for a matter in one private house?
Fill me a cup.
[The Seneschal fills and presents it.
To Richard's restoration!
Death to his foes! Shame to his coward friends!
[She touches the cup with her lips, and sets it down.
Let's go. Let all these vessels stand. Lock up
This room for ever. The end comes. Nay, then,
Marshal me in Prophecy, Judgment, Doom:
There take your seats, ye Powers,
With Silence, and with Darkness, and the Ghosts
Of buried generations: Hold me here
Your undrawn table, since the mortal guests
Fear to come in!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—A Cell in Wold Prison.
Lord Wold.
Enter the Duchess of Wold.
Wold.
(kneeling).
On my knees I take it:
Proceed, in Jesu's name.

[The Duchess reads the Service for the Dying.
Duch.
Under just judgment,
Can I do aught for you, my Lord?

Wold.
No, Madam;
Unless you let me forth at your men's head,
To save my dear young wife from Dunley's hands:
He has her in his Tower.

Duch.
What! let you smite
Richard's last bulwark?

Wold.
If you reason on't,
Oh then I'll urge it. Dunley's o'er to Henry,
Deserting Richard: Martin has been here
To wring my soul in death, and told me all.

Duch.
False Dunley! I feared this: he would not help us.

Wold.
He too caused hang De Valma, and the blame
On Richard laid. Ay, and he looks to Wold
As his own heirdom now; nay more, my bride
Holds as his own, having her in sore straits.
Shall this be so? Shall he, the base, bear off
Our ancient glories? Madam, shall it be?
It rests with you.

Duch.
How so?

Wold.
Waiving all this,
Hear my true plea:—Oh now for the dear sake
Of one who has given her whole young heart and life,
Her very self, so generously to me,
A grave, dull man, and of a hostile house,
By thy just soul, Madam, oh let me out;
Let me but set her life and honour safe,
As if she were the simplest peasant's daughter!
That's all I ask—I ask no more but that.

Duch.
It cannot be.

Wold.
Hear, by your family pride:—
She raised me up, struck of the bolt of God:
No thought of the old feud! no cold delay!
She took me in, she tended me herself
With Godlike pity in her gracious house,
Me, your own son, her foe! Oh for one hour
Of freedom for her sake! One little hour
Would do it all. Madam, as you are proud,
And scorn to owe your foes, you'll pay her back
Her generous service—save her life and honour,
And, to fill up and magnify the quittance,
Make me the instrument?

Duch.
The doom's pronounced.

Wold.
Touch not the doom: Let the doom stand. Stern quick
I'll do my work. Back here I'll be, and don
These chains again, before the sun be up.
The doom shall not be touched.

Duch.
What guarantee
Have I for this?

Wold.
I'm sure you'll ask no oath,
If I but pledge my word.

Duch.
I meant not that.
But you may hold your blood cheap, and defraud
The judgment here.

Wold.
Let me but forth; I'll be
As chary of my blood, as hitherto
I've been unsparing o't: my life I'll guard
As a most precious thing, not mine, but yours;
I'll bring it back to you. Then, see how much
Our mutual trust shall dignify the doom,—
Making and showing it no quick rash act,
But a calm sacrifice, due and full paid
To Wold's fixed will. Words then be done: I die.

Duch.
Keeper, unlock: Lord Wold goes forth with me.

[The Keeper unlocks the door, and they go out.

Scene IV.

—A Room in Dunley Tower.
Lord Dunley and Michael Zebra.
Zeb.
I've just seen Martin. 'Tis quite true. Thomas of Wold dies at noon to-morrow.

Dun.
Her Grace is the nether millstone?

Zeb.

Ay, but Chayr an imp of zeal. He'll be round the earth ere a man can take his first sleep. I fear him more than all the rest of them. He has admittance to Wold Castle to-morrow, and is sure to bring some device for the pardon or rescue of Lord Thomas.

Dun.
Why not cut off his coming?

Zeb.
Martin and I have made bold to provide for it.
Gort is to be in the Long Wood before daybreak.

Dun.

Accepted of Henry, our camp recruited, where's the tongue dares wag against us?

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—Another Chamber in Dunley Tower.
Lady Mervyn and Blanche.
Lady Mer.
Poor child, your eyes are heavy, you must sleep.
Go, Blanche, I'd rather be alone: 'Tis fitting
I watch alone this one last night for him,
Since he must die to-morrow—as they tell us.
Would I were with him!

Blanche.
Wake me, then, if aught
Alarm you in the night.

Lady Mer.
They hold us here
By violent constraint. Whate'er they mean
Of further mischief, this they cannot do,—
They cannot turn my heart from Wold: Those hills
Round us, whose spurs are in the central fire,
Are not so steadfast as my virgin heart
Is to my own good lord. When he is gone,
For him I'll sit a widow all my days,
My few remaining days. Good-night, sweet Blanche!
[Blanche retires into a side chamber.
Such is this life of ours: a glimmering light,
Seen through the ribs of Death! Enter Lord Dunley.

What would you, Sir!

Dun.
Fear me not, cousin.

Lady Mer.
Cousin? dare you use
That kindred name? Be it so, then! Oh be
My kinsman still! I pray you, by the blood
That flows betwixt us, let me forth, and straight,
To see my lord—my own betrothèd husband!
He's under doom of death; and every law,
Divine and human, calls on me to see him
In his last hours. You dare not say me, No.

[A trumpet and alarms without.
Dun.
It must be Wold!

Lady Mer.
And he in prison? Ay,
And doomed to death? Villain, you mean me wrong,
Joining fraud thus to force? That voice! 'tis he!
You're quailing now! Come quickly, good Lord Wold!

Zebra and Philip de Valma rush in on the one side, and Blanche on the other.
Dun.
What is't?

Zeb.
Wold.

Dun.
Guard the Tower. Myself will meet him
Down i' the camp. Mark:—Come he on to take
Our Keep, I'm slain. Let ne'er this maid be his:
Swear, Zebra.

Zeb.
I do swear.

Dun.
Guard the gate, then.

[Exit Dunley, Zebra and Philip de Valma following him.
Lady Mer.
What see you, child?

Blanche
(looking out).
Tumults confused of men
Fighting this way and that, driven through the light
And through the darkness: what a stormy drift
Of hurrying shapes!

Lady Mer.
(looking out too).
But where's the Lord of Wold?
He's here for me! Oh look!

Blanche.
Yes, yes, 'tis he!
How he makes way! What a majestic power!

Lady Mer.
My own true lord!

Blanche.
Ah! he has disappeared.

Lady Mer.
He's at the gate! His men are at his back!
[Nearer tumults are heard within the Tower.
What should we do? I fear that villain Zebra,
Sworn o'er our lives. How near the tumult comes!
Let's venture forth. What think you? Isn't it best?
We may slip through. Could we but get beneath
Wold's arm, we're safe. Let's try. We'll muffle us up.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.

—The Inner Court of Dunley Tower.
Mountnorris and a party are seen fighting against Zebra, Philip de Valma, and their men. Philip is made prisoner. Mountnorris presses hard upon Zebra. At this moment Lady Mervyn and Blanche, half disguised, try to slip past. Zebra, however, observes them.
Zeb.
Not so fast, Madam.

[Zebra draws a small dagger from his waist, and aims a side blow at Lady Mervyn. Mountnorris intercepts it so far, but not before it wounds the lady slightly between the neck and shoulder.
Phil.
Wretch! for this you made me
Anoint your blade?

[Mountnorris disarms Zebra, and the men of Wold seize the Italian from behind.
Mount.
Down with the precious villains
To some deep place o' the Keep. There guard them fast.
Judgment shall have them. Let's support you, Lady,
Back to your room. Lord Wold will join you straight.
[Mountnorris supports Lady Mervyn on the one side, and Blanche does so on the other.
The wound's not deep, I think.

Zeb.
(as the Guards are taking him out with Philip).
No, but 'twill do:
Here's a quack-salver knows a thing or twain;
He'll tell you, if that blade but taste the blood,
It drinks the whole heart up.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VII.

—Before the Main Gate of Dunley Tower. Parties go fighting over the ground.
Enter Lord Wold and Lord Dunley, meeting.
Wold.
I have thee now!

Dun.
My tongue is in my sword.

[They fight. Dunley is transfixed, and falls.
Dun.
Oh, am I slain by thee? Zebra—remember—

[Dies.
Enter Mountnorris.
Wold.
Well met, my friend! How speed we? I have spent
Too much o' my general care on this one point.

[Pointing to Dunley's body.
Mount.
They've fled. We've Dunley Tower. The Lady's there.

Wold.
Hold your men ready. We go back to Wold.
Is yon the dawn?

Mount.
Not yet. You're hurt, my Lord;
You bleed so.

Wold.
Where? My arm? Why, what a gash!
Come to this tent, and bind it up for me.
I must not lose blood: I must run no risk
Of not being back at Wold by break of day.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.

—A Cell in Dunley Tower, lighted by a lamp.
Zebra and Philip de Valma. De Valma slumbering against the wall, Zebra pacing up and down the Cell.
Phil.
(starting up).
Mercy! me, me!

Zeb.
Why, what a frenzy's this?

Phil.
Zebra, is't thou? Is this the world of spirits
That we are in?

Zeb.
D'ye think to cheat yourself
Out of a fact so literal as the gallows,
And a hemp cord to hang thee by the throat?
Is that a fact so vague as not to be
Sharp known when come to?

Phil.
Ah! thou'rt Zebra still,
And we are still on earth: these jeers are heard
In the light upper time, and nowhere else.
But what a change on you! you look like one
Tight-drawn and earnest for some terrible feat.

Zeb.
Say you so, man?

Phil.
In that confusèd world,
Which I had swooned into, came a soft light,
And shaped itself into my brother's face,
Looking upon me with his candid eyes.
I tried to kiss him, but I could not. Then
The countenance waxed severe, and went from me
Back into night away, evanishing
In a thin haze of blood: So do I guess
My brother's angry that I've done the things
For which I'm here this night. I'm the last child
Of a lost house! Me, the fell Dogs of Fate
Have hunted from my cradle; and they'll bay me
Down unto death, thrusting their very muzzles,
Sharpened, drawn out with keenness, through the bars
Of the Pale Gate, to catch at me; the glare
Of penal fires within, or the soft gleam
Of creatures clad in light, striking the while
Out on their haggard jaws, gnashing to have me!
Could I delve back into the dark of time,
And see from what foul root, be it of incest,
Or bloody banquet, or what else is ranker
In the abuse of nature, this strange crop
Of judgments has grown up against our race!

Zeb.
Of course, you lay on Fate, that black old scapegoat,
Your own heart-hunger after Thomas of Wold,
Under whose thick tumultuous setting-on,
Morn, noontide, night, you dogged his steps,
Went where he went, still gazing on his face
With eager look that seemed to ask an alms;
But ah! could never strike—being carried past
The sharp clear doing of the definite act,
By the o'ercrowding and o'ermastering fulness.
Of the impulse that possessed you?

Phil.
Have I not struck? Have I not reached him wholly?
Said you not so? If not, I'll do it yet.

Zeb.
Our day for that is past.

Phil.
Is't so! Ah me!
Say you so utterly? Is there no way
To flee from this? No hope? Would the dread moment
Were past, or never came! What's the hour now?

Zeb.
Dial nor clock is here, save thy pale face:
It goes to strike Despair. Let them come on,
I'll laugh on their beards, and show them a neat trick.

Phil.
What's death to thee, who car'st for nought beyond
The pang o' the moment? Pain with its keen feelers,
Twigs of split nerves, and forkèd hairs of anguish,
Being life's guardian, was not meant to be
A trifling thing; but yet is it a trifle
To blank obstruction, or that dread Hereafter
For evil spirits. I was made to see,
And tremble to the alarms of utmost nature,
And—

Zeb.
Need more of my gold? Is thy wine out?
[A sound of turning bolts is heard.
But hark, they come. My pretty Imp of Death,
Have thou the start o' them.

[Zebra takes a phial from his bosom, drinks it off, and falls dead. Guards come in and take out Philip de Valma.

Scene IX.

—A Chamber in Dunley Tower.
Lady Mervyn has fainted on a couch, Lord Wold and Blanche are bending over her.
Enter Guards with Philip de Valma.
Wold.
Few words and no reproaches: Look, De Valma,
How fares it with this lady; you can tell us?

Phil.
She sleeps a deadly sleep: The wound is tainted.

Wold.
That we know. Zebra dealt it. But the poison
Was got from you. Have you an antidote?

Phil.
Yes. Lord am I o'er all the powers I use.
That tragic sleep, swooning away to death,
I can unlock. But there's a mischief still:
The poison's in the blood, there it has worked,
But not long yet. Virtues have I to meet,
Check it, and drive it out, if they be backed
By hope and joy in the patient.

Wold.
Hope and joy—
Good lack! But oh, let's try.

Phil.
No, Lord of Wold.
I'm a man that fears death. And, for that lady,
I wish her well; she liked, and mourned my brother.
But die shall I, she too, ere thou be made
Lord of the joy of wedded life and issue.

Wold.
Why this from thee? No matter. Let's to terms:—
I'm a doomed man: I die at noon. To Wold
You'll on with me, and help me by the way,
If I should faint, for I am hurt; you'll see me
Safe given over to my mother's hands
For execution, see me die, and then
Be free to go your way. Undo me now
This venomous sleep.

Phil.
With my whole heart and soul!
I thought your doom reversed. But you must die!
Magnanimous though you be, I'll see you die!
And in your hour of death I'll tell your soul
Of Nemesis! But to my office here:—
Wake, holy virgin!

Wold.
Hold! 'twere merciful
To let her sleep till all is o'er with me.
My widowed wife! Yet to her faith I owe it
To have her with me here all cognisant of
My last extremity. Wake her.

Phil.
Maiden good,
Glued in the numbing sleep, I thaw it thus,
And let thee forth. Lady, come forth.

[Philip pours something from a phial into Lady Mervyn's lips, and she revives.
Lady Mer.
Where am I?

Wold.
Fear not, I'm here.

Lady Mer.
Lord of my life, is't you?
Oh yes! I'm saved! But where's our enemy?

Wold.
He'll never hurt thee more. To Mervyn now
I'll take thee home.

Lady Mer.
Now then, the evil days
Are past, and we'll be glad!

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.

—The Mouth of Afra's cave.
Afra, striking her harp.
Afra.
Wo for them going down! I see them down,
Far down the steep of shadows, to the dark
And swift-flowing Ferry of Sorrows!
The hour is come!

[Afra descends the Mountain in haste.

Scene II.

—A Room in Mervyn Castle.
Lord Wold and Lady Mervyn.
Lady Mer.
Oh yes, I'm better: Thank his powers of healing!
Glad, active hope—well may it now be mine!—
Will do the rest, as the Leech says, and master
The virulent venom.

Wold.
Yonder's the dawn now.
I must be gone.

Lady Mer.
Trust me, 'tis not the dawn.
Rest till the morning break.

Wold.
Farewell, my Isabella;
I'll soon get rest enough!

Lady Mer.
Say you this sadly?
Ah me! What is't? There's something in your look!

Wold.
You're young, but just; and I must tell you all:—
My life is forfeit; I go back to death:
My mother let me forth to set you safe;
But I'm her prisoner still, under death's seal:
I die at noon: And I must back to Wold
Ere the sun's up—such was the pledge I gave her.
Now then, true heart!

Lady Mer.
Is it so, after all?
I'll with you, then, and plead upon my knees.

Wold.
You cannot pass her gates: No child of Mervyn
Will she let in.

Lady Mer.
Rags for me, Blanche!
I'll be a beggar, and get in. Once in,
I'll make her pardon you. Nay, speak me not;
How can I live with this lethargic poison
Still in my heart, unless I conquer it
With hope and action? Said not the Leech so?
And will you kill me, then? I'll go, I will.

Wold.
This is vain fondness, child.

Lady Mer.
You shall not go,
I will not let you go. I'll call my guards.
I'll keep you prisoner here: You have slain my cousin Dunley;
I'll make you answer for't: Your mother shall not have you.
Ho, there! Ah me!

Wold.
Look, yonder's the sun now
Thrusting his redness up the envious east.
I must be gone. Send me away, white soul,
I charge thee, now.

Lady Mer.
Ay, you must go. Go, then!
[Lady Mervyn bows her head, and hides her face with her hand, while Lord Wold goes.
Is he gone? Blanche! Enter Blanche.

Is he away? Oh yes.
[They go to the window.
Yonder he rides away in his old Roman faith!
The Leech is with him. Who's yon female form,
That runs before them with her loins girt up?

Blanche.
'Tis Afra of the Cave.

Lady Mer.
Yes, she it is.
Look how she strikes her harp! how her wild hair
Streams on the wind! She's like some Prophetess
Carried away on Judgment's whirlwind wings!

Blanche.
They disappear down in the woody vale.

Enter Rachel.
Rach.

Out, Lady, with all your men to the Long Wood. That way comes Sir Lionel Chayr, before the hour of execution, bringing deliverance for the Lord of Wold. But evil men are in the wood to intercept and slay him, that Lord Wold may perish. With you it rests now to save them both!

Lady Mer.
How know you all this, Rachel?

Rach.

From a dying man by our well, a trusted retainer of the Lord Dunley, wounded in that midnight struggle, and creeping home to his mother's house: He prayed me to give warning, and mar the wicked plot.

Lady Mer.
I'll lead my men myself, and guard Chayr through.
'Twill keep me alive. Nay, let me save great Wold,
I'll die content: O joy, could I but do it!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—The Main Gate of Wold Castle. The Duchess of Wold is seen walking on the battlements.
Enter Afra, running.
Afra.
She-dragon, thou on high,
Walking alone there, terrible, look down:
Open your gates: He's here: Let in the man!

Enter Lord Wold and Philip de Valma.
Duch.
My Lord, the sun is in the eastern trees,

Wold.
I'm here, my mother.

Duch.
You've done well. Come in.

[The gate is opened by one of the Guards of Wold, and Lord Wold and Philip de Valma go in.
Afra.
Let me in, too. I'll to the tops o' the towers,
And look down on it all!

[Afra is admitted, and the gate is shut.

Scene IV.

—The Long Wood—A Well.
Enter Sir Lionel Chayr. He lets his horse taste the water and breathe a little, himself resting the while on the brink of the Well.
Chayr.
We're near it now! To save the good Lord Wold,
And make that dear young one of Mervyn happy,
What wouldn't I do! Would she had been my wife!
Well, well, she has chosen better. God be thanked
I've got thus far, and into day's safe light!
The anxiety of my purpose makes me jealous
Of all I meet: Not a hind coming up,
However trudgingly, but seems full bent
To bar my way: Not even a market-girl,
But looks as if she'd brain me with her basket
Of butter and honey: The dull ox is a bull
To gore my horse, that I may not get on.
Where's the sun now? Would I could turn him back
One hour on Mercy's dial! But we'll do:
He's a stage short yet of his half-way house.
Come now, old Dickon, you must take me on.
One pull more, boy, and if your good limbs save
The Lord of Wold, we'll shoe you with gold shoes.
What's better for you, man, we'll make you free
O' the flowery meadows: ne'er another labour
Shall you be tasked to. Come.
[As Chayr is about to mount his horse, Gort and his men rush in and attack him.
What's this, masters mine? Oho! have at you, then!

[They fight, and Chayr is wounded deeply.
Gort.

Take care, lads, here's a rescue at hand! Led on by an Amazon, too! Tip me an arrow into her, Piercely, by way of Cupid's bolt; and see you cleave the apple o' her heart. Quick, man, or we're undone!

[One of the party shoots out.
Enter Lady Mervyn with an arrow sticking in her waist, her men with her.
Lady Mer.
Strike home, friends. Heed not me. Save, save that Knight,
For he's on life or death!

[Lady Mervyn's men attack Gort's party, and drive them out, after killing Gort himself.
Chayr.
Oh! are you hurt, dear Lady?
Let me draw forth this arrow from your side.

Lady Mer.
Let it alone, life might come out with it,
And I must not die yet: There's much to do.
Let's on to Wold. Have you deliverance?
What are our own cheap lives?—let's save Lord Wold!
Have you deliverance?

Chayr.
Yes.

Lady Mer.
You bleed so, youth,
I fear you'll ne'er reach Wold. Can I not on
Before, with what of respite or of pardon
You bring with you?

Chayr.
They would not let you in.
Come on with me. This mars us wofully.
Stand still, O sun!

[Exeunt the whole party.

Scene V.

—A Court in Wold Castle, before the Prison.
Lord Wold is brought out bareheaded by Mountnorris and a party of soldiers, Philip de Valma with them.
Mount.
The sun is touching noon. On to the place Of execution.

[A Dead March—the party file slowly out.

Scene VI.

—Outside the Gate of Wold Castle.
Enter Lady Mervyn and Chayr. Lady Mervyn's men pause behind.
Chayr.
Here's water, I must drink! Guards there, you're charged
To let me in; open the gate, this Lady
Will act for me: I'm faint. This letter, Madam,
Bear to her Grace: Quick, 'tis deliverance.
She'll yield to it. If not, plead, plead yourself.
Lose not a moment more. Men, help her on.
[Lady Mervyn is admitted.
I'll follow—if I can. Merciful water!

[Chayr sinks down at a spring and drinks.

Scene VII.

—An Apartment in Wold Castle.
The Duchess of Wold and Janet Mountnorris making grave-clothes.
Duch.
(rising).
His shroud is ready.

Enter Lady Mervyn, and falls on her knees before the Duchess.
Lady Mer.
Stay the execution!
This for your Grace! Oh read!

Duch.
The King's own seal!

[The Duchess takes the letter from Lady Mervyn, opens the seal, and reads as follows: “Cousin and Sister of Wold—By the premature grayness of this hair of ours, a lock of which is herewith sent thee, as the last token in our power of our affection for the most heroic and devoted of all our friends, we command thee to spare and love thy son, whom we forgive and purge of treason, and to let him marry the Lady Isabella of Mervyn. The gallant Sir Lionel Chayr bears this our message, and we commend him to your Grace. Richard.”
Duch.
Pledge how revered!

[The Duchess puts the lock of hair in her bosom.
Lady Mer.
Oh, do you spare him, then?
He's out to execution.

Duch.
Hie thee, Janet,
With this my ring: Mountnorris knows it: Tell him
The execution's stopped: Summon him hither.
[The Duchess gives Janet her ring, and the damsel hastes out.
Who are you that plead thus?

Lady Mer.
Fain would I say, Your Daughter!

Duch.
King Richard's will is law, the more since he's brought low.
Rise, child.

[The Duchess raises Lady Mervyn and kisses her.
Lady Mer.
My mother!

[The Dead-bell of Wold tolls. A piercing cry is heard from Janet.
Duch.
We're too late!

Lady Mer.
No, no!

[Lady Mervyn rushes out.
The Duchess of Wold retires slowly.

Scene VIII.

—The Place of Execution in Wold.
Philip de Valma, Mountnorris, and Soldiers. Lord Wold is seen lying on the ground in his blood; a grim old soldier holding the bloody sword that transfixed him.
Lady Mervyn rushes in, and kneels by Lord Wold's dead body.
Lady Mer.
Stay for me, my dear Lord, I'm coming with you!

[Dies.
Phil.
(aside).
Would I myself had smote him!
Yet what a pair! goodlier was never laid
Down with the worm! Both of them loved my brother;
They should have lived for that. I think they should:
There was no blood in that, no flavour of death.
Might they but live! But 'twas not written so
In the Old Dateless Book.

Enter Sir Lionel Chayr, leaning on a spear.
Chayr.
Is this the deliverance
I struggled for to the death? O evil day!
And she's there, too? Beautiful child of Mervyn,
I'll look at thee once more: 'Tis a sweet face!
Bear in these bodies.
[A trumpet is heard at the gate.
Hold!
[The trumpet blows again.
'Tis a bold note!

Enter the Duchess of Wold.
Duch.
What summoner's that?

Chayr.
'Tis Henry's blast, methinks.

Duch.
Would that it were! we'd show him, then—But first,
Take in that body.

Chayr.
Oh look, Madam—bodies.

Duch.
Bodies? How so?

Chayr.
Lord Wold, and his young bride.
She, too, is dead; slain, bringing help to him.
Angel of duty! Rarest of God's creatures
In this sore world of ours! The strength, the strength
Of a wife's love, determined not to die
Till she had done the very last for him,
That, and nought else but that, could have sustained her
Up to this moment, with that fatal arrow
Buried in her dear side: Wo worth the day!
Had I not been waylaid by evil men,
All had been well.

The trumpet blows again at the gate.
Duch.
Draw off, Mountnorris: Scorn them: Keep the gate.
We'll see the bodies in, then join you forthwith.

[Mountnorris draws off his men.
More alarms.
Phil.
(aside).
'Tis Henry: I'll to the gate: were he but in!
Would I could help him in! Dame Wold has struck
My heart's own prey, her son; would I could conquer
His conqueror then, ending their house at once,
By letting Henry in! Darconnell thus
Would have his heel upon Wold's neck—for ever!
Shadows, dread Ones, be near me!

[Exit Philip.
Louder alarms are heard.
Afra
(seen standing on the topmost tower).
Wo! wo! wo!

A Soldier comes running in.
Sold.
Treason! treason! treason!

Duch.
Out with it, sirrah!

Sold.
A force from the new King demanded entrance—

Duch.
And were denied?—defied?

Sold.
They're in then, Madam,
And masters here: Martin was by the gate,
And let them in.

Duch.
The traitor! bring him hither.

Sold.
Mountnorris slew him. One they called The Leech
Sprung on, and helped the opening of the gate;
Him too Mountnorris smote, and trampled down.

Duch.
What have we here?

Enter Henry IV., Hastings, and Captains.
Henry.
Where's my renowned brother,
Thomas of Wold?

Duch.
What would you with the dead?

[Pointing to the body.
Henry.
I am too late, then?—though I spurred to save him,
Being told by Hastings of his danger here
Within your cruel gripe.

Duch.
No, not too late
To take thy lesson from that stricken man:
Blood-stained Usurper, learn the Avenging Powers;
Nor dare to touch, with further hands of guilt,
King Richard's life!

Henry.
Woman of blood yourself,
You do interpret me from your own heart.

Chayr.
Save him, then, good my Lord! Grim threatening faces
Are round about him. I beheld them there,
When I last night prayed for, and gained admittance
To Pomfret Castle. On my knees I begged him
To interpose, and get Lord Wold's life spared.
Then when he took my borrowed sword, and sheared
A lock with it from his head already gray,
To send in his letter on with me to Wold—
Token that he forgave with all his heart
Lord Wold, his foeman, and would have him spared—
He told me, smiling sweetly, he could wish
That sword for his bed-fellow there. I craved to stay
And guard his life. He pushed me out: “Spur, spur
For Wold!” he said. But first he made me promise
To stand to the death by his heroic sister,
The faithful woman of Wold: His bosom heaved,
As if 'twould burst, and tears ran down his cheeks,
Speaking of all that she had done for him,
Despite his own harsh usage of her house.
My King! how kingly still!

Enter a Gentleman in haste.
Gent.
Woful news, Madam!
King Richard's murdered. Woful though it be,
I thought it dutiful to post, that you,
His last best friend in England's kingdom wide,
Might know it straight.

Henry.
My soul abhors the deed:
It makes me heavy sad.

[The Duchess of Wold turns in silence, as if to depart.
Duch.
My King!—My Son!

[She falls beside her son, kisses him, and dies.
Chayr.
Burst is that great true heart: Good-night to Wold.

[King Henry and the rest bow their heads toward the Dead.
Afra.
(on high).
—The End of Wold!

[Afra strikes her harp solemnly, and the Scene closes.