University of Virginia Library

EDWIN THE FAIR.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Edwin the Fair, King of England.
• Earl Athulf, Cousin to the King and Brother to Elgiva.
• Earl Leolf, Heretoch or Commander of the King's Armies.
• Earl Sidroc, a Leader of the King's Party.
• Clarenbald, a Secular Priest and Lord Chancellor.
• Wulfstan the Wise, Chaplain to Earl Leolf.
• Ernway, a follower of Earl Leolf.
• Grimbald, the King's Fester.
• Ricola, a Secular Priest, Chaplain to the King.
• Osbern, Bishop of Rochester.
• Oscar, a follower of Leolf.
• Odo Severus, Archbishop of Canterbury.
• Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury.
• Harcather, a Military Leader and Governor of Chester Castle.
• Ruold, Son of Harcather.
• Bridferth, Chaplain to Dunstan.
• Sigeric, Secretary to Odo.
• Gurmo, a creature of Dunstan.
• Ceolwulf, Æthelric, Eadbald, Ida, Brand, Ecfrid, Gorf, Tosty, etc., Military Leaders.
• Leofwyn, Fridstan, Oswald, Ethelwald, Cumba, Godredud, Morcar, Monn, etc., Ecclesiastics.

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2



• Elgiva, Cousin to Edwin the Fair and afterwards Queen.
• Ethilda, Sister to Edwin the Fair.
• Gunnilda, Queen Mother.
• Emma, Daughter to Wulfstan the Wise.
• Heida A Fortune-Teller.
• Thorbiorga A Fortune-Teller.

Time—Anno Domini 956.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Forest. A Swineherd tending his swine.
Swineherd
(sings).

Enter a Forester.
Forester.
Grunt! grunt! No end to swine. Why, here's a herd!
Beech-mast is scarce. Routing and grunting. Ho!
Who's here?

Swineherd.
A sinful unconsolable man,
The swineherd Ulf.

Forester.
Why, swineherds are but men,
And man is sinful. Ulf, what grief is his?
This is a world of ever-growing griefs.

Swineherd.
His grief, Sir, is a grief touching his swine,
Which swine have lost their appetites.

Forester.
How so?

Swineherd.
The how, Sir, is a tale that moves to pity,
And if you list to hearken, it was thus:
Last Tuesday week, the vigil of St. Swithin,
Up in the branches of an ancient tree,
I perched myself for shade, and there the wind
Rocking the bough and snoring in my ears,
It so mishappened that I slid asleep.
When I awoke my herd had wandered far,
And far had I to follow, till, God's love!
Belated in the dusky forest's verge
I found them much amazed, a furlong's length,
No more, from where the holy Dunstan dwells,
Scourging his wasted body half the night,
And wrestling with the Evil One.

Forester.
Wish you well!
A tickle neighbourhood was that.

Swineherd.
“Out swine!”
Quoth I, “ye villains, will ye run to the pit,
And I to follow!” And with might and speed
I drave them back; but volleying behind
There came such howls as scared us to the heart,
And to my humble thinking, since that hour
We have not had that stomach for our food,
That hearty hunger and that natural joy
In eating, that we wont to have.

Forester.
Such howls!
What howls? The Devil's were they, or were they Dunstan's?

Swineherd.
Sir, I have ears unskilful to discern
Betwixt the twain. They might have come from either;
For Dunstan his own back not less belabours
Than he belabours Satan.

Forester.
Ay, 'tis true;
A holy man is he and gives his life
Simply to crucify the lusts o' the flesh
And mastery over evil spirits achieve.
But wist ye that he hurt the swine? Pooh! no.
Not he.

Swineherd.
I know not.

Forester.
Thou say'st well thou know'st not,
For thou know'st nothing; thou art an ignorant swineherd.
'Tis not thy swine alone; through all the land
Swine have the murrain, dogs are sick o' the mange,
Rot kills the sheep, and horses die o' the staggers;
With rust and mildew droops the earing corn,
Swarm orchards with the snail, gardens with grubs;
And shortly, man and beast and herb o' the field
Are stricken with a thousand plagues and blights
Straight from the hand of God.

Swineherd.
Swine, didst thou say?
Swine have the murrain! Is it come to that?
Prithee, why so?

Forester.
It is but our deserts.
To please the young, misguided, heedless King,
Our monks of Malmesbury, those righteous men
That ever were at work with book and bell
Praying and fasting, and with thong and scourge
Their flesh tormenting, have been rooted out,
And in their place vile Seculars are planted,
A hunting, dancing, and carousing horde,
With wenches that they call their wives forsooth!
Oh shame to clerks, that they should wive and bed
And lead their lives so beastly! Woe is me!
What but a curse could light upon the land
When holiest men that wont to serve the poor
With alms unceasing, beg their bread themselves,
And lewdest prosper! Softly—stand aside;
Here comes a nobleman, if we may guess
By his attendance. Canst thou yet discern
His cognisance? Earl Athulf, as I live!

Enter Athulf.
Athulf.
Save you, good friends! How far may't be to Kingston?

Forester.
An hour, my Lord, or little more. 'Tis late,
Or you might take the road by Warlewood Chase:
'Tis some mile shorter.

Athulf.
Being so, my friend,
The lateness should be called a reason more.

Forester.
True, Sir; but it should lead you near the spot
Where Father Dunstan for these three weeks past
Nightly encounters Satan.

Athulf.
For myself
I heed not that. Howbeit, that way wending,
Methinks that my attendance would wax thin.
Please you to show me by what devious path
I may eschew the Devil and Father Dunstan.

Forester.
At your command, Sir. I will go before you.

Scene II.

—A Corridor in the Palace at Kingston.
Odo, Harcather, Ruold.
Odo.
Earl Athulf come! I'll with you to the King.

Harcather.
You'll find your monasteries emptied out
Under your nose, my Lord, at Sheen and Sion
Ere it be long; and why you arm not now
It passes me to guess.

Odo.
The Abbot, Sir,
The Abbot listens to no mortal voice
Except his mother's; and old Cynethryth
Is fearful of divisions; for in her youth
The splitting of the realm within itself
Was wont to sound a summons to the Dane.
And fetch him o'er the seas.

Harcather.
An old wife's tale.

Odo.
I'll bring you to the King, and testify
That what you charge on Athulf and his house
Is worthy of all credit.

Harcather.
Ruold, mark,
I will thee not to loiter thus at court.
Get thee again to Chester, son. Farewell.

[Exeunt Odo and Harcather.
Ruold.
Father, farewell! and then farewell the court!
To stay should but divide me from my friends
By worse than distance; for my father's hand
Is raised against them. Wherefore, fare you well,
Good Athulf and Elgiva. Peace be with you.

[Exit.
Enter Leolf and Athulf.
Leolf.
Fair shines the hour and friendly to my spirit,
That brings thee back. Welcome once more to Kingston!
I would have said to court; but, by my faith!
Far liefer would I to a cottage bid thee,
Than such a court as this.

Athulf.
Court, cot, or camp,
Hutch, hovel, let it be, or blasted heath,
In shine or storm, well met! What ails the court?

Leolf.
Its old disorder, cynics say, made up
Of ills, tho' diverse, not dissociate:
Ambition's fever, envy's jaundiced eye,
Detraction that exulcerates, aguish fear,
Suspicion's wasting pale insomnolence,
With hatred's canker.

Athulf.
To which add, no doubt,
Monks for physicians.

Leolf.
There you touch a theme
For large and leisurely discourse. To-night
I will but say, the boldest of bold hearts
Is hither come in season.

Athulf.
Say you so?
Come cowl and crosier! With a cap of steel
And battle-axe in hand, we will not fly.
But softly for a season! In what current
Runs the blood-royal? Are we where we were?

Leolf.
O'er the Queen Mother's mean and meagre soul
Hath monkery triumphed; taking for allies
Her past misdeeds and ever-present fears.
Upon the Princess too I see it steal,
And stain her pleasant purity of spirit.

Athulf.
But still the King is staunch?

Leolf.
Young, young and warm;
Prompt in defiance, too precipitate;
For we must have him crowned ere it be safe
To cross them. But the passion which in youth
Drives fast downhill, means that the impulse gained
Should speed us up the hill that's opposite.
How found you the mid-counties?

Athulf.
Oh! monk-ridden;
Raving of Dunstan.

Leolf.
'Tis a raving time:
Mad monks, mad peasants; Dunstan is not sane,
And madness that doth least declare itself
Endangers most and ever most infects
The unsound many. See where stands that man,
And where this people: then compute the peril
To one and all. When force and cunning meet
Upon the confine of one cloudy mind,
When ignorance and knowledge halve the mass,
When night and day stand at an equinox,
Then storms are rife. Yet once the King were crowned,
We could face Dunstan; which he knows too well,
And still by one thin pretext or another
Defers the coronation, and his will
The Primate follows.

Athulf.
Upon Edwin's head
Before the crown must come the stout steel cap;
Is it not so?

Leolf.
I see no other end;
And therefore, Athulf, in a happy hour
Com'st thou to Kingston. With our trustiest friends
We'll counsel take to-morrow. All is ripe.
You're strong in Wessex, and can thither send
To hold your strength in readiness. Meanwhile
Breathe not a word of menace; for at court
The monks have eyes to see and ears to hear,
Themselves nor seen nor heard.

Athulf.
Monks and stone walls,
Since both of you have ears, I'll teach my tongue
To say, “God save the King!” so whisperingly
That only God shall hear.—A truce to Kings,
To monks, to madmen; Leolf, at my heart
There's something that sits closer. Guess you what?
Or must I speak? How thrive you with my sister?

Leolf.
Indifferently. In sooth I hardly know.
We'll talk of that—but by your leave, hereafter.
Seek we the Chancellor now, and let your mind
Put off its soldierly habiliments,
And on its garb of policy, to meet
The wise old man.

Athulf.
Off, idle hauberk, off!
Off, clattering sword! off, greave and gauntlet!—There!
Behold me politic. Old Clarenbald,
A serious politician comes to council.

Scene III.

—Warlewood Chase. Evening.
Dunstan
(alone).
Spirit of speculation, rest, oh rest,
And push not from her place the spirit of prayer!
God, thou'st given unto me a troubled being—
So move upon the face thereof, that light
May be, and be divided from the darkness!
Arm thou my soul that I may smite and chase
The Spirit of that darkness, whom not I
But Thou through me compellest.—Legions vast,
The mind's glad host for victory arrayed,
Has thou committed to my large command,
Weapons of light and glittering shafts of day,
And steeds that trample on the tumbling clouds.
But with them it hath pleased Thee to let mingle
Evil imaginations, corporal stings,
A swarm of Imps and Ethiops, dark doubts,
Suggestions of revolt.—Who is't that dares— Enter Gurmo.

Oh! is it thou? What saith my Lord Archbishop?

Gurmo.
He will be there.

Dunstan.
At Sheen to-morrow?

Gurmo.
Yes.

Dunstan.
And what my Lady the Queen Mother?

Gurmo.
Here
To-night.

Dunstan.
I wished not she should come so soon.
No matter—let her choose—to-night then be it.
Go, get thee to the hollow of yon tree,
And let none else approach.

Gurmo.
I'll howl and screech
That any this way coming shall be scared
And think the howls are Satan's.

Dunstan.
Get thee gone.
[Exit Gurmo.
And if thou howlest otherwise than Satan,
It is not for the lack of Satan's sway
'Stablished within thee.
[Strange howls are heard.
Say then that they do—
Say that they do hear Satan's voice in his,
And prate of red-hot pincers and what not,
And are they then deceived? Thou loose lay-priest,
Thou secular lack-brain, No, I tell thee, No.
Do I not warfare wage in very deed
With Satan—yea, and conquer? and who's he
Saith falsehood is delivered in these howls,
If so it be that they impart to boors
Truths else to them ineffable? Where's Satan?
His presence, life, and kingdom? Not the air
Nor bowels of the earth nor central fires
His habitat exhibits; it is here,
Here in the heart of Man; and if from hence
I cast him with discomfiture, that truth
Is verily of the vulgar sense conceived,
By utterance symbolic, when they deem
That met in bodily oppugnancy
I tweak him by the snout; a fair belief
Wherein the fleshly and the palpable type
Doth of pure truth substantiate the essence.
Enough! Come down; the screech-owl from afar
Upbraids thy usurpation; cease, I say.
[Gurmo descends.
Await me in the border of the forest
By Elstan's well.
[Exit Gurmo.
A sturdy knave is yon!
He has transacted murder in his time,
Yet will he walk in darkness through the forest
Nothing discomforted nor scared. Who next?
Ha! the Queen Mother! Enter the Queen Mother, in a Peasant's garb.

Give your Grace good even!
You are a faithful servant of the Church,
And humbler weeds than these would gladly wear,
And wilder solitudes, by night or day,
Would seek to serve her.

Queen Mother.
Father, I am faint,
For a strange terror seized me by the way.
I pray you let me sit.

Dunstan.
I say, forbear!
Thou'rt in a Presence that thou wot'st not of,
Wherein no mortal may presume to sit.
If stand thou can'st not, kneel.

[She falls on her knees.
Queen Mother.
Oh, merciful Heaven!
Oh, sinner that I am!

Dunstan.
Dismiss thy fears;
Thine errand is acceptable to him
Who rules the hour, and thou art safer here
Than in thy palace. Quake not, but be calm,
And tell me of the wretched King, thy son.
This black, incestuous, unnatural love
For his blood-relative—yea worse, a seed
That ever was at enmity with God—
His cousin of the house of Antichrist!
Is it as I surmised?

Queen Mother.
Alas! lost boy!

Dunstan.
Yea, lost for time and for eternity,
If he should wed her. But that shall not be.
Something more lofty than a boy's wild love
Governs the course of kingdoms. From beneath
This arching umbrage, step aside; look up;
The alphabet of Heaven is o'er thy head,
The starry literal multitude. To few,
And not in mercy, is it given to read
The mixed celestial cypher. Not in mercy,
Save as a penance merciful in issue,
Doth God bestow that mournfullest of gifts
Which pushes farther into future time
The bounds of human foresight. Yonder book
In mercy to the King and not to me
Unfolds its tragic page. Is written there
Something that must be, something more that may,
But yet may be prevented.

Queen Mother.
On my knees,
I pray thee, holy Dunstan, read not there
Of ruin to my son.

Dunstan.
What there is writ
Needs must I read; and if this wily wench
That, profiting by the softness and green sap
Of ignorant youth, doth round her finger twine
The sceptre like a sliver—

Queen Mother.
Insolent jade!
Were it not, father, a good deed in Christ
To have her—in a manner . . . say . . . removed?
For truly, truly I may say, my Lord,
Yea and in sooth I witness it against her,
That with her witcheries and wanton looks
She hath inveigled and ensnared the King,
Bewitched past reason, that he flouts his mother,
Forgets his duty—woeful, woeful day!
Says “Silence,” if I do but say “God bless him!”
And all by her procurement and behest!
Scandalous minion! Were it not, I say,
An excellent deed and righteous before God
To take her from his sight, that she should cease
To vex good men and holy with her wiles?

Dunstan.
With thee the cry is ever “Kill and Kill.”
I tell thee once again, my soul abhors
This vulture's appetite, not more foul in act
Than gross in apprehension. Look we round:
In Wessex Athulf more prevails than we;
Leolf in Sussex; which of us is first
In Hampshire, hard to say. I tell thee, no;
It must not be.

Queen Mother.
Or but to mew her up . . .

Dunstan.
Nay, that were worse; it were but to inflame
By opposition the boy's passionate will.
Be patient; meddle not with means; put trust
In Providence, whose ways how knowest thou?
Say that loose access to that girl were gained,
Despite thy watch and ward, by that loose boy—
What thence should follow is not for us to know;
Nought, peradventure, that should thrive with her.
In women's breasts the passions that are bred,
Which for a summer's season work their will,
As surely with the dangerous hour's approach
Rise like armed Helots raging, and are found
Of their worst enemies the best allies.
With—with a woman's passions, not against them,
He takes the field who wisely would pursue
Her ultimate overthrow.

Queen Mother.
Most true, my Lord,
Most excellently true!

Dunstan.
I bid thee not
By either mean to practise to that end;
I do but tell thee 'tis a patient part
To stand aside in faith, nor put thy hand
To work that is not thine.

Queen Mother.
Oh, man of God!
Command me always.

Dunstan.
Hist! I hear a Spirit!
Another—and a third. They're trooping up.

Queen Mother.
St. Magnus shield us!

Dunstan.

Scene IV.

—A Chamber in the Palace.
Enter Athulf and Elgiva.
Elgiva.
This is the chamber where the Council sits:
I leave thee here: the very rushes bristle,
Disdaining to be trodden by female feet.

Athulf.
To meet at eight, the summons said. By this
They are at hand; but ere you go, one word.
I see a trouble sit on Leolf's brow.
Elgiva! Dear, dear sister! art thou true?

Elgiva.
Indeed I am.

Athulf.
And doth he know thee true?

Elgiva.
I trust he knows the truth.

Athulf.
The truth, Elgiva?
These are short answers. Dost thou love him still?

Elgiva.
Sincerely and in truth and honesty
Have I dealt with him always and do now.
I verily believed I loved him once.
I think I love him still.

Athulf.
You think you do!
Who thinks she loves I think can love but little.
Beware, my sister, that ambition's weeds
Choke not the garden where thy love should grow.
In Man of questionable quality
Ambition hath been holden; but in Woman—
Oh! 'tis the veriest beggary of the heart
That winter ever witnessed!

Elgiva.
Athulf, no;
A weaker to a stronger love may yield;
But not in me will love or weak or strong
Yield to ambition ever.

Athulf.
Oh, this head!
So shapely and by nature so adorned!
Far rather would I see the glossy braid
Of its own golden tresses circle it
Than England's jewelled crown.
[An Attendant, who appears at the door, announces “The Chancellor.”
Good-night, Elgiva. Said'st thou a stronger love?
The strength of love is constancy. Farewell!
As came the honey from the lion's carcase,
So sweetness comes of strength. Beware, I say;
Kings love like other men—or other boys:
Not so they marry.
[Exit Elgiva.
Gone in anger! Well;
Reproof that vexed not never yet sank deep,
Nor ever of a warning that was welcome
Came needful caution. Tush! a woman's wrath.
And yet the very day that first we meet
To send her from me angry! Tush! to-morrow—
Had she but said, Good-night!

[Enter Clarenbald.]
Clarenbald.
My Lord, well met!
If I be late, let them that are to come
Plead for me.

Athulf.
Nay, you do but prove it true
That ever are the busiest the most punctual.

Clarenbald.
Sir, they have leisure. Only frugal men
Are truly liberal, and for like cause
Will he that husbands time have time to spare.

Enter the King, with Earls Leolf, Sidroc, Alwine, the Bishop of Rochester, and two or three other Lords of the Council.
Edwin.
My Lords, we meet you here to be advised
Touching our coronation. My Lord Chancellor
Will set this thing before you.

Clarenbald.
My good Lords,
What, if I err not, each of us with each
Hath weighed in several conference, the King's Grace
Commands me that I finally propound
For your collective sanction. From the West
Come tidings that the monks of Glastonbury
(Doubtless apt implements of their Abbot they!)
Have practised with Prince Edgar in such sort
As hardly may decline the name of treason.
Whilst they this child's simplicity seduce,
Their brethren in the ignorant multitude
Work a persuasion that the King not crowned
Lacks half the warrant of his sovereignty,
Which till the Pope through them shall please bestow,
The kingdom is disposable. This creed
Spreads day by day, and till the King be crowned
Will daily breed new dangers. From the hands
Of my Lord Primate, neither crown nor chrism
By any instance can the King obtain:
Wherefore, my Lords, our counsel to his Grace
Methinks should be, that scattering like the sun
All clouds of hindrance and delay, at once
He should rise crowned, and on a summer's morn
Shine in the feeble faces of the monks
A consummated Monarch.

Edwin.
And his aid
Will this true servant of the Church and State
Afford us; [turning to the Bishop of Rochester]
from whose pure and holy hands
Much rather than from that disloyal Odo's
Would we receive the crown.

Bishop of Rochester.
Most royal Sir,
Much honoured were the See of Rochester,
More honoured still were these unworthy hands,
Should they perform the office.

Edwin.
Sirs, your votes.
You, my Lord Heretoch, speak first.

Leolf.
The time
Forces conclusions, and Necessity
Sits in the seat of Counsel. Dunstan gains
By every hour's delay. Should my will rule,
The sun that sets upon St. Austin's Eve
Shall see your Highness crowned.

Athulf.
All hail that eve!
Dunstan would rather Beelzebub were crowned.

Sidroc.
And Odo when he washed the Devil's feet
(Shame to him for his pains!) felt not his nose
So sorely troubled as his ears will be
To hear of this. Enough—St. Austin's Eve
We're all agreed on.

The Rest.
All.

Leolf.
Then must all join
Their speediest with their wariest endeavour
To bring up forces.

Clarenbald.
To this end, my Lords,
His Highness will provide you means to meet
In cover of the chase your chiefest friends,
And Wednesday he appoints a day of sport
For hunting of the boar. He then with us
Will lose himself, bewildered in the wood,
And others that shall likewise lose themselves
Shall find him, and in sylvan convocation
Shall all consult together and concert
The parts that each shall play.

Edwin.
Agreed.

The Rest.
Agreed.

Edwin.
Then for this present, trusted friends, we part.

Scene V.

—Another Chamber in the Palace.
Elgiva and Ethilda.
Elgiva.
How is it I find favour in the sight
Of the Queen Mother, and so suddenly?
When I was last at court no word she spake
Of welcome by herself, the King, or you.
Whence is the change?

Ethilda.
I know not; but I know
That but one change in you would work in us
All love that you could wish. O sweet Elgiva,
Restore yourself to God in His true Church,
And stray not in that howling wilderness
Where never is the voice of gladness heard,
Of bridegroom nor of bride.

Elgiva.
But how is this?
'Tis you, not I, that in that desert stray.
Except amongst the monks, I know not where
The voice is silenced of the bride and groom.
I pray you be not factious for the monks.
The King and they are now as far apart
As heaven and earth; did charity not forbid
I should seek further down for opposites.
Ask Athulf—ask my brother. Have you seen him?
He came but yesterday.

Ethilda.
I saw him not.

Elgiva.
Oh! he is bright and jocund as the morn,
And where is there on earth that wilderness
Which he could not reclaim? No sandy waste
Pressed by his foot, but what would teem with springs
Of fruitfulness and joy.

Ethilda.
When last we met
I was almost a child; but I remember
How wild he was with pleasantness and mirth.
I was gay then, although I seemed not so
Beside his bounding spirit. Is he now
Of the same temper?

Elgiva.
Not so thoughtless now,
And more in broken lights; but Nature's flag
Is flying still, whose revels in his heart
Hardly can care suspend.

Enter Edwin.
Edwin.
Oh, this is kind!
You know not, my fair cousin, what a cloud
Came over all the court when you were gone;
No city churchyard could be more forlorn.
Now we shall smile again.

Enter an Usher.
Usher.
The Queen, so please you,
Prepares for her devotions, and bade say
She waits the Princess.

[Exit.
Ethilda.
For this night, adieu.

[Exit.
Elgiva.
Adieu, good night, sweet kind Ethilda!

Edwin.
Yes;
Kind is she always; she is kind to stay
Ever, when you are absent, by my side,
And also kind to go when you are here.

Elgiva.
Your Highness. . . . .

Edwin.
Cousin! Are we not alone?
Oh, how I hate my title in your mouth,
Whence every other utterance is a charm.
Rather than speak as in the audience-chamber,
Let us be children once again, to rove
O'er hill, through vale, with interlacing arms,
And thrid the thickets where wild roses grow
Entangled with each other like ourselves.
Can you and will you those sweet days remember,
And strive to bring them back?

Elgiva.
Those days—O Edwin!
Can I remember? when can I forget them?
When flowers forget to blow and birds to sing
And clouds to kindle in the May-day dawn
And every spring-tide sight and sound shall cease
Or cease for me, then too for me shall cease
The sweet remembrance of the tender joys,
The smiles, the tears of those delightful days.

Edwin.
And can they not repeat themselves? Again
Let us, though grown, be children in our hearts;
Then with the freedom and the innocence
Which led our childish steps we'll wander on
Through after-life, but with a fuller joy.
Let recollections of the past, if sweet,
Plead sweetly for the present.

Elgiva.
Edwin, Edwin!
You are a King.

Edwin.
Now, see! I wakened up
By art of incantation from its bed
A Spirit beautiful as break of day,
The Spirit of the Past, and bade it speak,
And prophesy and plead—and what response
Is this it meets? None but the words of form
The herald spoke, when o'er my father's grave
He brake his wand of office. Yes, a King;
But may not Kings be happy? Nor not love?

Elgiva.
Oh, they are most unfortunate in that!
For when their hearts would rise from earth to heaven,
Leaving low aims, which can but be through love,
Then strangers intermeddle with their joy.
And strangers such as those that circle you
Are opposites to joy and love not more
Than they are to all monarchy malignant.
The monks are enemies that Kings may fear,
Though of the bravest, and my father's house
Is hateful in their sight.

Edwin.
Nay, talk not of them!
I loathe this monkery, and if I live
Will root it from my realm.

Elgiva.
Oh that you may!
And earls not few and many a gallant thane
Would gladly in that cause their hearts' best blood
Pour our like water. Athulf is but one,
Yet if you knew him is he many's worth.

Edwin.
If more of him I know not, yet that much
I amply know. Then surely with his aid
We may defy the monks, or better still
We may forget them; ay, forget the world,
Its cares, its kingdoms, and unbank the hours
To that soft overflow which bids the heart
Yield increase of delight. Beloved Elgiva,
Your beauty o'er the earth a passion breathes
Which softly sweeping through me, brings one tone
From all this plural being, as the wind
From yonder sycamore, whose thousand leaves
With lavish play to one soft music moved
Tremble and sigh together.

Elgiva.
What a charm
The neighbouring grove to this lone chamber lends!
I've loved it from my childhood. How long since
Is it that, in the compassed window met,
The blackbird sang us forth; from yonder bough
That hides the arbour, loud and full at first
Warbling his invitations, then with pause
And fraction fitfully as evening fell,
The while the rooks, a spotty multitude,
Far distant crept across the amber sky.
But hark! what strain is this? No blackbird's song,
Nor sighing of the sycamore!

Edwin.
Some friend,
As if the key-note of our hearts divining,
Accordant music ministers. Hist! Hist!

(A Song from without.)
Elgiva.
It dies away.

Edwin.
It is but distant more.

(Song resumed.)
Edwin.
Come, follow it; but stop—let me leap down
And help you from the window-sill. So quick!
If you are light of foot as Atalanta
You ought like her to give your Love the start.

[Exeunt.
Enter the Queen Mother and Dunstan from opposite sides.
Queen Mother.
So, well—so, well. It may be so, my Lord;
But mercy on my soul! if she should prosper!

Dunstan.
To bed, to bed; 'tis late.

Queen Mother.
But if she should!

Dunstan.
The sky is clear; the air is still; the blue
Of yonder firmament is pure and soft.
God rules the night. Saw'st thou the falling star?

Scene VI.

—A Court in front of the Palace.
Enter the Chief Huntsman, followed by other Huntsmen, a Bugleman, and Hounds.
Chief Huntsman.
What! none astir? Soho! the King lies long:
Young blood, Sirs—ay, it tingles when it wakes,
And yet it sleeps the soundest. Ranger! Churl!
What! down, Sir, down! Oh, flatteries of dogs;
We're courtiers all. Come, Uthric, where's thy horn?
We'll sound them a reveillée.

Bugleman.
By the mass!
I wheeze to-day as who cries, “Bellows to mend!”
I'm out of breath with snoring. But no matter;
Here is a puff on't left.

[Winds his horn.
Chief Huntsman.
Why, so! that's well.

Bugleman.
Another whiff, then.

Second Huntsman.
Wake not the moon, I pray;
'Tis but a half-hour gone since she turned pale
And went to bed.

Third Huntsman.
This dog is full of fleas.

Second Huntsman.
Excuse him; he has been amongst the monks.

[Horn winds.
Chief Huntsman.
Who's here? Earl Sidroc. You are first, my Lord.

Enter Earl Sidroc.
Sidroc.
I'm risen this hour; a snuff of the dawn for me!
My nose doth love it better than a nosegay.

Chief Huntsman.
Right, my good Lord. You see her there, Sir—Elf;
Oh, the best bitch! She holds them all together;
Relay or vauntlay 'tis the same to her;
Endways she runs it still and orderly.

Sidroc.
She is a good one. Sound another call.
To make the King's dogs wait is less than loyal.

Bugleman.
Most true, my Lord!—I am not what I was!
Plague of this asthma! Better have the mange!

[Winds a recheat
Enter Athulf, followed by a Page.
Athulf.
Set forward with the dogs—'tis the King's will.
[Exeunt Chief Huntsman and his train.
And hark ye, we shall hunt to-morrow too;
Here—boy! Tell whom it may concern, to-morrow
The King gives leave that I should ride Greymalkin.
I'll wear my hunting suit of green and gold.
See that Greymalkin is brought here betimes,
For we start early.—Grace be with your thoughts,
And peace with grace and joy be with your heart,
Sidroc the sober!—Go thy way, my boy.
[Exit Page.
Have you a moral ready? Come, a moral.

Sidroc.
For what? Greymalkin, or the green and gold?

Athulf.
Neither—they serve—they come but second now—
Appliance—means.

Sidroc.
No more—why, that is well.

Athulf.
Am I a coxcomb?

Sidroc.
Who can answer that?
You were not yesterday; but lo! at court
If but a man shall stoop his head a minute,
Leaps a bespangled monkey on his back
And grins at all beholders.

Athulf.
Oh, my soul!
Be not coxcombical, I beg of thee!
For I am lifted in mine own conceit,
That is too certain.

Sidroc.
I lament your rise.
But come—discourse it orderly; by what beck
Of Fortune's crookedest finger were you led
Up this ridiculous ascent? The King?
Some special favour?

Athulf.
Pooh! The King is kind,
But that is nothing.

Sidroc.
Nothing good, I grant you.
The sun that striking in upon your hearth
Puts out your fire, may yet too weakly shine
Itself to yield you warmth: true, you say well,
The King is nothing. What less chilling light
Has beamed upon your fancy?

Athulf.
By my soul
I know not that I shall not be ashamed
To tell my story. As I went to court
Late yesterday, the Queen, who saw me, sent
Commanding my attendance. A long hour
I waited, conning in the Troy-Town chamber
The stories in the tapestry, when appeared
The Princess, with that merry child Prince Guy.
He loves me well, and made her stop and sit,
And sate upon her knee, and it so chanced
That in his various chatter he denied
That I could hold his hand within mine own
So closely as to hide it; this was tried,
And proved against him; he insisted then
I could not by his royal sister's hand
Do likewise; starting at the random word
And dumb with trepidation, there I stood
Some seconds as bewitched; then I looked up
And in her face beheld an orient flush
Of half-bewildered pleasure; from which trance
She with an instant ease resumed herself,
And frankly with a pleasant laugh held out
Her arrowy hand.

Sidroc.
What could she less? a hand
To have and hold is something; but to hold
And not to have—but end your tale—this hand—

Athulf.
I thought it trembled as it lay in mine,
But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free,
And said that she felt nothing.

Sidroc.
What felt you?

Athulf.
A sort of swarming, curling, tremulous tumbling,
As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom.
—I said I was ashamed.—Sidroc, you smile;
If at my folly, well! but if you smile
Suspicious of a taint upon my heart,
You miss your mark, nor ever missed it more,
Nor ever loved.

Sidroc.
No, no, I did not smile.
Proceed, I pray you,—speak it; of this hand
The issue in experiment? the proof?
This lesser quantity—this in majore—
Was it containable?

Athulf.
I proved it not.
More manly, wise, and courteous I deemed it
Not to press hard an opportunity
Or wring it dry, but something leave behind
In warrant that no greedy grasping heart
Was mine, that on a trivial sign vouchsafed
Feeding might grow in self-encouragement
Too fast to fatness.

Sidroc.
I conceive your counsel:
Not all devouring was your policy;
Something you left for bait.

Athulf.
'Twas not in craft.

Sidroc.
Your pardon; in myself it would have been;
But let me not misjudge you by myself;
For by a happy instinct are you led
Unerringly and unsuspiciously,
When timid craft, too wary to be wise,
Would swerve for lack of blinkers.

Athulf.
Here's the King.

Sidroc.
And not he only!—Room, I say, make room.

[Exeunt.
Enter Edwin and Elgiva, attired for the chase.
Elgiva.
Remember that a King can take no step
That is not measured by the rule and square
Of some too curious eye that follows him.

Edwin.
We will be careful. Shall I tell you, love;
The grim Archbishop came to me last night,
And with him Dunstan; and, oh Heaven and Earth!
They preached me dead!

Elgiva.
What was it that they preached?

Edwin.
What preached? A thousand things! They said my crown
Was not a myrtle-wreath, and Kings were called,
As fathers of their lieges, to affect
All equally and favour none, nor loves
Nor friendships ever to permit themselves
Save as commended to their royal hearts
By counsels grounded in State policy.

Elgiva.
Oh, insolence of churchmen! What a gift
Of meddling is in monks? What answer made you?

Edwin.
I said, “Lord Abbot, and my Lord Archbishop,
My crown, of myrtle whether it may be,
Or as your hearts would have it, Sirs, of thorns,
I wear not at your will, and with God's help
I trust that I shall friendship find and love,
Counsel and policy more kind and sage
Than yours, my Lord Archbishop, or than yours,
Lord Abbot Dunstan.”

Elgiva.
I am glad you spake
So frankly and so nobly—glad at heart!

Edwin.
Lo! who comes here? 'Tis Dunstan, by my life!

Elgiva.
And who is he behind?

Edwin.
Gurmo by name.
'Tis a blue, swollen, unwholesome-looking knave
That ever follows him as plague does famine.

Elgiva.
Let's seem to see them not and wend our way.

[Exeunt Edwin and Elgiva.
Enter Dunstan and Gurmo.
Dunstan.
Lo there! a lovely couple hand in hand,
But which of them is male ... Seek out Harcather—
Tell him the public letters I have writ
Directing the disbandment of his force
Import not present payment. It were well
He muster them from time to time to take
The guerdon promised, which, if I shall send
The moneys, he may liquidate; if not,
The fault is mine, and having not the means,
He needs must put them off, but ever, mark,
To some not distant day. Take horse to-night.

Scene VII.

—A Forest.
The King, Athulf and Leolf, the Chancellor Clarenbald, the Bishop of Rochester, and divers Earls and Thanes.
Clarenbald.
To this then cleaving, let us bind ourselves
By oath: so having in our hearts the will,
There shall the conscience clench it. My Lord Bishop
The oath administers.

Leolf.
This tree supplies
The sacred symbol. [Breaks two twigs from a tree, and transfixes them crosswise with the point of his sword, which he then presents to the Bishop.
The Bishop of Rochester (holding forth the cross to the surrounding Nobles, who kneel and bow their heads towards it).

On Austin's Eve to crown your rightful King
Ye swear! If peril of your lands or life
Should stand between, ye swear of life and land
To take no count; but putting trust in Him
From Whom the rights of Kings are derivate,
In its own blood to trample treason out,
And loyalty in liberty to raise.
This on this cross ye swear!

All.
We swear! We swear!

Edwin.
And now, my lieges, lords and friends, adieu!
In very deed I thank you from my soul;
For in your looks I read that not alone
A common purpose joins you hand in hand,
But likewise that confederate hearts are here.
I thank you, Sirs; adieu!

Clarenbald.
Disperse yourselves
In twos and threes; so severally seen
You will not prompt suspicion.

[Exeunt all but Athulf and Leolf.
Leolf.
Athulf, stay.
I am for Sussex, there to raise my power.

Athulf.
Your Seneschal is there; what needs yourself?

Leolf.
Nor you nor I can longer blind ourselves.
I am needed nowhere.

Athulf.
Leolf, on my soul
What I do see I see with grief and shame.

Leolf.
Reproach her not; she's but a child in years,
And though in wit a woman, yet her heart,
Untempered by the discipline of pain,
Is fancy-led. One half the fault was mine.
A child is she; and look—upon my head
Already peepeth out the willowy grey.
My youth is wearing from me.

Athulf.
Nay, not so.

Leolf.
And youth and sovereignty, with furtherance fair
Of a seductive beauty in the boy,
What could they but prevail!

Athulf.
A child? No, no;
And if she were, is childhood then so false?
She is weak of heart.

Leolf.
No more. For Hastings I!
No more—or, Athulf, but one word—but one—
To her I would not say it, but to thee
My friend in all fidelity approved—
I—Athulf, she is gone from me for ever! ...
But this remains ... I can devote my life
To serve her and protect her ... broken hearts
Have service in them still—Oh, more than strength
Is in the sad idolatry that haunts
The ruinous fane where lies a buried hope.
I can adore her, serve her, shield her, die....
I pray you pardon me ... is shame no more?
I should be silent; license have I none
To either dotage—that of youth or age.

Athulf.
Oh, Leolf! oh, my friend!

Leolf.
Quit we the theme.
But from my griefs and me this counsel take;
Expend the passion of your heart in youth;
Fight your love-battles whilst your heart is strong,
And wounds heal kindlily. An April frost
Is sharp, but kills not; sad October's storm
Strikes when the juices and the vital sap
Are ebbing from the leaf. No more. My men
Shall stand in readiness; but for myself,
Unless a martial opposition call,
I would the King might please to pardon me
If I appear not on St. Austin's Eve.

Athulf.
I'll say that you are shaken in your health:
This shall suffice—I would it were less true.

Leolf.
You'll hear, and that ere long, my native air
Has done its work restorative. Farewell.

Scene VIII.

—In the Palace.
The King and Clarenbald.
Clarenbald.
How base to be so foolish! and again,
How blind to be so base! By Jacob's staff,
It made me young to see them; my old blood
Sprang to my wrinkles, where it had not been
These fifty years. One said that he was sick;
Another's wife was dead; a third would go,
But he must have a warrant signed and sealed.
“Good carpet-knights!” quoth I, “not one of you
Shall do this errand; for a fainting will,
A gasping utterance, and a frightened face
Shall not be bearers of the King's commands
To Dunstan.”

Edwin.
You said well; no timorous heart
Shall figure me in this.

Clarembald.
To do them right,
They'd charge a Northman in his coat of proof
And flinch not; but this shaveling's meagre face,
With his mass-hackle and his reef and stole,
Puts all to flight.

Edwin.
Lo! here's my cousin Athulf.
Ask him to go.

Enter Athulf.
Clarenbald.
My Lord, well met! The King
Would wish his pleasure signified to Dunstan
Touching his coronation. Some there be
That blink the service, lest through sorceries
And conjurations of the villanous Abbot
A curse should cross them; but your brain, we know,
Brooks not such vain bewilderments.

Athulf.
I vow
Meat to my mouth goes not with better speed
Than I upon this errand.

Clarenbald.
Excellent!
Abounding with all fortitude of soul
I ever knew you. Here's St. Tibba's thumb,
A relic of much price, which ne'er till now
Was parted from me; put it in your vest,
And heartily we bid you well to fare.

Scene IX.

—A Corridor in a Monastery at Sheen.
Two Monks.
First Monk.
He slept two hours—no more; then raised his head
And said, “Methinks it raineth.”

Second Monk.
Twice he coughed
And then he spat.

First Monk.
He raised himself and said,
“Methinks it raineth”—pointing with his hand;
And as he pointed, lo! it rained apace!

Second Monk.
Against such blows what body of mortal man
Could e'er hold out? He's on the way to heaven
Unless he deal more mildly with his flesh.

First Monk.
He raised his body—which is just his bones—
Upon one hand, and crossed himself and groaned.
And Father Bridferth met me in the court,
And quoth he, “Hast thou seen the holy Dunstan?”
I answered, “Yes, and on his wasted hand
Red stains that spurted from the nightly scourge.”

Second Monk.
Nightly and daily, brother. At this hour
He plies it for a double “De Profundis.”
As I passed out—

Enter Athulf, attended by the King's Jester, Grimbald.
Athulf.
God save you, holy Sirs!
Is Father Dunstan here?

Second Monk.
My son, he is.
He rose at five. I gave him his hair shirt.

First Monk.
At four he called for me and sate upright,
And on his hand appeared—

Athulf.
I pray you tell him
Earl Athulf, on an errand from the King,
Would be beholden to his courtesy
For some three minutes of his time.

Second Monk.
My Lord,
Unless your business be of instant haste
He hardly will bestow himself so early
On aught of secular concernment.

Athulf.
No?
But, Sirs, it is in haste—in haste extreme—
Matters of State, and hot with haste.

Second Monk.
My Lord,
We will so say, but truly at this present
He is about to scourge himself.

Athulf.
I'll wait.
For a King's ransom would I not cut short
So good a work. I pray you, for how long?

Second Monk.
For twice the “De Profundis”—sung in slow time.

Athulf.
Please him to make it ten times, I will wait.
And could I be of use, this knotted trifle,
This dog-whip here, has oft been worse employed.

First Monk.
My Lord, we'll bring you to the room where stand
The poor, whose feet he washes after penance,
Whence you may see him in the oratory
Plying the blood-stained lash. Tread softly, Sirs,
For he were not well pleased were he to know
That strangers' eyes beheld him.

Scene X.

—An Oratory.
Dunstan, in a shirt of sackcloth, stained with blood, reclines on a pallet of straw. Odo stands near him. Two Choristers are closing their books.
Odo.
How farest thou, brother?

Dunstan.
Brother, weak in flesh
But strong in spirit. Choristers, retire.
[Exeunt Choristers.
Brother, behoves us to compel our thoughts
An instant from above, and on this world,
Its temporalities and secular cares,
Turn them, so long averted. Say, in brief,
What tidings hear'st thou?

Odo.
Still a gathering round
Of the King's forces, trooping to the call
Of Rehoboam's councillor, rash Earl Athulf.

Dunstan.
Son of perdition, he affronts his fate!
But there are more than he.

Odo.
At Hastings still
Earl Leolf stands aloof; but holds his power
In present preparation.

Dunstan.
Brother, lo!
With blasting and with mildew shall they perish!
With madness, blindness, and astonishment
Shall they be smitten, the young man and the virgin,
Terror within them and a sword without!
One way against us shall their host come forth,
And seven ways flee before us.—What is this?

Athulf is heard without, singing:
Dunstan.
What mumming knave is here?—Brother, I say,
Their host shall flee; the anger of the Just
Shall smoke against them.—Nay, again! What, ho!

Grimbald is heard without, singing:
Dunstan.
What, ho! are we attended? Are there none
To keep the precincts?

Grimbald's song continued.
Enter Bridferth (Dunstan's Chaplain).
Dunstan.
What vile noise is this
Of juggling mountebanks that bellow and sing?

Bridferth,
Sir, the Earl Athulf, from my Lord the King,
Accompanied by his Highness's chief jester,
Expects the end of your observances,
And entertains his patience.

Odo.
Insolent scoffer!

Dunstan.
The King hath sent him? Nay then, bring him here.

[Exit Bridferth.
Grimbald.
(heard again).
Up and away! We'll be merry to-day,
For my father's in jail and my mother's gone gay.

Odo.
Attended by a jester! Is't not monstrous?
The jester shall to prison, if not the Earl;
He shall be whipped, and make a jest of that.

Dunstan.
Brother, not so. A grave occasion this,
Which calls us to account and bids be still
All outward flourishes of empty ire.
Far looks the present hour and sees beyond
A fertile future. Brother, in our brains,
Not in our bloods, are we to seek the seeds
Wherewith to sow it. Enter Athulf.

Welcome, Sir, to Sheen!

Athulf.
My Lord Archbishop, and my good Lord Abbot,
I crave your blessing. Summons from the King
I bring you both, that you attend the court
At Kingston, on St. Austin's Eve, to grace
His coronation, and therein perform
Each your fit function: then and there, Lord Primate,
You shall anoint him King, and you, my Lord,
As is your right, shall with the golden spurs
Adorn and illustrate the royal heels.

Dunstan.
Sir Earl, all rights that in the Church reside,
And in ourselves, at all times stand we prompt
To exercise; and on St. Austin's Eve,
Obedient alway to the King—next God—
As He shall give us guidance shall we walk.

Athulf.
I will so say. The King expects your aid,
But in default thereof, his head and heels
Will punctually upon St. Austin's Eve
Be otherwise attended. Fare you well!

[Exit.
Dunstan.
Ho, ho! Sir Earl; say'st thou St. Austin's Eve?
Look to thy sister!

Odo.
Nay, it shall not be.

Dunstan.
The wedding shall not; for the rest compound.
If, as their wanton bearing seems to boast,
It cannot be withstood, lo! give it way.
This weakling, Edwin, from the arms escaped
Of Ethbaal's daughter, the Zidonian quean,
As amiably shall answer to our call
As a tame culver.

Odo.
Were he but escaped!

Dunstan.
As with gross appetite he now enjoys
(If insight fail me not) the all of folly,
So shall we see him soon agape for change,
Loathing his love foregone. Yield, brother, yield.
Yet hold your force the while not less alert
To answer each event. Be armed within,
Be gowned without. Good brother, yield, but stand.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—Leolf's Castle, in the neighbourhood of Hastings.
Emma
(alone).
He walks upon the beach. A mind perturbed
Shall find the sea companionable. His
Is sorely troubled or my comment errs,
That is not uninspired. Oh, dearest Leolf!
You see not me with love-discerning eyes,
As I see you, or you would pity me.
When last I saw you, stately was your strength,
And you are now a very noble ruin.
Might I but be the wild flower on the wall
Of that war-wasted tower! A weed, alas!
But with a perfume.—Were I but at court
Soon should I see what currents cross him there.
The King? And if it be ... Here's my soft slave.
Now to your work, my plotting, scheming brains,
And I shall thrive.
Enter Ernway.
Well, Ernway, friend, what cheer?

Ernway.
I thank you, I am well in health. My heart
Is heavy, as you know.

Emma.
'Tis a good heart;
But pitch me overboard this sand and gravel.
With a light heart a meagre wit may pass;
Or with a copious wit a heavy heart;
But when the ship that's vacant of a freight
Labours with nothing but the dead-weight ...

Ernway.
Hush!
Although you love me not, you should not scorn me,
Lest some day you be scorned yourself.

Emma.
'Tis true;
I should be gentle; and, good faith! I love you;
Not amorously, I own, but amicably.
You are a kind and most affectionate fool,
And beautiful besides. I love your eyes,
Your hair, your mouth, your chin; I love you piecemeal;
I love your softness, gracefulness, and warmth;
And putting you together, on the whole
I like to see you at my heart's gate sit
Upon a winter's day and toss you crumbs.
Such is my friendship, and this many a day
I have not taxed you for returns. But now ...

Ernway.
What can I do?

Emma.
What will you?

Ernway.
Nay, what not?
If my weak wit, that you despise so much,
Can compass it, I'll do it.

Emma.
Will you lie?

Ernway.
For you I will: I would not for myself.

Emma.
Thou art a virtuous youth and loving liar.
'Tis better than to be a lying lover;
And yet not good—and would you not be good?

Ernway.
As good as you—no better.

Emma.
I your conscience!
'Tis much to have one soul to answer for!
Yet will I make you sin. As good as I?
I am a liar and a cheat. Now say—
Will you be like me?

Ernway.
I have said I will.

Emma.
You will get nothing for it.

Ernway.
Not a smile?

Emma.
A smile at most—assuredly not more.

Ernway.
I am content to lie and cheat for that.

Emma.
You come from court. There's much of service there
Is of that kind and in that coin requited.
Now you will instantly to court again,
And for the service you can do—'tis this,
To take me with you.

Ernway.
I would kneel for years
But for the blessing of a morning dream
That told me you would ask me this in truth.

Emma.
I tell you, you shall do it. But there's more.
Think not that I will let the word go forth
That I have wandered from my home with you
Unwedded. You must say we're man and wife.

Ernway.
And will you marry me?

Emma.
What, I? Oh no.

Ernway.
At last you will.

Emma.
No, neither last nor first.

Ernway.
Well, I shall fancy that you will; of that
You cannot hinder me.

Emma.
Indeed I can;
And if your fancy once should err so far
I will disforest its demesne for ever,
That nothing wild or free shall wander there;
Dispark its parks, dismantle and destroy
Its cloud-built castles. You are to present
The shadow of a husband—nothing more,
And this but for a season. Oh! my heart!
Dear Ernway, I will not torment you much;
And sooth to say, I'm sorry for your pain.
To-morrow, for a sin you've not committed
I'll teach you to entreat a false forgiveness.
You must ask pardon of your worthy sire
For a clandestine marriage. He will storm,
But heed him not. There, you may kiss my hand;
And now, I pray you, go.

Ernway.
Good-bye, sweet Emma.

Emma.
Call me “Dear Wife”—“Sweet Emma” is too loving;
'Tis an unmarried phrase; whereas “Dear Wife”
Imports the decencies of dry affection.

Ernway.
No, I will say, “Sweet Emma.”

Emma.
What you will
When we're alone. Come with me to the beach.

Scene II.

—The Sea-shore, near Hastings.
Leolf
(alone).
Rocks that beheld my boyhood! Perilous shelf
That nursed my infant courage! Once again
I stand before you—not as in other days
In your grey faces smiling—but like you
The worse for weather. Here again I stand,
Again and on the solitary shore
Old ocean plays as on an instrument,
Making that ancient music, when not known!
That ancient music, only not so old
As He who parted ocean from dry land
And saw that it was good. Upon mine ear,
As in the season of susceptive youth,
The mellow murmur falls—but finds the sense
Dull'd by distemper; shall I say—by time?
Enough in action has my life been spent
Through the past decade, to rebate the edge
Of early sensibility. The sun
Rides high, and on the thoroughfares of life
I find myself a man in middle age,
Busy and hard to please. The sun shall soon
Dip westerly,—but oh! how little like
Are life's two twilights! Would the last were first
And the first last! that so we might be soothed
Upon the thoroughfares of busy life
Beneath the noon-day sun, with hope of joy
Fresh as the morn—with hope of breaking lights,
Illuminated mists and spangled lawns
And woodland orisons and unfolding flowers,
As things in expectation.—Weak of faith!
Is not the course of earthly outlook thus
Reversed from Hope, an argument to Hope
That she was licensed to the heart of man
For other than for earthly contemplations,
In that observatory domiciled
For survey of the stars? The night descends,
They sparkle out.—Who comes? 'Tis Wulfstan's daughter.

Enter Emma.
Emma
(to Ernway in the side-scene).
Go now and bring my father.—Good my Lord,
I fear you've fallen in love with solitude.

Leolf.
A growing weakness-not so tyrannous yet
But that I still can welcome from my heart
My pretty friend.

Emma.
I thank you, my good Lord.

Leolf.
You find me here discoursing to the sea
Of ebbs and flows; explaining to the rocks
How from the excavating tide they win
A voice poetic, solacing though sad,
Which when the passionate winds revisit them
Gives utterance to the injuries of time.
Poets, I told them, are thus made.

Emma.
My Lord,
It is not thus through injury, I would hope,
That you are made poetical?

Leolf.
Indeed
There's much that has gone wrong with me, my friend.
How wears the world with you?

Emma.
Truly, my Lord,
I see so little of it, I thank God!
That like a wedding garment seldom used
It keeps its shine.

Leolf.
Why, then, the world wears well:
But where's the wedding garment?

Emma.
Why, my Lord,
'Tis here—for I was married as you see me.

Leolf
Was married, say you?

Emma.
Yes, my Lord, last week;
O' Wednesday, God forgive me!

Leolf.
This is strange!
I pray you say to whom?

Emma.
Alack, my Lord!
To a poor foolish follower of your Lordship's—
Poor Ernway.

Leolf.
What! to him?

Emma.
For fault of better.
Maids that are beggars cannot, you know, be choosers.

Leolf.
Well, if you like him I am glad you have him,
And I will mend his fortunes for your sake.

Emma.
I care not for his fortunes. Oh, my Lord
Your pardon! But I care for nothing now
Save only this,—that you should break the news
To my dear father, and on my behalf
Crave his forgiveness; for he dreams not of it.

Leolf.
He will but dream when he has heard it. Still
This life, and all that it contains, to him
Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams
Filled with book-wisdom, pictured thought, and love
That on its own creations spends itself.
All things he understands, and nothing does.
Profusely eloquent in worthiest praise
Of action, he will talk to you as one
Whose wisdom lay in dealings and transactions;
Yet so much action as might tie his shoe
Cannot his will command; himself alone
By his own wisdom not a jot the gainer.
Of silence and the hundred thousand things
'Tis better not to mention, he will speak,
And still most wisely.—But, behold him there!
Led by your bridegroom, (is it not?) who now
Runs back.

Emma.
Some fifty yards he has to come,
And holding us before him full in sight,
It may be he will find his way to join us.
But lest he wander and forget himself,
I will conduct him hither.

[Exit.
Leolf.
Ernway! Him!
Poets have said that 'tis the immortal mind
And not the face or form that moves to love.
They spoke as they would have it. Yet 'tis strange
That such a maid should so bestow herself.
But with her courage and her confidence,
Her soft sagacity and ready wit,
Mixes the woman's weakness. For the sire,
He will but aptly moralize the theme,
And then forget the fact.

Enter Emma with Wulfstan the Wise.
Wulfstan.
For from his youth
His converse hath been profitable; yea,
In teaching him instruction made rebound
And I was wiser for my pains. In truth,
I have considered and have studied him
With peradventure more of curious care
And critical inquiry than befits
A friend so inward; and I'll vouch for this,
That though, as you have said, the vernal bloom
Of his first spirits fading leaves him changed,
'Tis not to worse. His mind is as a meadow
Of various grasses, rich and fresh beneath,
But o'er the surface some that come to seed
Have cast a colour of sobriety.
For he was ever ...

Emma.
But, my dearest father,
He stands before you.

[Exit.
Wulfstan.
By my life, 'tis true!
Well met, my good Lord and my excellent friend!
My daughter warns me of some tiding strange,
Surprising, unimaginable, by you
To be delivered.

Leolf.
Strange it needs must seem;
But should it grieve you, call to mind, I pray,
The precept I have heard a thousand times
From your own lips: philosophy, you said,
If ministering not to practice, were more vain
Than a child's rattle, for the infant's mind
The rattle doth in practice hold at rest.

Wulfstan.
'Tis true; for just philosophy and practice
Are of correlative dependency,
Neither without the other apt or sound
Or certain. For philosophy itself
Smacks of the age it lives in, nor is true
Save by the apposition of the present;
And truths of olden time, though truths they be,
And living through all time eternal truths,
Yet want the seasoning and applying hand
Which Nature sends successive; else the need
Of wisdom should wear out and wisdom cease,
Since needless wisdom were not to be wise;
For surely if...

Leolf.
The theme I have to broach
Respects a certain marriage, which for my sake,
Though it will certes take you unprepared,
Yet you must leniently look upon
And auspicate with smiles.

Wulfstan.
A marriage say you?
My good Lord, I rejoice in your resolve.
To marry wisely is to double wisdom,
And breed a progeny of bright rewards,
Which wisdom single, monachal or lay,
Woefully wants. For think what it must be
To watch in solitude our own decay,
Jealously asking of our observation
If ears, or eyes, or brains, or body fail,
And not to see the while new bodies, brains,
New eyes, new ears, about us springing fresh,
And to ourselves more precious than are ours.
But this it is...

Leolf.
I give you my consent
That a wise marriage is the crowning act
Which queenly Wisdom's sovereignty secures;
For love is wisdom, when 'tis innocent:
But for myself...

Wulfstan.
The season comes with you
When love that's innocent may well be wise.
But not inevitably one with wisdom
Is innocent love at all times and with all.
Love changes with the changing life of man:
In our first youth, sufficient to itself,
Heedless of all beside, it reigns alone,
Revels or storms and spends itself in passion:
In middle age—a garden through whose soil
The roots of neighbouring forest trees have crept,—
It strikes on stringy customs bedded deep,
Perhaps on alien passions; still it grows
And lacks not force nor freshness; but this age
Shall aptly choose as answering best its own
A love that clings not nor is exigent,
Encumbers not the active purposes
Nor drains their source; but proffers with free grace
Pleasure at pleasure touched, at pleasure waived,
A washing of the weary traveller's feet,
A quenching of his thirst, a sweet repose
Alternate and preparative, in groves
Where loving much the flower that loves the shade
And loving much the shade that that flower loves,
He yet is unbewildered, unenslaved,
Thence starting light and pleasantly let go
When serious service calls.

Leolf.
'Tis all most wise,
And worded well. But you mistake my drift;
'Tis of your daughter's marriage, not of mine,
I am to speak.

Wulfstan.
My daughter, my good Lord!
Must she be married?

Leolf.
'Twas her will to be;
And upon Wednesday she gave it way.

Wulfstan.
Was married upon Wednesday! It is strange!
She was a child but yesterday, and now
A woman and a wife! On Wednesday—
And unto whom, I pray you, was she married?

Leolf.
To one whose comeliness in woman's eye
Excels the gifts of fortune that he wants;
To one whose innocence in the eye of Heaven
Excels the excellence of an erring wit:
To Ernway.

Wulfstan.
You astonish me, my Lord.
It is most strange; indeed, 'tis singular!
She never mentioned it to me.

Leolf.
In that
She missed of what was filially due
To a kind parent, for which lapse through me
She craves forgiveness.

Wulfstan.
I have lost my child!

Leolf.
Nay, nay, my worthy friend.

Wulfstan.
My Lord, 'tis so;
She is my daughter, but no more my child;
And therein is a loss to parents' hearts
Exceeding great.

Enter an Officer.
Officer.
My Lord, there's news from court;
They seek you at the castle, whither is come
Oscar, that's so much trusted of Earl Athulf,
With letters.

Leolf.
Of what purport, did he say?
Does all go well?

Officer.
To take his word, my Lord,
They speak of nothing but prosperity.
My Lord Archbishop, with a loyal will,
Abets the coronation, in whose wake
Comes my Lord Abbot Dunstan, his lean cheek
Surprised with smiles. So smoothly runs the realm
Missives are sent to each confederate Earl
To bid his power disband; and these to you
Are of that import.

Leolf.
Is it so? Oh, Athulf!
Art thou not over-reached? I fear it much.
Dunstan in smiles? A presage to be feared.
I would I were at Kingston with my power.
Conceive you what this smiling may portend?

Wulfstan.
You read it as the scholiast of mankind
Should ever read their acts, conjunctively,
Interpreting the several by the whole.

Leolf.
Then, Hederic, we will expedite the levies.
The daylight's lengthened by yon rounding moon.
Long marches and short nights—and so to Kingston.

Scene III.

—Kingston. A Chamber leading to the Banqueting Hall in the Palace.—The Dish-Thane passes through, followed by other Officers of the Household, by Attendants bearing dishes, and by the Female Cup-bearer. In the back of the scene are a motley crowd, consisting of Musicians tuning their instruments, Two Fortune-tellers, Heida and Thorbiorga; Grimbald, the King's Jester; Bridferth, Dunstan's Chaplain; a few Monks and secular Priests, several Thanes of the second rank, Ceorls and Soldiers. The Persons of the scene are in constant movement, changing their situations or passing in and out, some eagerly, others idly. Once or twice an Earl or Ealderman passes through, but without stopping or mixing with the crowd, which reverently makes way. The parties who are heard to speak are those who pass in front or pause there.
1st Monk.
So! crowned at last! God's will be done! At times
His will it is, for ends best known to Him,
To grant a holiday to Beelzebub,
And there is feasting and a dance in Hell.

1st Soldier.
In the north aisle was I and saw it all.

2nd Soldier.
The bailiff (curse him!) broke my head with his staff
Or I had got there too.

1st Soldier.
Most royally
His Highness played his part from first to last,
And graciously and grandly. At the Abbot
Methought he looked askance, but with the rest...

[They pass.
1st Monk.
In the south aisle. He faltered as he swore
To keep the Church in peace.

2nd Monk.
His cheek was pale.

1st Monk.
It was as white as leprosy.

Bridferth.
No marvel,
For such an eye was on him in that hour
As smote Gehazi.

[They pass.
A Thane
(who advances in company with a Scholar).
Hark ye! are we blind?
The Princess was led in by brave Earl Athulf;
And didst thou mark the manner of it, ha?

Scholar
Methought she leaned upon him and toward him
With a most graceful timid earnestness;
A leaning more of instinct than of purpose,
And yet not undesigned. But think you then...

[They pass.
Heida
(sings to a harp).

1st Priest.
Our gallant Heretoch, the good Earl Leolf,
Should have been there methought.

2nd Priest.
He should have been;
But there are reasons, look ye,—reasons—mum—
Most excellent reasons—softly—in your ear—

[They pass.
Thorbiorga
(sings).

Enter the Great Chamberlain with the Horse-Thane and other Officers of the Household.
Great Chamberlain.
His Highness! Ho! Make way His Highness! Ho!
Sound trumpets!

[A flourish of trumpets.
[The King, wearing his Crown, and leading in the Queen Mother, passes across the back-scene, and is followed by Earl Athulf, leading in Ethilda, by Odo and Dunstan, with Sigeric and Bridferth, by Harcather, Ceolwulf, Æthelric, Eadbald, Ida, Brand, Ecfrid, Gorf and Tosty, all military leaders on the Monastic side; and by Clarenbald, Earl Sidroc, the Bishop of Rochester, and divers great Officers of State and Nobles of the King's party. The procession, when it passes off, enters the Banqueting Hall.
1st Ceorl.
The King stepped proudly.

2nd Ceorl.
But his countenance
Methought was troubled. Is he well in health?

1st Ceorl.
Now comes the Primate.

2nd Ceorl.
What, can this be he
That looks so fierce and haughty? Once before
I saw him, when a cripple asked for alms;
So lowly of demeanour was his Grace,
I had not known, but for the mitred head,
Which was the beggar, which the Lord Archbishop.

1st Ceorl.
He's humble to the poor to spite the rich;
Give me the man that's humble to his peers.

2nd Ceorl.
There's Dunstan.

1st Ceorl.
What, is yonder thing alive?

Grimbald (the Jester, who has come up behind).
Sir, he's aboveground.

2nd Ceorl.
So we see, my friend.

Grimbald.
For this occasion, Sir. A hole i' the earth
Is where he lives, Sir, mostly: yea, his life
Is of the earth, Sir, earthy.

1st Ceorl.
It was there
That he encountered Sathanas.

Grimbald.

Enter from the Banqueting Hall Two Ushers.
1st Usher.
The third cup has gone round. You're welcome now
To take your places at the lower board.

Grimbald.

[Exeunt into the Banqueting Hall, all but the Ushers and the Scholar.
1st Usher.
The Princess and a certain Earl sit close.

Scholar.
Ah! she is peerless! Happy were the man
That should enthrall her though she were a peasant!
What in another might have seemed amiss
In her was but a freshness and new charm
Loosed from the graceful nakedness of nature.
She ate but half a pigeon, and did you mark
How with her tiny fingers and her teeth
She gnawed and tore the bones, talking 'twixt whiles,
With such a lively and a pretty action,
That appetite itself and all its ways
Seemed mainly spiritual.

2nd Usher.
Hush! Hark to that!

[A flourish of trumpets.
1st Usher.
The ladies leave the board.

Scholar.
I'll see her go.
She ever moves as if she moved to music.
Are you not wanted? Oh! what's like to her?

Scene IV.

—A Chamber in the Palace.
Enter Emma.
Emma.
Credentials? yes—Earl Leolf's may go far;
But truly I was made to thrive at court
With or without them, being merry and wise.
They trust to me already as to one
That works by miracle; and can I not
To clear the proud Elgiva from the path
Of lovelorn Leolf? Married shall she be
Or e'er the sun go down; so shall his wound,
Though deep, have rest and heal. Could twenty Kings
Have turned aside my heart, or in mine eyes
Possessed one-twentieth part the sovereignty
That crowns his kingly head! Enter Ernway.

In time for once.
Take this to Sheen. Seek Father Ricola out;
Tell him the King shall follow in an hour,
And then Elgiva.—Ernway, if thou lov'st me,
Be sudden and be secret.

Ernway.
Trust me, Emma,
I will be both.

Emma.
Here is the private stair
Which brings you past the ward, and with this key ...
How dark it is! Be careful how you step.

Scene V.

—The Banqueting Hall.—Are seated at the board, all the Male Guests who passed through in the Third Scene. But the King's place is vacant. Goblets are passed from hand to hand. Grimbald the Jester stands behind the chair of state.
Harcather.
Comes not the King again?

Ceolwulf.
Surely he will.

Tosty.
He will! Nay, nay, he must.

Dunstan.
Content yourselves;
It cannot be but he will come again.
He cannot mean us such disparagement
As thus, and at this high and solemn feast,
To quit his guests, the noblest of the land,
Without a “God be with you,” or a word
To sheathe the sharp directness and the sting
Of such a plain offence.

Ida.
'Twere good, my Lords,
We sent our humble duty to the King,
Craving his expedite return.

Great Chamberlain.
Grith, Offa,
Go seek the King; and say his noble guests
Find themselves by his absence overcast
As with a cloud, and crave his swift return.

[Exeunt Grith and Offa.
Grimbald.
Betwixt the new ship and the headland old
The dolphins ducked and the waters rolled.
Worse and more of it! the wind went mad—
But the pilot he drank no more than he had.

Tosty.
Peace, fool! The very hour that he could spare us...

Ceolwulf.
A singular and unadvised retreat.

Tosty.
I say if one of us—I say if I...

Sidroc.
Well, well, he's young.

Tosty.
I say, my Lords, if I,
Not being sick nor drunk, jump from my seat,
And turn on this illustrious company
My back, that is not comelier nor more pleasant
Nor acceptabler than another man's,
Why, then, my Lords, let me be who I may,
I say I offer to this company,
Not being drunk, a strange discourtesy,
And quite the obverse of a salutation.

Æthleric.
Bear this, and we shall.

Clarenbald.
Tut! he'll come again.
Pass round the goblet. Eadric, take the harp,
And sweeten our carouse with minstrelsy.

SONG.

Bowl.
Thou in the corner so grim and spare,
Who sent thee hither? What dost thou there?

Spear.
I came of the ash-tree Ygdrasil,
And do her bidding for woe or weal.

Bowl.
For whom the weal, for whom the woe?

Spear.
Say who thou art, and thou shalt know.

Bowl.
Broach the cask and fill me full—
I am the bold Logbrogdad's skull.

Spear.
Thou liest, or else thou leak'st; for once
I pierced the bold Logbrogdad's sconce.

Bowl.
I neither lie nor leak. Behold!
The hole is here and pieced with gold.

Spear.
I pray thee grace. 'Twas through that hole
Passed out the bold Logbrogdad's soul.

Bowl.
Then answer make that all may know,
For whom the weal, for whom the woe?

Spear.
The weal is their's who do no wrong,
And crown with gifts the sons of song.
The woe is theirs who fain would flood
Their father's land with brethren's blood.
Their deeds the eagle and the kite
Shall judge, and God shall guard the right.

[Re-enter Grith and Offa.]
Great Chamberlain.
How now?

Offa.
My Lords, his Highness greets you well.
He bids us say that he has calls elsewhere,
And loves not too much quaffing, which is wont
To leave you with less reason than the beasts,
Rolling upon the floor. Wherefore, my Lords,
He prays you with all love and courtesy
To hold his Grace excused, for he is young,
And loves not quaffing.

Odo.
Will ye suffer this?
If rated thus for nothing, what's your fate
When standing for your liberties ye check him?
If thus affronted at the festive board,
What in the Witenagemót awaits you?

Tosty.
He loves not quaffing!

Harcather.
Rolling on the floor!

Athulf.
Sirs, for his Highness's too hasty message,
I grant it ill-advised; but, Sirs, his youth,
If ye will temperately consider . . .

Harcather.
Youth!
Hath youth a privilege to maltreat the old?

Ecfrid.
He loves not quaffing! Ah, my good Lord Athulf,
But what else loves he? There are sins beside.
Say he had left us for a lady's bower—
There is a revelling he impugns not.

Dunstan.
Ha!

Ecfrid.
What lady she may be, my good Lord Athulf,
Concerns not us.

Odo.
Ho! some of you go forth
And seek the King, and say to him from me
That he, or willingly or not, perforce
Must instantly return; and see ye bring him.

Athulf.
Whoso shall take that errand from this hall,
Let him take that therewith.

[Throws his glove on the floor. Three or four Earls start up in their seats. In the mean time Gurmo has entered, and spoken apart to Dunstan.
Dunstan
(rising).
My Lords, sit still. I'll bring the boy myself.
Here, varlets, sweep this litter from the floor.

[Spurns the glove with his foot as he passes and exit.
Athulf.
(his hand on his sword).
Which of you here that wears not frock nor hood
Will this vile Abbot's vilest act avouch?

Several Earls of the Monachal party lay their hands on their swords and spring upon the floor. The company rises in disorder.
Seneschal.
Peace, ho! My Lords, bethink ye where ye are;
He that within the palace draws his sword
Doth forfeit an Earl's were. Peace, peace, be still!
Keep the King's peace!

Harcather.
Not I, for one.

Tosty.
Nor I.

Others.
Nor I; nor I.

Seneschal.
Then who will keep it not
Let him withdraw, and not pollute with blood
The precincts of the palace.

Eadbald.
Then withdraw.

Many voices.
Withdraw! withdraw!

Harcather.
Keep the King's peace? If longer than three minutes
I keep it, may I die in my bed like a cow!

Scene VI.

—An Apartment leading to an Oratory in the Royal Residence at Sheen.—As the scene opens, Edwin and Elgiva are discovered before the altar in the Oratory, and Ricola, the King's Chaplain, is joining their hands. They all three then advance out of the Oratory to the front.
Ricola.
So be ye one from this time forth for ever,
And God for ever be your gracious guide
In love and peace to live! A hasty rite
Hath solemnized your nuptials; not the less
Be ye observant of the sacred bonds
Wherein ye stand contracted for all time.
My Sovereign Lord and Lady, ye are young,
And these are times and yours beyond compare
Stations of trial: Be ye each to each
Helpful, and fullest of comfort, next to God.
And so, my blessing poured in tears upon you,
I bid you well to fare.

Edwin.
My honoured friend,
We thank you for this service, one of many,
But of the many greatest. For awhile
Our secret kept, the Queen abides with you.
I must return to Kingston; but ere night
Once more you'll see me here. Farewell till then.
Shortly the Queen shall follow you.
[Exit Ricola.
Elgiva!
Oh, past expression beautiful and dear,
And now my own for ever! Let my soul
Be satisfied, for 'tis a joy so great
To know you mine, that nature for my bound
Seems insufficient, and my spirit yearns
Intent with you to pass from this pale earth
Into that rosy and celestial clime
Where life is ever thus.

Elgiva.
How joy fulfilled
Makes the heart tremble! Now no change can come
That is not to be feared.

Re-enter Ricola.
Ricola.
My Lord, my Liege,
Forgive me—but I fear . . . I'm old, my Lord,
And shake at trifles, but I strangely fear
That mischief is afoot.

Edwin.
At Kingston?

Ricola.
There,
And coming hitherward; the poor fool Grimbald
Came flying like the scud o' the storm before
To warn you.

Edwin.
And what says he? Call him in.
[Ricola goes to the door and returns with Grimbald.
Well, my good fool, and what hast thou to tell?

Grimbald.
There was grace after meat with a fist on the board
And down went the morat and out flew the sword.

Elgiva.
Truce to thy calling for a while, good fool,
And tell us plainly what befell.

Grimbald.
By the ears
The nobles went together; in the fray
The Horse-Thane and the Dish-Thane were o'erborne
And sent to prison. Then I took to my heels
To bring you word.

Elgiva.
Earl Athulf? Where is he?

Grimbald.
He stood against Harcather hand to hand
When I departed; but I know no more.

Enter the Queen Mother.
Queen Mother.
So you are here, my son, and Madam, you!
And is it for this you scurry from your place?
Is it for this you quit your noble guests?
Is it for this you vex the kingdom? Yea,
To shedding of blood—for there has blood been shed—
For nought but this? Oh, fie! for dalliance—oh!
And whiles you waste the hours in wantonness . . .

Edwin.
Good mother, speak of what you know. Not here
Was either wantonness or waste of time.
You little think how little idly spent
Has been the hour that's gone.

Queen Mother.
How spent? oh, son!
But here come those can speak. Lo! here they come!

Enter Dunstan and Odo,with two or three Thanes following, who are gradually augmented as the scene proceeds till the stage is filled with Dunstan's adherents.
Ricola.
Will't please you to withdraw?

Elgiva.
I thank you, no.

Edwin.
You are too bold, my Lord Archbishop; hence!
Go hence, and trouble not my privacy.
When I did leave you 'twas my will to leave you.
Am I your King, or am I not?

Odo.
Sir, Sir,
'Tis true, with suffrage of the Witena
You were anointed with the holy oil
And crown'd this day by me. But deem not thence
That you are free to spurn us. Rather deem
That calls more urgent, bonds of stricter claim,
Enjoin the duties of your sovereignty;
Amongst which duties eminently first
Is this, that when your Lords and Councillors,
The pillars of the realm, in conference meet,
You should be with them, wisely there to learn
From the assembled wisdom of the State.

Edwin.
'Twas for carousal, not for conference,
They met to-day.

Dunstan.
Sirs, stand ye all apart
And suffer that I reason with the King,
Whose youth betrays him. Oh, unruly flesh!
Oh, wanton blood of youth! the primal sin!
The first offender still! The original snare!
Perdition came of Woman, and alway since
When Time was big with mischief and mischance
He felt his forelock in a soft white hand.

Elgiva.
Of Woman say'st thou that perdition came?
'Twas of the Serpent, Priest.

Queen Mother.
What, break'st thou in?
Thou bold and naughty jade! Thou pit! thou snare!

Edwin.
Oh, mother, hold! Know you at whom you rail?
Deem her your daughter or me not your son.

Queen Mother.
Thou art not and thou shalt not be my son.
If thou demean'st thyself to her—a witch!
A practiser of sorceries!

Edwin
(kneeling).
Oh, God!
I pray Thee that Thou shorten not my days,
Ceasing to honour this disnatured flesh
That was my mother.

Elgiva.
Never was she that:
O Edwin, had God granted thee a mother,
What honour had we rendered her!

Dunstan.
Thou darest!
And seest thou in what presence? Be thou warned!
Thy witcheries that inflame this carnal King
Far other fires shall kindle in the Church—
The channel as of mercies, so of wrath.
Thou stand'st before its excellent Archbishop,
And me its humblest minister; men both
Dead to the flesh and loathing from their souls
To company with women. To us thy charms
Are flat and futile as thy sins are sharp
And spur us to that vengeance God inflicts
Through us on scorners.

Edwin.
Heed them not, Elgiva.

Elgiva.
Content thee! never were they heeded less
By God or by His Angels than by me.

Edwin.
Insolent Churchmen! You renounce the world!
All in it that is loving or can be loved
You'll teach yourself and others to renounce,
Because cold vanities with meagre heats
Alternate have consumed you to the core
And given your hearts the dry-rot. Meddlesome monks!
The love it is not in you or to feel
For women or from womankind to win
You ostentatiously deny yourselves,
As atrophy denies itself to fatten.

Elgiva.
What worth are you to us, that set no store
By you or by your threats? I tell thee, Priest,
I make no more account of thee and thine
Than of so many kites and crows.

Dunstan.
Fly hence,
Pale prostitute! Avaunt, rebellious Fiend
Which speakest through her!

Edwin.
And I tell thee more,
She is thy Sovereign Mistress and thy Queen,
My lawful wedded wife.

Queen Mother.
Ah, woe is me!

Odo.
Thy lawful wife! How lawful? By what law?
Incest and fornication!

Dunstan.
Who art thou?
I see thee and I know thee-yea, I smell thee!
Again 'tis Satan meets me front to front,
Again I triumph! Where, and by what rite,
And by what miscreant minister of God
And rotten member, was this mockery,
That was no marriage, made to seem a marriage?

Ricola.
Lord Abbot, by no . . .

Dunstan.
What then, was it thou?
The Church shall cut thee off and pluck thee out!
A Synod shall be summoned! Chains for both!
Chains for that harlot and for this dog-priest!
Oh, wall of Jezreel!

Edwin.
Villains, stand ye back!
Stand from the Queen . . . Oh, had I but a sword!
What—felons! Ye shall hang for this ere long—
Loose me or I will . . .

Odo.
Sir, be calm, and know
'Tis for your own behoof and for your crown's.

Elgiva.
Be of good comfort, Edwin; we shall meet
Where none can part us. Are ye men? Hold off!
I will not put you to that shame to force me.

[She is taken out.
Odo.
Thou Queen! Go, get thee gone! A crown for thee!
No, nor a head to put it on to-morrow.

Queen Mother.
Alack! the law is sharp. But, Gurmo, run,
See she have Christian burial; speed thee, Gurmo.

Dunstan.
Madam, your pardon. Gurmo, wait on me.

Edwin.
Elgiva, oh, Elgiva! Oh, my wife!
I'll find thee friends, though now . . . Oh, traitors! slaves!
When I have raised my force, I'll bring you bound
With halters round your necks, to lick the dust
Before her footstool. I will have you scourged
By hangmen's hands in every market town—
Yes, you, my Lords!—And, mother, oh! repent,
Or I shall cast thee off and curse the fate
That made thy hateful womb my habitation
Ere my blind soul could choose. Perfidious monk!
Smilest thou, villain! But I will raise a force . . .

[Exit.
Dunstan.
Lord Primate, thou hast crowned a baby's brow.
May it please you follow lest he come to harm.
[Exit Odo.
Friends, quit not my Lord Primate. Follow all.
[Exeunt all but Harcather, who stays behind on a sign from Dunstan.
Harcather, haste; convey Elgiva hence
With speed to Chester, and in strictest ward
Confine her there; but keep her life untouched.
[Exit Harcather.
So shall we brandish o'er the enamoured King
A trenchant terror.—See we next what friends
Will stead us in the Synod.—Break, thou storm!
And learn thou which is strongest, thou or I.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The Castle at Tonbridge.—Leolf's Army encamped around it.
Oscar and Leolf's Seneschal.
Oscar.
I would that Wulfstan might have staid behind;
He hath the Heretoch's ear, and though he's wise
His wisdom is not for the camp; we march
As with a drag-chain.

Seneschal.
Nay, good Oscar, nay;
Further we cannot yet; the force in front
Hourly increases; our reserves are late;
And nothing comes from Wessex. Enter Wulfstan the Wise.

Worthy Sir,
Your daughter, as I hear, is married. Well,
It is a blessing if her choice be yours,
And if it be not, still the father's heart
Will give the child God-speed.

Wulfstan.
Assuredly.
I did but bid her be less mutable,
Telling her that the past, or worse or better,
If driven in her and experienced home,
Might be as piles whereon to build the future,
Else insecure. I bade her be resolved,
Her choice now planted, forth of it to bring
The fruits of constancy; for constancy
On all things works for good; the barren breeds,
The fluent stops, the fugitive is fixed
By constancy. I told you, did I not,
The story of the wind, how he himself,
The desultory wind, was wrought upon?

Oscar.
Yes, Sir; you told it twice.

[Exit Seneschal.
Wulfstan.
The tale was this:
The wind when first he rose and went abroad
Through the waste region, felt himself at fault,
Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth
Descended with a wafture and a swoop,
Where wandering volatile from kind to kind
He wooed the several trees to give him one.
First he besought the ash; the voice she lent
Fitfully with a free and lashing change
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties:
The aspen next; a fluttered frivolous twitter
Was her sole tribute: from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dressed her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.

Enter Leolf, with Emma, Ernway, and Grimbald.
Leolf.
Unhappy news! last night—
Sorely I grieve—ay, bitterly repent—
Had I been in my place—oh, weak recoil—
But it avails not.—Yesterday, my friends,
Was fruitful in events; the King was crowned,
Was married, was o'ermastered by the monks;
The Queen the while to Chester carried captive,
Earl Athulf to the Tower.

Oscar.
In one short day
All this befell?

Wulfstan.
Oh, woe-bewildered day!

Grimbald.
A shout—a hubbub in the camp—our ears
Are but fool's ears, and yet they hear a shout.

Leolf.
A welcome to some friend; as each arrives
They hail him thus, and as the force he brings
Is more or less, so measure they the cry.
This is the loudest I have heard. Look out.

Ernway.
I see no force, my Lord; and but one man,
Who hurries hitherward, and as he comes
They crowd him, and with clapping of their hands
And shouting bring him on. See!

Athulf enters hastily.
Athulf.
Oh, my friend . . .
Leolf . . . Alas! . . . What, Grimbald with you! . . . Nay,
You know it then already. Think no worse
Of us or of our fortunes than they are.
This half-faced treason will not touch the life.
Ill-starred ambition! Oh, my luckless sister!
But think her not endangered.

Leolf.
And yourself?
How came you hither? Were you not in ward?

Athulf.
The Princess with a signet of the King's,
Gold of her own, and promises and tears,
Wrought on my guards. They follow me. Oh, Leolf!
You are avenged. My sister, oh, my sister!
She is not and she could not be forgiven!
God's justice . . .

Leolf.
Athulf, say no more but this;
She stands within the keeping of God's love.
For earthly aid, 'twill reach her with such speed
As earthly love can minister. The light troops
Shall march with me to Cheshire, leaving you
With the main body of my force and those
That soon will join you, to relieve the King.
So shall I check the rising in the West,
Which we must look for else, and so provide
Against extremities and accidents
That else might hurt the Queen. They muster now
And wait me on the ramparts.

Athulf.
I am with you.

[Exeunt Leolf and Athulf.
Oscar.
These are sad tidings.

Emma.
With a frightful force
They tear Earl Athulf, for his hopes were high
And he was crowding canvas. To his friend,
Whom in a foggy grief they found becalmed,
They come but as a vivifying gust
To quicken what was dead: from this time forth
A cry is in his heart, a trumpet-call
That sounds a summons to the rescue: see
If he obey it not.

Oscar.
A settled gloom
Was in his face before.

Emma.
A seated pain
Preyed on him inwards.

Wulfstan.
Ah! that inward pain!
A lobster, should his limb . . .

Grimbald.
Ho! Holla! Ho!
The camp is all in motion. Look! Behold!
The banners fly i' the wind.

Emma.
A token this
That we are soon to march. Get we afoot.

[Exeunt Emma, Oscar, and Grimbald.
Wulfstan.
A lobster, should his limb have eating sores,
Or his articulate coat of mail be pierced,
Snaps the offending member at the joint
And casts it off—such surgery is his;
And as by instinct he, so we by art
Of amputation, easily discard
The outward seats of pain—

Emma
(from behind the scene).
Come, father, come.

Wulfstan.
The outward seats of pain—I will, my child.

Scene II.

—A Chamber in the Tower of London.
Dunstan
(alone).
Kings shall bow down before thee, said my soul,
And it is even so. Hail, ancient hold!
Thy chambers are most cheerful, though the light
Enter not freely; for the eye of God
Smiles in upon them. Cherished by His smile
My heart is glad within me, and to Him
Shall testify in works a strenuous joy.
—Methinks that I could be myself that rock
Whereon the Church is founded,—wind and flood
Raging and rushing, boisterous in vain.
I thank you, Gracious Powers! Supernal Host!
I thank you that on me, though young in years
Ye put the glorious charge to try with fire,
To winnow and to purge. I hear you call!
A radiance and a resonance from heaven
Surrounds me, and my soul is breaking forth
In strength, as did the new-created sun
When earth beheld it first on the fourth day.
God spake not then more plainly to that orb
Than to my spirit now. I hear the call.
My answer, God, and Earth, and Hell shall hear.
But I could reason with thee, Gracious Power,
For that thou giv'st me to perform thy work
Such sorry instruments. The Primate shakes,
Gunnilda totters.—Gurmo!—And of those
That stand for me more absolutely, most
Are slaves through fear, not saints by faith. But no,
I would not they were worthier; for thus
The work shall be the more mine own. Enter Gurmo.

What now?

Gurmo.
You called.

Dunstan.
I think I did. Send me those Bishops.
[Exit Gurmo.
—More eminently mine own. The Church is great,
Is holy, is ineffably divine!
Spiritually seen and with the eye of faith
The body of the Church, lit from within,
Seems but the luminous phantom of a body;
The incorporeal spirit is all in all.
Eternity â parte post et ante
So drinks the refuse, thins the material fibre,
That lost in ultimate tenuity
The actual and the mortal lineaments,
The Church in time, the meagre, definite, bare
Ecclesiastical anatomy,
The body of this death, translates itself,
And glory upon glory swallowing all
Makes earth a scarce distinguishable speck
In universal heaven. Such is the Church
As seen by faith; but otherwise beheld,
The body of the Church is searched in vain
To find the sojourn of the soul; 'tis nowhere.
Here are two Bishops, but 'tis not in them. Enter Oswald, Bishop of Worcester, and Ethelwald, Bishop of Winchester.

Save you, my Lords! Are there no seats? A stool—
Fetch me a stool.
[A stool is brought, on which Dunstan seats himself. The Bishops continue standing.
What business brings you here?

Oswald.
Lord Abbot, we have served thee faithfully,
And still obeyed thy voice through many a change.
We would that others, who have done no less
In outward show, were inwardly as true.

Dunstan.
Who fails?

Ethelwald.
We do not say distinctly who,
Nor positively point by point wherein;
But this we say, that we whose hearts are known
From yours inseparable, are no longer prized
By some amongst our brethren as we were.
We hear that Bishops meet by tens and twelves
Unknown to us; we think unknown to you.
We therefore deemed it parcel of our duty
To give you warning.

Dunstan.
Is there more?

Oswald.
To-day
There spreads a rumour that Prince Edgar's force
Met on the Avon by the Heretoch
Was beaten back and scattered. Joining this
To what is surer, that Earl Athulf's power
Creeps close upon us, sundry citizens
That are of credit with the baser sort
About the suburbs, stir them up to riot.

Dunstan.
Doth nothing happen to such men? 'Tis strange;
Good men for whom the Church puts up her prayers
Are daily taken off.

Ethelwald.
'Tis said moreover
The Synod when it meets will not be pure
Nor of one mind.

Dunstan.
'Tis ignorantly said:
I am the Synod's mind. Sirs, you did well
To bring me what had reached you. Leave me now.
Come back at night. The interval use well;
And what you gather give me then to know.
[Exeunt Bishops.
This faction runs ahead. What mean they then?
Why, verily to abuse and by their wiles
Betray the Synod. Nothing less. But God,
Who to the Devil incarnate in the snake
Gave subtlety, denies not to His saints
(So they shall use it to His glory and gain)
The weapon He permitted to the fiend.
Erratic Spirit, here thou art, wild worm
Piercing the earth with subterraneous toil,
And there with wings scouring the darkened sky!
Still do I meet thee; still, wherever met,
I foil thee; sometimes as with Michael's sword,
Sometimes as with thine own. To arms! false Fiend;
We meet to-morrow in the assembled Church.

Scene III.

—Palace of the Archbishop in London.
Odo, with Leofwyn, Bishop of Lincoln, and Fridstan Bishop of Lichfield.
Odo.
It stands not with our honour either way
To be so overridden.

Fridstan.
One sole man,
Though he were Saint uprisen, no charter hath
To lead by the nose the fathers of the Church,
The Archbishop and the Bishops. Zeal is good;
But zeal is one thing when it fasts and prays,
And when it ramps and rages 'tis another.

Leofwyn.
When he refused the bishopric from Edred
My mind misgave me. Oh, I said, this man
Is humble upside-down. He that rejects
With publication and profession loud
Of lowliness, an orderly advancement,
Looks, be assured, what's orderly to pass,
And leave degrees behind.

Fridstan.
Yea, brother, yea;
He that denies himself to be a Bishop
Looks further than is fitting; he means not well;
He thinks to say to us, Go here, go there;
Me, Dunstan, standing sole, the gaping world
Shall gaze at, bidding Bishops stand aside.
This is not right.

Leofwyn.
No, nor canonical.

Odo.
Brethren, when I unfolded all the doubts
That compassed round the cause, the enemy's strength,
The fears, the double faces, the false hearts
That walk amongst us,—reasons all that plead
For caution and some temperate composition,—
He checked and chid me like a troublesome child
That prates at random; bade me know that God
Revealed it otherwise, and he must needs
Believe in God; then calling for a scourge
Said 'twas a time for exercise devout,
And he entreated my good company
For mutual castigation.

Enter Sigeric.
Sigeric.
Honoured Lords,
The wench which had an audience some days since,
Has now returned; an aged man is with her.

Odo.
Admit them both.
[Exit Sigeric.
Now we shall find how far
Earl Athulf will be compromised. Come in. Re-enter Sigeric, followed by Emma and Wulfstan the Wise.

Good wench, we have expected thee, and thou
Art welcome—but who's this?

Emma.
A man, my Lords,
Known to you all by fame though not by favour;
Wulfstan the Wise.

Odo.
Sir, you are welcome too;
Earl Athulf peradventure deems the knot
Of these affairs worthy your skill and care,
Wherein by message he hath dealt till now
Conveyed us through this envoy, weak by sex,
But verily quick-witted. Sir, we know
Your great renown for wisdom and we hail
Your advent hither; for we deem the Earl,
In calling age and wisdom to his aid,
Is wise though young; and if he be, the terms
We offer are what wisdom will commend
And modesty embrace.

Wulfstan.
My good Lords, far
Beyond my merits doth my fame extend;
But moderation alway have I praised
And peace ensued, and therefore have been held
To mediate not unfit, when Mars attired
In triple steel on this side shakes his spear,
Bellona upon that side mounts her car
By Flight and Terror drawn.

Odo.
You doubtless know
The tenor of our terms,—all regulars
Since Edred's death supplanted to return
Save those who did themselves in Edred's reign
Supplant in benefices duly holden
The secular incumbents—the new Queen
To be acknowledged so soon as the Pope
Shall grant his dispensation. Even you,
Though secular yourselves, must see in this
The scales of justice balanced. To these terms
What saith the brave Earl Athulf?

Emma.
Me, my Lords,
Earl Athulf charged with what from him proceeds;
What from my father (for he is my father)
You hear, be pleased to value at its worth
As his, but not the Earl's.

Leofwyn.
The Earl is wise;
The starling shall be true to what she's taught,
Whilst birds of divination—well—the matter—
How is the Earl inclined to us?

Emma.
My Lords,
The Earl inclines; but ere he shall impledge
Or the Lord Heretoch or himself, he looks
To be assured the Synod late convened
For other ends, will wisdom learn from you,
And set its seal to this.

Odo.
The Earl demands
No more than what is just and right. To-morrow
The Synod meets, and if our voice prevail
Will ratify the terms. But Dunstan still
His purpose holds, and it is rumoured now
Hath secret intercourse with Rome, for ends
Unknown to us.

Leofwyn.
Earl Athulf doubtless knows
The motion may not from ourselves proceed,
But let it be propounded on his part,
Or by the seculars before the Synod,
And we shall so foreshape the minds of men
That by the acclaim of most, if not of all,
It shall be hailed acceptable.

Emma.
My Lords,
The Earl forgot not this, and therefore sends
With me my father, that persuasively
He may, according to his gifts, impart
The proffered compact, with the instances
That recommend it to the assembled Church;
Trusting to you to second and support
What he delivers.

Odo.
Sir, be not afraid,
But speak it roundly.

Emma.
Oh, my Lords, for that,
The spirit within him, when it works to speech,
Fears neither Saint nor Devil.

Leofwyn.
That is well.
Yet touch not Dunstan with too rough a hand,
But rather against us be seen to bear.

Wulfstan.
My Lord Archbishop and Lords Suffragans,
I have considered of my speech, and first
The order of the topics have set down
With notes and comments, if it please you, thus:
Exordium, with a forecast of the close:
A forecast of the close; for mark, my Lords,
An argument or abstract setting forth
In the beginning of my discourse the end,
With index to the bearings and the joints,
Shall quicken you to apprehend my drift,
And by a foreknown relevancy clench
The links and consequents, that so my speech
May, like the serpent with his tail in his mouth,
Rejoin itself, whilst in its perfect round
Its lithe articulation stands approved.

Leofwyn.
We doubt not of your skill, but what in chief
Concerns us, is the matter and the drift.

Wulfstan.
The dangers of division to the realm
I feelingly expose: next I commend
The golden mean,—that wisdom's triumph true
Which seeks no conquest save by wisdom's ways
And scorns to trust to fortune or to force:
Earl Athulf's dispositions shall I then
Duly develop; him shall I disclose
As one whose courage high and humour gay
Cover a vein of caution, his true heart,
Brave though it be, not blind to danger, no,
But through imagination's optic glass
Discerning, yea and magnifying it may be,
What still he dares: him in these colours dressed
I shall set forth as prompt for enterprise
By reason of his boldness, and yet apt
For composition, owing to that vein
Of fancy which enhances, prudence which wards
Contingencies of peril: then from a scroll
Subscribed by him I read the proffered terms,
And in my oratorical conclusion
Draw my speech round to dangers of the realm
Seen in divisions, and the joys of peace.

Odo.
'Tis dexterously devised, and with our aid
Shall win the general suffrage of the Synod;
For certain of your friends the seculars,
By secret incitation heartened up,
Will give their voices. Till the Synod meets,
Beseech you be not seen abroad. Farewell!

Scene IV.

—A fortified causeway leading to a chapel near the Tower of London.—Thorbiorga is discovered leaning with her harp against a parapet in the background. The bell for vespers is ringing, and parties pass towards the chapel. Enter in front a patrol of two Soldiers.
1st Soldier.
A minstrel, is she?

2nd Soldier.
By her garb, I think,
A fortune-teller.

1st Soldier.
I have seen the day
When such would travel with a princely train,
Welcome to clerk and layman, thane and churl;
But they may trudge afoot and lack a meal
Now that the monks are uppermost, God wot!

2nd Soldier.
Filth of the wicked! dotage of the Gentiles!
Is all they get from them. But Heida still
And Thorbiorga, though their state is fallen,
Hold up their heads. I know not but that yon
Is Thorbiorga's self. Pass on this side.

[Exeunt.
Enter Ethilda with Attendants, who pass on.
Ethilda.
Forward, my maidens; I will follow soon.
The sunset with a warm and ruddy light
Colours the coldness of these gloomy walls
And glances in the casements; for the day
Makes a good end. Earl Athulf's emissary
By this time should be here. I think she comes. Enter Emma.

Maiden, I thank you for your diligence.
Have you the gold? How light a foot is yours!
But is it the Earl's custom to be served
By women in such things?

Emma.
Madam, of me
He had assurance from the Heretoch,
Who knows me from my cradle, and avouched
That I was gifted with a woman's wit
And ready with my tongue; and for my heart,
It had its own fidelity, he said,
And true to him would be if not to truth.

Ethilda.
Yes, so you serve the Heretoch, not Athulf.

Emma.
Earl Athulf at the Heretoch's behest;
And they are so entwined that serving one
Is serving both.

Ethilda.
No, no, you serve not both;
You serve Earl Leolf only.

Emma.
If it please you.
Here is the gold; with this, he said, your way
Would soon be opened to the King, whose heart
Should then be comforted and fortified,
And through his prison doors should see the light,
Expecting his deliverance.

Ethilda.
His heart
Is carefuller for the Queen's than for his own:
Is nothing known of her?

Emma.
Nor yet of her,
Nor of the Heretoch, had tiding reached
Earl Athulf's camp: but I had hope to meet
The sorceress Thorbiorga; by her art,
Or by forerunning of intelligence,
What happens to the Heretoch is hers
So soon as it befalls if not before.
But I have sought her fruitlessly. What's here?
I think I see her now.

Ethilda.
If this be she,
Her errand is to us.

Emma.
Regard her not,
For she is freest of her utterance
When least observed or importuned. Talk on.

Ethilda.
I think I asked you—yes—how looked the Earl
When last you saw him?

Emma.
Wasted much. His hair,
Which was not till this year so much as grizzled,
Is almost grey.

Ethilda.
Earl Athulf grey?

Emma.
No, no,
Earl Leolf, Madam.

Ethilda.
Oh! your pardon. Well,
How looked Earl Athulf?

[Thorbiorga, who has been advancing and touching her harp fitfully, now plays a low prelude.
Emma.
Madam, I may say
Like yonder archway, one half in the shade,
The other in the sun; for hope shines through him.

Thorbiorga
(sings).
By sun and moon,
By fire and flood,
By well and stone,
And ashen wood,
By lot and torch,
By dreams and thunder,
Comes that above
That would be under.

Emma.
She will draw nearer, if you mark her not;
She's cunning and holds off from questioning,
But she will drop you what she has to tell.

Thorbiorga
(sings again).

Ethilda.
She cannot tell us of a victory past
But she must dash the triumph of our joy
With bodings of the future. Be it so;
'Twixt telling and foretelling, one is sure,
The other not.

Emma.
Hush! Madam; she can hear.

Ethilda.
Well, Thorbiorga, hast thou aught to say?

Thorbiorga.
Princess, I may not tarry. To the King
Earl Leolf sends his duty, and therewith
This writing. Fare you well.

[Exit.
Ethilda.
Stay, Thorbiorga.
She's gone; but this shall tell us. Can you read?

Emma
(reads).

“Your Highness shall know that a battle hath been fought and won. Ella the younger led Prince Edgar's power, which ran and left him on the field. I have entered into Staffordshire. Further forward I cannot, and back I will not. The Queen (whom God preserve!) is in life, but in durance: wherein she will remain till your Highness or Earl Athulf can help me. For her safety, I am assured thereof at present, holding in pawn the lives of three revolted Earls, which have fallen into my hands. For her deliverance, should I attempt it of myself, I should but put her to more hazard. Meantime fear not that aught can approach you from the West. “Yours in all duty and fealty,

Ethilda.
This, if I could but to the King convey it,
Would much sustain his spirit.

Emma.
Please you, Madam,
To use the gold I brought you—it is done.

[Trumpets sound at a distance.
Ethilda.
Hark! the patrol comes round; pass to the chapel.

Scene V.

—A Chamber in the Archbishop's Palace.
Wulfstan the Wise and Sigeric, the Archbishop's Secretary.
Sigeric.
With both these puissant Earls, as I hear say,
You have been inward.

Wulfstan.
Yea, Sir, in my time;
With Athulf formerly, with Leolf always.

Sigeric.
Earl Athulf is a merry man accounted.

Wulfstan.
Much mirth he hath, and yet less mirth than fancy;
His is that nature of humanity
Which both ways doth redound, rejoicing now
With soarings of the soul, anon brought low:
For such the law that rules the larger spirits.
This soul of man, this elemental crasis,
Completed, should present the universe
Abounding in all kinds; and unto all
One law is common,—that their act and reach
Stretched to the farthest is resilient ever
And in resilience hath its plenary force.
Against the gust remitting fiercelier burns
The fire, than with the gust it burnt before.
The richest mirth, the richest sadness too,
Stands from a groundwork of its opposite;
For these extremes upon the way to meet
Take a wide sweep of nature, gathering in
Harvests of sundry seasons.

Sigeric.
These two Earls
Are, certes, the prime spirits of the age.
Yet hardly may we either Earl esteem
A match for Dunstan. From his youth devote
To books, with chemic and mechanic art
Searching the core of things; and then caught up
To Edred's court and favour, studying there
The ways of men and policies of States,
No marvel from such training that he took
An applicable mind; and were he not
Pushed sometimes past the confine of his reason
He would o'ertop the world.

Wulfstan.
Sir, could he sway
His proper passions, he were lord of all.
But he is more their captive than the King,
Poor innocent! is his.

Sigeric.
When others storm
Then only is he calm. 'Twas thought at first
That when the King stood out against the terms
And would not sign, his life would pay the price.
But Dunstan went more craftily to work;
A wasting diet, with perpetual fear
And solitude, he made his ministers,
Himself desisting.

Wulfstan.
His, Sir, you shall find
A spirit subdolous, though full of fire.
A spider may he best be likened to,
Which creature is an adept not alone
In workmanship of nice geometry,
But is besides a wary politician:
He, when his prey is taken in the toils,
Withholds himself until its strength be spent
With struggles, and its spirit with despair;
Then with a patient and profound delight
Forth from his ambush stalks.

Sigeric.
But Dunstan's web
Is woven with a difference. He shrinks,
'Tis said, from taking life, unless inflamed
By anger, or by exigency pressed;
This softness hath he still.

Enter Emma.
Emma.
Why halt you here?
The doors are opened to the ante-room,
It will be crowded soon; I pray you, come.
Earl Sidroc, in a Notary's apparel,
Will follow you, and waits you here without.

Sigeric.
You have the Archbishop's pass?

Wulfstan.
Yes, here it is.

Emma.
I can pass too; I have cajoled with smiles
The High Gerefa's man that keeps the door.
How tardy old friends are; how prompt are new!
Taken in the flower and freshness of good-will
My friend of yesterday will run his ears
Into some risk to please me. On my back
He'll put a surplice, and amongst the choir
I sing the psalm. But linger not, I pray.

Sigeric.
The passage to the left—I think you know it.
Come, I will show you.

Emma.
I beseech you, Sir,
When you address the Synod, wander not;
Be mindful of the purpose.

Wulfstan.
Yes, my child;
I'll sit the purpose close. Truly a light
That shines not in its place is worse than none;
And when the thought is prized above the purpose,
'Tis Jack o' the Lanthorn speaks. Oh, Sir, your pardon!

Scene VI.

—A Chamber in the Tower.
Dunstan
(alone).
If miracles were wrought in the olden time
More needful are they now. 'Tis He! 'tis He!
'Tis God that speaks; His will, His word, His voice.
But erring men, because their eyes behold
The channel, undiscerning of the source,
Misdeem His voice for mine. Through sight they err;
Through seeing what is fleshly they are deaf
In spirit, nor can know the voice of God.
Oh, that the grace were given me to tear off
These mummeries and maskings of the flesh,
That so their souls, delivered and discharged
From vain bewilderments of sense, redeemed
From human 'scapes and diabolic wiles,
Should know 'tis verily God's voice they hear!
Then what if in the Synod . . . what if there . . . Enter Oswald, Bishop of Worcester, and Ethelwald, Bishop of Winchester.

Whom have we now? So, so! what cheer, my Lords?
Or, let me say, what tiding? For our cheer,
If God be gracious to us, flies not round
With every gust.

Oswald.
The Synod is assembling
With seculars commixed. We hear that still
Earl Athulf hangs at Tonbridge; but his force
Daily increaseth. It is good we go.
This hour we meet the Synod in good heart,
What cometh with the next we know not.

Dunstan.
Nay,
Who trusteth knoweth. To the Synod then;
But let us be expected for a season
Before we show ourselves.

Scene VII.

—An Entrance Hall opening into a Gallery which leads to the Synodal Chamber.—It is filled with Monks, Guards, and Attendants. Two of the Gerefa's or High Sheriff's Deputies are in front. Ecclesiastics of rank, including two or three Abbesses, pass through more and more frequently as the scene proceeds, not unmixed with Civil and Military Functionaries. Each Ecclesiastic is attended by an Acolyte as a train-bearer.
1st Deputy.

Here they come. What! a secular! Well, he must pass, though he shall not be welcome.

2nd Deputy.

There are more than he.

1st Deputy.

They are stricken deer; I would not come amongst the herd if I were they.

2nd Deputy.

I never saw Dunstan's chair before. 'Tis a choice piece of workmanship.

1st Deputy.

He made it himself, and they say if another were to sit in it, it would toss him in the air. He can make anything, and make it do his bidding.

2nd Deputy.

But should his chair be set above the Archbishop's?

1st Deputy.

It was so ordered, and indeed he that is above the King is more than one step above the Archbishop. King, said I! Who knows whether there be a King, or in which brother's reign we that are living live?

2nd Deputy.

Hush! Speak not so.

1st Deputy.

Nay, 'tis the way of the beehive, and courts are no better. Make way, Sirs, if it please you. No offence. Sirs, 'tis my office. Farther back, I pray.

2nd Deputy.
Here's Godredud.

1st Deputy.
I say ye shall make room;
What though he be a secular? he's noble
And of a generous life.

A Monk.
Six meals a day,
With morat and spiced ale, is generous living.
Also the gout he hath is generous.

Another Monk.
Bed, board, nor bath, he never yet forewent
The joys of for a day. Look at his tonsure;
A well-grown acorn's cup would cover it.

Enter amongst others, Wulfstan the Wise, habited as an Ecclesiastic, and Sidroc in the dress of a Notary.
Sidroc
(aside to Wulfstan).
Let us stand here, and reckon as they pass
The numbers on each side.

Enter Emma in a surplice, with a band of Choristers.
Emma
(aside to the 1st Deputy).
Aha! my friend,
Know'st thou the merry wench?

1st Deputy.
Nay, softly; hush!
But pass no further yet; here you shall stand,
And I will tell you, as they come, who's who.
The first of men! the Angels of the Church!
I know them all, and most of them . . . Room, ho!
The Abbot of St. Winifred's—Room, room!
And most of them I call my friends.

Sidroc
(aside to Wulfstan).
The newt
Lived much amongst the tadpoles, and averred
He was acquainted with all kinds of fish.

1st Deputy.
Here is the Abbot Morcar with one hand.
A woman kissed the other, for which cause
He chopped it off. He emulates St. Arnulph,
And wears a shirt of hedgehog skins. No need
To clear the way for him.

Emma.
Sirs, push me not.
No, they fall back unbidden.

1st Deputy.
And here is Monn,
The Abbot of St. Clive's, that heals the sick
And makes the dumb to speak. From far and near
Thousands and thousands make resort to him,
And them that may not for infirmity
He goes to; or if so be he cannot go,
He sends his walking-stick, which does as well.

Emma.
See how they press around him.

1st Deputy.
Room, I say,
Place for the Abbot of St. Clive's!—Lo, there
Cumba, the Priest of Sherborne; more than twice
Has he changed sides; but he's so mild and sweet
That there are ever some to hold him up.
Betwixt the monks and secular Church half-way
Stands Cumba, smiling upon both.

Sidroc
(aside).
A chicken
Is good for breakfast, and an egg is good;
But something half-way 'twixt an egg and chicken
Is very vilely bad.

1st Deputy.
And truth to say,
His faith is mounted on his charity
And sits it easy.

Sidroc
(aside).
Cumba is my gauge,
And by the crown of his head I know the times.
Grow they ascetic, then his tonsure widens;
Or free, it narrows in.

Emma.
What man is this,
[Pointing to Wulfstan.
With large round silvery head and fair round face
And those lost eyes so lustrous that see nothing?
Tell me what man is he.

1st Deputy.
Some country priest;
A man one sees and makes no mention of;
He had his pass or I had questioned him,
For with my will a priest so meanly clad
And slovenly, should take his rags elsewhere.

Sidroc
(aside).
Dogs take distinctions, learning from mankind
A worldly lesson, and the beggar's stayed
When lace and gawds go free.—What say you, Sir?

1st Deputy.
To you, Sir? nothing.

[A cry without of “Place for the Archbishop.” A flourish of trumpets, and enter divers Officers of the Archbishop's household in procession. Then the Archbishop, attired in splendid vestments and preceded by Sigeric and Bridferth bearing his mass-book and crucifix. He is supported on the right by the Bishop of Lincoln, on the left by the Bishop of Lichfield, and followed by a long train of Officers and Attendants.
Odo
(returning the obeisances with which he is received as he passes through).
The blessing of God's peace,
my sons, be on you;
And I beseech you, pray that by God's grace
Our counsels may be prospered to His glory.

[Passes with his train into the Gallery.
1st Monk.
The Primate is too ancient for the times;
He is too sudden when he's choleric,
Too slow when he's at ease.

2nd Monk.
He's shaken both ways.

A Thane.
The Primate looks an inch or two less tall
Than he was wont, methinks; nor is his step
So firm as once it was.

An Acolyte.
Time, Sir, and care.

Sidroc
(aside).
Or peradventure sin and fear.—Good father,
Saw you my Lord the Archbishop pass?

Wulfstan.
My son?

Sidroc.
Saw you my Lord the Primate?

Wulfstan.
Yes, my son.
Was it not he that passed in gold and purple?

Sidroc.
The same. We wait but for the Abbot now.

Wulfstan.
The Abbot?

Sidroc.
Dunstan. He is first and last.
Methinks the muster of the seculars
Is stronger than was looked for. What is this?
Hark! Hist! A hum as of a multitude
Without the gates. Permit me, Sirs. He comes.

Enter Dunstan solus, clad in sackcloth, with ashes on his head and a missal in his hand. The foremost of the crowd fall upon their knees and bow their heads as he approaches.
Dunstan.
Fear ye and tremble, ye that love the Church,
For wolves are round about her. Watch and pray.

[Passes into the Gallery.
Sidroc.
Pass on, pass on; the benches will be thronged.
Stick close to me, good father. God ha' mercy!
Sir, I beseech you to remit your elbow.

1st Deputy.
Keep order, constables! what a fray is here!

Sidroc.
Could we but pass this friar, all were won.
St. Hilda! what a mountain of a friar!
Sir, pray you die and do the Church some service;
You'd choke the way to Hell.—Now is the time;
Come, father, come; stick close to me; here, here.
Knock down that chorister. I thank you, Sir.

Scene VIII

—The Synodal Chamber.
—The first only of those who passed from the Hall into the Gallery in the preceding scene are present at the opening of this. At the further end, within a silver rail, is the Shrine of St. Austin, with its cross. At the hither end, near the door, are the High Gerefa and the Doorkeeper.
Gerefa.
So—bar the door; all those we want we have,
And more.

Doorkeeper.
The gallery without is full,
And none are there but have the Archbishop's pass.

Gerefa.
Too many have it. Bar the doors. What's this?
The precinct of St. Austin's Shrine is dark.
It should be lighted.

Doorkeeper.
Yea, Sir, and it was.

Gerefa.
And who put out the lights?

Doorkeeper.
I know not that.

Gerefa.
Well; bar the doors.

Doorkeeper.
I cannot for this friar.

Gerefa.
Then let him pass.

Doorkeeper.
'Twill scarce be he alone.

[The Friar enters, and is followed by Sidroc, Wulfstan,and others.
Gerefa.
What, more and more! I tell thee, shut them out.
[The doors are closed.
Now, let us all with all our best of breath
Shout, “Silence!”
[Shouts of “Silence!”
In the name and by the power
Of holiest Mother Church, I here declare
This Synod opened. The Archbishop speaks.

Odo.
Friends, brethren, helpmates, councillors in Christ!
The dangers and divisions of the Church
Have called you hither. Be ye all as one.
For though the letter of citation saith
“Semotis Laicis,” yet to one end
Are we assembled all,—concord and peace,
And whosoever hath God's peace at heart,
Him we rejoice to meet.
Since last I saw you here, that virtuous King,
The godly Edred, hath been hence translated,
And Edwin hath succeeded, who is young.
King Edwin, Sirs, descended of a house
Illustrious no less for piety
Than earthly honours, could not but abound,
At first and by the fashioning of nature,
In Christian graces: but, Sirs, being young,
He, through the easiness of youth betrayed
To bad advice and making haste to err,
Did what was not convenient in a King.
For first from many a monastery, sown
Throughout the land in Edred's bounteous reign,
With violence and with force of arms he drave
Our Benedictine brethren—not alone
Them that were placed by Edred in the shoes
Of seculars that by Edred were expulsed,
But ancient men that had been there aforetime.
And next, Sirs, which is chiefly what concerns
Our present meeting,—next, Sirs, did he marry;
And whom, Sirs, did he marry? One like himself,
Though doubtless graced with many virtues, young
And erring, and in nothing more astray
Than in this marriage; being, as they are,
Cousins in the second degree and undispensed.
This marriage, Sirs, contracted by surprise,
Was scandalous, as ye know, to all good men
And grievous to the Church; and weighing well
What evil fruit to these and after times
Might of its hasty consummation grow,
We deem'd it best that this unbedded bride
Should visit Chester, there to live recluse
Until the assembled Church of what had chanced
Were advertised. 'Tis therefore ye are here.
Councillors in Christ, the cause ye meet to judge
Is, briefly, shall this marriage stand or no?

Sidroc
(aside to Wulfstan).
Stop; Cumba fumbles with the folds of his alb;
I think he'll speak; withhold yourself awhile.

Odo.
Sirs, I await your censures. For myself
I humbly seek instruction, which till I glean
From worthier men, my judgment shall be dumb.

Cumba.
Most holy fathers and my brethren all!
To most of you 'tis known that from my youth
I have revered the regulars; excellent men,
Whom though to imitate had been in me
Alas! a vain endeavour, yet to praise
Has been my constant care. Sirs, of this praise
And of this reverence and constant care
I will not bate a jot; for what I was
At first, I am, and will be evermore.
But to the end unchangeable, the ways
Are various as the paths upon the sea;
And though 'tis by the stars the vessel steers,
Yet lies she with the wind. The choice of ways
That opens to you now, doth split itself
Into two opposites—the ways of war,
The ways of peace; and who betwixt the twain
Shall stand with dubious or divided heart?
When has the Church been prosperous but in peace?
What multiplies the monasteries? Peace.
What breeds endowments, treasures, and demesnes?
Why, peace. Then shall we not consult for peace?
But if we void this marriage, peace is flown;
War that ev'n now stands knocking at the gate
Must then be bid come in; nor present blows
Shall arbitrate an end, but years unborn
May in the issue of this marriage see
A hand, a sword, a claimant of the crown,
A cause of strife. I grant the marriage rash;
But out of common life this lesson cull:
A marriage unadvisedly contracted
By a hot stripling, in the parent's heart
Kindles a flame at first; but useless ire
Is transient with the wise; for were it not,
Age should in anger more exorbitate
Than youth in love. The parent pacified
Binds by a frank forgiveness to himself
In bonds of gratitude his erring son:
And even as he his son, I deem the Church
With reconciling and reclaiming love
Shall conquer back the King. My humble voice,
Bending to better judgments, thus concludes.

Morcar.
O thou dead fly that spoilest the pot! O grub!
O maggot gendered in a serpent's slime!
God spat thee out for being neither hot nor cold,
Thou Mammon's friend, and Lucifer licked thee up.
Woe to thee, Judas! Art thou not accursed?
Thou dippest with us in the dish, but lo!
Thou has betrayed us for a piece of money!
O shame! O sin! O havoc to the Church!
The Devil shall hang thee up to dry, thou rag!
For thou art soaked and saturate with sin.

Odo.
Forbear him, brother.

Morcar.
O thou filthy rag!

Odo.
I say, forbear him.

Godredud.
Brother, art thou mad?
He is no traitor, but a faithful priest.
Why dost thou rail upon him thus!

Odo.
Forbear!

Morcar.
Cry out and cease not! saith the voice I hear—
Search out the sleights of Bel and slay the Dragon;
And who saith, Cease, be dumb!

Odo.
I say it, brother;
Yea, I command thee, cease. Our brother Monn
Is wishful to be heard; speak, brother Monn.

Monn.
My loving friends and brethren, we are met
Upon this marriage, not to speak our own
But to declare God's judgments, never yet
Made manifest by such apparent signs,
Such prodigies and portents. Think, oh, think
Upon the darkness of that marriage day!
Throughout the land a dismal horror spread;
In Essex it rained blood; at Evesham
An image of the Virgin, as ye know,
Was seen to weep and sweat and lift its hands
And roll its eyes; at Selsey and at Wells
The vault of heaven was fill'd with falling stars,
And fiery serpents weltered in the skies.
Have we forgotten that these things befel,
Or know we not their import? Then, alas!
Are we more careless of the cause of God
Than Gallio, more blind than Elymas.
But if we bear in mind that such things were,
We must not, dare not, judge what God hath judged.

Godredud.
The worthy Abbot, by my faith, my Lords,
Doth excellently well to bid us weigh
These miracles and signs. They signified,
Doubtless, some untoward events, my Lords;
But what those untoward events should be
Behoves us not too rashly to deliver;
Divisions in the realm, it may be, war,
Implacable revenge and hatred dire
And wrath which wills not that its wounds be healed.
The birthday of a progeny like this
Would doubtless teem with warnings, which to blink
Or read awry should work us infinite woe.
But to those premonitions further signs
Constructive and illustrative succeed;
And now two armies in the south and west
Auspiciously afoot, give countenance
To Edwin's cause as favoured from above,
And warn us, if fair terms of composition
Be offered, not to spurn them.

Sidroc.
(aside to Wulfstan).
Now, now, now;
Stand up and speak—produce them.

Wulfstan.
Here they are,
Most noble Godredud; here are the terms:
“I, Athulf, Earl, intent on sparing life,
But purposing to lodge on Ludgate Hill
At latest in three days, to all concerned
Send greeting and say thus: All regulars,
Since Edred's death supplanted, may return,
Save those who did themselves, in Edred's reign,
Supplant in benefices duly holden
The secular incumbents; the new Queen
Shall be received, and so soon as the Pope
Shall grant his dispensation, shall be crowned:
Which yielded, no man in his life or goods
Shall answer for the past.”—My Lords and friends,
These are the terms I bring you from Earl Athulf,
And I am Wulfstan.
[Acclamations from the Secular party, mingled with shouts of rage and execrations from the other.
Brethren, hear me speak;
Brethren and friends, I fain would speak to you;
My friends and brethren, hear me, I beseech you.

Odo.
My sons, this passion and this noise I hold
Unworthy this assembly. Hear him speak,
For he was never factious nor inflamed
Against us, and 'tis just that he be heard.

[Acclamations from the Seculars.
Wulfstan.
I am not factious, brethren, nor inflamed,
For my abode was always, so to say,
Oh Mount Olympus—

Monn.
Fie upon thee, Pagan!
Oh, but I know thee and thy place full well.

Wulfstan.
On Mount Olympus with the Muses nine
I ever dwelt . . .

Monks.
He doth confess it! Lo!
He doth confess it! Faggots and a stake!
He is a Heathen—shall a Heathen speak?

Morcar.
I hear a voice that saith, “Make lime of his bones.”

Sidroc.
Sirs, ye mistake him; he is a pious priest,
And what he means to say is merely this:
Against your orders and your monasteries
He speaks not; but he deems that holiest men,
If they would flourish in this warlike world,
Must feed within a fence of secular swords;
And better were it for you to engulf
But half the kingdom's treasure, so begirt,
Than to be left defenceless with the whole,
And thus be fattened but to feed the Dane.
He bids you know that in this land this day
He finds more fat than bones, more monks than men:
He bids you to the seaboard look, where now
A fleet of Northmen, fifty-six tall ships,
Hang in St. George's Channel, waiting there
Till half the land shall cut each other's throats
And leave the other half a spoil to them.
Bethink you, then; escape ye hardly may
From the two puissant and prudent Earls,
Athulf and Leolf; but this granted you,
Ye do but fall a weak and present prey
To Sweyne and Olaf; wherefore make your choice
And thrive in peace or brave a twofold ruin.

Priest.
Well said!

Monk.
Who's this?

Another.
A lambskin man he is;
A fellow that puts his legs in lambskin hose.

Morcar.
The Lord shall smite him with the botch of Egypt.

Several Secular priests
(joined by some of the Monks, amidst clamour and confusion).
We will have peace; we are not men of blood;
Are we not Christians all? The Dane—the Dane!
Are we not servants of the Prince of Peace?
The Northmen are upon us—Olaf and Sweyne!

[Dunstan throws himself on his knees and bows his head to the ground.
Sidroc.
(aside to Wulfstan).
He bends before the storm.

Wulfstan.
Will he not speak?

Sidroc.
I know not—yes—he is in act to hatch
A brood of pestilent words; yea, is he not?
He stirs, he moves—few moments are enough.

Wulfstan.
They say a louse that's but three minutes old
May be a grandsire; with no less a speed
Do foul thoughts gender.

Sidroc.
Ha! we'll see anon—
Faith of my body! up he goes—sit—sit.

Dunstan
(rising slowly).
I groan in spirit. Brethren, seek not in me
Support or counsel. The whole head is sick,
The whole heart faint, and trouble and rebuke
Come round about me, thrusting at my soul.
But, brethren, if long years of penance sore,
For your sake suffered, be remembered now,
Deem me not utterly of God forsaken,
Deem not yourselves forsaken; lift up your hearts;
See where ye stand on earth; see how in heaven
Ye are regarded. Ye are the sons of God,
The order of Melchisedeck, the law,
The visible structure of the world of spirit,
Which was, and is, and must be; all things else
Are casual, and monarchs come and go,
And warriors for a season walk the earth,
By accident; for these are accidental,
But ye eternal; ye are the soul of the world,
Ye are the course of nature consecrate,
Ye are the Church; one spirit is throughout you,
And Christendom is with you in all lands.
Who comes against you? 'Scaped from Hell's confine
A wandering rebel, fleeting past the sun,
Darkens the visage of the spouse of Christ.
But 'tis but for a moment; he consumed
Shall vanish like a vapour, she divulged
Break out in glory that transcends herself.
The thrones and principalities of earth,
When stood they that they stood not with the aid
Of us and them before us? Azarias,
Azias, Amaziah, Saul himself,
Fell they not headlong when they fell from us?
And Oza, he that did but touch the ark?
Oh, then, what sin for me, what sin for you,
For me victorious in a thousand fights
Against this foe, for you as oft redeemed,
That now we falter! Do we falter? No!
Thou God that art within me when I conquer,
I feel Thee fill me now! Angelic host,
Seraphs that wave your swords about my head,
I thank you for your succours! Who art thou
That givest me this gracious admonition?
Alas! forgive me that I knew thee not,
O, Gabriel! I do as thou command'st;
All earthly counsels I renounce, abjure,
And utterly abhor. I ask of God,
Is it His will that this His chosen Church
Shall ratify these nuptials? Hark! oh, hark!
Nay, heard ye not a voice? Oh, Earth, be still!
Again and louder—Absit hoc ut fiat!

A voice from the precinct of St. Austin's Shrine. Absit hoc ut fiat!
Dunstan.
Wondrous word!
Oh, precious guidance! Oh, ineffable grace!
That dost from disobedience deliver
The hearts of even the faithless! We obey,
And these espousals do we now declare
Avoided and accursed; the woman espoused,
By name Elgiva, from the man called Edwin
We separate, and from the Church's pale
We cast her forth, and with her we cast forth
Those three that have been foremost to uphold her,
Earl Athulf and Earl Leolf and Earl Sidroc.
Them we proclaim, by sentence of the Pope,
From Christian rites and ministries cut off,
And from the holy Brotherhood of the Just
Sequestered with a curse. Be they accursed!
Accursed be they in all time and place,
Accursed be they in the camp and mart,
Accursed be they in the city and field,
Accursed be their flying and abiding,
Accursed be their waking and their rest—
We curse the hand that feeds them when they hunger,
We curse the arm that props them when they faint;
Withered and blasted be that hand and arm!
We curse the tongue that speaks to them, the ear
That hears them, though it be but unawares:
Blistered and cankered be that tongue and ear!
The earth in which their bodies shall be buried
We curse, except it cast their bodies out;
We shut the gates of Heaven against their souls,
And as this candle that I fling to the ground,
So be their light extinguished in the Pit!

Morcar and other Monks.
Amen! So be it! Be it so! Amen!

Sidroc
(aside to Wulfstan).
The day is lost—away—skip—scud—begone.

Sidroc and Wulfstan, with others of the Secular party, retire amidst the shouts and execrations of the Regulars.
Dunstan.
Publish the miracle without the gates;
Declare the sentence of the Pope.

Odo.
Fly hence,
Ye that are Secular! They will rouse the people;
There will be violence and blood; fly hence.
This council is dismissed. The grace of God
Be with you all! This Synod is dissolved.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Tonbridge Castle.
Athulf and Grimbald.
Athulf.
There—take my truncheon—thou couldst rule my force
With more acceptance in the general mind
Than I. By Heaven, I am ashamed to see
Such bickerings in a camp! Give me a cowl
And let me rule a monastery rather.

Grimbald.
There—take my cap and bells—I'll rule your force,
And wisely too; but when I look for love
In change for wisdom from the multitude,
Give me again my good old cap and bells.

Athulf.
Ah, fool, you're right—and that man is not wise
That cannot bear to be accounted foolish.
I must be patient. Yet it frets my heart,
Amongst my many cares, to be reviled
By shallow coxcombs whom I daily save,
Rescue, redeem, snatch from a rubbishy tomb
Amongst the ruins of their wits, pulled down
By their own hands upon their heads, God help them!
Well, I'll be patient. Fetch me the muster-roll.
[Exit Grimbald.
'Tis ill to bear, though. Enter Sidroc and Wulfstan the Wise.

Ha! my friends! in this
At least has fortune favoured me. I feared
The tidings of our misadventurous Synod
Augured but ill for both of you. Well met!
Bonfires shall blaze for this. What! 'twas your heels,
I think, that brought you hither?

Sidroc.
For myself,
When I am frightened I can run with wings,
Fast as an ostrich; but preserve me, Heaven!
From flying with Philosophy in hand!

Athulf.
What! was our philosophic friend so slow?

Sidroc.
When I am flying for my life henceforth
Welcome be any ordinary load—
Anchises on my back, if so ye will;
But spare me, Athulf, if you love your friend,
From bringing Wisdom with me.

Wulfstan.
Well, my Lords,
I will not cumber you again. Farewell!
I will return—

Sidroc.
To Mount Olympus?

Wulfstan.
Yes.
To such a sanctuary as that was once.
So tranquil were the elements there, 'tis said
That letters by the finger of the priest
Writ in the ashes of the sacrifice
Remained throughout the seasons uneffaced.
And Oxford now has academic bowers
Sacred to many a Muse, where such as I
May write, though in a rough, tempestuous age,
What Time shall spare. Thither, my Lords, I'll go,
And there I'll chronicle your deeds. Farewell.

Athulf.
Farewell, good Wulfstan; and I speak the word
With reverence and love; for gifts like yours
Are all unworthy to be wasted here.
But take this with you,—wild and unreclaimed
As doubtless must appear to yours my wit,
Yet you have scattered in that wilderness
Some seeds that will not perish. Fare you well.

Wulfstan.
My Lord, your kindness which doth cause these drops
Will pardon them.

Athulf.
God keep you in His peace!
If good betide us, it will bring you joy;
If evil, you are not so chilled by age,
But that you'll mourn.

Wulfstan.
Long, long, my Lord, if long
I live to mourn,—which may not be! 'Tis true
The sharpness of our pangs is less in age,
As sounds are muffled by the falling snow;
But true no less, that what age faintly feels
It flings not off. I'll pray for your success.

[Exit.
Athulf.
The miracle of the time is that old man
And kind as wise—mine own eyes, too, are moist—
Yet he'll forget us ere the sun go down.

Sidroc.
Then I beseech you to forget him now
And tell me of your counsels and intents.

Athulf.
Thus do I stand: My letters from the north
Advise me that the Queen's impatient heart
Brooks not prolonged captivity, and burns
To jeopardize herself, and with herself,
Leolf and all his power, in rash attempts
At premature escape. Meanwhile the Dane
Lurks in the Irish Sea, till civil strife,
The needfullest resources draining last,
Disarms the seaboard, and as well may hap
Disables us within. My army here
Frets at the Pope's anathema, and some,
Whose ears are open-doored to phantoms, swear
When they would sleep o' nights they hear the voice
That was, they're pleased to say, ne'er born of man,
And scared the Synod.

Sidroc.
Save me, Heaven, from dupes;
Leave me to deal with Devils as I may.
My life upon it, 'twas a thing contrived—
The voice, I'll warrant, of some deep-mouthed monk
That skulked behind the cross.

Athulf.
This pause, besides,
Disheartens them, and lo! a laggard I,
That lingers on the road for lack of heart.
There is a fortitude in standing still
Which leaders know, but they that follow, never.
Daily I hear ten thousand tongues cry out
“Forward to London,” and I stir not. Still
I must not stand upon this strength too long,
And truth to say, the levies that come now
Are scarcely worth the waiting for. That ban
Dispersed them on their way. All which revolved
I meditate to make a sudden march,
And seize the Tower by night.

Sidroc.
I am with you there.
The more, that we have friends within the walls.
That wily wench who carried in your letters
Remains behind, and unsuspected still.

Athulf.
Moreover, she hath with her store of gold;
And some there be keep watch and ward whose thirst
Gapes wide for golden showers.

Sidroc.
So frail are they!
Now, would you know the thirst that masters me,
Bethink you of the dust of sixty miles
Swallowed since sunrise with no drop to drink.

Athulf.
Ah! God forgive me! To the buttery, come.

Scene II.

—London. An Apartment in the Tower.
Dunstan and Gurmo.
Dunstan.
Whence com'st thou? From the King? Is he awake?

Gurmo.
He is.

Dunstan.
How slept he? Soundly through the night?

Gurmo.
He did.

Dunstan.
Why how? Did not the dogs then bark?

Gurmo.
Yes; he slept still.

Dunstan.
The watches of the night
Are changed too seldom. Once an hour henceforth
Let them be changed, and ever as they change
Let drums and trumpets sound.

Gurmo.
Her Majesty
Has waited long. Likewise the Primate.

Dunstan.
Whew!
I had forgotten them. Conduct them hither.
[Exit Gurmo.
The fear, but not the fact, of death . . . if this,
This only should suffice,—why, then, my soul
Should find a free deliverance to the work,
And after hold its state more cheerfully.
If not, the darkness of the mortal deed
Shall yet be kindled by a light divine.
Enter the Queen Mother and Odo.
Content you, Madam. Let me hear no more.
You have another and a better son;
Though this should not deserve to reign nor live,—
As he is truly dead in his offence
Already, yea, and stinketh,—yet should that
Applausively succeed. I say no more;
But leave to me the working out God's will
Touching them both.

Queen Mother.
My Lord, your very self
Was witness of his hardihood and spite,
And how most filthily by word of mouth
He spat upon me, so to say, and railed
Foully with evil speaking from his heart,
Renouncing and disowning me for aye,
Likewise the ten commandments. Yet, my Lord,
He is my son—this womb did bring him forth—
You know not what it is to be a mother;
I do beseech you, spare him!

Dunstan.
To what end?
For God's behoof, or yours, or his, or whose?

Queen Mother.
Speak, my Lord Primate; bid him to spare my son.

Dunstan.
Who biddeth me?

Odo.
Lord Abbot, by mine office
I might be bold to speak by way of bidding;
Yet still remembering thine unrivalled merits
And services to God, I say but this:
The times are evil; accidents may come
Yielding occasion of exceeding malice
With havoc to the Church and injury
And backward sliding, if beyond the range
Of Christian prudence, through inordinate zeal,
We push our present promise of success.
For of one colour though the city be,
And neighbouring shires the same, still is the land,
Eastward and northward specially, a web
Diversely diapered; for here the weft
Is spun of light and dipped in dyes of heaven;
There, dyed in Styx and spun of Satan's slaver.
We may not think that Athulf, who is held
To number twenty thousand, will be scared
By caps of citizens tossed up i' the air;
Nor may we count upon the citizens' caps
For courses which may seem to some extreme.
Wherefore behoves us so to use success
As not to raise against us those, though erring,
Whose honest zeal stands stoutly for the crown,
Demanding strict succession.

Dunstan.
Be content.
Though neither law nor usage of the realm
Did ever yet demand what these demand,
Nor ever yet did honesty so err,
Still have I pondered all. The godless King
Shall abdicate; he shall not be removed.

Odo.
If reason should so work with him at length
That such should be his choice, 'twere excellent.

Dunstan.
Since he was crowned, experience, by my hand
Directed, hath admonished him to deem
The state of Kings unenviable. Now
He shall be tutored to perceive the joys
Of privateness, best fitted for his years.
I pray you meddle not. Nor, Madam, you.
And when we meet again some three days hence,
'Twill be in Edgar's reign, whom God preserve!

Scene III.

—A Precinct of the Tower.
Ethilda and Emma.
Ethilda.
They will not; for they say that I am watched,
And to find entrance to the King for me
Should bring a double danger; but for you
They would attempt it. At the hour of none
The Abbot will be with him, after which
You will have least to fear.

Emma.
Unless a ghost
Stand in the doorway, terror is there none
Can turn me backward.

Ethilda.
Is your father safe?

Emma.
Fled with Earl Sidroc. We shall meet ere-night.

Scene IV.

—A Chamber in the Tower.
Dunstan and Edwin.
Dunstan.
How does your Grace?

Edwin.

Dunstan.
You do not answer with a weakened wit.
Is there offence in this my visitation?
If so, I leave you.

Edwin.
Yes, there is offence.
And yet I would not you should go. Offence
Is better than this blank of solitude.
I am so weary of no company,
That I could almost welcome to these walls
The Devil and his Angels. You may stay.

Dunstan.
What makes you weak? Do you not like your food,
Or have you not enough?

Edwin.
Enough is brought;
But he that brings it drops what seems to say
That it is mixed with poison—some slow drug;
So that I scarce dare eat and hunger always.

Dunstan.
Your food is poisoned by your own suspicions.
'Tis your own fault. Though Gurmo's zeal is great,
It is impossible he should so exceed
As to put poison in your food,—I think.
But thus it is with Kings; suspicions haunt
And dangers press around them all their days;
Ambition galls them, luxury corrupts,
And wars and treasons are their talk at table.

Edwin.
This homily you should read to prosperous Kings;
It is not needed for a King like me.

Dunstan.
Who shall read homilies to a prosperous King!
'Twas not long since that thou didst seem to prosper,
And then I warned thee; and with what event
Thou knowest; for thy heart was high in pride.
A hope that, like Salome, danced before thee
Did ask my head. But I reproach thee not.
Much rather would I, seeing thee abased,
Lift up thy mind to wisdom.

Edwin.
Heretofore
It was not in my thoughts to take thy head;
But should I reign again . . . Come, then, this wisdom
That thou wouldst teach me; harmless as the dove
I have been whilom; let me now, though late,
Learn from the serpent.

Dunstan.
To thy credulous ears
The world, or what is to a King the world,
The triflers of thy Court, have imaged me
As cruel and insensible to joy,
Austere and ignorant of all delights
That arts can minister. Far from the truth
They wander who say thus. I but denounce
Loves on a throne and pleasures out of place.
I am not old; not twenty years have fled
Since I was young as thou; and in my youth
I was not by those pleasures unapproached
Which youth converses with.

Edwin.
No! wast thou not?
How came they in thy sight?

Dunstan.
When Satan first
Attempted me, 'twas in a woman's shape;
Such shape as may have erst misled mankind
When Greece or Rome upreared with Pagan rites
Temples to Venus, pictured there or carved
With rounded, polished, and exuberant grace,
And mien whose dimpled changefulness betrayed
Through jocund hues the seriousness of passion.
I was attempted thus, and Satan sang
With female pipe and melodies that thrilled
The softened soul, of mild voluptuous ease
And tender sports that chased the kindling hours
In odorous gardens or on terraces
To music of the fountains and the birds,
Or else in skirting groves by sunshine smitten
Or warm winds kissed, whilst we from shine to shade
Roved unregarded. Yes, 'twas Satan sang,
Because 'twas sung to me, whom God had called
To other pastime and severer joys.
But were it not for this, God's strict behest
Enjoined upon me,—had I not been vowed
To holiest service rigorously required,
I should have owned it for an Angel's voice,
Nor ever could an earthly crown, or toys
And childishness of vain ambition, gauds
And tinsels of the world, have lured my heart
Into the tangle of those mortal cares
That gather round a throne. What call is thine
From God or man, what voice within bids thee
Such pleasures to forego, such cares confront?

Edwin.
What voice? My kingdom's voice—my people's cry,
Whom ye devour—the wail of shepherds true
Over their flocks, those godly, kindly priests
That love my people and love me withal—
Their voice requires me, and the voice of Kings
Who died with honour and who live in me,
The voice of Egbert, Ethelbert, and Alfred.
What wouldst thou more? the voice of Kings unborn
To whom my sceptre and my blood descends—
A thousand voices call me.

Dunstan.
Sir, not so;
The voicesof this people and those Kings
Call on Prince Edgar, not on thee, to reign.
There is a voice calls thee, but not to reign,
The voice of her thou fain wouldst take to wife;
An excommunicated wretch she is
Ev'n now, and if thy lust of kingly power
Outbid thine other lusts, and starken thee
In grasping of that shadow of a sceptre
That still is left thee, 'tis a dying voice.
For know—unless thou by an instant act
Renounce the crown, Elgiva shall not live.
The deed is ready, to which thy name affixed
Discharges from restraint both her and thee.
Say wilt thou sign?

Edwin.
I will not.

Dunstan.
Be advised.
What hast thou to surrender? I look round;
This chamber is thy palace, court, and realm.
I do not see the crown. Where is it hidden?
Is that thy throne? why, 'tis a base joint-stool;
Or this thy sceptre? 'tis an ashen stick
Notched with the days of thy captivity.
Such royalties to abdicate, methinks,
Should hardly hold thee long; nay, I myself,
That love not ladies greatly, would give these
To ransom whom I loved.

Edwin.
If all I have
Be nothing worth, why ask'st thou me to give it?
I trust thee not. I deem myself a King.
But let me go at large, and knowing then
How stands my realm, what's lost and what remains,
I'll answer thee.

Dunstan.
Now, now, I bid thee answer.
Anon I bring the parchment that redeems
Another and thyself, from durance both,
And one from worse. I bid thee be prepared.

[Exit.
Edwin.
Elgiva! for thy ransom, life were little,
A kingdom in itself of no account.
But oh! an abject and unkingly act
Done by a King, and, as his foes will say,
To save himself in his extremity,—
This is a purchase thou thyself wilt scorn,
Although thyself the rescued. Yet, oh! yet . . .
What step is this?

Enter Emma.
Emma.
My Lord, the Abbot comes,
And I am here at peril of my life . . .
This from Earl Leolf . . . it says the Queen is safe . . .
No more or I am lost . . . Earl Athulf . . . nay . . .

[Exit.
Edwin.
Farewell, then, loved Elgiva! I shall die,
As now I may, with honour from mankind,
And no one in thine ear shall dare to breathe
A defamation of my kingly name.
They shall not say but that I died a King,
And like a King in my regalities.

Re-enter Dunstan (holding a scroll).
Dunstan.
Thy signature to this.

Edwin.
I will not sign.

Dunstan.
Thou wilt not! Wilt thou that thy mistress die?

Edwin.
Insulting Abbot! she is not my mistress;
She is my wife, my Queen.

Dunstan.
Predestinate pair!
He knoweth who is the searcher of our hearts
That I was ever backward to take life
Albeit at His command. Still have I striven
To put aside that service, seeking still
All ways and shifts that wit of man could scheme
To spare the cutting off your wretched souls
In unrepented sin. But tendering here
Terms of redemption, it is thou, not I,
The sentence that deliverest.

Edwin.
Our lives
Are in God's hands.

Dunstan.
Sot, liar, miscreant, no!
God puts them into mine! and may my soul
In tortures howl away eternity
If ever again it yield to that false fear
That turned me from the shedding of thy blood!
Thy blood, rash traitor to thy God, thy blood!
Thou delicate Agag, I will spill thy blood!
Ho, Gurmo! . . . I have sinned like Saul . . . What, ho!
Gurmo, I say . . . The sword of Samuel . . . ho! Enter Gurmo.

Thou knowest thine office. Let me see thee soon.

[Exit.
Gurmo
(falling on his knees).
Mercy, my Lord! Oh, say you grant me life.

Edwin.
Mercy for thee; what mercy canst thou show?
Yet thou art but another's senseless weapon,
And if thou needs must do thy bloody work,
Strike; I forgive thee.

Gurmo.
Gracious Lord, not I.

Edwin.
Then I may have some minutes more to live;
But if thou falter, soon will the Abbot find
A readier hand.

Gurmo.
He knows not what I know.

Edwin.
What dost thou know?

Gurmo.
Hark! hear you not, my Lord?
Trumpets and shouts! Anon they storm the Tower.

Edwin.
'Tis Athulf's cry! the guards are gone! 'Tis he!

Scene V.

—A Garden within the walls of Chester Castle.
Elgiva
(alone).
How pleasant it might seem to a bird of the air
Passing upon the wing, or aught that's free,
In this delightful garden to abide,
And be a captive ever. Make me free
And I myself should linger on this ground
Reluctant to depart. But as I am
The shadow of the imprisoned spirit falls
On everything around; the warbling thrush
Is tedious in the telling of his loves,
The perfume of the wallflower taints the air.
And yet in much of this adornment lurks
A lover's hand. They gave me to the ward
Of age and bitterness in Ruold's father,
Forgetting Ruold's father had a son.
I am his captive and he mine, poor youth!
For though they stripped me of my royalties,
In the prerogatives of beauty still
I found myself acknowledged. Ah! he comes.
He shall have audience. No, he's not alone.
I'll hide my head awhile. 'Tis Sigeric.

[Retires into an arbour.
Enter Ruold and Sigeric.
Sigeric.
The King thus rescued from that imminent fate,
The cry was now for Dunstan. Where was he?
For with his traitorous head should he atone
The meditation of that mortal blow
Which he had all but dealt. So where was he?
Gone! vanished! not a footstep to be found!
Whether by transformation magical,
Or subterranean egress, to which he,
And no one else, was privy,—how none knew,
But gone he was; and Sidroc in pursuit
Went babbling like a buckhound all abroad
That vainly seeks the slot. His creature, too,
Gruff Gurmo, disappeared.

Ruold.
Ere long, be sure,
He will be heard of.

Sigeric.
Should he gain the coast,
'Tis thought he'll cross to Flanders. Either way
The Primate, unto whom the King speaks fair,
Demurs not to his banishment, if so
The kingdom's wounds be healed; and with this word
He sends me to be present on his part
At Edgar's Witenagemót. When meets it?

Ruold.
'Tis summoned for the Vigil of St. Chad
At Malpas, whither is my father gone
Since yesterday. He went ensuing peace,
Constrained, though last to be constrained, to own
That peace is needful. Not a day but teems
With tidings of the Dane. He threatens now
The coasts of Somerset and Severn's mouth.
This, with the loss of Dunstan from our ranks,
And Odo's inclination, looks one way.

Sigeric.
I think it brings us peace.

Ruold.
Which seen, my friend,
Advise me, I beseech you. What results?
A peace is made, my father last to join
The general voice, and odious more than others
As the Queen's gaoler—how shall fare his head?

Sigeric.
He must be cared for in the composition;
An amnesty for all, and him by name,
Must stand upon the treaty.

Ruold.
Who shall trust it?
My friend, the terms that I would trust are terms
For service rendered.

Sigeric.
If I know your drift,
You would let loose the Queen.

Ruold.
And wherefore not?

Sigeric.
As servant of the Primate and the State,
I say God speed you in your bold intent.
In private, as your father's friend and yours,
I bid you to beware. If peace be made,
And you have still been constant to your charge,
It is but, at the worst, uncertainties
That hang about you. But if peace be missed,
And you have set at large this royal pledge,
The very aim and purport of the war,
It shall be then no question nor surmise
What shall befall you.

Ruold.
If no risk were run,
Where were the service that could claim reward?
Keep you my counsel for my father's sake,
And if at Malpas when you meet the Witan
You hear a rumour of the Queen escaped,
Call it a misadventure and mischance.

Sigeric.
Save what shall reach me when I'm gone from hence
I shall know nought. God send you well to fare!

[Exit.
Ruold.
I thank you, worthy Sigeric. Farewell.
Elgiva! Royal mistress! Beautiful Queen!
Would that the danger to my head were more,
Lest you should deem it but a politic cast,
And not a loyal venture.

Re-enter Elgiva.
Elgiva.
My good Ruold,
'Twas Sigeric went from you, was it not?
What tidings brought he?

Ruold.
Madam, he confirms
Our yesterday's intelligence. The King
Is rescued by Earl Athulf. Dunstan fled.
And this besides,—Ethilda is betrothed
With solemn ceremonial to the Earl,
Though yet the nuptials are not; for the Pope
To Dunstan only gave authority
The sentence which he uttered to revoke;
And whilst the Earl is excommunicate
The Princess to the marriage rite demurs.

Elgiva.
Her heart was ever scrupulous, and splits
Betwixt the Pope and Athulf. Notwithstanding,
Athulf will prosper. Ruold, faithful friend,
Now must I put thy loyalty to proof.
The letters from Earl Leolf that were brought
Are full of hope. At Audley is his force,
And with a light and deftly mounted troop
Ere midnight struck to Tilston could he come,
And me, there meeting him, could carry thence,
And pass the interspace of hostile ground
Ere break of day. No more of doubtful looks,
Dear faithful Ruold; I must brush away
These cobwebs from thy brow—Ah, now 'tis clear,
Free, frank, and bold!—Well, Ruold, what reply?

Ruold.
My Royal mistress, doubts if I have had,
They were not craven nor disloyal doubts;
They were but such as fear for you proposed,
Not for myself; and now my fears are less,
My faith the same; my answer is, then,—go,
Go at your gracious pleasure, if your flight
Be deemed more safe than your captivity.

Elgiva.
Oh! I am sick of safety in a prison.
Give me that dangerous liberty I seek,
And through the tossings of one turbulent night
Let me descry the harbour of my home,
With waving hands and welcomings of friends,
When 'mid the shoutings of the multitude
I shoot triumphant o'er the perilous bar
And pass at once to gladness and to peace.

Ruold.
Ev'n be it as you will. But stir not yet.
Wait till the Lords have drawn their forces in
And gathered to the Witenagemót.
Then shall you send to Leolf, and appoint
The period of your flight.

Elgiva.
'Twill not be long,
Good Ruold, will it? I will try to wait.

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A Heath in Hampshire.—Dunstan and Gurmo in flight
Dunstan.
The night shall shield us like a raven's wing.
What hear'st thou in the wind?

Gurmo.
A moaning cry.

Dunstan.
Thou faint'st with hunger.

Gurmo.
Can I fast so long
And not be hungry?

Dunstan.
'Tis a wolf that cries,
And he is hungry too. Make forward still.

Gurmo.
I see a light.

Dunstan.
Hist! in the lull of the wind
I hear the stroke of hammers. On apace!
It is a blacksmith's forge. I'll harbour there.

Scene II.

—A Blacksmith's Forge.—The Blacksmith at work. Serfs and Boors dropping in, with a Monk and others.
Blacksmith.
(blowing the bellows and singing).
But now I wax old,
Sick, sorry, and cold,
Like much upon mould
I widder away.

1st Boor.
Look, thou horse-cobbler; call'st thou this a shoe?
I know thee; since the slaughter at the ford
Thou'rt warming old ones up.

Blacksmith.
Oh me, st. Giles!

2nd Boor.
And mark this coulter; look you at this mattock.

Monk.
Repent and do thy work more workmanlike,
Or in a twinkling him shalt thou behold
That came to holy Dunstan's forge unbid
And staid unwilling. Marry, Sir, thy tongs
Would touch him not, and he is roaming now
Through all the land.

3rd Boor.
'Tis true; I saw myself
The print of his hoof. 'Twas in Dame Umfrieg's garth,
And Father Egelpig discovered it.
'Twas like a goat's.

Monk.
My son, he's there and here
And everywhere, since that most holy man,
The Abbot Dunstan, by the godless King
Was forced to fly.

4th Boor.
I've sent for Father Crid
To bless and exorcise my cattle and swine.

Monk.
Thou hast done well; but thy best safety lies
In holy Dunstan's prayers. At Winchester
Ye heard how in the west end of the church,
The night that Dunstan fled, the Devil skipped
And with great laughter in his roaring fashion
Took up his “O be joyful!” Who are these?
A brother of mine order is the one.
If I mistake not. Benedicite!

Enter Dunstan and Gurmo.
Dunstan.
God save you! holy brother: sons, and you!
We seek for shelter from the coming storm.

Blacksmith.
Father, you're welcome.

Monk.
Come ye from the south?

Dunstan.
From London last.

Monk.
From London? yea, indeed!
What tidings bring ye then?

Dunstan.
What would ye know?

Monk.
Canst thou be so insensible to ask?
The holy Abbot Dunstan—where is he?
What fate attends him?

Dunstan.
That we know not yet.

Blacksmith.
A price is on his head—ten thousand marks.
Lilla, the King's Gerefa of the shire,
Proclaim'd it far and wide.

Dunstan.
Give me thy hammer;
Thou canst not make a coulter so; look here;
Strike endways—thus—and thus. What said the shire
To Lilla's proffer? Was it hailed with joy?

Monk.
Torn down and trampled in the mud. This shire
Will yield them many a Peter with his sword,
But ne'er a Judas.

Dunstan.
Is the shire so hot
In Dunstan's cause?

Monk.
It kindles hourly. Nay,
'Tis said that Lilla and his men were met
On Chilton-down by fifteen hundred boors
And scantly saved themselves by flight.

1st Boor.
'Tis true;
'Twas Titchburne township that turn'd out the first:
But we of Droxford will be up betimes;
See if we be not.

Dunstan.
If ye be, my friends,
The Abbot will be presently amongst you;
For this way comes he, having in his mind
To cross the sea to Flanders. But, my friends,
If ye be hearty in the cause of God
Ye will not let him go. Shame to this shire,
Shame be to England and to Christendom,
If he that fasted and that watched for you,
And day by day to save your perishing souls
Flayed his poor body streaming down with blood,—
Shame to your country and yourselves, if he
Should flee before the wicked!

Boors.
We'll rise! we'll rise!
It never shall be said. He shall not flee.

Dunstan.
He will not, if ye stead him in his peril.
But ye must be alert. Go forth this night,
This very night go forth, and call your friends
In all the hamlets round, to meet at Stoke
By dawn to-morrow. Thither Dunstan comes,
And ye shall bid him go no further forth.

Monk.
What! Dunstan's very self? will he be there?

Dunstan.
I say he will.

2nd Boor.
Then, mattock, go thy ways;
I'll run to meet him.

3rd Boor.
All—we all must run.
We all have souls.

Monk.
Come to the abbey first,
And ye shall have your doublets lined with mead,
Wherewith defended ye may face the storm,
Flying from house to house, and send the news
From village on to village.

Blacksmith.
And, father, you,
And this your friend, shall rest the while with me.

Scene III.

—Derby.
Edwin and Athulf.
Athulf.
With patience we shall prosper. That alone
Is wanting to us now.

Edwin.
Nay, do not chide.
I have been patient, Athulf, in my cell;
Patient of wrongs and cruelties and threats,
Sickness and imminent death; but this is worse;
To be at large, and yet be checked and curbed,
When now my wife's deliverance only waits
On my advance.

Athulf.
With measured speed we pass
To an assured result; with hurried steps
We should but bring the shadow of a host
To issues that would then be full of doubt.
Our marches are too hasty, and the force
Begins to break. Pause, I beseech you.

Edwin.
Well;
You are a soldier tried in many a field;
And I am but a King. Have, then, your way.

Athulf.
So please you, then, pass onward to the front,
Whilst I hang back and gather up the rear.

Scene IV.

—Audley in Staffordshire.
Leolf and Emma.
Emma.
Could not the Queen await the coming up
Of the King's army? Must she hazard yours?

Leolf.
My army moves not. A few mounted thanes
Alone go with me. No, she hazards nought,—
Nought that is worth a care, except herself.

Emma.
She hazards all.

Leolf.
True, for her safety's sake
I could have wished her to let time declare
What should ensue at Malpas. But the signs
Bid fair for peace, and barring misadventure . . .

Emma.
'Tis a rash reckoning in such times as these
That bars a misadventure.

Leolf.
Nay, not so.
With Dunstan fled the spirit of the storm,
And Indiscretion, that was fain to hide
Its battered plumage, now may gambol forth
On bolder wing.—Earl Sidroc, by my life!
Welcome to Audley!

Enter Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Nay, Lord Heretoch, nay;
Before you make me welcome, hear my news.

Leolf.
No, you are welcome. If your news be bad,
Welcome the more, for then the more's the need
Of your good counsel.

Sidroc.
Dunstan is at large—
Nay more, has joined the Witenagemót.
I chased him to the coast, where in a night
The boors of Hampshire rose five thousand strong
And snatched him from my hands.

Leolf.
At Malpas now!
Already there!

Sidroc.
I fear he is indeed.
But have you then no tidings? Hear you not
From Malpas?

Leolf.
We had looked to hear anon.
There comes a fellow with an open mouth
And eager eye. Enter Messenger.

The sequel? Speak, my friend;
What more beside the message in thy face?

Messenger.
The Abbot is at Malpas.

Leolf.
That we knew,
Or nearly knew. What did he then when there?

Messenger.
He called the Witenagemót together
And bade them never more to speak of peace
Until the Church were founded in her rights.

Leolf.
And he was heard?

Messenger.
By some he was opposed
That stood around him, but the floor fell in
And they went headlong; on the only beam
That brake not, Dunstan, standing undismayed,
Stretched forth his arm and bade the multitude
Confess the hand of God.

Sidroc.
By Peter's Keys
Another miracle and a murder too
Done by this cunning carpenter!

Leolf.
What next
Needs not be asked. Peace was renounced, no doubt?

Messenger.
It was, my Lord.

Emma.
The salvage may be high,
But something there is saved by this. The Queen
Will now sit close.

Leolf.
I know not that; foul winds
Preach patience; but adversity, to some
So sedative, to others is a goad.
Aught that disturbs her, hurries her to act.
—Then hears the King her husband of her peril,
And he is hurried past his reason too.—
I pray you come. But, Ernway, get you ready
To carry letters south.

[Exeunt Leolf and Sidroc.
Emma.
Now will he write
Commending care and patience to the King,
And take the danger solely to himself.
But think you, Seneschal, the Earl's dear life
Should thus be thrown amongst the enemy
And all of us behind?

Seneschal.
What else can I?

Emma.
Why this: So soon as he is gone, the force
Is at thy order—move it on to Lea,
Whence thou canst see, if aught ensue amiss,
To Leolf's safe return.

Seneschal.
Nay, but the King,
If he be patient to the Heretoch's wish,
Will be but late to join us though we wait;
And should we move . . .

Emma.
The King will follow fast
Once he shall know you gone; which that he shall
In all its import know, trust to my care,
For I will forth with Ernway, and perchance
In this affair my counsel with the King
Shall weigh as heavy as the Heretoch's.

Scene V.

—Malpas.—Dunstan surrounded by Ealdermen and Military Leaders of the Monastic Party.
Dunstan.
No more of Witenagemóts—no more—
Councils and courts we want not.—Get ye back,
Back to your posts, and pluck me forth your swords,
And let me hear your valiant deeds resound,
And not your empty phrases. Ecfrid, Gorf,
Look to your charges—Nantwich stands exposed—
Whitchurch lies open to the enemy—
Burley and Baddeley have sold themselves—
Wistaston is as naked as Godiva
And not so honest. Eadbald, Ida, Brand,
What seek ye here when honour is in the field?
Forth to your charges!—What! Ceolwulf too! Enter the Coastwardens, Ceolwulf and Æthelric.

And Æthelric! Why come ye hither, Sirs?
Must ye too have your parley and your prate
And leave your charges in extremity
To join this gossiping Gemót? St. Bride!
Is Somerset not worth your pains, my Lords,
Or hath the Dane, too, from the seaboard slunk
To prattle about peace?

Ceolwulf.
Lord Abbot, hear;
We are not come . . .

Dunstan.
Not come to pule and prate?
What are ye come for? If aught else ye seek,
Ye seek it where it is not. Back to your charge!

Æthelric.
You will not hear, my Lord; we have no charge—
We have no force; our men are slain, ourselves
Escaped by miracle; the Northmen, led
By Sweyne and Olaf, landed yesternight
In Porlock Bay and clipped us round at Stoke,
And thinned as we had been, we fell perforce
An easy prey. Not twenty men are left
To tell the tale.

Dunstan.
In Porlock Bay! At Stoke!
—Have I not bid you to your posts, my Lords,
And must I bid you twice? Get ye hence all.
If news ye came for, ye have heard it.—Stop,
Ceolwulf. Whither go the Northmen next?

Ceolwulf.
To Glastonbury it is thought, my Lord.

Dunstan.
To Glastonbury do they go? Alas!
My mother there lies sick.

Scene VI.

—Ashborn in Derbyshire.
Edwin and Athulf.
Edwin.
Still this is gained,—the everlasting word
“Halt!” shall be heard no more; and never more
Shall my heart sicken at its detested sound.
Now, thinking of Elgiva close at hand,
We shall be filled with her victorious cheer.

Athulf.
I would to God that I could think her wise.
All is in jeopardy through her. By Heaven!
I know not which is worst—to come too late,
Or come with broken strength.

Edwin.
To come too late
Is worst by far. When Leolf went from Audley
'Tis true he bade us to beware of haste;
But then he knew not that the enemy's force
Would move on Nantwich, thus, with his at Lea,
To bring them cheek-by-jowl, whilst us it leaves
More laggard than we were.

Athulf.
I'll stake my head
'Twas ne'er by Leolf's wish his force was moved
So far as Lea; but be it so or not,
'Twas moved in error; it can bring no aid
To Leolf and Elgiva; nay, I fear,
'Twill draw the forces of the enemy down
Upon the very wayside of their flight.
Still moved it is, and I deny not now
That we should follow at our best of speed.

Scene VII.

—Night. A Coppice near Acton in Cheshire. —In front is a mortstone. Enter certain Retainers and Servants of Leolf.
1st Servant.
This is the road; bring up the horses, ho!
Hark! heard'st thou aught? If Dunstan knew, my friends,
He'd ope his book and read a verse of power,
And send a goblin that should . . .

2nd Servant.
Hush! thou fool!
Is it not hither the Earl should come?

1st Servant.
'Tis here,
Six furlongs from the chapel. What is this?
Oh me! the mortstone! No, it is not here;
'Tis further on.

3rd Servant.
Seest thou not something white?

1st Servant.
Jesu Maria, save us! 'tis a Spirit.

[Exeunt.
Enter Leolf and Elgiva.
Leolf.
Fresh horses should have met us here; what chance
Hath hindered them, I know not; we must wait
Till these be rested. Here is a rude stone-seat;
We may rest likewise.

Elgiva.
Is there danger still?

Leolf.
But little here; the dangers of the road,
I trust, are left behind.

Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf! much
I owe you, and if aught a kingdom's wealth
Affords, could pay the debt . . .

Leolf.
A kingdom's wealth!
Elgiva! by the heart the heart is paid.
You have your kingdom, my heart has its love.
We are provided.

Elgiva.
Oh! in deeds so kind,
And can you be so bitter in your words!
Have I no offerings of the heart, wherewith
Love's service to requite?

Leolf.
The least of boons
Scattered by royal charity's careless hand
O'erpays my service; to requite the rest
All you possess is but a bankrupt's bond.
This is the last time we shall speak together;
Forgive me, therefore, if my speech be bold
And need not an expositor to come.
I loved you once; and in such sort I loved
That anguish has but burnt the image in
And I must bear it with me to my grave.
I loved you once; dearest Elgiva, yes,
Ev'n now my heart is feeding on that love
As in its flower and freshness, ere the grace
And beauty of the fashion of it perished.
It was too anxious to be fortunate,
And it must now be buried, self-embalmed
Within my breast, or living there recluse
Talk to itself and traffic with itself;
And like a miser that puts nothing out
And asks for no return, must I tell o'er
The treasures of the past.

Elgiva.
Can no return
Be rendered? And is gratitude then nothing?

Leolf.
To me 'tis nothing—being less than love;
But cherish it as to your own soul precious;
The heavenliest lot that earthly natures know
Is to be affluent in gratitude.
Be grateful and be happy. For myself,
If sorrow be my portion, yet shall hope,
That springs from sorrow and aspires to heaven,
Be with me still. When this disastrous war
Is ended, I shall quit my country's shores
A pilgrim and a suitor to the love
Which dies not nor betrays.—What cry is that?
I thought I heard a voice.

Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf, Leolf!
So tender, so severe!

Leolf.
Mistake me not;
I would not be unjust; I have not been;
Now less than ever could I be, for now
A sacred and judicial calmness holds
Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed
The picture of the past presents itself
Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen
In his last moments by a drowning man.
Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf;
Time and the elements conspired its fall;
The worm has eaten out the tenderer parts
And left this curious anatomy
Distinct of structure—made so by decay;
So at this moment lies my life before me
In all its intricacies, all its errors,
And can I be unjust?

Elgiva.
Oh, more than just,
Most merciful in judgment have you been,
And ev'n in censure kind.

Leolf.
Our lives were linked
By one misfortune and a double fault.
It was my folly to have fixed my hopes
Upon the fruitage of a budding heart;
It was your fault,—the lighter fault by far,—
Being the bud to seem to be the berry.
The first inconstancy of unripe years
Is nature's error on the way to truth.
But, hark! another cry! they call us hence;
Why come they not to us? Hark! Hist! again!
A clash of swords! Our band then is beset;
Alas, Elgiva!

Elgiva.
Leolf, we are lost.
Say, is it so? I am not afraid; but, oh!
Forgive me, Leolf, for I have wronged in you
The noblest of your kind. Oh, Edwin! . . . Leolf,
Tell him that I was true till death to him,
Though sometime false to you.

Leolf.
Fly, fly, Elgiva!
Our horses are at hand—we still may fly.

Scene VIII.

—Lea in Cheshire.
Edwin, Athulf, and Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Neither of them nor those that with them went
Nor those that went to meet them, can I glean
One grain of tidings. Even lies are scarce
And false reports arrive not.

Athulf.
They are lost.

Edwin.
Peace, Athulf! If you would not I lost heart
Now, when my courage will be needed most,
Speak not that word again. They shall be found.
Let us but march on Malpas.

Sidroc.
By the way
It may be we shall meet them. But if news
Of them be wanting, of the Danes 'tis rife.
In Somerset, which now they leave behind,
Town, hamlet, monastery, church and grange,
Lie smoking; and at Glastonbury Sweyne
Wasted the Abbot's lands, his treasure took,
And scared his bedrid mother, that she fled,
Though seized with mortal sickness.

Athulf.
Hurt to her
Strikes at the human corner of his heart.

Sidroc.
Upon him now, then, while his cheer is low.

Athulf.
Oh, Sidroc! what is ours?

Edwin.
Nay, hope the best;
Sidroc is right; on Malpas let us march,
Sending the women to our friends in Wales.

Scene IX.

—Malpas.
Bridferth and Ruold.
Bridferth.
He is in much perplexity of mind;
You cannot see him. Since his mother's death
He comes not from his chamber, save at night
When the sad brethren of St. Benedict
Say masses for her soul.

Ruold.
His mother dead!

Bridferth.
At Glastonbury she lay sick, and thence
Driven by the Dane, the terror of her flight,
Conspiring with her malady, put out
Her spark of life. To her great son she sent
Her dying charge that he as best he might
Should heal his country's wounds and give it peace,
And rescue from the Northmen's ravages
Its poor remains.

Ruold.
Indeed! His mother dead!
Well, had he lost ten mothers ten times told
Still must I see him.

Bridferth.
What's your errand, then,
That is so instant? Of the Queen's escape
He knows already.

Ruold.
That is not the last
Nor yet the sharpest of the untoward strokes
That destiny hath dealt us. What I know
I fear to tell, save to the Abbot's self.
But, lo, he comes! And by my life I shrink
From telling it to him. Stand back a space.

[They retire. Dunstan enters.
Dunstan.
Why did I quit the cloister? I have fought
The battles of Jehovah; I have braved
The perfidies of courts, the wrath of Kings,
Desertion, treachery,—and I murmured not,—
The fall from puissance, the shame of flight,
The secret knife, the public proclamation,—
And how am I rewarded? God hath raised
New enemies against me,—from without
The furious Northman,—from within, far worse,
Heart-sickness and a subjugating grief.
She was my friend—I had but her—no more,
No other upon earth—and as for Heaven,
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom
No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother!
—Who's this? What are you, Sir? What brings you here?
Oh, ho! I know you; you are Ruold; well,
What news from Chester? Easy watch you kept
Upon Elgiva. Let that pass. What more?
Your father's merits have redeemed your head
That else was forfeited.

Ruold.
Lord Abbot, still
It stands a forfeit, if adversity,
Loss and disaster make a forfeiture.
Chester is burnt. The Dane came up the Dee,
And landing in the night, ere break of day
Slew half my force and fired the town.

Dunstan.
So! so!
Deemedst thou that this should jeopardize thy head?
Far otherwise. But send Harcather here.
This news is welcome.
[Exeunt Ruold and Bridferth.
Is it not welcome? Yes;
It rings a shrill alarum in mine ears,
Telling me that the murderers of my mother
Are come to judgment. Give me back, O God,
My health of heart, and waken me to wield
The weapons of thine anger. Oh, my mother!
Thy deathbed was illuminate from Heaven
And in the glory of prophetic light
Thy soul departed. From thy place thou seest
Thy word fulfilled—the Heathen hems us round—
Next shalt thou see thy son perform thy bidding,
And gathering into one the broken force
Of this divided realm, with headlong might
Reject the Northmen to their native rocks. Enter Harcather.

Harcather, we are threatened, hear'st thou not?
The raven that was watching from afar
Our mortal throes, deems that she now can tear
The body of the land. Nay, ravenous Dane,
We are not yet exanimate. Let all
That ever dreamt that they were Christians, join
To fight against these robbers of the sea
And hurl them backward to their brine. Proclaim
A peace betwixt King Edwin and the Church—
In furtherance whereof will I divulge
Letters of absolution for those Earls
And others that are excommunicate.
Send me a Herald to King Edwin's camp.
What staggering knave is this, with bloodstain'd pate
And livid lips? 'Tis Gurmo. What bring'st thou?
The Queen? Where is she? Hast thou got her safe?
He cannot speak.

Gurmo
(who has entered).
Lord Abbot, she is dead.

Dunstan.
Dead! By what chance? Alive I bid thee take her,
And wherefore is she dead?

Gurmo.
Her horse was fleet,
But fleeter is an arrow than a horse.
An arrow from my bow is in her heart.
And Leolf, too, is slain. But lo! I bleed;
For ere they slew him, I was hurt to death
And by his hand. Short shrift for me I wot!
A priest—a priest—not you, Lord Abbot, no—
King Edwin now comes rushing on—look out
Or you shall be surprised.

Dunstan.
Harcather, fly;
The forces that are scattered draw together
And plant them close and strong. A Herald send,
I say again, with overtures to Edwin,
Inviting him to peace. A priest, good Gurmo?
No, 'tis myself must shrive thee; to my cell
Supporthim. Is he dead? Not yet—not yet.

Scene X.

—A Village on the Borders of Wales.
Ethilda, Emma, Ernway, and Sidroc.
Sidroc.
To Ernway's escort must I leave you now,
Lest my return should find a foughten field
And not a field to fight. The road is safe,
And Ruthin Castle you will reach ere long,
With a warm welcome from the good Ap Rhys.

Ethilda.
When shall the tidings of the battle come
To Ruthin Castle?

Sidroc.
When to-morrow's sun
Behind the summit of Llanvarroch sinks,
Look down the valley. If the day be won,
A white flag flying in a horseman's hand
Shall fan you from afar, and kindle joy
In all your hearts.

Emma.
No, never more in mine.

Sidroc.
If it be lost, perchance you shall descry
Some remnant that may fight their way to Wales,
In shelter of the mountains to abide
Till better times.

Ethilda.
Commend me to the King,
And tell Earl Athulf I am strong in hope,
Rejoicing alway in his absolution,
And trusting we shall meet to part no more.

Scene XI.

—The Walls of Malpas.
Dunstan, Harcather, and a Messenger.
Dunstan.
“The Dane! The Dane!” Why pesterest thou mine ears
With that perpetual cry? How face the Dane,
Not knowing yet if Edwin be for peace?

Harcather.
For peace, Lord Abbot! nay, he cannot choose.

Dunstan.
Let me know that, I say; let me know that.
See ye the Herald coming?

Messenger.
Ay, my Lord.

Harcather.
At Herald's pace; these fellows dream and prance
Ever as in a pageant and procession.

Dunstan.
I bade him,—when in sight of Edwin's camp.

Harcather.
If he be now in sight thereof, that camp
Is nearer than we thought. It may be so.

Messenger.
But lo! he pricks his prancing to a gallop;
And see, my Lord, from forth the valley's gorge
Issues a cloud of dust.

Harcather.
By Egbert's bones
It is the dust of Edwin's army. Stay—
A gleam comes through it—run thou to my son,
And bid him lead the vanguard out forthwith.
Send me my horse.

Dunstan.
What think'st thou? Is it war?

Harcather.
Else wherefore this advance? To horse! to horse!

Dunstan.
Stop; be not hasty; now the Herald comes;
Hear we his tale. Herald enters.

Well, Sir, what saith the King?

Herald.
He saith, my Lord, what I should but blaspheme
Should I recite it.

Dunstan.
What! thine office, Herald!
Speak me the very words.

Herald.
My Lord, he saith
That with a bloody and a barbarous hand
You have torn out the very sweetest life
That ever sanctified humanity.
He saith that should he covenant to make peace
With the revolted Angels, yet with you
He would not; for he deems you more accursed
And deeper in perdition. And he saith
Not she that died at Gibeah, whose twelve parts
Sent several through the borders and the coasts
Raised Israel, was avenged more bloodily
Than shall Elgiva be, the murder'd Queen.
Wherefore he bids you come to battle forth,
And add another crime or answer this.

Dunstan.
Harcather, hear'st thou? To the field—away!
The gates of Hell stand wider than their wont
To let this infidel and his army pass!

Scene XII.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.—The left of the field. Alarums and skirmishing. Enter Athulf and Sidroc with forces.
Athulf.
Three minutes till the rearward force is up—
Halt for three minutes—Sidroc, look, oh, look!
The King is plunging madly forward still;
Either an ambush he will find or else
They'll lure him through the gates. Go to him, Sidroc.

Sidroc.
No need of ambush for that headlong boy;
A town is not so manifest a trap
But it shall catch him.

Athulf.
Fly, then, to his side,
And bring him back. I cannot go myself,
For now the rearward gathers up behind,
And lo! Harcather comes against us. Charge!

Scene XIII.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.— The right of the field. A body of Monks are seen ranged on the walls, holding up crosses and relics. In front, Edwin with forces.
Edwin.
Nay, stagger ye at a show of hoods and gowns!
It is a murderer's disguise, I say,
And not a Christian's garb.—What spectre foul
Is you that rises o'er the ruined wall?
I see the accursed Abbot's skinny hand
Held up aloft! Now God befriend the right!

Scene XIV.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.—The left of the field. Alarums and a retreat sounded. Athulf with a remnant of his force, and Ruold.
Athulf.
I knew you not; why pressed you thus upon us,
Alone and wounded as you are? Fall back.

Ruold.
I seek my death,—but, Athulf, not from you.

Athulf.
Oh, gentle Ruold, in my sister's right
I bid you live.

Ruold.
Her spirit calls me hence.
Had I been resolute, she had lived to-day.
Farewell, brave Athulf. You have lost your King.

[Exit.
Athulf.
It shall not be. Nay, hold your ground, my friends;
Turn on them—'tis the last time—ay, the last—
Lo! there Earl Sidroc gallops from the right
To tell us if the King can yet be saved.
Stand fast but till he comes. Crossbow-men, see!
They round the hill, the villains! Shoot together—
There flies the sleet that whistles in their beards—
Charge once again—no archery like yours!
And here comes Sidroc. Well, how fares the King?

Enter Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Outwitted, lost, inveigled, snared, and worse,
If worse it be, wounded—they say to death.
Soon as the execrable shape appeared
Of Dunstan on the walls, the tempest rose
Upon his heart and drave him to his fate.
Athulf, away! for longer now to stand
Were worse than vain.

Athulf.
They circle us about,
But we shall break their circle to their cost.
Well have ye battled for your King, brave hearts!
And now I bid you but to save yourselves.
Look not too narrowly at the fence, but leap;
And if it chance, as like enough it may,
That we be scattered, we shall meet again
At Ruthin, whither is the Princess fled.
Round her we rally. Ride, Sirs, for your lives.

Scene XV.

—Malpas.—Interior of the Cathedral. Candles burning and altars decked as for a service of thanksgiving. A corpse lies on a bier in the transept, and the chaunting of a service for the dead is heard at intervals from a side-chapel. Monks enter in procession, and lastly Dunstan.
Dunstan.
So flee the works of darkness. Sing ye the psalm
“Quid gloriaris.”—Stop: a hasty step
Rings in the cloister.

Enter a Soldier.
Soldier.
I am bid, my Lord,
To seek the Lord Harcather, for his son
Ruold is slain.

Dunstan.
Silence! no more of that;
Harcather is gone forth to meet the Dane;
Let him not know it yet. Enter Bridferth.

Well, Bridferth, well?

Bridferth.
Athulf and Sidroc have escaped, my Lord,
The prisoners say, and as I learn elsewhere,
Doing much havoc in their desperate flight.

Dunstan.
'Tis true. I thought no less.—What corse is this?

A Monk.
The Queen's, my Lord, awaiting burial.

Dunstan.
Hers?—
Withdraw the winding-sheet, that once again
I may behold her.—Art thou she indeed!
The blankness of mortality in thee
Seems more than in another. Where be now
The flushings of the fervent cheek, the fires
That lightened from those eyes! Oh, rueful sight!
Methinks that thou dost look reproachfully.
Not me—not me—upbraid not me, pale Queen!
I slew thee not, nor yet desired thy death;
I would have willed thee to repent and live,
But lo! the will of God hath mastered mine.

Chaunt from the side-chapel.
Dunstan
—Better be so than be the living cause
Of death eternal and a nation's lapse
To mortal sin. Nor sin nor sorrow now
Hath power upon thee; nor canst thou, fair mask,
Be ever more their minister.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord,
The King, so please you—

Dunstan.
What, Sir, of the King?

Attendant.
He is again delirious, and hath torn
The bandage from his wound. He bleeds amain.

Chaunt again.
Enter another Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord, the King, the King!

Dunstan.
What! comes he hither?

Enter Edwin, followed by a Physician and Attendants.
Edwin.
Where art thou, my beloved? Come to me!
Art thou not here? They said so, but 'twas false—
Thou art not here, for if thou wert, I know
Thou'dst fly to meet me.—Ha! I see thee now—
And yet thou mov'st not. What! in chains again!
Not so, Elgiva—thou art free, my love—
I smote them with the sword. Oh, come to me!
Give me thy hand.

Dunstan.
Doctor, thou mad'st report
The fever had abated.

The Physician.
Had, my Lord;
But rages now afresh.

Dunstan.
How came he hither?

Attendant.
He asked us if the Queen were buried yet,
Or where the body lay; we told him, here;
And he commanded we should bring him.

Dunstan.
See!

Edwin.
Thy hand is very cold.—Come, come, look up.
Hast not a word to say to so much love?
Well—as thou wilt—but 'twas not always thus.
So soon to be forgotten! Oh, so soon!
And I have loved so truly all this while!—
I dream—I do but dream—I think.—What's here?
'Tis not the dress that thou wert wont to wear.
This is a corpse! Attendance, here! What, ho!
Who was so bold to bring a stone-cold corpse
Into the King's apartment? Stop—be still—
I know not that. Give me but time, my friends,
And I will tell you.

The Physician.
Draw him from the corpse:
This loss of blood that drains the fever off
Anon will bring him to himself.

A Monk.
My Lord,
I hear a shout as of a multitude
In the north suburb.

Dunstan.
Bridferth, mount the tower
And look abroad.

Edwin.
That was a voice I knew—
It came from darkness and the Pit—but hark!
An Angel's song . . . 'Tis Dunstan that I see!
Rebellious monk! I lay my body down
Here at thy feet to die, but not my soul,
Which goes to God. The cry of innocent blood
Is up against thee, and the Avenger's cry
Shall answer it. Support me, Sirs, I pray;
Be patient with me . . . there was something still . . .
I know not what . . . under your pardon . . . yes . . .
Touching my burial . . . did I not see but now
Another corpse . . . I pray you, Sirs, . . . there . . . there . . .

[Dies.
Bridferth
(from the tower).
My Lord, my Lord, Harcather flies; the Danes
Are pouring through the gate. Harcather falls.

Dunstan.
Give me the crucifix. Bring out the relics.
Host of the Lord of Hosts, forth once again!