University of Virginia Library

ACT II

Scene I

Night. A great Hall in Castel-Roussillon, hung with armour and weapons of war and the chase. A huge stone fireplace, in which the fire has died out, centre, at back of Hall. On either side of it a lofty entrance, Gothic in character, supporting on their lintels of stone the carven arms of the Barons of Roussillon. To the left an embayed casement opening upon a small balcony of stone overlooking the mountain precipice which forms a portion of the foundation of the castle. Torches in sconces of iron light the Hall. A carven table of massy oak in the centre is spread as for a banquet. Raymond of Roussillon, Robert of Tarascon, Aubert, Malamort, and Giraud and Agnes, the wife of Robert of

---

196

Tarascon, with the Ladies of Roussillon, Ermengard and Beatrix, are just seating themselves as the curtain rises. Pages and retainers attending. Enter Margherita.
Raymond:
Why are we thus kept waiting?

Margherita:
Grant me pardon.
The twilight and the full moon and the mountains,
The roses and the nightingales, the garden,
Set me to dreaming. I forgot the hour.
This is my poor excuse. Will it suffice?—
I did not dream it was so late.
[Seats herself beside Raymond. Attendants bring in and set upon the table various dishes. All are served. Margherita puts a pleading hand on Raymond's arm.
Am I forgiven?

Raymond
(unmollified; sullenly):
Here are arrived thy sister and her husband
Upon their way to Tarascon: they stay
The night with us. Thou wast not here to greet them.

Robert
(hastily, in fear of a marital outburst):
I shall forgive her if her sister will.

Agnes
(pleasantly smiling):
I know the garden; it is wrapped in spells.—
Witchcraft, whose name is Springtime, held my sister:
It wove old sorceries of the moon and flowers,
And the wild music of the rossignols.—
Raymond, thou must forgive her.—Say thou wilt.

Raymond
(sombrely):
Too much she muses mid the nightingales.

Malamort
(laughing lightly):
There is one nightingale that sings there whom
Our Ladies all have given their fancy to.
My Lord, he holds their fickle hearts in fee.

Raymond
(with grim humour):
A nightingale? I'll have his tongue. They say
Their tongues were much desired by the Cæsars.—
Their hearts, I think, were better eating, eh?
What say'st thou, Robert, to a dish of them?
A golden platter served with golden music?

Robert
(soberly):
I am for solid meat. No nightingales' hearts
Would stay my appetite. As for the music—
It would disturb digestion; hag-ride sleep.—
Only the horns of war or of the hunt
Can hold me with their charm.

Margherita
(to Raymond with a rebuking smile):
Oh, thou art cruel.
Speak not so brutally of things that sing.—
The nightingales and full moon kept me long,
'T is true, but here is our own rossignol
To sing thee into humour.

[As Cabestaing enters.
Agnes
(to Margherita, aside):
If he would,
I 'd have him write a song for my own lute;
One full of fire of youth, as is his face.

Margherita
(aside):
Many of such he has; I'll ask one for thee.

Malamort
(aside to Beatrix):
Here comes the only nightingale she loves.

Beatrix
(caustically):
Oh! dost thou envy him?

Raymond
(with rough enthusiasm):
Our Cabestaing?—
Ay, there 's a troubadour, by God and Mary!
[As Cabestaing comes into the line of his vision; Raymond not having raised his eyes or turned his head at the entrance of the troubadour or the remark of Margherita, being absorbed as it were with his own thoughts and the wine before him.
Robert, all Provence and the Courts of Love
Envy our dear possession. Hast thou heard
The chanson he composed in praise of Beauty?—
Bring wine. And when our Cabestaing hath drunken
Then let him sing.

[A goblet of wine is brought by a page.
Robert
(patronisingly):
Thou hast no equal, eh?
The Ladies, so I hear, make much of thee.

Cabestaing
(deliberately drinking and returning the goblet to the page):
Not of the man but of his song, my Lord

Robert
(unimpressed by the carelessness of the reply):
The singer only, eh?—I heard a song,—
'T was only yesterday,—that Agnes had
Of some mad jongleur. Eh?—He said t' was thine—
And written to some Lady—not so far—

Agnes
(with smiling but hurried interruption):
As we are from the moon!—The song 's a song,
And being a good song is to be commended.
I would I had inspired it myself.

Robert
(with stolid astonishment):
How canst thou say it?—'T is as full of fire
As Ætna is of flame. (Addressing himself to Cabestaing):
Now were it Agnes,
To whom thou sang'st in such consuming rhymes,
I'd bleed thee for a fever.

Raymond
(laughing loudly):
By God and Mary!
Blood-letting is not for my troubadour.—
His art 's his art. And only in a song,
Chanson or ballad or the high aubade,
Doth burn his passion. He is winter-cold
At heart, I hear. Why, I could tell thee tales
Of many slights he hath put on great dames,
And damsels, too, who would be in his fancy.
I never saw him look at any woman,
Significantly, save above his lute,
And only as accompaniment to his song.—
Is it not so, my troubadour?

Cabestaing:
My Lord,
I know not how to answer you. I love,
Whene'er I sing of love. Each maid I see
Hath some perfection, excellence of wit,
Or form, or face, that takes me by the heart
Compelling for the moment. Love, my Lord,
Is necessary to the poet's art:
And he, to sing so men will hark his song
And hold it true, must be in love alway:
It matters not with whom, or one or many:
Love is the first requirement of a poet.

Malamort
(with a courteous sneer):
Reason and thought are only secondary.

Robert
(unimpressed):
Thou plead'st thy cause quite badly—for the Ladies;—
Or the one Lady whom thy heart holds dear.
One must there be to hold thy singing true.
[Turning to Raymond.
Too many loves, like cooks—eh? eh? my Lord?

Raymond
(with humour):
There is an old saw that I heard somewhere
That says too many are better than none at all.

Robert:
But 't is against all reason. Look you now—

Agnes
(interrupting him):
Enough! Too much thou hast already said.
Thou hast confused him.—See, his face is pale.
Let him love whom he will. Thou dost not stint
Thyself in loving other women than me.
Let him love whom he will; and if he love
Well as he sings—his mistress hath my envy.

Raymond:
'T is rightly said. All men must have their loves,
And women too. 'T is only justice. So!
The battle 's ended. Turning to Cabestaing):
Let thy music now
Be balm to all our wounds. Sing us thy song,
The cause of this discussion.

Margherita
(anxiously):
Yea; is it new?

Cabestaing:
'T is nothing. You will smile at it, I fear.
It hath no height of passion and no depth.
'T is the mere froth of feeling from the sea
Of song beneath the surface of my love.
(He addresses a page):
Boy, fetch me here my lute.

Robert:
As Captains wear their swords
So shouldst thou wear thy lute. 'T is thy great weapon
To mow down hearts of women. (Laughing.)


Cabestaing
(coldly):
My lute 's my lute;
My sword, as thou canst see, is like to thine.
I am a chevalier, Sir, and a poet.

Raymond:
He speaks the truth, his sire was noble as mine.

Robert:
Then I 've no more to say. Here comes thy lute.
[The page returns with his lute which he hands to him. Cabestaing seats himself so as to face the Lady Margherita. As he sings he gazes steadily into her eyes.

Margherita
(rising in agitation):
Well hast thou sung. Thy song is worth a heart;
The heart of any woman.

Raymond:
'T is full of fire.
A song to win a woman.

Robert:
Ay; perhaps
Win two or three.

Margherita
(standing, uncertain what to say or do):
I am right weary.

Agnes:
Well;
We will retire: I am weary too.
We rode all day, Fatigue was of our train
From morning.

Robert
(significantly):
Raymond, I would speak with thee
On private matters. There is much to say.—
And, as thou knowest, we depart at dawn.

Raymond
(good-humouredly):
Business should wait till pleasure have an end,
And should, in brief, be brief, whatever it is.
But as our wives are fearful of offending,
And will not leave without us (he speaks with irony),
being weary,
There's nothing left us but to be excused.
[Rising, he proceeds to Cabestaing who rises as do all the others. Raymond lets

---

206

his hand fall heavily upon Cabestaing's shoulder as he speaks.
By Mary! thou shalt sing for us again.
Such songs as thine are heard once in a lifetime.
Be careful of thy lute as of thy heart.

Cabestaing
(smiling softly, and gazing steadily before him):
Both heart and lute are sound, my Lord, and safe.

[Raymond and Robert leave with attendants by doorway left.
Margherita
(imperiously):
Come, Cabestaing, attend us to our rooms.

Cabestaing:
I am thy servant. (Aside)
Dost thou think me bold?

Margherita
(aside):
Come to the window with the balcony,
That looks upon the upper terrace: there
I will await thee. (Aloud)
Agnes, shall we go?

Agnes
(who has been conversing with the others):
The Ladies, Ermengard and Beatrix
Have talked my weariness away.

Beatrix
(laughing):
Not I.
'T was Malamort, with his civilities.

[Margherita, Agnes, and Cabestaing go out through doorway to the right.
Beatrix
(eagerly, as soon as the door has closed upon them):
Didst mark his eyes?

Ermengard:
Canst ask?—They were two stars
Shaping the destiny of two who love.

Malamort:
They were two tarns whereover tempest drives,
And in whose deeps enchantment sleeps for ever.

Aubert:
And hers were wild lights on the mountain heights,
Whose fires proclaim rebellion. They are lost.

Giraud:
His eyes looked into hers as no man's look
Into a woman's whom he doth not love.

Ermengard:
Sir Matter-of-Fact! thou putt'st it in blunt words.—
He looked at her, therefore she needs must look,
From courtesy, at him.

Beatrix
(scornfully):
She could not help it?—
No more could I.

Ermengard
(sharply):
His eyes were not for thee,
Nor any woman, except the one he loves.

Malamort
(provokingly):
Into her eyes he poured his soul in music.

Beatrix
(in a rage):
Her eyes! his eyes!—The Devil take their eyes!—
Why, I'll turn jongleur just to sing of eyes.—
His eyes! her eyes!—God send them both a squint!

Ermengard:
Now thou art angry:

Beatrix:
Nay. A little weary.

Aubert:
Wilt come into the garden with me?

Beatrix:
No!
I care not for the nightingale and moon.

Ermengard
(to Aubert):
I'll go with thee if our wise friend, Giraud,
Will make our company three.

Giraud
(hesitating):
I am not wanted;
That 's plain. But thou hast asked me, so, 't is plain,
I'll go where I am asked. Bid you goodnight.

[Ermengard, Aubert, and Giraud go out.
Malamort
(confidently):
The loveliest woman, worthiest of his song,
Is she into whose eyes I'm looking now.

Beatrix
(incredulously; laughing scornfully):
Rank flattery!—Thy speech is full of words
That poison women's souls. I am no fool.

Malamort:
I know what beauty is.

Beatrix
(sarcastically):
A connoisseur?

Malamort:
I'll prove my point by a comparison:
Now take thy mouth and Margherita's mouth:—
The Cupid-bow perfection of thy lips,
The rosebud redness—hath hers aught of these?
Her hand now: true, 't is long, and white and shapely;
But plumpness, smallness, take my heart by storm—
And thine is plump and small.—Come, let me hold it.—
[Takes her hand which she yields reluctantly.
Not cold like Margherita's. And thy cheek—
Thou hast a dimple there: a darling pit-fall
To catch men's hearts in. A sweet trap for kisses.

[Kisses her deliberately. She disengages herself swiftly, starting back with pretended fury.
Beatrix:
Why didst thou that?—Had I a dagger now
I'd mark upon thy evil face the beast
That is thy soul, so never woman more
Would look on thee and be beguiled.

Malamort
(coolly):
I love thee.
I love thee. Dost thou doubt it? Look at me.
I am no troubadour to sing thy praise,
Or curve my eyebrows at thee o'er a lute.
I am a man, a knight, a chevalier,
Who loves thee better than he loves his life.

Beatrix
(yieldingly):
Rhymers are not for me, but warriors are.—
When thou hast fought a battle for me, then
Come to me and demand—what I can give.

Malamort:
Bid me to battle now. I fain would fight.

Beatrix
(impetuously):
I hate this Cabestaing. I'd have him die.—
He had my love once—thou should'st know it.

Malamort
(slowly, gazing steadily at her):
Yea.
I knew of it. He cast thy love aside.

Beatrix
(fiercely):
Like a great gentleman.—The wretched pauper!
I was not good enough for him.—I hate him!
Hate him! Oh, God in Heaven, how I hate him now!—
[Lowering her voice and speaking with malignancy.
Look thou!—Go to the Baron: tell him all
Thou knowest; all, and more thou dost not know,
Of what is seen and said of Cabestaing
And Margherita.—Leave no thing unsaid.
Tell it with smiles and shrugs as something vile,
Notorious, in his castle. Look such things
As shall imply more than the words thou say'st.
Put poison in his heart's security.
Thou are a trusted servant; 't will be easy.
When thou hast done this, and thy words bear fruit,
Then come to me and ask—whatever thou wilt.

Malamort
(with conviction):
By God! thou lov'st this Cabestaing!

Beatrix
(with intensity):
I hate him.
And he must die, so that my soul have peace.

Malamort
(taking her by the arms and looking steadily into her eyes):
Thou 'lt keep thy word?

Beatrix
(unflinchingly):
I never break my word.

[Malamort goes out left, facing towards Beatrix, who stands a moment as if transfixed in thought and then goes out slowly through door to right.

Scene II

The same as the preceding. Only the table has been removed from centre and the chairs arranged differently, showing skins of various wild beasts here and there about the floor. Enter Raymond and Robert of Tarascon.
Raymond
(angrily):
Thou art her sister's husband. Wherefore now
Thou sayest such things to me at such a time
Escapes my understanding.

Robert:
Thy eyes are seeled,
Like some wild haggard's in thy mews. My Lord,
Thy troubadour needs watching. As I said,
The weather-vane o' his heart points Margherita,
As did his eyes and song a moment ago. ...
There was direction and a fire in them
Most unmistakable.

Raymond:
I drank my wine,
And thought my thoughts. What cared I where he looked!—
I mark not every glance cast at my wife.—
God's blood! I should be busy.—Cabestaing
I 'd trust as men trust children—as my son.
There is no harm in him; he is a poet:
Why, Margherita loves me; would not lift
Her eyes to his except in innocence.
I know them both; they are a pair of children.

Robert
(bitterly):
A pair of children! Child thou art to say so!—
Thou knowest nothing of the hearts of men—
Or women. Bah! the thing is evident.
Look to it ere thou lose thy Margherita.—
I trust no troubadour with any woman.

Raymond:
Blind fool I may be; but, by God and Mary!
Suspicion never harboured in my heart
Of any smile, or glance, between these two.
Thou mak'st me think now.—But why wake a snake
To gnaw me here?

Robert:
I would not have thee whispered
And spoken as a cuckold.—I, thy brother,
Would guard the good name of thy House, whereto
My honour appertains. I like not scandal.

Raymond:
Where could he look but at her? All men look
At Margherita. Nay; 't was courtesy:
I say 't was courtesy.—But I'll look to 't
As thou advisest; and, if true, God help,
Assoil him and the woman I call wife!—
Your words have waked a devil in my heart,
This heart on which she oft hath lain and dreamed.

Robert:
No troubadour do I trust. Seduction leers
From all their songs at every maid and woman.
[Enter Malamort smiling sinisterly.
Here comes Sir Malamort. His face portends
Some news of moment.

Raymond:
How now, Malamort?
What means thy smile? What evil lies behind it?—
Thou stealest in like Midnight with a dagger.
Whom wilt thou stab?

Malamort
(mysteriously):
A song-bird in the garden.
That is to say, a man beneath a window:
A sighing lover with a tinkling lute.

Robert
(with a quizzical smile at Raymond):
Not thy good troubadour, my Lord?

Malamort
(darkly):
Perhaps.

Raymond
(with suppressed fury):
Whose window? Speak!—And who was at the window?

Malamort
(with assumed perplexity):
I can not say, my Lord. So many windows
Look out upon that terrace.

Raymond
(with concentrated purpose):
Was it one
That's balconied? a casement railed with stone,
That faces towards the terrace with the fountain?

Malamort
(without hesitation):
The same, my Lord. And from the balcony
A lady leaned. A scarf concealed her face.—
The stone whereon she leaned, warmed into white,
Took on a new effulgence from her breast.
I seemed to hear the beating of her heart,—
And feel the ardor of her passionate eyes.

Robert
(with emphasised interest):
Was it the Lady Agnes? Like as not!—
She has a scarf of silk.—Her window 's railed,
And overlooks the fountain. By my sword!—
She too hath hankerings for these nightingales!
'T is in the blood of women.

Raymond
(with absolute conviction):
Tarascon,
'T was not thy Agnes but my Margherita.—
Blind have I been! Oh, what a purblind fool!—
If this be true, I'll act; and instantly.

Robert
(in a conciliatory tone):
Yea; swiftly. Send the fellow off to-night.—
As I have said, I would not have them round me,
These makers of bad rhymes. For, look you, women
Are three fourths fool at any and all times;
And when rhyme knocks and music jingles, why,
Farewell discretion!—kiss the rest good-bye,
A poet is bell-wether to their natures,
That flock to follow, like a lot of sheep,—
Be it to pasture or a precipice,
Whene'er he tinkles.—Would their heads were one,—
I mean the poets',—so one blow might end them!

Raymond
(to Malamort):
Under the balcony?—And didst thou hear
The words they said?

Malamort:
My Lord, I was not near.
I heard a lute, a sigh. The bird took fright
Whenas he saw me coming. Disappeared,—
Like a great cockchafer a foot disturbs,—
Among the roses underneath the wall.
The Lady glimmered moth-like and was gone.

Raymond
(black with rage):
Thy eyes must to the doctor! what, by Heaven!
Sent thee to me then with thy devil's smile?—
Thou slay'st my soul with thy dark words and hints
Of what thou heard'st and heard'st not, saw'st and saw'st not!—
Proof must I have! yea, proof!—These eyes must see!
These ears must hear! visible and audible proof!—
Come with me. Come; I'll search the walks and garden.
If he be there, innocent or guilty, he
Shall give account to this (touching his sword)
my good Toledo!

Robert
(with satisfaction as they turn to go out):
Thou hast been blind. How couldst thou be so fooled?
Make good use of thine eyes now. It is night,
And in the night are many hiding places.

[Raymond, Robert, and Malamort pass out right. After an interval enter on the left Margherita and Agnes.
Agnes
(fearfully):
He loves thee. Oh, I saw; and others saw.
And thou, thou lovest him. I saw that too.
Oh, be thou careful of this!—Men are beasts
When jealousy puts poison in their veins.
No serpent spawned of Hell is fiercer. Trust me!
I am thy sister, let me counsel thee.—
Contrive some good excuse and send this singer,
Before it is too late and Raymond knows,
To Avignon, or Paris; anywhere.

Margherita
(calmly):
I could not live without him: would not live.
Existence lies for me in him alone.—
Thou canst not understand—thou dost not know!—
His life is mine as mine is his.—No, no!
Thou wouldst not have me separate soul and body?
He is my soul. I can not part from him.

Agnes:
If this be so, God help you both!

Margherita:
Amen!—
He loves me.—Countess that I am, and wife
Of Raymond, Lord of Roussillon, I 'd cast
Nobility aside, as one casts gauds,
And follow Cabestaing through all the world,
And be his glee-girl, live the vagabond life
Of crusts and kisses, if he ask it me.
Life hath naught greater than his love to give.

Agnes:
I never loved like that. Propriety
With stately steps, trailing a stiff brocade,
Hath ever kept my house; yet she shall shield
Thee and thy lover when there comes the need.
No man, except my husband, have I loved,
Or dreamed of loving. Though some have besieged
My heart with vows, its stalwart battlements
They never won above. (Meditatively):
I will not say
A troubadour tongue, like that of Cabestaing's,
Might not win o'er its fortress if it tried,
So full of irresistible assault
Are all his songs—and song is sweet to me.

Margherita:
All that I am is his. I feel no shame
When in his arms, his kisses on my lips.
I know I sin. My soul, perhaps, is lost.
But Heaven hath naught of happiness to give
Greater than this. If punishment must come
Hereafter, I, at least, a little while
Have been in Paradise.

Agnes:
May Heaven be thine!—
But dost thou have no dread of what may come
Of this too evident passion?

Margherita:
My one fear
Is for his safety. His.—What harm may come
To me I care not. Never think of it.

Agnes:
But thou shouldst think of it. Just now he stood
Openly within the moonlight, on the terrace,
Beneath thy balcony that neighbours mine.
I heard his words.—Therefore I came to thee,
And brought thee hither, for, scarce had he gone,
When shadows searched the place with weapons drawn.
Thy husband and another, I divine.—
Had they come sooner, caught thy song-bird there,
Sighing to thee, such strains of passionate love,
I shudder now to think what had befallen.

Margherita
(surprised and agitated):
Raymond out there?—I deemed him closeted
With thy good Robert, on some weighty matter.
I would breathe easier were my husband gone.—
Canst thou contrive some plan to take him hence,
But for a day?—better for three days, though.
I would have one day free of fear to think,
To dream some plan out with the one I love.

Agnes
(thoughtfully):
I can devise no way.—There is a boar,
So runs report among the peasantry,—
We heard it but to-day when riding hither,—
A wild boar, that has harried half the hills,
And filled the roads with terror. An excuse
To bid him to the hunting.

Margherita
(musingly):
That may do.—
Thou say'st the boar is savage?

Agnes:
As the hills.
And tusked like Satan.—Why, 't is said six men,
Who went to slay him, he hath slain.

Margherita
(with resolution):
'T would do.—
Six men? and Raymond's one, and hunts alone.—
What if the monster took him by surprise?

Agnes:
Why speak'st thou thus? Why starest thou at naught?—
He would not need confessor then!—but thou—
Thou surely wouldst.—Come; leave dark thoughts like these,
That lead to dreadful cellars of the soul.—
I must retire.—Thou wilt not still remain?

Margherita
(abstractedly):
I'll follow soon. I would remain awhile.
I but await the coming here of Raymond;
I would consult with him about this boar—
It must be slain, abolished.—
[Agnes gazes at her sadly and retires.
Huge and wild.—
Now could I play upon his pride and courage
So he would hunt this monster without hounds,
And by himself!—and, say, upon a wager!
The beast is more than any one man's match,
Though that man, Raymond, Lord of Roussillon;
Then might there be an end to all this fear,
That, like a dagger, threatens everywhere,
Pointed from every corner at my heart,
And Cabestaing's—

[Cabestaing enters silently.
Cabestaing:
A spirit spoke my name!—
Oh, it is thou! (embracing her)
and lost in meditation!
I thought the castle slept; all had retired.

Margherita:
My happiness, importunate as a page,
Kept knocking at my heart's door, and I rose.—
Only we two and our deep love awake.—
What led thy wild heart here at such an hour?

Cabestaing:
I wandered restless till a vision called,
That had thy voice, and to this Hall I came
To sing a new song to the spirit of beauty,
And the imagined presence of my love,—
That walks here nightly with the moon and stars
Attendant on my fancy.

Margherita:
I am glad.
I have not heard thy voice, it seems, for days.
Albeit but an hour ago thou stood'st
Speaking beneath my balcony.—Take care.—
The garden hath assassins, so I hear,
Who watch my windows; watch with daggers drawn.

Cabestaing
(smiling):
I saw them. I was hidden where the yews
Cast a deep shadow on a world of roses.
I should have faced them—with my sword? or lute?—
[Laughing.
Which, dost thou think?—It was not brave of me.
But there I lay. And they passed through the postern,
Searching the mews and kennels I suppose.—
I waited their return. They did not come.
But while I waited petals of the rose
Rained on my hair and eyes: a nightingale
Lit near me, nearer than thou standest there,
And sang its song of triumph. 'T was a sign
That Love had me in ward. Naught now could harm me,
Or thee, belovéd. So I set my thought
To the wild music of the nightingale,
And made a song for thee. I have it here;
[Striking his brow with the palm of his hand.
And came to try it in the silent Hall—
And find an audience.

Margherita
(gazing at him with fascinated eyes):
Meaning Love and me.
Yea, we be fain to hear how this same bird
Inspired thy soul.

Cabestaing
(taking both her hands in his and kissing them):
I have no memory
For all the songs I make to thee. No book
Would hold them. They are like the birds that sing
And fly and sing again. Ever within me is
The throbbing of their happiness, like wings;
And all their words are music made of thee.
They utter all that moonlight says to flowers,
That fragrance syllables to dusk and dew,
And starlight to still waters: all, and more:
Such things as find expression in the soul,
Impossible to language, say in words.
Inadequate is speech when Love would speak
Praise of its object, of the one beloved.
Therefore the song I made there can portray
A moiety only of the thing I felt.
Authentic words should flow. Each stop should be
A heart-beat set to music.

Margherita
(rapturously):
Let me judge.—
A little would I learn of what is writ
In flame within the great book of thy heart.
[While they have been speaking the torches in the sconces have gradually died down or expired, until the great Hall is almost lost in shadow, save for the light of the moon that streams through the arches of the balconied casement overbrowing the precipice. Margherita seats herself on a carven chair in the moonlight. Cabestaing, lute in hand, reclines on a wolf-skin at her feet. As he sings, accompanying

---

229

himself on the lute, the door to the right, farthest from them, slowly opens, and Lord Raymond, unobserved of them, enters and stands listening until the end of the song; only making his presence known when it is completed.

Cabestaing
(sings):

Margherita
(starting up, utterly bewildered, as she perceives Raymond):
Thy song has other audience than I.
The Lord of Roussillon is here to judge.

Cabestaing
(concealing his confusion under a stately demeanour):
Not wrongly, let us hope, though he have cause—
Seeing the setting we have given our piece:
Moonlight and shadow and an empty Hall.

Raymond
(grimly, striding forward and standing lowering before them):
Thou art an artist in more ways than one.
Methinks thou sing'st too often and too well.

Cabestaing
(haughtily):
Being the troubadour of Roussillon,
I could not be a miser of my art
Or sing less well, my Lord.

Raymond
(smiling fiercely):
Thou art too prompt
With haughty answers. Praise has made thee proud,
And evermore thy fustian struts in velvet
Fingering a sword. Strip from it now its mask
Of courtier speech, and tell me in plain words
To whom this song was written.

Cabestaing
(pale with suppressed emotion):
If my Lady
Command me tell thee—I shall speak plain words.

Margherita
(hastily interrupting, having recovered herself completely):
Plain words, my Lord?—Here is no barrister
To tell thee plainly what thy wife can tell:
The song is for my sister, Agnes. She
Requested it of Cabestaing through me
To-night, at table: 't is a simple love-song,
A ballad for her lute, that she loves well,
As surely thou dost know who often here,
And there at Tarascon, hast heard her play.
Why, many a troubadour has made her rhymes;
These are the first that Cabestaing hath made.

Raymond
(harshly):
If these be made for her, I'll say no more.
Her husband shall correct them. (Smiling grimly, he goes to the door, left, and calls loudly):
Ho! a page!
[Enter a page and attendants with torches with which they replenish the sconces.
Go thou and bid the Lord of Tarascon
And Lady Agnes hither. If retired,
Bid them arise and robe and come to me.
The matter now in hand brooks no delay.
[Page bows and goes out followed by attendants.
If it be true he made this song for her,
Why does he sing it thee? And here, when sleep
Woos every eyelid in these towers? Ay, here,
In darkness and alone?

Margherita
(rapidly, in scornful explanation):
He'd have me hear it,
Ere Agnes heard, for fear of any flaws.
My ear is quick for such, or so he thinks.
And for the place and time—What other place
Within the castle is more public?—Here
Upon its various duties at all hours
Attendance goes. Thou camest even as I,
Or Cabestaing, or any person else.
As for the darkness, why, we quenched no torch.
'T is darker in the rose-walks of the garden.—
Ah, hadst thou found him singing to me there,
Wilt not confess Suspicion then had sprung
Snake-headed in thy heart, even more than now,
And hissed thee to some deed thou wouldst regret?
Yet in the garden, often, as thou knowest,
This man has sung to me, 't is true, thou by,
At later hours than this.—By God in Heaven!
Thou wouldst not have me have him to my chamber
To sing it me?

Raymond
(gazing steadily at her with suspicious eyes):
Thou hast a lawyer's wit.
Well may it serve thee when there comes a time.
[Turning to Cabestaing
Thou singest often in the garden, eh?
Beneath a certain balcony and window.

Cabestaing
(with quiet candour):
Yea; in the garden often do I sing.
There is a bench of marble 'neath a window,
That hath a balcony, if I remember,
On which I sit and muse and sing. It looks
Upon the fountain from the upper terrace.
The prospect has endeared itself to me:
'T is quiet and most perfect.

Raymond
(with sarcastic rage):
Quiet and perfect?—Ay!
As is the woman in the room above
Who hearkens to thy singing.—I have heard.

[Enter Robert and Agnes preceded by the page, who retires.
Robert:
What means thy message, Roussillon!—Art ill?—
God's life! I was retired! Why have me up!—

Raymond
(with irony):
I had thee out of bed to hear a song.

Robert
(with ludicrous astonishment):
What! art thou crazy?—Song?—The man is mad.—
Mad! mad! completely. So these troubadours
Have crazed thy mind at last?

Agnes:
What does this mean?

Raymond
(with dark directness):
I am not mad, though you might deem me so
By what appears to you unreasonable.
My action seems preposterous I know,
But you will understand when I explain.—
This, as you know, is Cabestaing; and this,
[With a sweeping gesture
Countess of Roussillon, the Lady Margherita.
I find them here, when all the castle sleeps,
Rehearsing love-songs written, so they say,
For thy true wife, Lord Robert. (With a sneer):
Wouldst thou hear
The song that panged the darkness here awhile
Before I summoned you? For true effect
The torches should be quenched; the two alone.

Robert
(with amazement):
A love-song to my wife?—I'll have his heart!

Raymond
(interfering as Robert makes a movement towards Cabestaing):
Thou hast no sword. (Laughing bitterly):
'T is, haply, in thy chamber.—
Let Agnes speak.—What hast thou then to say?
My wife hath told me thou didst order a song
Of Cabestaing, to sing upon a lute.

Agnes
(somewhat bewildered but grasping the situation. Naïvely to Cabestaing):
Oh, thou hast written it? 'T was kind of thee.
When I have heard it I am sure to love—

Robert
(violently):
The song or singer?—
Speak more plainly, madame.

Agnes
(with asperity):
The song, my Lord.—What else? (Turning smilingly to

---

236

Cabestaing):
Thou'lt write it out
And with the music give it me to-morrow?
We ride betimes. Lie not too late abed.
I'll learn it while we travel. Robert here
Shall praise it—though he is a crusty critic.

Robert:
When aught of his wins praise of mine may Deafness
Make fast the portals of my ears and Dumbness
Tie up my tongue.

Cabestaing
(imperturbably to Agnes):
I'll have the music ready,
And give it in thy hand at break of day.

Robert
(with disgust to Raymond):
And thou didst have us out of bed for this!

Raymond
(significantly):
If, as thy wife has said, the song was writ
At her request, I have no more to say
To thee or her. I beg your good indulgence.
You may retire. Robert, look to thy wife.

Robert:
She shall not hoodwink me. Have thou no fear.
Come, madame, we'll to bed.

Agnes
(taking the hands of Margherita

---

237

impulsively into her own):
'T was good of thee. (Then whispering asidebefore she and Robert go):

I did the best I knew. Oh, have a care.
[Agnes and Robert go out.

Margherita
(fiercely to Raymond):
Art satisfied?

Raymond:
Perplexed, not satisfied.
Suspicion holds me still. That song, 't is certain,
Was never written for thy sister Agnes,
Albeit she took it; acting well her part.
I'll have no intrigues here (with imperative intensity):
I'd have thee travel,
Sir Cabestaing. The air of Roussillon
Breeds pestilence for poets. Take thy steed,
Thy lute, and thy apparel and ride forth,
At daybreak, with Lord Robert if thou will,
Or if he will permit thee. Never again
Let me behold thy face. Thy songs work sickness
Among my household. Plagues should be destroyed.

Cabestaing
(with emotion):
You leave me naught to say. Appearances
Debauch your judgment. I have no defence.
After these years, through which Affection went
Glad side by side with you and me, unheard
You send me forth. Oh, bitterly you wrong
Your excellent Lady here, yourself, and me,
With vile suspicions.—May they ride away
With me at dawn.—God send you comfort, Sir.—
To thee, my Lady, I will say farewell.

[Bows low to Raymond and Margherita and goes out.
Raymond:
My jealousy go with him!—Tell me now,
Did I not well to rid me of a doubt?
A green suspicion that was gnawing here?—
When he is gone then will I live again.

Margherita
(wildly):
This will I say: Thou hast cast out delight,
Poetry and music for a childish whim!
These ride away with him to-morrow's dawn—
But not thy old Suspicion; that remains.
Discord shall jar the jangled chords of wedlock,
And in this House, where harmony dwelt before,
Contention, Hell's own hag, shall make her home.

Raymond:
Thy words are wild. Thou speakest as one speaks
Who loses great possessions—Is it true,
The large estate of all thou lov'st is wrack,
And Desolation in the House of Song
Sits wailing to the moon?—Woman, take care,
Lest, with this thing, thou damn thy soul and—mine.

Margherita:
Thou puttedst happiness away from us
When thou didst cast out Song. Thou let'st in wrongs
Old as the heart is, and their hate distils
Poison through all thy veins. There is no cure.

[She goes out looking darkly.
Raymond:
I would not cast her off: but I would slay
Deliberately, as men slay beasts of prey,
Her and this Cabestaing, if I were sure.—
'T is well he rides away to-morrow morn.—
Once he was in my heart; ay; as a son;
Since I had raised him up from poverty.
Though born a beggar, noble is his blood:
His sire, a spendthrift, squandered his estate,
And left his young son beggared. It was I
Who took him in and made a chevalier.—
He rhymed and twittered even as a page.
I sent him then to the high Courts of Love
At Arles and Avignon, where he was learned
In love as well as song—to my regret now.
When he returned he found my Margherita,
The fairest flower in France, transplanted here,
Won, after many battles and despairs,
From many suitors in the Lists of Love,
By me, Count Raymond, scarred with wars and years.
I could not help contrasting his fresh looks
With my grey beard. And then he had a voice,
Gentle yet manly that appealed to women.—
'T was like a flame set to a tinder-faggot,
Their liking was so swift—to my regret now.—
Their minds were mated. Hers and mine were not.
I knew it from the first.—They oft would sit,—
And strange! that I should never once suspect!—
Upon the terrace with myself and others,
Discoursing on the sonnet or the tenzon,
Sirvente or sixtine and what else, God knows!
A learnéd disquisition upon nothing,
Filled full of metaphors of euphuism—
Mere nonsense!—But in time, when I had made,—
Because he had my admiration,—(fool!—
Oh, twenty times the fool that I have been!)—
And Margherita asked it—(I was blind!)—
Made him her gentleman-usher, even then
I could not see the wrong I 'd done myself.
But others saw it. Many a hint I spurned.
But something I must see. I saw—blind fool!—
She was his inspiration, as they said.
And when a woman 's that—it means she loves,
And is beloved of him who is inspired.
The truth is said at last.—I see it all.—
Blind have I been to open evidence,
And wake too late for my heart's happiness.
She loves him; ay, she loves him. It is death
For me to think on it. Why, even now
They may be kissing in the garden there.—
Oh, that I 'd slain them here!—'T is farewell now—
Farewell forever to my mind's old peace!—
[Solemnly.
This is the last night they shall meet on earth.—
And if in some dark alley of the flowers
Out there, within the garden, they be parting,
[Drawing his poniard
This asp shall find them and its fang strike home.

[He has been slowly approaching door to the right while speaking. As he says the last words, with poniard drawn, he swiftly passes out, the door closing after him. Quick Curtain.