University of Virginia Library

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.