University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Countess. Ada. Rudolf and Rupert.
(Enter Rudolf followed by Rupert.)
Countess.
Shall I not chide thee, Rudolf?

Rudolf.
That I'm late?
Thank first this my brave comrade, that I'm here
With life.

Countess, Ada.
With life?

Rudolf.
Aye, and as much as you
Do hold its worth, so much you owe to him.

Countess.
A mother's thankfulness words cannot speak.
I will but use them, gallant youth, to tell thee,
My thanks shall be in deeds. Command me. What
I have or can, whereby to thee or thine,
Service or comfort may be done, shall be
And is at your disposal. Speak, my son,
The manner of thy danger and deliverance.

Rudolf.
That can I in few words, and yet the telling
Be not so brief as was the acting self.
My followers, their horses spent, were far
Arear; when I, drawn by the dogs' fresh whimpers,
Urg'd my tir'd steed towards a tangled copse,
Wherein, holding my two best hounds at bay,
A huge boar, panting and blood-sprinkled, stood.
As from my lifted arm sped the true spear,
That for a twelve month had not miss'd its aim,
My hunter falter'd and sank under me.
Untouch'd the madden'd beast shook from his head
The faithful dogs, and furious made at me,
Arm'd only with my sword; when, from a hand
Unseen, a javelin hurl'd, pierc'd his broad flank,
And I, 'stead of the deadly animal,
Met my deliverer.

Ada.
It was bravely done.

Rudolf.
Aye, Ada, and most skilfully.

Countess.
I ne'er
Shall cease to thank you.

Rupert.
Madam, thank me not.
The shaft I shot but as a sportsman. Thanks,
If any, should be to your son from me,
In that he for me sprang the game I sought.
A moment's pause perhaps had chang'd our lots,
Made him the saver, me the sav'd. Such is
The fortune of the chase.

Countess.
As 'tis of life,
Where not our deeds alone, but e'en our wills
Are shap'd oft to their own confounding, and
We're made or marr'd by spiritual circumvention.
Yet thence more precious is the good we snatch.
Wherefore to thee as of our present joy
The instrument we give welcome and thanks
Which time shall ripen. But I do forget
Your weariness. Come, Ada. To tir'd hunters
Our care will be more grateful than our presence.
They long to praise us for our good housewifery.

(Exeunt Countess and Ada.)
Rudolf.
And now, my more than brother of the chase,
With such refreshment as our this day's toil
Has earn'd,—bracing our strength with liberal cheer,
And smoothing our worn limbs with hunters' sleep,—
Prepare we for the morrow. 'Tis a season
When every day not given to the forest
Is lost to life. The messenger I sent
Has ere this brought his tidings to your home.
Uncumber'd therefore with an anxious thought,
You now are master of your hours. Let's in.

Rupert.
I'll follow you.
(Exit Rudolf.)
(Rupert alone.)
How easily my eye
Takes in the large proportions of these walls.
Such as I've built them in my wondering mind,
Listening unto my father's lov'd discourse
Of halls and towers, fill now my grasping sight
The broad divisions and high parapets
Of this deep-founded castle. Rather seems
Its frowning form the shadow of my thoughts
Than the true fabric which it is. And this
Majestic lady, in whose courtesy
Relives in words the chisel'd grace about her,
With that fair still companion, shedding round
Her beauty tranquilly,—like a fresh star
New hung in Heaven,—scarcely are they strange
Unto my outward sight, so busily
My fancy has been plied with radiant visions.