University of Virginia Library

ELIDUKE, COUNT OF YVELOC.

A Tragedy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[_]

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

• For Eli. read Eliduke
• For Rol. read Roland
• For Blanch. read Blanchespee
• For Walt. read Walter
• For Sans. read Sanscœur
• For Phil. read Philip
• For Mil. read Milieu
• For Cast. read Castabel
• For Est. read Estreldis
• For Blanc. read Blancafor
• For Aza. read Azalia
• For Lar. read Lardune

• Eliduke, seneschal to the King of Brittany.
• Roland, a lord of Brittany.
• Blanchespee, brother to Castabel and Blancaflor.
• Walter, a captain, a retainer of Eliduke's.
• King of Brittany.
• King of Cornwall.
• A Prince at war with Cornwall.
• Sanscœur, courtier in the Breton court.
• Philip, courtier in the Breton court.
• Milieu, courtier in the Breton court.
• Lords, Gentlemen, &c.
• Castabel, wife to Eliduke.
• Blancaflor, sister to Castabel and Blanchespee.
• Estreldis, daughter to the King of Cornwall.
• Azalia, lady in the Cornish court.
• Lardune, lady in the Cornish court.
• Bianca, lady in the Cornish court.
• Women of Castabel's, Abbess, &c.

ACT I

Scene I.

An anteroom in the court at Nantes.
Enter Walter and a Gentleman of the Court.
Walt.

What! does my lord still hold his own, handling his honours with so lofty a grace that the best of them show but as underlings? Does he flaunt it still?

Gent.

Of whom speak you?

Walt.

Good! as if I spake to thee of an earthworm. Thy envy furnishes thee with a very fitting semblance of ignorance. It was but of the Seneschal I spoke; of him whom Fame hath made her foster-child, and placed so high on the rock of noble reputation, that having no higher to climb, 'tis marvel he grows not giddy and falls not;—of him whom thou saidst thyself, the King was but his gilded speaking-trumpet; —of my right honorable and much-loved lord, Count Eliduke of Yveloc. Do you know the man?

Gent.

Eliduke?

Walt.

Even Eliduke.

Gent.

When camest thou to court?

Walt.

I came not—I come now, my spurs hot with riding.

Gent.

Ha!

Walt.

Ha! and be hanged! art thou turned cliptongue? Thou wast wont to gossip like a lad among ladies, and now thou screwest out thy words and makest marvellous faces like a monkey sick of the heartburn. I would hear news of the court, and learn what changes since last I marred the honesty of my behaviour by showing my face among you, and thou hast only, ‘Ha!’ and ‘Who?’ and ‘How?’ I would I had thee on the rack.

Gent.

These are my news; mark them. Count Eliduke has suddenly fallen into the King's disfavour, who has shown himself as little temperate in his present anger as in his former favour. The Count is expelled from his office, stripped of all the King's castles and honours, and bidden to confine himself within the walls of his castle at Yveloc until his majesty's further pleasure be signified.

Walt.

Thou dost but jest with me.

Gent.

Not I. But the main wonder is, that no one knows the cause of this sudden disaffection of the King, save those perchance who have had a hand in bringing it about. Count Eliduke declares himself most especially ignorant, and would fain clear himself in

open court; or at least hear his accusation; but the King absolutely forbids him his presence, and protests he will never see him again; and though he be not commonly given to stand long by his word, it will need more time than ordinary to allay the heat of his present indignation.

Walt.

And Eliduke?—

Gent.

Swears he will be heard, though it cost him his head.

Walt.

By my sword, he says right, and the King does his honour an injury to disgrace so noble a gentleman without a hearing. Does no man plead for him?

Gent.

You are newly come to court with a vengeance. Do men help their proud friends grown poor?

Walt.

Ay, sir, men do; I see thou wouldst dress thy tongue, like thy leg, in the fashion of the hour, and follow the cant of the day that virtue is extinct among men. For God's sake, man, put not thy heart in stays, cramp not thy faith in a tight boot; but believe that there shall be found honour and gratitude even amongst courtiers. Thou wilt thyself speak for him.

Gent.

I would gladly, sir, do him any slight service I could; for he was in his prosperity ever courteous and well inclined towards me; but speak for him in open court I may not; I should but lose my own standing, nor render him any service commensurate to my own loss.

Walt.

Thou dost well to distrust men; I perceive

now that what I fancied an idle following of fashion was but a measuring of men by thine own beggarly rule. Is Lord Roland here?

Gent.

Should he speak for Eliduke?

Walt.

Ay, sir.

Gent.

Ha! ha!

Walt.

Laugh, monkey.

Gent.

They are sworn enemies. They were suitors both to the same lady, and Eliduke married her, and worsted him in duel. Should he plead for him?

Walt.

Fitter deed for a noble foe than an envious friend. I'll to the Audience-hall; if a better tongue speak for him, good; if not, mine shall be heard. Spare me your company.

[Exit Walter.
Gent.

What a pestiferous, ill-bred, honest ruffian is this! I think he means to insult me. I would I had quarrelled with him. [Exit.

Scene II.

Audience-hall in the Court at Nantes, crowded with Courtiers awaiting the arrival of the King. A knot of them conversing in front.
Sanscœur, Milieu, Walter, and Philip.
San.
This Count has caught the taste of fear at last,
He will not come to keep his vaunt to-day.

Mil.
He were unwise to do it, sir. Reflection
Has taught him that to front the King in's rage,
Were but to quench his nigh-extinguished favour,
And find no compensation. Florid Anger,
Like an o'er-healthy child, dies in his cradle;
Whilst puling Prudence, sickly after birth,
Strengthens from hour to hour.

Walt.
You little know him;
This Prudence is a slave or nothing to him,
So closely twined to his first purposes,
That in their acting she becomes auxiliary;
Or if some impulse should have played the forger
With his hard will, then hot and malleable
By the quick flash of Anger, so that Prudence
Had lost her part i' the moulding, he would rather
Mar all than bar his once-conceived resolve.

Phil.
Do you speak this for praise? These mad resolves
Show not the tempered firmness of a man.
There is in him—
Enter Roland.
Is it Lord Roland yonder?

San.
Did you not look he should be here to-day?
Quick rumour hath arrested his glad ear,
Whispering the downfall of his hated foe.
He comes to help us scorn him.

Phil.
Chain your tongue!
And range your thoughts more nobly when you speak
Of one who is clear honour's best adornment;
Your heart's too weakly poised and narrow a base
To pile opinions of Lord Roland on;
He does not stand like triumph. See, his brow
Is shadowed with the sweeping hand of Care,
And from his downcast eye pale Pity leans.
He mourns his enemy unjustly fallen,
And cannot stoop his high nobility
To stand upon the carcass of dead power.
True honour is its own best pedestal,
And scorns the piecing of a broken shaft.

Enter Eliduke.
Mil.
Look!

San.
Let him come; we need not budge for him.

Eli.
Give place, there!

Rol.
Place! do you hear, sirs? place for Yveloc, here!

Eli.
Do you mock me, sir? Well!

Rol.
Sir, I mock you not.

Chamberlain.
The King!

Enter the King with train, and seats himself.
Eli.
My liege, I kneel a suppliant at your feet
Fall'n from estate—

King.
Are you come here to whine
Like a whipt dog,—to howl your paltry griefs,
Your wrongs? Give place! I have no ear for you.

Eli.
I am no dog, my liege. These are your dogs,
Base breed of hounds that with their slavish cry
Have halloed me to death; these are your dogs,
That know no virtue but your favourite vice,
That know no courage but your faintest fears,
With whom your reflex is best excellence,
And blackest evil your most opposite,—
These are your dogs, my lord, but I am none.
You are a king whose—

King.
Will he draw to close?
His tongue sits close i' the saddle. Well, my lord,
On with your set speech till it comes to close,
And then we too will speak. On, on, my lord!

Eli.
Hear me; I ask not favour, sire; I come
To plead my just cause in a kingly ear,
And from the native eye of majesty
To wipe suspicion's dust; and this to do
Lacks but the allowance of the breath you stifle.
If I have wronged you, let me know in what.
Have I sold offices? for silver bribes
Weighted the scale of justice? more esteemed
The chink of gold than the pale orphan's cry?
Betrayed your counsels to your enemies?
Played coward in the field, or in the chamber
Advised you to your ruin? If of these
Any the least hath sullied my demeanour,
Or proved me ingrate for the gifts you lavished,
Let me know which, and either I will clear
My unstained honour from a slanderous blot,
Or if't be true, which I protest I fear not,
I will confess it freely. Royal my lord,
This is a right your meanest slave might urge
With unbent knee and an unquailing eye,
And call it only justice. Look, my liege,
Kneeling, I do entreat it as a grace.
O summon up your regal attributes
And be a king, not ugly Slander's thrall!
If I have lost your favour, my dear liege,
And your less liking deems it now more fit
To clothe another in the garbs once mine,
I am content; but, O my gracious lord,
Take not away that which was never thine,—
My honourable title and fair name.
Strip, if you will, these outward decorations,
And leave me naked; but sole Nature's garb,
The skin of honour, peel not that away.
Say that my ruin is your sovereign will;
But do not hint at a concealed dishonour,
Which makes my fall due justice for my faults,
And each man's changing fancy my accuser.

King
(who has been whispering with his courtiers during Eliduke's speech).
What says the pretty one? will she stand a siege?

Eli.
I do demean myself to stoop so low;
This your contempt is most unkingly, King.
O pardon me! I that was ever loyal
Will teach my tongue no less observance now;
I will believe you have some cause for this
That may not show i' the surface. But for these—
Was't thou, or thou, that worked this wrong upon me?
Dare ye not speak? Look how the craven blood
Pales on their brows, and tells the trembling truth
Their false tongues shake to utter! Coward knaves!
Scorn is too scornful to be spent upon you;
Contempt disdains to mark you. But there stands
One I thought noble, though mine enemy;
He too—

Rol.
Turn not your angry eye on me, my lord;
You do me much dishonour to believe
That I am mingled in so base a throng.
Here is my open hand, that holds my heart;
If you will clasp it, well; if not, content:
I do not sue to be your friend or foe;
But whether friend or foe, being wronged and foully,
As I believe you are, I dare well venture
To speak, though not for you, yet in behalf
Of injured Justice, whose bright properties
Are so essential to the hearts of men
We may as well endure to balk our sight
Of the bright sunbeams, and solicit dark,
As lose our part in her, and, unregarding,
Let tyranny seal up her fostering eyes.
I have no smoother title for this act
Than tyranny, nor do I care to find one.
I came to sue a gift upon my knee;
Now, standing on my feet, I claim a right,—
To me—to all, no less than Eliduke.
Favours are worthless, if I find I hold
My dearest honour only by the thread
Of a king's changing will. Either, my lord,
Front the fall'n count with his imputed failings,
Or be content to be no more a king,
And take the name of tyrant.

King.
Sword of God! is there no fury in the face of kings
That may with its insufferable blaze
Burn up these mouthing traitors? do we sit
To be their block of scorn, to cower and bend
Beneath the ratings of their unreined tongues?
Hear, Count of Yveloc! If another week
Shall find you circled in our widest bounds,
Your head shall roll i' the dust for 't, and your blood
May cry to Heaven for justice; for, by God,
You shall get none of me. For you, my lord,
That stand upon punctilio of crime,
Leave your friend's faults and learn your own is this,—
You have a tongue that wags too saucily;
Till you have taught it measure, do not venture
To show your face i' the court, or you shall bear
Your new-made comrade exile's company.
Death! I am choked with passion. Lead away!

[Exit King and train.
Eli.
(to Roland).
My lord, I wronged you; will you pardon me?
You proffered me your hand, which I will take,
And dare affirm I ne'er touched one more honest.
Were I less deeply in your debt, fair sir,
I could make longer protestations.
But in my fallen hour your generous aid
Has more than emptied all my store of thanks;
And far from paying, I would add to the debt,
Entreating that we may be friends, my lord.

Rol.
I do at heart desire it. Let us not
Excuse the differences of former times,
But wholly sponge them from our memories;
And live from this day only.

Eli.
Nobly granted.

[They pass up conversing.
Re-enter Milieu, Sanscœur, and others of the King's train.
First Lord.
This traitor lords it yet.

Second Lord.
What infinite terrible scorn
Weighed down his eyelids when he chid thee, Sanscœur!

San.
Pooh! my good lord, such looks are little hurtful;
My sword had sent sharper glances to his breast,
And spoiled his boastful bearing, but my reverence
For the king's presence tied my eager hand.

First Lord.
Ay, and mine too. I was at point to tell him
I had a share in his well-earned dishonour,
And gloried in it; but 'twas better not.

Walt.
(passing through).
Ay, better not; for had you done so, sir,
You might have paid for 't dearly; better not.

San.
Why better not, save for our fear of the king?
Marked you how Eliduke withdrew just now?
There rode a sort of challenge in my eye,
And he saw fit to avoid me.

Walt.
I'll accept it.

[Eliduke and Roland come up.
Eli.
Walter, put up; he is not worth your arm.
Why, if you love me, tell me that your sword
Hangs on an exile's hip. Will you abroad?
I must have twelve of you.

Walt.
Let me be one.

Eli.
No service is more welcome. Fare you well!

Walt.
And none more gladly rendered, my dear lord.

Eli.
At Yveloc ere the week's out. Fare you well!
[Exit Walter.
Away! we would be private. Do you stand?

[Exeunt Sanscœur and Lords.
Rol.
You treat them shortly.

Eli.
Oh, they earn no better;
They are but sickly lichens that o'ergrow
The trunk of the court. You will accept this charge?
How heavily I lean upon your friendship!
I have heard say that generosity
Shows more in the acceptance than in the giving;
By this I am a better man than you,
Being such an adept in the begging art.

Rol.
But dare you trust me?

Eli.
Ay, indeed, I dare.

Rol.
I was your rival in your wife's affections.
We have crossed bloody swords upon that theme;
And though her nice-tuned judgment did detect
Your higher worth and hung her love upon you,—
O priceless jewel!—yet my steady heart
Wears yet her stamp, and till the wax itself
Crack in Death's fingers, will not be defaced.
Dare you hear this, and trust me?

Eli.
Yes, indeed.

Rol.
Then I'll be worthy your dear confidence,
Which daring to believe me true and noble,
Shall make me not the less so. I'll renounce
My former love, and teach my stormy blood
A steadier tide, which once was wont to choke me,
If I but brushed her garments. Now shall she
No longer be my mistress, but my saint,—
And thereto sits a sanctity divine
On her chaste brow, whose constant contemplation
Shall lead my soul to heaven. Castabel!
Now my fond love-words shall be turned to prayers;
Trembling love-glances shall be upturned eyes
Heavy with pale devotion; those thrilling touches
Of her white hand, turning the startled blood,
Be claspings of my own; and my hot passion,
Like turbid streams drawn by the sun's hot rays,
Exhale to clouds of reverence.

Eli.
Good my lord!

Rol.
She that from boyhood held my heart's deep chambers
I must at last surrender. Oh, be still!
Look! with a trembling action I uplift
The torch of passion—hold, my heart! and now
With a down-falling hand the flames are steeped
In the cold stream of duty. It is over.
Now I am dedicate to Honour's train,
And Love has lost his sceptre. Shall we go?
It were but poor to say I'll keep her safely.

Eli.
You oversway me with your nobleness.
I thought you once unworthy Castabel,
But now perceive in you a deeper fervour
Than even I can boast of.

Rol.
Say not so.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Hall in Eliduke's Castle at Yveloc.
Blancaflor and Blanchespee.
Blanc.
What shall I do with thee, thou idle boy?

Blanch.
I care not; when will there be wars again?

Blanc.
What's that to thee? wilt thou turn man-at-arms?

Blanch.
No; but I'll fight o' horseback by my brother;
Eliduke promised I should ride with him
When next he went to fight.

Blanc.
And when will that be?
Never, I hope.

Blanch.
Never, indeed! Why, silly Blancaflor,
What should we men do if there were no wars?

Blanc.
Talk not of wars. Tell me a tale, good Harry,—
Of bold King Arthur hid in Avalon,
Or Launcelot and gay Queen Guinevere,
False fair-haired Ysolde and true-hearted Tristan,—
Such tales as you would tell me in old times,
When we would sit half a long summer's day
In the old fir-wood, for our twisted fingers
Weaving each other rings of the long grass,
Which we would set with flowers for jewelry:
Daisies were diamonds; blue violets
Served for our amethysts, full fairly set;
For pearls, white may-buds; and for yellow topaz,
Most prized of all, the golden tormentil.
Do you remember those old happy days,
When you told tales, and both of us sang songs,
Our merry voices and quick-ringing laughs
Startling the stillness of the noon-tide air?

Blanch.
Oh, those were childish days. Well, here's a tale:
Once on a time, two mighty kings fell out;—
Why did my brother quarrel with Lord Roland?
Was it for Castabel?

Blanc.
I do not know.

Blanch.
Now you look sad, and so you always do
When I speak of Lord Roland. Yet I think,
Except my brother, he's the bravest man
Stands in all Brittany.

Blanc.
There's no man braver.

Blanch.
Then, why d'ye hate him? Why does Eliduke?

Blanc.
I do not hate him.

Blanch.
Why do you look sad, then?

Blanc.
I do not know.—Come, this is foolish talk;
Tell me your tale.

Blanch.
Well, as I said before—
Ha! who comes here? a soldier, by his gait. Enter Walter.

Sir Walter, as I live!—Welcome, good Walter!

Walt.
What, my young gallant, are you idling here?
Sitting in-doors when all the world's in arms?

Blanch.
In arms!

Walt.
O ignorance! our boats are manned,
Our armour's buckled, and our eager swords
Leap in their scabbards with the thoughts of war.

Blanch.
Whither away? Oh, I'll go with you too.

Walt.
To Cornwall, boy, to try a soldier's fortune.

Blanc.
He's jesting, Harry. Do we not know Sir Walter?

Walt.
Nay; it is true.

Blanc.
But Harry must not go.

Blanch.
Must not! I will!

Walt.
Had I a voice, thou shouldst.
Lord Eliduke comes close upon my heels;
Let's put it to him.

Blanch.
Ay!—look where he comes!

Blanc.
Eliduke home again? where's Castabel?
I'll fetch her here.—Harry, thou shalt not go.

[Exit Blancaflor.
Walt.
To him, boy! thou shalt go.

Enter Eliduke.
Blanch.
O my dear brother,
Let me go with you!

Eli.
What! wilt thou go too?

Blanch.
O good my brother, leave me not behind!
Why, I can fight, believe me, I can fight,—
Can I not, Walter? and in all your toils,
As well I know we soldiers suffer many,—
Hunger and thirst, sharp frost, and beating rain,—
If ever I so much as say “'Tis cold,”
Or “I'm a hungered;” if I do but sigh,
Or seek compassion with a piteous look,
Whip me and send me home. Come, let me go!

Eli.
What say'st thou, Walter? must we take the child?

Walt.
I'd rather leave any two men of them
Than miss this boy.

Eli.
Well, Harry, thou shalt go;
But fetch your sword, and get you to the ships,
Or we shall have your sister's tender fears
Tying you fast at home. Away, good Harry!

Blanch.
O my good brother, I am bound for ever!
Alas, poor Flora! she will weep to find
I have stol'n a march upon her; but in good time
We shall come back again; shall we not, brother?

Eli.
Ay, if we be not killed.

Blanch.
And then she'll be
More glad to welcome an approved soldier
Than sorry now to lose an idle boy.
Ho! for the ships, good Walter! come,—away!

Eli.
Expect me, Walter, in some two hours' time;
Heave up your anchors, and have all prepared
To push from shore when I set foot on board.

Walt.
I will, my lord.—Away, thou prince of boys!

[Exeunt Walter and Blanchespee.
Eli.
Look, how the rolling world turns round and round,
And circumstance, life's busy scene-shifter,
Alters our aspects with a magic hand!
I, that was late the moving-spring of power,
Am now an exile; powerless, here I stand
Unpropped by state, and now am first a man.
Now has my soul stripped off her cumbrances,
And naked stands to try a fall with Fate;
Whom I contemn, because she cannot move me
To war against myself and lose my virtue,
The sole true loss.

Enter Blancaflor.
Blanc.
Welcome, good Eliduke.
Where's Harry gone?

Eli.
I greet you, gentle sister!
He is not here.

Blanc.
But was a moment since;
Walter hath taken him. Harry! good Harry!

[Exit, calling.
Eli.
Here's the true end of man,—to light within him
A clearer soul; and purging the dim vapours,
The clinging smoke that hangs about that fire,
To feed it with keen fuel,—contemplation,
High aspirations, piety, devotion,—
Till it becomes an offering fit for Death
To pluck and lay before the feet of God.
I am dismissed from fortune, that I may
Prove myself fit to cope necessity.
Vicissitude's the hammer with which Heaven
Tries its best-fashioned souls: like diamonds,
Being without a flaw, they'll stand the shock;
Being worthless, fly to pieces. I contemn it.
Rather like iron I'll become more tough
Under the doubling strokes. Enter Castabel.

Why, sweet, in tears?
This is poor welcome.

Cas.
Oh, they are idle drops;
The sunshine of your presence dries them up.
Will you see Ned? he sleeps; his little brain,
That all day long has painted shapes of you,
Having forgot your semblance, is now still;
And little Mary,—oh, you must hush for that,
And you shall see her tiny crimson cheek
Set with a smile under her yellow hair,
That hangs over her dimpled arm outspread
On the white coverlet. But you'll be still?

Eli.
Oh, I'll be still. But do you know, indeed,
I am an exile?

Cas.
Why, there's not much in that,
Since in your presence, love, there's more delight
Than pangs in twenty exiles;—not much to me.
In exile I shall see you every hour,
Attend you, taste your accents, not as now,
By your most frequent absence at the court,
Live less like wife than widow. Oh, to me
Exile is precious.

Eli.
Sweet, this cannot be.

Cas.
How, dearest?

Eli.
O love, be calm; you cannot share
My exiled fortunes—must not go with me.

Cas.
Not go with you! Oh, here's a grief indeed.

Eli.
Indeed, indeed, love, no. Nay, do but think
How this your show of sorrow wounds my soul,
And you will check the flow. We have no means,
In our most hasty soldier-passages,
That could make life endurable to you
Who only know its comforts. Why, one night
Under the battering rain of stormy heaven
Would freeze the spirit in your tender frame.
We must go unencumbered, bearing only
Arms, our best tools, with their sharp aid to win
Lodging and food; and failing oft in these,
Wander sad outcasts, fronting the keen wind.
It were to murder you to let you go.
Besides, even granting that you could sustain
Life in these toils (though so to grant were madness),
The scanty time admits no preparation:
I must away to-night; to-morrow's sun
Shines death upon me with his waking eye;—
And, heart, your children!

Cas.
O my little ones!

Eli.
Could they endure these toils, or could you leave them
In the cold hands of strangers, all alone;
Their pretty cheeks dabbled with rolling tears,
And for the sweet voice of your lullaby
Sobbing themselves to sleep the weary night?
Oh, no, indeed. Come, you shall stay with them,
And breed my Ned a soldier. Will you not?

Cas.
I will obey you. I will be calm. O me!

Eli.
That's my brave wife. Come; it will not be long.
This king can little spare me. While fresh Peace
Dandles him like a baby on his throne,
He can play insolent and cast me off;
But when red War rattles his iron teeth
And shakes his flag over the land again,
He cannot spare my arm,—I know it well,—
And will send gifts to sue me home again;
Which I receiving with his pleading summons,
Swift as the swallow hung on autumn wing
Taking a homeward flight, will back return
Into thy arms, O darling! dearer to me
Than all the world beside. Come, love, smile;
Let us have soldiers' parting,—sweet and hasty,—
For I must straight away. Gallant companions,
Clustering the shore, blame this my slow delay;
The low-benched rowers bend; the ready sailors
Hold back their unreefed sails, like dogs i' the leash,
That ruffling in the wind do chide and growl,
Eager to chase the ocean. The keen steersman
Twirls with impatient hand the rattling helm;
And eager Haste hangs on the dipping prow,
Shaking her wings for flight. All but await
My coming, who do waste the busy moments
In lingering talk, and know not how to leave thee.

Cas.
So short a time! our meeting and our parting
Wrapped in the little space of half an hour,—
Great circumstance to be so closely packed;
A grief and joy, that in the common count
Might last through all the year, so quickly gone!

Eli.
You are not left unguarded. Lord Roland
Will in my absence hold you free from fear,
And with your best assistance keep my lands—
Manage and minister in my affairs.
Make him an honoured guest, and pay him all
Observance that becomes my dearest friend.

Cas.
Do you mean Roland that was once my lover?

Eli.
Is he not honourable?

Cas.
Oh, most truly!
But sure, no friend of yours.

Eli.
Tush! that's gone by.
We're closely knit in love. He'll tell you all.

Cas.
I am most glad to hear't. In such good hands
I better shall sustain the heavy weight
Of your long absence.

Eli.
I am well pleased to learn
You find such comfort in it. Sweet, farewell!

Cas.
Not yet, not yet! I cannot say farewell.
Clip not farewell so close. How long will't be
Ere I claim back this kiss? alas, perhaps never.
O dearest love, in your long wanderings
Do not forget your home-enthralled wife,
That, lost to comfort, counts the weary hours,
Clogging their flight with tears. O love, be true!

Eli.
Why should you doubt me? I must chide your fears.
Do I bid thee keep wedded faith unblemished?

Cas.
Bid me be faithful! Yet why should you not,
Since I enjoin it you? Faith, I'll believe
You are as strong in truth as I myself,
And then I need not doubt you. Oh, but I
Can feed my heart with thought and memory
Of your high excellence. You have no such theme.
You'll see new scenes, and light on fairer faces
Than that which pales at home; but none so true.
O love, forgive me! Idle jealousy,
Bred of a fickle heart, shall never thrust
His smoky glass between our constant loves,
By it's transmitted dark blackening all thoughts,
Turning all fair to foul, and trust to doubt.
Shaming mistrust, I will believe your love
Rooted in constancy and never fading.

Eli.
Build, love, on this,—that to forego the claim
I have in you, the priceless property.
Were like a child to fling a gem away
That I can never match. And now, away!
See, Night unrolls his banner, and ere morn
Break in the east I must be far from shore.
Would I might breathe in this your air for ever!

Cas.
Oh, linger not when an impatient death
Lurks on your trail so close. Haste, love, away!
Hang but another kiss upon my lips
For a most dear memento. God be with you!

Eli.
Kiss me the little ones; in your constant prayers
Remember me to Heaven. Fare you well!

[Exit.
Cas.
O scanty parting for so long a stay!
Oh, gone, and perhaps for ever! This dear hour,
That hung i' the future like a golden star,
Has burst in grief, and fallen darkling down;
The hour of welcome in the parting hour
Merged, and all joy in ugly absence whelmed.
My soul breeds sad presentiments of woe;
But it were weak to trust them. Thoughts to Heaven!
Great God of waters! whose sustaining hand
Teaches the tides their course,—Thou who dost train
The eager-footed storms, oh, chain them now!
Thou through the weary nights dost light the sea,
Tending the safety of the lonely sailor,
Sad waggoner of Ocean, who does drive
His winged team over the furrowed deep,
Safe in thy guidance,—oh, this night, if ever,
Spread out thy fostering hand and calm the sea,
Carry my husband to the distant shore,
And in time's circling flight bring him again
Unchanged from what he was! O heavy heart!

ACT II.

Scene I.

In Cornwall. A Hall in the King's Palace.
Eliduke. Walter. Blanchespee.
Eli.

We have met warm welcome, Walter.

Walt.

Fortune's cats, my lord; we 'light on our legs ever. Oh, let content get the upper hand of ill-luck, and her kicks and her buffets are no more than fleabites; if you rub them, indeed, they will smart. I swear we never were merrier—no, not last night in the thick of the feast—than we were a week ago on our way hither, when we toasted horse-flesh on our swords' points, and a full belly outweighed a full purse. What

a desolate waste the scoundrels have made of the land!

Eli.

It was the King that did it, and wisely. Being too weak to meet the enemy in the field, he hath stored his castle and laid the open country bare; so the enemy, when he comes to besiege us here, may bring his own victuals, or starve for it. He will come shortly, and then we must fight for our keep. This King hath received us courteously and feasted us plenteously, when we came in looking like ill-fed ghosts in rusty armour; and now, our tendered services being accepted, and we being sworn his vassals, we shall do ill not to fight stoutly in his behoof.

Blanch.

I'll fight, my lord!

Walt.

He'll fight! Oh, terrible! What wilt thou fight, most sanguinary hero, most unappeasable bloodletter, a very leech hid in a helmet, a horrible beetle in hat and feather? What wilt thou fight?

Blanch.

The enemy.

Walt.

God help the enemy!

Blanch.

Do you laugh?

Walt.

He will make heaven musty with cobwebs of men's shades slain in the field, that shall hang there and make Juno sneeze, till the housemaid, Mercury, brush 'em down-stairs with her broom. Gods! his hand on his sword! I must pay for it now.

Blanch.

'Sdeath!

Walt.

O most hot-blooded hop-o'-my-thumb, I pray you be pacified; I am utterly unworthy to taste

the fiery pepper of your indignation. Ha! ha! ha! Come, I'll set you on a dunghill, and match you against the cock. You shall fight an old cock, stain your virginsword with a ferocious old cock's blood. But you must buckle your greaves tight, or your legs shall smart for it; if, indeed, the cock be not too proud to fight, being a knight spurred, which your miteship is not.

Blanch.

Will you draw?

Walt.

I cannot hold my sword for laughing; I entreat you, spare me!

Blanch.

Will you draw? will you fight, old dunghill cock?

Walt.

Must I draw? Heaven have mercy on your young soul then!

Blanch.

You will not fight me? come on!

[They fight; Walter feigning to thrust, and parrying the strokes of Blanchespee.
Walt.

I cannot hit him, he is too small.

Eli.

He will hurt you, Walter; have a care.

[Blanchespee runs Walter through the arm.
Blanch.

Have I hurt you? Oh, pardon me!

Walt.

Hang it! to be run through by a whippersnapper! You have spoiled my left arm for a month to come.

Blanch.

Oh, pardon me, sir! your laughter stirred me too deeply; what a fool was I to be angry! Come, let me bind it round with my scarf. Let me see; 'tis not much.

Walt.

Oh, 'tis nothing, had a man done it; but to be pecked so by a sparrow!

Blanch.

Nay, let me bind it—so. Is it easy?

Walt.

Easy, yes. I shall digest the coming feast the better for so neat a blood-letting. Wipe your sword, and have done; you will not brag of this?

Blanch.

Who, I, sir? it would ill become me.

Walt.

Oh, yes, you will. Your sprouting boy will sooner learn to flourish his sword than to steady his tongue; all the court must know how you fought Walter, and drew blood from him. You'll tell all.

Blanch.

I say no, sir; you may make what tale you will for your bandaged arm; I'll swear it true.

Walt.

Bandaged arm, forsooth! like tying up the scratch of a cat.

Eli.

Come, Walter; what a surly fool art thou! You well deserved the hurt you got. If you cease not your grumbling at once, I'll be the trumpeter myself to proclaim how you got it.

Walt.

I've done, my lord.

Blanch.

Do not so, brother. It would redound much to my discredit, that, like a choleric boy aping the swordsman, drew on my best friend. Be friends again, Walter.

Walt.

What a plague mean you? I'll not shake hands,—as if we had quarrelled.

Eli.

He is in the right of it; you can never be but friends. Be thankful it is not your leg; you will show no worse at the ball to-night, nor will it spoil

your love-making, eh? This is his faith Harry—that heaven is a place where departed souls fight all day, and make love to rest themselves. Thither shall all good men go; and a good man—

Blanch.

Is one who strives to make a heaven on earth.

Walt.

Oh, flout away! But who made love last night? In good sooth, I thought you had lost your heart in earnest—such looks! such low words! I swear, had I been a woman, you had taken me in off-hand. Methought the princess's eye showed a yielding fervour, too, by the way the lid hung on her cheek; and her look flashed up in yours every now and then to see if you spake true, and you lying like a Cretan; but she saw it not. How the faint crimson flush came and went too! You are a quick thief of hearts, my lord.

Eli.

She hath a rare beauty, and a rare soul below, as indeed you may mark in woman, that the noblest aspect of beauty hides ever a soul to match.

Walt.

Souls, my lord, are for men.

Eli.

O infidel! I dare hardly tell it to thee, Walter, but my conscience pricked me sorely when I was alone with it last night in my quarters. Why should I, that have a fair wife at home, and love this lady no more than a nine-pin to play with, swear away my soul to win her heart only for the sport of winning it? It may pale her cheek with sorrow, for what I know.

Walt.

Pooh! what a dainty, delicate, touch-me-not-with-the-top-of-your-finger conscience have we

got here? Why, women's hearts are never safe in their own keeping; they were only given them to lose. A woman never finds her heart till she has lost it irrecoverably. Talk love till your tongue melts in your mouth, only lose not your own heart. 'Tis a dangerous toy you play with. She is one that the angels might sigh for.

Eli.

Ha! ha! she shall find me tougher than e'er a seraph among them. Yet were I unmated, her love—

Blanch.

A plague on your love-talk! how you waste the hours! Let's go hunt.

Walt.

Hark to him! Do you scorn love? why you are a boy yet. It is no man that cannot make a lady love him to distraction by a night's talk in her ear.

Blanch.

Will you teach me to make love?

Walt.

I? ask the Lady Estreldis.

Blanch.

'Faith, so I will.

Walt.

'Tis a thing we men learn by teaching it women, and you boys by the women teaching you. Or follow your brother; his example shall teach you, though he swears he thinks it wicked.

Eli.

I'll be cold to her; 'tis villanous.

Walt.

He'll be cold! mark him! I'll fly at all hearts.

Blanch.

Oh, let's go hunt.

Walt.

There's no time; we must to the feast shortly, where your brother will sit and talk in the princess's ear.

Blanch.

There had been time, but for your hanged love-talk. [Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Ball-room in the Court at Cornwall.
Estreldis and her Women in dancing plight.
Est.
Pretty Bianca, will you dance to-night?

Bi.
If I may find a partner, I'll not fail.

Est.
Oh, trust your face for that; it will not fail you.
And you, Lardune?

Lar.
Oh, let me dance to-night,
And go to heaven happy, having tasted
Earth's best felicity.

Est.
Dancing, Lardune?

Lar.
Oh, with these Breton knights, that make the air
Heavy in pace behind them, and still tread
With such a delicate feeling of the time,
As if the music dwelt in their own frames,
And shook the motion from them. Oh, divine!

Est.
Is it so charming? I remember me
Dancing was ever your delight, but now—

Lar.
I never danced till now. Our Cornwall sirs
We thought were adepts; but compared to these,
They're dull and heavy, and lack ears to mark
The proper grace of movement. Say these walk,
Then you may stint the breath of commendation,
And say these strangers dance. Let our knights dance,
These others fly and ride upon the air;
Or flattering, call our Cornish motion flight,—
These Bretons are the untied elements
That in their airy and fantastic course,
Joining and now disjoining, mingling now
In fresh variety of curious shapes,
Hold dancing revelry in Nature's halls.

Est.
Thou'rt mad, Lardune;—tell me, Azalia,
What think you of these strangers? will they wear
As fairly in the trial as they show now?

Lar.
Oh, I'll be sworn for't; trust me, outward bearing
Glasses the man within. True gold, that shines most,
Is in itself more costly and more noble
Than duller seeming brass. That agile force,
That trains their feet i' th' dance, will in the fight
Show bravely in their arms, and their bright swords
Tread such quick measure on the heads of foes,
The ringing helms their music, that Dismay
Shall seize them at the force of't, and Defeat,
Ever his follower, clear the field of them.

Est.
Shall none of's talk but thou? Tell us, Lardune,
Which of these Bretons with the shaking legs
Hath danced himself into thy favour most?

Lar.
The rest are mainly balanced, but this chief,
Lord Eliduke—

Est.
Peace, child! and know your place;
Eagles alone may look upon the sun.

Lar.
Are you an eaglet, and is he the sun?

Est.
You are over-bold.

Lar.
Or over-true. I'm still.

Est.
Well, what of Eliduke?

Lar.
You bade me peace.

Est.
Tush! what a fool art thou: what would you say?
Come, do not fear to speak your mind of him.

Lar.
He's a most gallant—

Aza.
Hark!

Est.
They're coming in.
Range yourselves, ladies. Sweet Bianca, here!
Be sprightly and be courteous; hang the night
With your gay smiles for stars, that these our guests
Report at home you lead the world in wit
As fairly as in beauty. Music! music!

Enter King, Eliduke, Knights, &c.
King.
Choose, gentlemen, and be not slow to-night;
Each take his lady's hand, and tread with her
Responsive measure to the timed notes.
I'll be no more the king, but one of you,
Retaining, of my old prerogative,
Only this fraction—slight, since all are fair—
To be the first to choose. Gentle Bianca,
Lend me your white hand; let us lead the dance.

Eli.
I'll not go near her; now my fears for her
Are terrors for myself. She looks upon me;
I'll stand aside; there's sorcery in her smile
Dissolves mine honesty. Brighter than day!

King.
Eliduke! stol'n away?

Eli.
Here, royal sir.

King.
My daughter hath a hand that you may claim;
Let her not sit apart. Some music, ho!

Eli.
Fate drives me on. Oh, heart and tongue, hold measure!

[They dance; then the company disperse.
Estreldis and Eliduke come forward.
Eli.
The music falls away. Will you sit, lady?

Est.
So I lose not your company, fair sir.

Eli.
So I lose not my heart, fair courtesy.

Est.
Quick answers show sound hearts and flattering tongues.

Eli.

Est.
Nay. Hark! they sing.

[Blanchespee comes up.
Blanch.
Fair lady, will you teach me to make love?

Est.
Fair sir, I am no mistress in Love's school.

Eli.
Oh, be a scholar, sweet, and learn of me.

Blanch.
What said my brother? Oh, how beautiful
Those blushes make your cheek! you're wondrous fair.

Est.
What, compliment! Young sir, you are no novice;
So young and old a hypocrite. Oh, fie!
What new-spun trick is this to steal maids' hearts?

Blanch.
I wish I had your heart.

Eli.
O boy! O boy!
You know not what you ask. Thou'rt like a babe,
That fretting in the fondling nurse's arms,
Lifts its weak hands, and for a childish toy
Claims the night-wandering moon. This that thou askest
Is such a treasure as the teeming East,
Breeder of countless wealth, could never equal,
Nor all the crested brood of high-set heaven,
Planets and stars, clustering the altitude,
Given to one man, and he with power to wield them!
Oh, poor to weigh't with matter; higher things,—
Fame, grandeur, honour, virtue,—let it go,—
Are but the shadows of a greater good,
And that's the heart you ask for.

Est.
(to Blanchespee).
D' you ask my heart?

Eli.
Oh, no; I dare not.

Est.
(to Blanchespee).
Why d'you ask me for it?

Eli.
Who shall refrain, though hopeless, when he sees
The congregate of all imagination,
Shapes noblest or divinest, to ask for it?

Blanch.
Come, teach me to make love; Sir Walter tells me
I must learn love before I am a man.

Est.
I know not what it is, sir. Ask the Count.

Blanch.
My lord, what's love?

Eli.
Yes, if Estreldis ask me.

Blanch.
My brother's lost his wits. D'you ask him, lady.

Est.
Tell us, my lord, what's love; we are novices.

Eli.
Now that your lips have breathed it, they have called up
The incorporeal essence to my eye;
Prophet-like, I'll describe it. Mark me, boy!
Not of that elder deity I speak,
Child of old night, who, as the poets say,
Upon the tumbled body of dim Chaos
Begot the shapes of things. A higher god,
Younger and more essential; oft confused
With lust, his lowest servant; no more like him
Than the gross body of the travelling Sun
Is to his universal light that cheers us.
He is the child of Silence, got by Thought
Constant and deep of what the soul deems noblest;
Long hidden in her womb, ushered at length
By whispered words, evasions, sudden sighs;
Fed upon looks till weaned, and then on kisses;
Grows by endearment; comes of age by marriage;
Wedded to Constancy, and not survives her,
But in his empty place false Passion comes,
Hotter, but not long-lived; has children many,—
Faith, Virtue, Courage, Action well sustained,
Chastity, Patience, Truth, a thousand more;
Dies by neglect, worse far than death or distance;
Buried by pride, and bath no resurrection.

Est.
Know you this Love that you present so fairly?

Eli.
He lies, a swaddling baby, in my breast,
Starving for lack of meat. Feed him with favour.

Est.
Methinks he is of hasty birth, my lord.

Eli.
Oh, he grows quick in childhood; but cold Scorn
Oft with her wintry finger nips his bloom.

Est.
I spoke it not in scorn.

Eli.
Oh, speak in pity,
Or teach your lips new utterance; speak in love!
Your heart's a golden vessel, deep and bright,
Set round with orient pearls, which are your virtues,
Entire, unblemished, clean, uncracked, but empty;
Fill it with love, and let the glowing tide
Swell to the edge of't. Oh, for such a cup
Kings would lay down their crowns, and gods in heaven
Quit their empyreal homes and Hebe's wine.

Walt.
(passing by).
I will be cold. Plague on 't! 'tis villanous!

Eli.
Art thou my conscience-keeper? Stand away!

Est.
Will you walk, sir? my father waits for you.

[The company go. Manent Blanchespee and Walter.
Walt.
The Count grows choleric. What is it, boy?

Blanch.
Hang me! but I believe my brother's mad.
He's talked this hour of hearts, and lips, and cups,
Mixed up together like I know not what;
Such a confusion, that my halting wits,
Long limping basely after, were ere long
Lost to the scent entirely, quite at fault.

Walt.
What have you profited? What's love, boy, eh?

Blanch.
Something to drink, my brother seems to say.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Room in the Court at Cornwall.
Eliduke alone.
Eli.
Oh, if she loves me! and last night I thought so,
By the way she fixed her eastern eye on mine
The time I talked of love; an eye more deep
Than the gray cavern from whose twisted depth,
Unfathomed by the old Egyptian king,
Mysterious Nilus takes a double course.
I only felt its influence, and kept mine
Fixed on the boy alone; for had I dared
To sound the depths of her ensouled orbs,
My flood of passion would have swept away
The old containers of its tumbling tide,
And stranded honour only have been left,
A sign of ruin, on the wasted shore.
Honour! I've lost it, if't be dishonourable,
As 'tis most foully so, having a chaste
And loving wife, by sighs and hinted words,
All but direct entreaty,—I think even that,—
To seek another's heart. Is it not strange?
Oh, when we are most innocent, we are only
Shut out from evil by a brittle wall.
We are tender plants, and Heaven, to guard our souls,
Set in the evil air of this gross earth,
Glasses us over with a frame of virtue,
Wherein we may live safely and do well;
But crack it, and it needs must shatter widely.
Mine's broadly breached, and yet I may repair it.
Estreldis, we must break! She's not so fair now;
Clear Virtue now disputes the palm with her,
And with her brighter beauty dims the less.
Virtue's the highest and the noblest;
And he's but weak, unworth the name of man,
Aiming the arrow of his life at her,
That lets temptation's wind blow it aside.
Henceforward help me, Heaven! I will only
Draw for the white of virtue. Enter Lardune.
[He salutes her courteously.

You are early, lady;
And yet I cannot blame you, for the bloom
On your fresh face speaks not of stinted slumbers.

Lar.
Oh, morning's your best cordial, my good lord;
Yet you look melancholy.

Eli.
Oh, believe me,
I never was in deeper satisfaction.

Lar.
Nay, but you shall be soon; I've that about me
Shall tinge your aspect with a livelier hue.
Though you be now content, I dare affirm,
Or I mistake you greatly, I can lift you
Higher in joy than ever yet you dreamt of.

Eli.
What is't, Lardune?

Lar.
Oh, come, sir, you are dull.

Eli.
Estreldis?

Lar.
Ay, sir.

Eli.
Lady, what of her?
Bless me with tidings; did she send you here?

Lar.
Oh, do you brighten? Yes; stocked with kind words.

Eli.
Tell me them not, or I'm undone for ever.
Virtue, where are thine arms? Oh, clasp your lips;
For these kind words are like the deadly berry,
To outward show most bright and excellent,
But under lined with death. Oh, speak them not!

Lar.
Nay, I can bear them back, being so unwelcome.
There was a favour too.

Eli.
From fair Estreldis?

Lar.
But I'll not show it, lest you should refuse it;
That seems your present mood. Oh, fie, my lord!
Are you turned coy virgin, that you hang back thus?
Trust me, such feignings ill become a man.
I will go tell my lady how you met me.

Eli.
Oh, cease! cease!

Lar.
What, when a lady loves you?

Eli.
D'ye mean Estreldis loves me?

Lar.
In good truth,
I have o'erstepped my warrant to say so;
And yet, to shame you,—though in saying it
I am a loose-tongued traitor to my sex,—
By all I can observe, and that's not little,
She sets you dearer than her secret soul.

Eli.
Then I'm a devil.

Lar.
A very tame one, then.

Eli.
A very sorry devil; true, indeed.
And yet I knew't before, or half believed it.
Estreldis loves me! bright Estreldis loves me!
Oh, sweet and sour mingled in equal parts;
O bitter joy! sweet guilt! Estreldis loves me!
What shall I do? I am thrown wide of heaven.
Shall I fly? that's weak. Shall I stay? that's infamy.
Flight shows the best, then. Oh, bid the weary soul
That has attained high heaven, and clasped at length
The height and breadth of full felicity,
Go out into the dreary void again,
And then let's talk of flight. Estreldis loves me!
Let the world roll; I'm fixed and centred here.
Bend, steady Virtue, stoop thy pillared head!
Bow to my love, make passion virtuous,
Or I'm at war with Virtue!

Lar.
Sure, he raves.
Is it so criminal to be beloved?
Heaven keep me safe from sweethearts! Yet I fear
I'm deeply dyed in sin, or else deceived.
Lord Walter swore he loved me. I'm for the sin.
Your line of words, my lord, 's too short and knotty
To fathom your intent. What shall I say?
Shall I tell the princess she has set her love
Upon a tortoise, or upon a man?

Eli.
Pardon me, that at first I seemed so dull!
Fancy a reason for it. Tell your lady
There's not a pulse in all my dancing blood
But it keeps time to the very tune of love.

Lar.
You are a man again. Good day, my lord!

Eli.
Sure you spake of a favour, did you not?

Lar.
Oh, d'ye remember it? I thought for sure
It had slipt your memory. Sir, this is it;
She wore it at the festival yest'r eve,
And bids you stick it in your helm i' th' fight,
Tendering your safety, so she bade me say,
More than this idle bauble.

Eli.
As kind as fair!
Think me not rude, or that I misconstrue
Your willing service, if I beg of you
To wear this jewel! 'tis accounted fair;
Whether it will endure to face your eyes,
I know not. Pray accept it!

Lar.
You're too lavish.
I am most glad to serve you; yet I'll not seem
To underrate your gift by a refusal,
But wear it gladly.

Eli.
I esteem't an honour;
And as a finder of a bag of gold,
Bearing it to the owner, claims a part,
So, for the store of love that you have brought me,
Accept a share in mine. Fail not to think
My friendship rates you high.

Lar.
Grandmerci, sir,
You strain too far; and yet believe me grateful.
Success sit in your saddle on the morrow,
Both for our sake and yours! Adieu, my lord!

ACT III.

Scene I.

A Room in the Court at Cornwall. Eliduke.
Enter Blanchespee.
Blanch.
Where's Eliduke?—Letters from home, my lord!
Castabel writes to you; and for me too
There's one, from Blancaflor. Are you not glad?

Eli.
Yes, boy. Where's Walter? I must speak with him.
What news of the enemy? do they approach?

Blanch.
Fast, my good lord. The posted scouts come in,
Bringing us news that by to-morrow morning
They will have reached the pass into this plain.

Eli.
There will we fight them, then. Fetch Walter, boy!

Blanch.
I will but read my letter, and be gone.

Eli.
Ay, do. Must I read too? [Reads.

“Ever-dear Lord,—A loving greeting from your faithful wife! I did but briefly entertain your most welcome messenger, being vain enough to think your love would require quick tidings of my welfare and of your children's. There is rumour of war and invasion. Sounds that were before so hateful to my ear are now hopeful in their tone, as tending to your much-longed-for return. Lord Roland commends him to your friend-ship. Be not long absent, my most dear husband.”

Where is she now? Perhaps in her nursery,
Tending her pretty babes with anxious hand,—
My children! or in careful solitude
Leans her pale sorrowing head upon her hand,
From her brimmed eyes the tear-drops sadly falling,
While she paints me in her dear memory,
Weeping my long delay. O Castabel!
He that thou hold'st so dear is most unworthy.
Perhaps she is with Roland—hum!—perhaps—
No, it's not possible; even grant that Roland
Should be sucked in by passion, and turn false,
As I have proved too easy, yet in her
There's something deeper than the name of truth
Which he could never vanquish. Virtue's to her
Not outward excellence to be attained,
But something inborn and essential,
Which she can never start from. It holds her heart.
And I, meanwhile,—how stands the case with me?
Blanchespee! how he's wrapt!

Blanch.
A moment, sir.

Eli.
Blancaflor writes at length.

Blanch.
A scrambling hand,
That puzzles me to read. She sends me word
Picardy's up. The King would have us back.

Eli.
Speaks it for certain, or only like wild rumour?

Blanch.
Oh, for most certain. But we must not go
Till we have fought, and freed this King from fear,
And I've deviced my shield, and spread some colour
On my white sword; then, hey for home again!
Fancy them clustering at the castle-gates!
How Blancaflor will stand, with outstretched foot,
Leaned forward, and her face on fire with joy,
Throwing her hair back with her hand, and straining
To catch her soldier's eye! But she must not clasp me
As if I were a child, but rather fall
Gently about my neck, as Castabel
Greets you when you come home from war.

Eli.
Ay, boy.

Blanch.
Why d'you say “Ay, boy,” so? Oh, whose is that?
I would I had one!

Eli.
What?

Blanch.
Your favour there.
Whose is it?

Eli.
Whose? the glove? whose should it be?

Blanch.
Why, Castabel's; I cannot go astray.
Is it not so? She gave it you at parting,
And told you you must keep it safe in battle.
We'll bring it safe. I'll help you to defend it.

Eli.
It needs no sword but this.

Blanch.
Oh, but I'll help;
And if I see a villain stretching for it,
I'll lop his hand off neatly. By mine honour,
An oath I must not break, we'll bring it back.
Yonder comes Walter; I'll go plume my helmet.
I would it were to-morrow!

[Exit Blanchespee.
Eli.
A brave lad,
And lies most near my heart!

Enter Walter: gives a despatch.
Walt.
From Nantes, my lord.

Eli.
(reading).
The King was hasty, Walter—he regrets—
Slanderous, lying courtiers—shall be beheaded—
(I hope not that)—the Picards—Roland will not
Unless I come—there's none but me; I knew it.
Home again, Walter!

Walt.
What a king is this!

Eli.
Let's rule our thoughts; we are all weak in turn.

Walt.
Ay, but not slaves of passion; our love or anger
May for a moment, in some sudden charge,
Lay justice on the ground; but to be ridden by them
Against our nobler impulse and clear sense
Of what is just, is not to be a man.
Yet he's more pardonable; a king's vices
Are half, at least, his flatterers', and his virtues
Doubly his own. Sweet grass is more esteemed
Springing in weedy pastures.

Eli.
Shall we go back?

Walt.
D'you ask it?

Eli.
We are bound to serve this King.

Walt.
We shall have done his work to-morrow night,
Or reached our homes in earnest. Is exile's air
More pleasant than the native breath of Bretagne,
That with such leaden aspect you revolve
What sounds to me most welcome?

Eli.
Am I a dog,
To be chastised by this capricious hand,
And when he wants to tar me on his foe,
Straight whistled home—good dog!—stroked, and set on?
Let the Picards come!

Walt.
Nay, what you will, I care not;
Only I've some compunctious prickings here,—
Whisper like loyalty and patriotism;—
You're the best judge of that. But sure you harbour
Some terrors for your wife.

Eli.
News of the siege!
How do the enemy muster?

Walt.
At the least
Six times our number.

Eli.
D'ye shrink?

Walt.
My lord!

Eli.
What now?
Or any of the number?

Walt.
None, my lord;
We are not used to the word.

Eli.
Oh, your word's conscience!

[Exit.
Walt.
Conscience my word! What ails him; he seems bent
On stopping here. Most strange! He has lost of late
His old sobriety,—speaks, like a 'larum,
By starts,—none knows what next. Do I shrink? 'Sdeath!

[Exit.

Scene II.

A Room in the Court of Cornwall. The King and a Lord playing at Chess; with them Estreldis.
Enter Eliduke.
King.
Your leave a space, good Count! I will but end
This mimic warfare, and then speak with you;
And in the fortune of this painted board
I'll read a prosperous omen of success
For you to-morrow on a real field.
Estreldis, speak this lord fair; entertain him
With a maid's courtesy.—Do I move, sir?

Eli.
I wait your leisure, sire.

King.
Not long, my lord.

[Eliduke and Estreldis converse apart from the King.
Eli.
Fair lady,—

Est.
Sir?

Lord.
Check, my liege!

King.
Ha! bad! bad!

Eli.
Fair lady, I must thank you for this glove.
Oh, keep this silence, nor lift up your eye;
But standing thus a statue, let me breathe
In your white ear the voice of my full heart.
Oh, beautiful! the glove that thou hast given me
Is but the token of a wide esteem
Thou mightst grant any man; how then should I,
That have no soul but what I own in thee,
Be half content with this? Open thy lips,
And mould the crimson issuing atmosphere
Into a phrase of love, whose amorous tone
Shall steep me in delight. Learn it of me,
And give me back some portion of my voice;
For I love thee more than the breath of spring
Or ghost of lingering autumn, more than sleep,
And more than waking; life, and soul, and sense
Shape themselves into love; and I myself
Am now myself no more, but live in thee.
Say, now, that thou lov'st me. Or if thou fearest
To make thy silence blush with such a word,
Give me the hand whereof I hold the glove,
And let it be a sign.
[She gives him her hand.
Sweet ivory token!
I take thee tenderly, and thus upon thee
Write with my lips my measureless content!

Est.
O my good lord,—

Eli.
What says the soul of beauty?

Est.
Nothing, my lord.

Eli.
But I, beshrew my tongue!
Must say a something to whose dissonant tone
The boding owl's voice would hoot musical.
I must leave thee, sweet, and in that act of parting
Forsake my soul, which thou art. I see tears
Gathering in thy large eyes. Oh, let them fall,
That they may lie like shining stars of love
Glittering the ground! Oh, now I'll think you love me!

Est.
Why must you go?

Eli.
Because, love, mine own King,
Close pressed by fierce invasion, sends for me
To stay the march of ruin, and nail fast
The tottering crown upon his trembling brow;
And should I scorn the timorous tyrant's cry,
And stay with you, what should we gain by that?
Your father's jealous pride would never let
A union grow between us; we should live
In parted nearness only the more apart.
Two dear friends, locked in two neighbour dungeons,
Mingle in vain their mutual looks of pity,
In this unhappier than if they wept
Totally severed.

Est.
Take me with you, then!

Eli.
Dost thou say this? What! wilt thou fly with me?

Est.
The wide world over! Think me not too bold;
Having once said I love, I will not stint
And tie affection in a mincing phrase.
I love thee from my soul, and without thee
Home's not a home, nor quiet, quietude.
You are a knight, and I dare trust myself
Into your hands, until the tie of wedlock
Has knit us in a twine whose golden links
Rust not with time or change.

Eli.
Listen, sweet love!
I may not now with honour bear thee off,
Because I am sworn vassal to thy father;
But if to-morrow should see victory with us,
And I survive, as I am sure I shall,
Carrying your glove here as my amulet,
I will away to Brittany, and thence,
Having with an accustomed hand of conquest
Tamed these presumptuous Picards, I'll return.
Wilt thou then fly with me? O queen! Say ay!

Est.
Alas, my lord, what should I say but ay?
You are too potent, and my love-chained will
Takes but the shape of yours. Do not forget me!

Eli.
Now, by mine honour and my knightly word,
Within the year I will return for thee.

Est.
True love's ill bound by oaths.

King.
Check-mate, my lord!
Ha, ha! you were too rash, and overlooked
The coming of my knight,—that's Eliduke;
And so to-morrow shall he serve the foe.
Now to the council-chamber, my good lord.
What is your plan?

Eli.
Promises well, my liege.
On the far edge of the plain there is a pass,
Close-throated, through the hills. There do we stand,
Leaving an ambush that i' th' heat of the fight
May take them in the rear.

King.
Come in and show us.
I am too old to fight, and must sit here,
Looking in sick impatience from the walls,
And idly painting out the hid event.
Yet, though you're beaten, I'll not let them in,
But shut my gates, and sooner die of hunger
Than let this young unbearded insolence
Marry my daughter,—for he sends me word
That's his sole end. He shall not have the girl,
Nor any petty prince among them all.
Well, well, my lord, come in; let's hear at length
Your plan o'the ambuscade.

Eli.
Lady, adieu!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

The Battlements of the Castle of Cornwall.
Sentinel.
Enter the King.
King.
How goes the sun?

Sent.
Dropping from noon, my liege.

King.
Sure, if my expectation ruled the hours,
It should be nearer midnight. You've seen nothing?

Sent.
Nor heard, my liege. At daybreak they rode out;
Since then I've watched the sun over his height
To where he hangs i' th' west now; all's been still.

King.
By this my fate is known; and yet that's nothing,
Not being known to me. Oh, I am sick!
Suspense is poisonous! How slow the hours go!
Let's think the worst; what's our defence in here, then?

Sent.
Alas, my lord, nothing. All, save some dozen,
Rode to the field.

King.
I knew it. Where's Estreldis?

Enter Estreldis.
Est.
Here, father; listening at the Eagle Tower
I thought I heard the distant tramp of horse
Borne on the wind.

King.
It was thy fancy only.

Sent.
My lord, she's right! I hear it! lay your ear
Close on the cope-stone—so; the sound comes clearer!

King.
What? what? I cannot hear it.

Est. and Sent.
Hush, my lord!
'T has died away.

Est.
Listen!

King.
The heavy moments
Tread as they feared the future. That's ill omened.

Est.
Look! look, my lord! soldiers!

Sent.
They come! they come!

King.
Where? where? I can see nothing.

Est.
Can you not
See on the farthest edge, towards the mountain,
A cloud of dust rolling along the plain?
How fast they ride! Look! now you may discern
The glitter of a spear-head or a shield—
I know not what.

Sent.
She hath a soldier's eye.

King.
I can see nothing! Oh, I can see nothing!

Sent.
Listen! a trumpet!

King.
Now—I see them now!

Est.
Sure, that's a Breton trumpet! Hark! again!

Sent.
It is a note of victory; but, I fear me,
Blown by the enemy.

Est.
Out, owl! thy hooting
Spoils our best hopes. They halt! Look, they dismount!

King.
They are too many; 'tis the enemy.
Their number more than double the poor force
Rode with the Count.

Sent.
Too true.

Est.
That's Eliduke!
With the white on's front—looks like a prisoner!
Oh, we are lost for ever!

King.
Down portcullis!
Look to the gates! Bring me my armour, ho!
To your posts, fellows!

Sent.
That's the old time of it!
We'll beat them from the walls yet; or, if not,
We'll die like men, and then we shall sleep quietly.

King.
Blow, Bertram! blow a blast that shall deny
A single terror shakes us! blow, I say!

Enter, below the walls, Eliduke, with many Prisoners; the Chief bearing a white feather in his helmet.
Eli.
My lord, d' you take 's for foes,
That with such swift prevention you bar up
Our looked-for entry, and confound the air
With your shrill blast of war? We come to say
Your cause hath conquered, and the sword that galled you,
Cropping your bud of wished tranquillity,
We have sheathed in shame and loss, and lay't before you.
Cast up your gates! for in our hands we bring you
Safety and peace, looking through Victory's eyes.

Est.
It is the Count that speaks!

King.
Undo the doors! We will go forth to meet him.

[Exeunt from above.
Eli.
Blanchespee!
Where's the boy gone? Walter!

Enter King, Estreldis, and Attendants below.
King.
My lord, most welcome,—
As welcome as our new-seized lives can make you,
Won from the threatened entering of death!
For when we saw your numbers, that now show
Only excess of glory, we misdeemed
The enemy had prevailed, and Victory
Levelled her arm against you; so we stood
Hopeless, yet fixed to prove the end, and gather
An antidote to death in constancy
Of dying well and nobly; but your coming,
Like the bright aspect of the April sun,
Has shamed our winter terrors, and lit up
Our black despair into a day of joy.

Est.
Oh, take our thanks!

King.
And deem them, my good lord,
Only the handsel of some better token
Our gratitude intends you.

Eli.
Royal sir,
You overpay my service with your thanks.

King.
Shame not yourself with painted modesty
That wear the true complexion of desert.
With a free hand you spread the seed of danger,
Venturing your life against uncounted odds,
And it hath grown a golden crop of safety,
Which you have reaped for me, and I must thank you.
You have set me free, and with an iron hand
Unlocked the dungeon of my discontent,
And led him forth to death. Your prisoners
Show more in number than the keepers of them;
And in their black dejection is set off
The splendour of your triumph.

Eli.
Again, my lord,—
Although you argue me to show in this
Only an ill-feigned trashy modesty,
Which by my faith I love not, putting back
Your commendation with a wishful hand
To make it flow the stronger,—I must tell you
You overrate my service; and the foe,
Who showed no less i' th' field than soldier-like,
Gallant and brave, might challenge me of claiming
More than my due, if I should seek to hide
Fortune was with us wholly, and on them
Her hand shook ominous.

Captive Prince.
You make me speak,
Though silence best becomes me. Fortune not,
But our own hasty and presumptuous hearts,
Mine the most hot, showed us the face of ruin.
For you—I know not where you learnt your art—
You are keener carvers on the battle-field
Than yet I ever looked on. Where's the boy
In whose right hand a nimble death sat shaking,
The swift descent of which taught grizzled veterans
The unknown taste of fear? Or was't some god
Enamoured of this lady, whose sweet aspect
Shames my rough wooing, that put on this shape
To cast a mortal rival?

Eli.
You say true;
'Twas Blanchespee. Never more gallant spirit
Shook danger by the hand, or steady courage
Showed itself cased in such a tender frame.
One time the day hung doubtful, and our men,
Dashed by their petty number, sent their eyes
Into their neighbours' faces, there to read
If any thought of flying. Then came Harry,
Clipping his black horse with his moulded thighs.
He bit his scarlet lip, and his young brow
Showed like Apollo angry. “Charge!” he cried;
And made such fierce invasion on the foe
That they forgot their 'vantage, and fell back.
Twice he redeemed my life, pushing himself
Between my breast and a most imminent death.
When last I saw him,
I was hemmed in by the enemy, and some hand
(Unmatched for boldness, sure) had snatched away
More than my life, my favour; which when he saw
Borne vauntingly away, he closed his heels,
And through the centre of the enemy,
Whose angry thick-set ranks, shook by confusion,
Waved to and fro like meadow grass i' the wind,
Dashed to the rescue,—a most gallant sight!
At the next charge they broke, and little doubt
He brought my glove away. I am impatient
To take it from his hand. Where's Blanchespee?
Not hurt, I hope?

Soldier.
My lord, in likelihood
He lingered with the horses.

Eli.
Like enough.

King
(to the captive Prince).
See, my lord,
How black a face of shame looks sadly on you,
Because your cause was bad! Captivity,
Being temporal, to the true soul and noble,
Whose cause is with the milky hand of Peace
To stay the mailed inroad of Oppression,
Is as a cordial or sweet bed of slumber
To the outwearied frame, which in the morning
Rises refreshed; but to Ambition's minions
A double dungeon, being himself a gaoler
Most tyrannous and cruel to his slaves;
And those they call good fortunes are but strings,
Golden indeed, but therefore the more binding,
With which he ties them closer to his cause.
You that disdained the fostering kindly arms
Of your good nurse Content, and brake away,
Must now endure the rod of Discontent,—
A sharp and angry master, who shall teach you
Aggression is inglorious, though oft wrapped
By the fond tongues of men in the stript garb
Of real Glory, she the while left naked.

Capt. Prince.
I have learned it, sir, already; so quick a spring
Your just rebuke has made within my soul,
Fresh ploughed and furrowed by discomfiture.
Take back your olden confines; add to that
What you think meet for ransom. I'll be sworn,
Having regained my freedom, never more
With the rough hand of war to bruise your land.

King.
Follow me in, where we shall frame conditions.

[During the above, Eliduke and Estreldis have been conversing apart.
Eli.
Sweet, I'll not fail thee;
I will but put this cumbrous harness off,
And seek your eyes again.

Est.
Delay not long!

[Exeunt King, captive Prince, Est., &c.
[The low note of a trumpet is heard. Enter Soldiers bearing the body of Blanchespee, grasping in one hand his sword, in the other Estreldis' white glove. They lay him at the feet of Eliduke. Walter follows.
Eli.
He is not dead?

Walt.
Oh, dead indeed, my lord!

Eli.
Astonishment
With her cold finger freezes up my tears!

Walt.
He was hedged in by the enemy, and struck down,
Even as he clutched your glove, by twenty swords.
He was the youngest soldier in the field,
And add to that the noblest; pardon me,
Because I wet your triumph with these tears.

Eli.
Do you melt, Walter? O man, stand away!
Me it becomes alone to weep at this,
That am sole cause of it. Stand, stand away!
What, dead, boy? Look! my glove grasped in his hand!
O lady, lady, lady! your dear love
Was bought too dearly! I have paid for it
The irredeemable jewel of a life
Nameless in worth; and never gloomy Dis
Will give the price again into my hands!
Look how he smiles on death! I dare not kiss him,
Lest, at the touching of his murderer,
These countless stabs should from their swollen lips
Belch crimson accusation. Dost thou reject
My falling tears? Look how they roll away
From his pale cheek, and lend a mimic life
To his glazed eye, as if he wept to think
His dearest friend should be his murderer;
Or, like a worthless gamester that does match
His friend's estate against a little stake,
Esteem his life of no more worth than set it
Against this idle favour! O dear boy!

Soldier.
Look how he shakes.

Soldier.
I never saw him
So deeply moved before.

Walt.
Oh, give me too
A share in this! he was the gallant'st boy
That ever yet struck steel into a steed!

Eli.
Oh, I do well to mourn,
And with a flow of sorrow fill my breast!
Oh, I do well to mourn, and wash his wounds
With easy tears!—who shall believe them true?
It is this damned girl whose eye was forged
To drag me down to hell! Boy, knit thy brow,
For it was I that slew thee! Look, he frowns!
It was my lie that set thy path with death,
And flung thee, like a guiltless sacrifice,
Upon thine enemies' points! O damned passion!
Hear me, O Heaven!—upon my bended knees
I now renounce this girl! May all the plagues
Most poisonous in their nature and most foul
That ever sprang upon the flesh of man
Eat my soft bones alive, and my dear soul,
Framed with new sense most keen and delicate,
Suffer strange torments in the world to come,
If ever from this time—I dare not swear it!
Walter, stand up! Before to-morrow's sun
Reddens the West, we must away to Bretagne.
Take the boy up, and for the girl Estreldis,
Henceforth I'll hold her hateful to my soul.
Stand back!
[To the Soldiers.
Ha! what d'ye say? why d'ye look on me?

[To Walter.
Walt.
Sir, I said nothing.

Eli.
Death, you said I slew him!

Walt.
You said so, and not I.

Eli.
Why, then I lied!
Because this hot-brained boy, in idle show
And vanity of valour,—emulation
And callow courage,—cast his life away,
Shall I be called in question? Get thee gone
To Brittany! tell them that I am coming
Upon thy heels, and that the boy is dead!
Say, if thou wilt, I slew him.

Walt.
I not think so;
But if you follow me so close, my lord,
What need of my announcement?

Eli.
'Tis my will,
Which do, and do not dally. I'll not play
The raven to go home and croak this news
Into his sister's ears.

Walt.
You play the tyrant
To make me do it, then. Well, sir, I'll go.

[Exit.
Eli.
Take up the boy! Death only's conqueror.
Gently, oh, gently! Bury the glove with him!
I dare not touch it! Oh, what a world of mischief
Lies hid in little error! Go before!

ACT IV.

Scene I.

A Room in Eliduke's Castle at Yveloc.
Roland and Walter meeting.
Rol.
Well met, Sir Walter! If my memory serve,
I have not seen you since the busy day
We scotched those rascal Picards. By my faith,
The knaves showed fight too! Come you from the court?

Walt.
Yes, my good lord, from Nantes; where, I may tell you,
You fill men's mouths still with your gallant deeds
That singly turned the fortune of the day
And propped the tottering safety of the realm.

Rol.
I came but second to your Eliduke,
The crest of noble blades, my friend and brother.

Walt.
You are equal stars and peers of valorous action;
The courtiers' brains were sorely put to it
When you two, whose skilled conduct in the war
Had closed our dangers with a prosperous peace,
Put by preferment that was pushed upon you,
And scorning the gilt humours of the court
And burden of the King's precarious favour,
Chose rather here to rest upon your oars,
And let life's tide go by. Runs it smooth here?
Lord Eliduke still loves his wife, my lord?

Rol.
What is't you say?

Walt.
Nay, I am sad, my lord.
Do you love Castabel?

Rol.
Sir, when you name her,
Whose title I dare scarcely bless my lips with,
Use a more reverent form! I do not love her.
Common hearts love and dote on common things;
But she that is the finest work of Heaven
And gathered garland of all excellence,
Framed to show men that there are higher things
Than their dull-paced imaginations frame,—
She claims a clearer-spirited devotion
Than that which mingles in the medley love.
I serve her, then, with grief, and not with love,
Which interferes not in a husband's rights;
Not idle pinings and such boyish show,
But with a deep and silent melancholy,
Because my earthly hopes and happiness
Are all closed up in her, and here on earth
Can never shoot again.

Walt.
Do you not see,
Or, always seeing her, have overlooked,
How pale she grows, and what an anxious eye
From under her drawn brow looks sadly out?
Since last I saw her, the slow pen of care
Has written change upon her sunken cheek!
Alas! I know the cause.

Rol.
Tell me the cause!
I know her cheek is sunk; her brother's death
And Blancaflor's deep grief weigh thus with her.

Walt.
It is not that:—yet why should I lay bare
What she within herself wraps up so close,
Nor even breathes it, I dare well be sworn,
In the dark ear of secret-keeping night?
It is so terrible and sad a thing,
That to her central soul she tells it not,
Only she feels it draining all her comfort.

Rol.
What is this thing?

Walt.
Eliduke loves her not;
Loves her no more, but with a foreign passion
Feeds his changed heart.

Rol.
What a pure devil are you,
That with an unchanged cheek and solemn tongue
Can vent such an abominable lie!
What! do you come to me, and dare you think,
Because I with a chaste and clear devotion
Affect this lady, you can hope to make me
A credulous instrument to some vile end
Your base brain hammers at? Let me look on you!
You are not Walter! O man, get you gone!
Honesty's less than it was! I am not angry,
So much do I disdain your paltry tale!

Walt.
Do you think this?

Rol.
Fine counterfeit amazement!
Sir, this grows tiresome! Look! The ladies come!
Make your fool's faces elsewhere!

Walt.
Let time show;
I'll touch no more in't. Is not Eliduke sad?

Rol.
Yes, sir, he is. D'ye think by patching up
Your petty circumstance you still can move me?
Begone, or I shall chafe!

Walt.
Remember this.

[Exit.
Rol.
What a knavish ape is this, slandering his lord!
Sir Walter, too! The court hath spoiled a man.

Enter Castabel and Blancaflor.
Cast..
Oh, take comfort!

Blanc.
Forgive me, sister; I forget myself.

Cast..
Too long you feed your sorrow with these tears.

Blanc.
Indeed I know that to the lookers on
Sorrow seems often tedious. Pray forgive me;
I will go weep alone.

Cast..
Not that,—not that,—
Not because I am tired, dear Blancaflor,
But that you hurt yourself. Why, how should that be?
I own as deep an interest in this grief
As thou canst do,—cherish as grave a sorrow.

Blanc.
As I? Oh, no! or I should shame myself,
As yet I may do, not to learn of you
A placider deportment: you have children
Whose tiny tongues prattle away your grief,
A loving husband in whose clasping arms
You harbour your tossed heart. I!—

Cast..
O sweet sister!

[They embrace in silence.
Rol.
Oh, what an angel aspect sorrow wears,
Being housed in such bright souls! I were unworthy
To see these tears, but that a kindred grief
Stirs in mine own full heart. These, and the boy
Late snatched by death, sure are not earthly stock,
But heavenly seed, by the kind hand above
Flung to renew our breed, and with our blood
To mix the clear and crimson element
Rolls in their finer veins. She lifts her head.

Blanc.
Let's talk of him. They are poor comforters
That snatch away the memory of the dead,
Our sweet most healing salve. Do you remember,
When he was very little, how we sate
Under the unpleached hedges in the fields,
And with green briony and honeysuckle
Circled his laughing hair? Do you remember?

Cast.
Dear childish days, never to come again!

Blanc.
And now he's dead, and far over the sea
Lies buried by the shore, that should have lain
In some green plot i' th' woods, where I'd have planted
His favourite flowers, and watered them with tears.
The daisy, spring's rathe herald, columbine
Nodding her purple head, anemone
Star of the grass, crowsfoot and celandine,—
All April's children,—these should have coverletted
His ivory body, while his unfleshed soul,
Lingering for me upon the edge of heaven,
Should with a liquid smile look down the blue
To see me tend his grave.

Cast..
How gentle was he,
And in men's hearts anchored himself how deeply!
Sir Walter, when he told his death's sad story,
Changed the stern aspect of a war-soiled soldier
For a piteous child's, and shook the frequent tears
From his rough cheeks in showers. My husband too
Waters a planted sorrow in his breast;—
Oft in the midst of some kind word to me,
Or dear caress, shot with keen recollection,
Stops suddenly, and turning his blanched cheek
Gives silence to the air. Thus, long he stands—
Ah! with so sad a face!—Oh, my good lord,
[To Roland.
We two sad sisters are poor company,
And I do ill in my untutored grief
To cover up the courtesy due to you!

Rol.
Your sorrow's the best courtesy, telling me
I'm fit to share your grief; and so I am
In this, that I much loved him.

Blanc.
You say you loved him?

Rol.
Most dearly for himself! and more than that,
He was your sister's brother.

Blanc.
I mistook you,
Because you wept not for him, and my tears
Were bitterer to make up the lack of yours.

Rol.
I am schooled in grief, and sorrow shows not in me,
Being deeper buried. Yet this grief's not much,
The boy being dead, and, with the bloom upon him,
Plucked for the court of heaven. Death's a sharp knife,
Whose wound heals up; but there's a bruising sorrow
That rankles comfort. Death being duly mourned,
The past looks greener for the tears shed in it;
But there's a grief within whose heavy hand
The future is crushed up, and all our virtue
Turned into constancy.

Blanc.
How are such sorrows shown?

Rol.
Not shown at all.

Cast..
How solemnly you speak, as if you felt them!

Rol.
Because I do, and therefore marvel not
I have no tears for death, who seems a crown
In the black hair of shrouded Melancholy
Which I would gladly win, but that I must not
Stretch mine own hand for't.

Blanc.
Such grief's hard to bear,
And looks not through the chambers of the eye,
But lays a cold hand on the heart within!

Rol.
You speak it feelingly.

Blanc.
Alas, poor Harry!

Enter Page.
Page.
My lord asks for you, sir.

Rol.
I'll see him straight.

Cast..
You'll give my absence leave then, my good lord.
[To Blanc.]
Come, you shall go with me. I am almost
Joyful again to see your tears dried up.

[Exeunt Castabel and Blancaflor.
Rol.
Alas, they flow inwardly! some deeper sorrow,
I know not what, sits at the spring of her heart.
So young, and yet a gathered hopelessness
Marbles her cheek! What can it be but love—
Lost, unreturned love? No other sorrow
Can strike so deep. Come, lead me to your lord.

[Exit.

Scene II.

A Room in the Castle at Yveloc.
Eliduke alone.
Eli.
O cherub-featured fiend, unholy love,
Thou train'st my soul astray! Where can I fly,
The image of Estreldis more prevailing
In my soul's vision than things sensible
To the outward faculty? With the thin air
I suck in passion, and the still noontide
Seems heavy with her memory. Vaunted absence
Doth but digest this searching draught of passion
Into my changed soul's substance. That slow liking
In my green days I felt for Castabel
Was but a fire that under the hot sun
Of real love has smouldered into ashes
And died away. The words, “sweet Castabel,”
Bring but the smile upon Estreldis' lips.
From her endearments and the soft grasp of her arms
I shrink in terror, they accord so ill
With my changed heart. Oh, I can stand no more;
Beneath this load of love my virtue breaks!
I'll back to Cornwall. I am bound by oath,
And must not break it. Ay, that virtue's easy
That sits with inclination. It ill becomes me,
That to my virtuous wife intend this wrong,
To breathe the name of virtue. 'Tis like one
That with a bought kiss on his unwashed lips
Tastes his chaste mistress' breath. Alas, sweet wife!
Dear loving heart! kind angel Castabel!
I well remember, when I went away,
She kissed my lips, and said, “Dear love, be true!”
And I have been most false.

Rol.
(within).
In here, d'ye say?

Servant
(within).
That door, my lord.

Eli.
Here comes the noble Roland.
I dare not call him friend that go about
To make him hate me deadly.

Enter Roland.
Rol.
Good day, my lord;
You sent me word that you would speak with me.

Eli.
(aside).
And know not what to say.

Rol.
So sad? still sad?
Why do you keep this melancholy brow?

Eli.
I'll tell you why. What think you of my state?

Rol.
As of a man's who holds in his full grasp
All mortal heart can covet. Fame adorns you;
For, like a hunter, you have run her down,
And bear her spoils about you. Fortune aids you,
And through the currents of a soldier's life
Hath steered you into safety. You have riches,
Health, and, to crown the whole, a wondrous wife,
Whose sole possession should, lacking all else,
Out of the heart of misery pluck content.

Eli.
Let be awhile. I'll show you what my state is.
D'ye see this ring that sits upon my finger,
Wreathed of bright gold, and by the curious framer
Chased and embossed with various workmanship,—
What credits most his art,—yet this alone
Makes not its value. 'Tis this diamond,
Whose sparkling eye set in the front of it
Riches and graces the circumference.
I'm such a ring,
Bright in my reputation, wrought by Fortune;
But the rare gem, without whose clear adornment
All is but marr'd, the sole essential,
The jewel of my happiness, I lack.

Rol.
Why, that should be your wife.

Eli.
Should be, and is not.

Rol.
And is not!

Eli.
Oh, mistake me not; she is
All excellence, and I might safelier
Chide at the angels than find fault in her:
And yet she's not this jewel.

Rol.
Why, what is then?

Eli.
To win it, I must cast away my wife;
To win it, I must cast away mine honour,
Tread virtue down, your friendship and opinion
(Which I protest I hold most sovereign)
Break and throw by, bar up the gates of heaven,
Fellow with infamy, and be indeed
The co-mate of contempt and ignominy.

Rol.
I'm glad you lack it, then.

Eli.
And I for it
Would fling to air this idle reputation,
Forget my home, give up my dearest friends,
Barter mine honour, break mine honesty,
Go hand in hand with shame, and for this pottage
Would sell my dear inheritance in heaven;—
I would, and will.

Rol.
Why then you are not virtuous;
And yet I know you do but jest with me.

Eli.
Whom call you virtuous?

Rol.
Him whose good acts
Tread close on his intents,—these virtuous.
Good deeds with bad intent are wickedness,
And good intents unacted ciphers merely.

Eli.
But by the standard of his good intent
You shall mete out the man. Oh, what low aims
Distract the common world! Here sensual good
Stands throned,—a beast, a goddess. Idiot throngs,
Yet more insensate than their painted filth,
Barter their intellect for barren gold,
Prouder to handle earth than tread in heaven.
Here weakness lifts a puny passing arm,
Making a clutch at slippery command,
Ill 'titled power.
And there's another end fond men call virtuous,
A selfish striving for a seat in heaven;—
Casting the odds up;—“Here's an hour of pleasure;
Why that's soon over, and the self-denial
Will bring more bliss in heaven; let it go;”—
Driving a penny bargain with their God,
Sound-headed saints! Oh, there's a higher end,
A deeper spring of action, to please Heaven;
To fix our love, our hopes, our exultations
Only in the approving eye of God;
And he's most virtuous whose high-lifted soul
Fosters the loftiest thoughts and noblest ends;
He's the true man.

Rol.
You're wrong; for that's a gift,
Measured by the discerning hand of Heaven.
He's the true man
That, with whatever seed high Heaven hath sown him,
So tends and cultivates his springing soul,
So digs about it with true resolution,
So waters it with penitential tears,
That it spreads forth a worthy flower of action,
Best of his kind, though from a richer soil
A brighter blossom springs. He's the true man,
That, having weighed by his best faculties
What's worthiest in his poor estimation,
Fixes a steadfast eye on that alone,
And by its aid treads the thin verge of virtue
Over the giddy world. Imaginations
Wanting a steadfast purpose are but stars
To the vexed eye of the storm-shattered sailor
Left rudderless upon the wayward waves.
Noble desires, unless filled up by action,
Are but a shell of gold, hollow within.

Eli.
I'm wrong, my lord, indeed. Oh, less unworthy
Are sacrifices made with unwashed hands,
Than lofty thoughts and high imaginations
With an untutored heart. Such men there are
Who, bearing dazzling prospects on their tongues,—
Ay, in their hearts too,—yet in act fall from them,
And forge a weapon for the hands of fools
To strike at virtue.—Such a man am I!

Rol.
Either you jest, or else you fail in health,
And falling short of your high-pitched desire,
As all men must, your sick distempered fancy
Paints you in these bad colours, ill deserved.

Eli.
You'll not believe, because you are yourself
Pillared in honesty. I must to Cornwall.

Rol.
To Cornwall?

Eli.
Ay, my lord; bound by an oath.

Rol.
Some quarrel, then? Have you an enemy?

Eli.
Ay, and a fatal.

Rol.
And hath wronged you?

Eli.
Foully.

Rol.
Why, then I'll help you kill him.

Eli.
Draw, and do so!
Strike here! For I am my worst enemy,
And foully go about to wrong myself.

Rol.
You're mad, sure. Tell me! What's this heinous act
You feign to contemplate?

Eli.
If I should tell you,
You'd strike me dead.

Rol.
Listen to me, my lord!
If there be such an act as this you name,
And you in earnest to go through with it
(Which I'll not think until I see the proof of't
Written in shame upon you), we no longer
Are friends, but stand estranged. Nay, pardon me,
If your sad face makes me believe you serious,
That all the while are mocking.

Eli.
I am serious;
But if I do this act shall never more
Look in your eyes, or see my native land.
By this night's tide I quit the Bretagne shore,
Prepared, if't be for ever.

Rol.
And your wife?

Eli.
Why, think me dead, and marry her yourself!

Rol.
He's mad! I'll hear no more!

[Exit.
Eli.
Go, honest man!
And thou, lost slave of passion, to thy work!
I'll do it! I'll do't! Conscience, I hear thy voice,
That with an eloquent trumpet shak'st my soul.
“Thou dost betray thyself.” I know I do.
“And in this sin stiflest those aspirations
That outsoared common mortals' pitch of virtue.”
I know I do, and thence the greater villain.
There is no murderer so foul and stained
That he can match with me, and yet I'll do't!
Walter shall go with me; he is light-hearted;
Scoffs too at women, and makes light of love:
He will not read this act's enormity.
And yet I know not; I think Harry's death
Sticks in his throat yet. Well, I'll move him to't.
The sun drops down; I must aboard to-night.
Estreldis, from thy Cornish coast look over,
And thou shalt see, gilt with the rising sun,
A bark deep laden with love upon the sea.
Thy true affection shall— Stop! what if she
Should prove as false—as I to Castabel?
Ha!
Oh, room for my swoln heart! I suffocate!
Terrible retribution and most fitting,
If I, that have used falsehood to obtain her,
Should find her false to me! I think she will be.
Yet she believes me true. Alas! if she
Should find how false a beast she hath preferred
Into her heart, I should indeed become
The castaway of scorn.

[Exit.

Scene III.

A Hall in the Castle.
Enter Eliduke and Walter.
Eli.
Leave me? go home?
Tut, tut, man! you are passionate, and know not
What 'tis you ask. I say you shall not go.

Walt.
My lord, I must and will.

Eli.
I say you shall not;
What idle freak is this? Come, you are angry.
I have been too hasty. What, man, we are friends still?

Walt.
Once when you said so I esteemed the title
Above my other honours; did I so now,
I would not cast it for a hasty word.

Eli.
Do you think I am not grateful? You shall try me.
Do you lack gold? Ask. I was never niggard.
Has any wronged you? I stand here engaged
To right you with my sword and countenance.
Is this your grief because I am not grateful?

Walt.
Not that, my lord.

Eli.
What then? Pish! you are changing!

Walt.
Shall I tell you, then? Because you are not noble,
And the intent you hold, and ask my aid in,
Bad and dishonourable.

Eli.
Ha! you can speak, then!

Walt.
Ay, boldly; and I say your honest seeming
Discords with what's within. You are not true!
Does it become you, being dedicated
By the close tie of wedlock to a lady,
Whose beauty and whose worth are only matched
By her deep love to you, to cast that off,
And that which was her due, your true affection,
To yield a foreign breast? Does it become you
To train this princess from her father's court,
And teach her young and unpolluted ears
A title of dishonour? I was wrong
That egged you on in making love to her,
And thought it but the pastime of the hour
To rifle women's hearts. Look what it grows to.

Eli.
Grow where it may, I will go through with it.

Walt.
Oh, reckon up how many wrongs you heap
To build yourself a monument of shame!
You wrong your wife,—your chaste, your wedded wife;
You wrong the lady whom you swear to love;
You wrong the King who housed and did you honour;
Wrong hospitality, wrong confidence.
You wrong yourself to stir in such a cause;
You wrong your friends to ask their aid in it;
You wrong the day that looks on such a wrong;
You wrong the darkness that must cover it;
You wrong all good deeds by their opposite;
You wrong all former wrongs to lessen them.
Stay here, and move not in this enterprise.

Eli.
Now, though a hundred such sick consciences,
Set in the breasts of idiot-witted fools,
Stood in my way, I would not stir one jot from't!

Walt.
Why, then, go on!

Eli.
And will; for who shall stay me?

Walt.
Not virtue, for your eager tongue to speak her
Outgoes your acts.

Eli.
Beware! beware! beware!

Walt.
Not honour, for the part you had in her
Is gone since the black day you told a lie,
A hideous lie, making the boy believe
The favour that he fought for was his sister's.
What! must the boy die for't? Could you not
Defend your wanton's glove? A coward too!
A liar and a coward! Add to that
A foul adulterer! Take the sum of it!
[Eliduke rushes at him with his sword.
A murderer too!

Eli.
Out, man! Thy life runs short!

Walt.
Out, then! look to your own too!

[Eliduke strikes the sword from the hand of Walter, throws him to the ground, and plants his foot on his breast.
Eli.
Ha! you dog!

Walt.
Strike, and fill up your crimes! I fear you not.
Dare you not strike?

Eli.
Away, thou murderous fiend!
Mak'st my soul itch for blood!
[Flinging his sword away.
Hence, instrument!
Let your life buy your silence. Get you up.
Pick up your sword. I'll go alone. There's gold.

[Flinging it on the ground.
Walt.
Even yet, my lord—

Eli.
Peace, peace! I am not for you!
[Exit Walter, leaving the purse lying.
What, ho! within there! Enter Page.

How runs the tide? Give me my sword lies yonder.

Page.
Nigh to the full, my lord.

Eli.
Pooh! keep the gold!
Part it among the house. Where's Castabel?

Page.
Within, sir.

Eli.
Knows my going?

Page.
I think no, sir.

Eli.
Get me my cloak. Are all the sailors ready?
Attend me to the boat. The moon's at change.
Pray Heaven the weather hold! What say the sailors?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.

The Coast of Brittany near Yveloc. Early morning. A Storm.
Enter Sailors, dripping wet.
First Sail.

Hech! how the rain drifts! Sure the devil's loose to-night.

Sec. Sail.

I'll go no further; skulk under the rock till it bates. [Thunder.

First Sail.

Ay, growl away! We are safe this bout, though I think we ne'er ran so close for't before.

Sec. Sail.

The boson's gone.

First Sail.

Ay, and a dozen more, washed over like hen-coops. Who was't caught in the shrouds, and went by with the mizen? How he cried, as the wind whistled him over!

Third Sail.

(within).
Hollo! comrades!

First Sail.

Was 't a shout, or the wind roaring?

Sec. Sail.

A-hoy!

Third Sail.

(within).
Where? Where?

Sec. Sail.

By the old black rock! Under the dog's nose!

First Sail.

Here's another hath shirked the devil. Enter Third Sailor.
Well met ashore, lad! Give me thy hand. How cam'st thou safe, not being i' th' boat?

Third Sail.

They hung us ropes over the cliff, and we shelled up like monkeys.

Sec. Sail.

Where be the rest? Has she parted yet?

Third Sail.

I warrant you. Not a bit as big as your hand left. Is my lord safe?

First Sail.

Ay, ay; and hath brought the dead lady to shore with him. He stuck to her all night, though he had nigh drowned for 't twice or thrice.

Third Sail.

She 's a witch, and floats.

First Sail.

And hath charmed our lord,—a plague of her painted face!

Sec. Sail.

For thy life, man! Yonder he comes!

Enter Eliduke, bearing the dead body of Estreldis, her hair hanging dripping over his arm, a Peasant guiding him.
Eli.

Who 's here? What, from the wreck? Teach your tongues silence, fellows! Let this night die from your memories! Alas! you 're drenched. There's gold. He dies that dares to follow. On, lead on.

[Exeunt Eliduke and Peasant.
Third Sail.

Even lots! even lots! This is true

stuff. I'd run old Davy as close again for the same pay.

First Sail.

Ay, we may be wrecked a dozen times, for what our betters care; but being aboard themselves, they see some spice of danger in it, and that breeds a fellow-feeling. Let's go drink.

Sec. Sail.

Ay, ay, and wash out this salt stuff. [Exeunt.

Scene II.

The inside of a Hut deep in the Woods. A bed of leaves.
Peas.
(without).
What, ho! most reverend father!

Eli.
(without).
Enter! Enter!

Enter Eliduke and Peasant as before.
Peas.
This is the hut I spake of, and the bed.
[Eli. lays the body of Estreldis on the bed.
But for the hermit—

Eli.
Out belike i' the woods.

Peas.
Out! Out indeed, sir! Look! Here is his grave.
Alas, he's dead and buried. Some kind hand
Has laid his ancient bones in earth, and o'er them
Raised this rude cross to mark the spot as sacred.
Surely his soul's in heaven, for he was ever
Most charitable, and that's the nearest way to 't.

Eli.
Does Death still slay old men, then? Oh, begone!

Peas.
Sir, shall we bury her?

Eli.
Beast! she's not yet cold.
Begone, I say!
[Exit Peasant.
O soul of passion! queen of hearts! Estreldis!
Devotion's deep-eyed daughter! only fair!
Unseal those eyes, whose answering flash to mine
Was late my spring of being! Oh, unfold
Those ivory ports of hearing! Only hear,
And to your brain I'll let such music in,
Such clear-toned soundings from the heart of love,
Eloquent whispers, warm upbreathed sighs,
That, faintly mustered in their separate cells,
Your other senses, stirred by sympathy,
Shall from their functions shake the clog of death.
Or answer this my kiss with those your lips,
Moulded for this, where yet the crimson blood
Hath not renounced his painting; and your soul
Being fled away and scattered in thin air,
Suck in the half of mine, and live by that!
Then we shall die together. O fool! She's dead!
Hear! O unnatural rocks and bawling sea,
Conspirators with the felonious wind
To rob the world of comfort! You have slain
The unsurpassable child of bankrupt Nature!
O false Estreldis! Thy new paramour,
Death, is unworthy to compare to me,
Being lean and haggard, built with clanking bones,
Graceless and merciless, unused to love,
Savage, and glaring grim with empty eyes,
Whose ghastly hollow shall freeze up your blood.
O sweet, return! I am thy eldest love!
[Throwing himself on the earth.
Eliduke beats at the dim gates of death!
Will not the monster hear me? Oh, return!

Scene III.

A Hall in the Castle of Yveloc.
Walter and a Sea Captain.
Walt.
Why, were you with him there?

Capt.
Ay was I, sir.

Walt.
And how came she aboard?

Capt.
I know not that;
Only I know she came like one that fled,
With frequent eye cast back upon her track,
And cheek whose whiteness seemed to blanch the night;
And when we sailed, she on the quarter-deck
Kneeled, voiding her full eyes, and sadly cried,
“O my dear father! O my native land!”
And when he kissed her, looked up smilingly,
And said, “Dear lord, deal kindly by me now;
I have but only thee.”

Walt.
Alas! poor soul!—
And he?—

Capt.
Looked strangely, and bade us steer away
To any land, save only Brittany.

Walt.
How came you here, then?

Capt.
Heard you not the storm?
We scarce had heaved our anchor a good hour,
When the dull sea began to moan and swell,
And all the rippling waves were tipped with foam;
And yet no breath of wind, only the air
Heaved hollow sighs. Then you might see the sailors
Whisp'ring each other, and with hasty hands
Furling their canvas, clapping to their ports,
And with the straining of their pitchy cordage
Tightening the sinews of their boat for storm.
Scarce had they finished, and the trembling lady
(Ill clad for such a night) been safely cabined,
When the north-west, shouting tumultuously,
And brushing his black wings against the heaven,
Swooped on the shuddering sea; and the good ship,
Like some strong wrestler overmatched in grip,
Stooped till her maintop almost touched the waves,
Then, springing up before the whistling wind,
Raced at her topmost speed towards our shore;
Which when our lord saw, he with iron hand
Grasping the helm would have outmatched the storm,
Or steeped us all in death, but the weak engine
Cracked with the strain, and helpless on we drifted
Through the black throat of night. “God's hand,” he said,
And in the cabin wrapped his manly arms
About the lady, in whose shaking frame
Life seemed to flicker.

Walt.
She died, did she not?

Capt.
But not of fear. The superstitious sailors,
Losing their reverence in their greater awe
Of death, sole master now, began to mutter
Against their lord, saying this storm was bred
Out of his sin; and thronging to his cabin,
Threatened to throw the lady overboard
To appease the waves; coarsely upbraiding him
Adulterously to carry off this maid,
Having a wife at home; which when she heard,
Though he with storming strove to drown their words,
“A wife!” she cried, and heaving back her head,
Stiffened in death. Eliduke, frenzy-mad,
Seized the ringleader by his foot, and hurled him
Into the gaping deep, which quelled the rest.
Now day began to dawn, and sullen Dark,
Wrapping his hair about his moody brow,
Went trampling the dim west down to the sea,
Which now showed calmer, and we found ourselves
Close on the Yveloc cliffs, and by our boats
Gained the dry shore.

Walt.
Eliduke with you, then?

Capt.
And the dead lady.

Walt.
Whither went he then?

Capt.
Indeed I wonder greatly; for no sooner
Had we run keel upon the sea-drencht sand
Than he, with hasty foot, made towards the woods,
Pointing an angry sword against pursuit:
Since that I saw him not.

Walt.
Sir, this is strange,—
Too strange for common ears. I would not have you,
Valuing his wife's dear peace, as sure you must,
Breathe any whisper of this night's events.
You were too loose to open them to me.

Capt.
I did it at the instance of my lord,
Who in the boat bade me seal up your lips,
Who knew his object. Therefore, look, be silent;
As for myself, I did not lack your warning
To be as dumb as death.

Walt.
I am glad to hear it. Fear you not for me.

Enter hastily Castabel, Blancaflor, and Roland.
Cast..
Where? where? Is this he? Speak, man! were you with him?
Where is your lord?

Capt.
'Beseech you, be not frighted,
If I must say I do not know.

Cast..
Not know?—
Your arm.

[To Blancaflor.
Rol.
O God!

Blanc.
Sweet sister!

Capt.
Oh, be calm!
I can assure him safe.

Cast..
He is not safe.
You do but tell me this. You forge a tale,
Setting my sorrow in a frame of hope,
Wrapping your bitter medicine in sweet words,
Building me up to pull me down again,
Saying he's safe, because he is in heaven.
I know! I know!

Capt.
La—

Cast..
Stop, stop, man! I am faint!
Be not so hasty, let me hang awhile;
You have not said it yet; I have not yet
Shook hands with hope and you with certainty—
He's dead! O heart!

Capt.
Lady!

Rol.
Be still, I say!

Capt.
I say he lives; myself three hours ago
Saw him alive. Is all the world gone mad?

Cast..
How dare you, then, shake me with terrors thus?
Ha! Enter Eliduke; she flies to his arms.

Do you not smile? Are you not glad? Oh, dark!

[She falls at his feet.
Rol.
Great heaven! She's dead!

Eli.
'Tis common. Why not she?

Rol.
Gently, sweet Blancaflor.

Blanc.
Why, Margaret! Helen!

Enter Women.
Wom.
O my dear lady!

Rol.
Water! Stop! she breathes.
Softly! oh, softly!

Cast..
Ah me!

[Exeunt Castabel, Blancaflor, and Women.
Rol.
Do you stand thus? [To Eliduke.
]—I pray you, give us leave.
[Exeunt Walter and Captain.
What's this, my lord, that you should let her fall,
Even at your feet? What wrong hath she committed,
That at your coming you should stand like stone,
And never lift an eye to meet her welcome?
What's this, my lord? Perhaps you think me bold,
That set my foot within your wedlock rights,
And interfere me in your sanctities.
Why, what care I? That title of her husband
Gives you the claim to cherish and to love her,
To live within her soul, and see yourself
Written in her eyes,—lays heaven bare to you;
But if you are become so black a devil
As make it pretext for a right to wrong her,
Why then I may come in;—and, look, I will!
Nor all the favouring puissances of hell
Shall save you from my arm. Nay, stand awhile!
You have come back, and therefore have not done
The wrong you made such talk of; but since then
You have o'erstepped that wrong a thousand times,—
Looked coldly on your wife. Ha! why was this?
I am angry, and I am not made to play with.
I will not see it.

Eli.
Pray you, talk not with me;
I am not in the answering mood to-day.

[Exit.
Rol.
What, gone? I cannot think he meant her wrong;
He is too noble. I was wrong to urge him.
How placidly he bore it from my tongue,
Who to most men had answered with his sword!
Something hath shaken him much;—I was too hasty.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

The Hut in the Woods. Night, near morning.
Eliduke alone with the body of Estreldis on the bed.
Eli.
Hang on my weary soul, black-fronted night!
Oh, be eternal, and perplex the day
With an unbroken dark! Dim-shafted trees
And solemn woods, hold in your whispering breath!
Close up thy crescent, pale inconstant fire;
And you, the girdling torches of the blue,
Stand in your occidental passages!
Put out the sun, and undisturbed rest
Hang his broad hand over the busy world!
Let Silence stride the deep. Only grim Death,
On muffled wing, steal to his purposes,
Since none may cope with him;—grim Death, that is
The king of quiet and sole emperor.
O most mysterious Death! close consort thou
And co-mate of the very soul of change,
Art thou divorced from this thine olden bride,
That she remains uninjured lying here,
Most terrible in her unfading bloom?
Art thou, O Death, that monster men present thee,
That grizzled terror and lean spectacle;
Or rather not some young voluptuous king,
Fair as Endymion and more amorous,
That pluck'st with so distinguishing a hand
The youngest and the fairest? Look, she smiles!
Hither have I come many a secret night
To bury her; but while she smiles so brightly
No earth shall lie upon her angel face;
But here I'll sit, watching my handiwork,
Till daylight spreads the east. Already, look,
The sickly dawn puts up. Oh, come away!
I dare not see her by the light of day!

[Exit.
Enter Castabel and Page.
Page.
This way, my lady; here he comes o' nights.

Cast..
Here will I wait his coming. Stand without,
And if he comes, go home.

Page.
I will, my lady;
But much I doubt he will not come again,
For mostly with the morning he goes home.

[Exit.
[Castabel comes forward, and sees Estreldis stretched on the bed.
Cast..
Oh, now I do perceive it! now indeed!
O Eliduke, thou soul of my soul's soul!
How hast thou left me hopeless! O my God!
I am blind with tears, and know not what to do.
What have I done, O God, what monstrous crime,
That I should live to see so sad a sight?
Patience, give me some patience, thou good Heaven!
I would not now forget my fortitude,
Or task thy will. Give me a little time.
Look what a tearful face I do uplift
Into thy court, O God! Look down upon me!
Methinks the kindly gates of heaven are shut,
And I alone am only miserable.

[She swoons.
Enter Page hastily.
Page.
My lady! What, two ladies! She is senseless.
Oh, for some water! Hold! I'll try the flower.

[He touches the lips of Castabel with a scarlet flower in his hand.
Cast..
What place is this? Where am I? All's not well.

Page.
My lady, here's the strangest thing alive.

Cast..
Nay, here's a stranger thing to match it, boy.

Page.
My lady, as I stood without i' th' wood,
Over the greensward came two weazels running,
Gambolling in and out among the trees,
Close to my very feet. I with my staff
Struck one, and killed it.

Cast..
Eliduke that was't—
Nay, I'll be patient.

Page.
Do but hear me, lady.
The other, seeing him dead, stood over him
As if in grief, and smelled and snuffed him round,
To see if any life yet hung in him;
Then slipped into the wood, and in an instant
Came back, bearing this flower here in his mouth,
Wherewith he touched his fellow-weazel's lips,
Who straight revived from death;—as dead as stone
He lay before. I killed him with my staff.

Cast..
What's this thou tell'st?

Page.
And when I now came in,
And found you swooned, this flower, touching your lips,
Straight summoned back your sense, and you awoke.

Cast..
Give me the flower. I'll touch her lips with it.
Perchance she is not dead; as I have heard
Of ice-cold swoons wherein men lie as dead,
And in that thought are buried,—when they wake
In silent graves, and die again of horror.
Let's see this face. Oh, wondrous beautiful!
Surely she sleeps. No; cold. O Eliduke,
Your kiss when you came back to me was cold,—
These lips had stolen its warmth. This was the face
Whose brighter properties have ousted me
From the fair heaven of my lord's affections.
I am desolate. Now only unto Thee,
Only to Thee, my God, I turn myself,—
My sole last refuge. Oh, uphold me now,
And teach me so to act in this as may
Show worthiest and noblest! Eliduke,
I scarce can blame thee, if thy love to her
Be measured by the love I bear to thee;
And yet methinks, being so long his wife,
And having served him with so true a zeal,
He should have borne with me,—shouldst thou not, love?
How long I stand, and dare not touch her lips.
[She touches Estreldis' lips with the flower.
The colour comes! Death takes his finger off!
Her eyes! O heavenly orbs! Can you not speak?
She lies, and lets her eyes drink in the light.

Page.
Yonder my lord comes hither through the wood.

Cast..
Oh, fly!

Page.
Look, here's a door. In here!

Cast..
Quick! quick!

[Exeunt into an inner room.
Enter Eliduke; he pauses near the door.
Eli.
Should this be true, that the immortal soul,
Being dispossessed, unthreads not all at once
Its mortal wrappings, but here lingering
On the half-visible skirts of the Eternal,
Is caged in some fine links of earthly stain,
Making it to our grosser sense perceptible
(As men have seen their friends' departed ghosts
At the same moment that they died elsewhere),—
Why, then, perhaps her spirit here inhabits—

Est.
My lord!

Eli.
I heard it speak.

Est.
My lord!

Eli.
Again.
O unsubstantial spirit, dost thou hang
In the invisible air? Stoop to my lips,
And let me feel thee there. I do but dream,
And Fancy tunes the silence to a sound.
Yet I'll believe she stays here, which makes plain
Decay's forbearance; for her white-robed ghost
Sits watching her dead head, and drives away
The reverence-stricken beast, ill-eyed Corruption.
I'll look upon her. Shape of betrayed Estreldis!

Est.
Eliduke!

Eli.
All's unreal; and the dead
Rise to upbraid me. I have found it now.
Some angel has usurped the place of her soul,
As angry that so unsurpassed a form
Should waste untenanted. Oh, if thou be'st Estreldis,
New wakened from the dead—

Est.
Oh, lift me up!

Eli.
Thy kiss is warm.

Est.
Upon thy lips I live.

Eli.
This is so great and unapproached a joy,
It will not last until the hand of Time
Can pen it in his records. Let us die
Before the grasp of a revolving chance
Shake out a change. Dear love, this cannot last.

Est.
Let last what will, only I fold you here.
I thought we were at sea, and dreamed strange dreams.
Where am I now?

Eli.
Locked in my arms, sweet soul.—
Who moves within there? God! it is my wife!

Enter Castabel.
Est.
Thy wife! Alas! I do remember me.
O wretched me!

Cast..
Lady, be not afraid;
And you, dear husband, for the latest time
That I must use that title, lift your eyes.
I do not come to say I loved you much,
And blame you that you threw away my heart;
I cannot chide, I only come to say
I will not stand between your joy and you.
I give you up my rights, and set you free
From the solemnity of outward ties
That only made you mine. Why should these last,
When you have cracked those more essential strings
Once tied our souls? I'll to a nunnery;
Which temporal death shall set you free again,
And there in prayer and heavenward meditation
Strive to forget how rich a joy I owned once.
Give me your hand, my lord—husband no more.
Give me your hand, sweet lady; thus I join them,
And happiness wait on you evermore!

Eli.
Kneel down, Estreldis. We are earthly mould,
And this divine. Look, at thy feet I kneel,
And dare not lift my guilty countenance
Up to your eyes. O angel Castabel,
How much unworthy am I of thy love!

Cast..
Oh, speak not thus, or you will shake away
My new-lodged soul from heaven. Fare you well!
You shall not look upon my face again
Till I have doffed these weeds, and put upon me
Some clean religious garb. Heaven favour you!

[Exit.
Eli.
Do I stand here? Was this my wife was here?
Is this your hand I hold? Do we not dream?

Est.
You will become the spectacle of men
To let her leave you thus. Was this your wife?
Having so excellent a heart at home,
Why did you lure me from my father's house,
And in my young ear whisper treachery?

Eli.
I am wrapt in double shames. Do not look on me.

Est.
I am beyond expression miserable,
Having no home, no friend, no any thing;
And he that was my rock falser than water.

Eli.
Not false to thee, though false to all the world,
And false to heaven above,—not false to thee.
Thou art the very centre of my soul,
My poise of being and my breath of life;
And stript of thee, the gorgeous-mantled earth
Is but a clod;—not false to thee, my soul!

Est.
What shall I do? Why did you make me love you?

Eli.
We will be wedded; Castabel herself
Joined here our hands, and gave her sanction to it.

Est.
Oh, never, never! Shall I so wrong your wife?
O false, false Eliduke!

Eli.
Will you not wed me?
It was your eye that drew me into ruin;
It was your beauty heaped this shame upon me,
And sucked my truth away. Only for you
Did I desert my wife. And will you now
Build up the copestone of my ignominy,
And make my name a proverb of contempt,
That men may say, “As vile as Eliduke,
Who left a fair wife and a noble fame
To gain a proud girl's scorn”?

Est.
I am not scornful,
Only most miserable.

Eli.
O Estreldis,
Wilt thou desert me now, that have for thee
Exchanged all other hopes in earth and heaven?
Rob me of this, I'm beggared then indeed.

Est.
We may not wed!

Eli.
Do you not love me, then?

Est.
O Eliduke!

Eli.
You do not love me, or you would not now
Put by our union. Look, our law allows it;
All circumstance points thither; your redemption
Out of Death's hand;—Castabel takes the veil;—
Do not thou turn sole bar. Evil once acted
Admits no remedy. Thy share in this
Is but an angel's, that unstained and taintless
May comfort the most guilty.

Est.
Into what sweet perdition do you drag me!

Eli.
Thee not, for thou art guiltless. Come with me,
When I'll bestow thee in some secret place
For these few days, till my wife turn a nun,
And then we'll top delight with marriage joys.

Est.
I am not easy.

Eli.
Thou art innocent.
Me only fits a sad and changing brow;
For joy sin-mixed relishes bitter-sweet.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

The great Hall in the Castle of Yveloc prepared for a wedding. An Altar, &c.
Roland and a Friar.
Friar.
How happened it you heard not this before?

Rol.
Marvel enough I chanced to hear it now.
Some days I've been away, and well I think
Hadst thou not told me, I had scarcely heard it.
Ha, Eliduke, I read thy riddles now!
Oh, shame of manhood!

Friar.
You look angry, sir.

Rol.
Do I look angry? Man, you will not wed them?

Friar.
I must. His former wife hath taken the veil,
And by our law she is considered dead,
Which sets him free to marry whom he will.

Rol.
You will not. Think; a hand in such a deed
Would pluck the whitest angel down to hell.

Friar.
Good sir, I must not go against the law.

Rol.
God's servant thou, that sticklest for men's laws,
Which to uphold must break His own to bits?
Listen to me. I am the Lord Rolando,
That never yet broke word with friend or foe;
And here I swear upon this altar-stone
These two shall never wed.

Friar.
You will not hurt me?

Rol.
Not I.

Friar.
Nor stay me in my holy office?

Rol.
Between their plighting troths I'll thrust my sword,
Even at the junction. Peace! I hear the music.

Sweet Music. Enter the Marriage Procession. Eliduke leading Estreldis; before them fair Children treading backwards and scattering flowers. They sing.
Rol.
These flowers become Death's road. Fling down your buds!

Eli.
What hoarse-tongued villain jars us with death? Play on!

Enter Castabel dressed as a nun, leading her two Children; an Abbess with her.
Blancaflor and Women.
Rol.
Rot in thy scabbard, sword! Not while she's here,
I will not kill him.

Cast..
My most gracious lord,
And you fair lady,—

[She kneels.
Rol.
O you hanging heavens,
Can you see this, nor fall!

Cast..
On bended knees,
Unused to stoop so low, I ask a boon.

Eli.
Ask, Castabel. All that I have is thine.

Est.
Alas, I've nothing, save what thou hast given me,
More rich in that than all the world besides.

Cast..
If ever I was grateful to your eyes,
And in your youthful liking found some favour;
If I have served you with a true affection,
And this my yielding weighs at all with you,
Oh, grant me this:—let not, for my surrender,
My boy be wronged; let me retain his rights,
Though I forego my own. The boy is noble,
Becomes thy name,—he is thy eldest born.
Oh, let him not be ousted for another!

Eli.
He shall not, by my soul!

Est.
No son of mine
Shall ever set his foot upon his head.

Cast..
Deal rightly by the boy, so Heaven help you!
And now, sweet lady, take this charge of me.
Into your hands I give these little ones:
Tender them dearly, and be kind to them;
They were my dearest, next to that I gave you;
I give you all, look; oh, be kind to them!

Est.
Indeed, indeed I will. I were more monstrous
Than Fancy paints, could I be harsh to these.—
I'm thy new mother; wilt thou come to me?

Boy.
You're finer than my mother. I'll go with you.

Cast..
She wins my very children's hearts away.

Girl
(nestling in her mother's breast).
Mother, I'll stay.

Cast..
What, cherub, wilt thou stay?
Alas, thou must not. Helen, take the child.
Bring her to see me at the grate sometimes,
And the proud boy. I thank you for those tears.
To heaven my steps I turn. Farewell, my lord, for ever!

[Exeunt Cast., Abb., Blanc. &c.
Rol.
Look down, O God!

Eli.
On to the altar, sweet;
We most religiously will keep our vow.
Why dost thou shake so, Friar? O love, think
This office is so solemn, it doth put
Into its minister a soul of fear.—
Ask first, for form, if there be any bar.

Friar.
Knows any here of lawful bar or stoppage
Why these two should not be conjoined in wedlock?

Rol.
Ay, that do I!

Eli.
Roland!

Rol.
Your cheeks become you.
Am I come back in time to mar your marriage?

Friar.
What fit impediment canst thou assign?

Rol.
Will you see it? It is here!
[Lifting his sword at arm's length above his head.
Stand away, Friar!
Ha, thou false shame of manhood, where thou standest!
Thou blot upon the face of honesty!
Thou blush o' the world! whitewashed iniquity!
Thou outside face of fair, rotten within!

Eli.
I knew that this must come.

Rol.
What mutterest thou?
Was it for this you won my mistress' heart,
To cast her when your appetite should change?
Was it for this that I became your friend,
That you might fit me to your purposes?
Was it for this I took your house in charge,
Unwittingly made up by your device
A pander to your Cornish paramour?
Was there none other to be made a stale
But only I? O injured Castabel,
Not for my wrongs I shake this angry sword.
Let's see this face that hath beguiled you so.
Ho, young adulteress, do you cover it?
Up with this veil! thou hast no sense of shame.

Eli.
Hold back thy hand!
Now for this thing thou diest.

Rol.
On! come on!
I mean to kill thee; cast the sheath away.

Eli.
Follow me, then!

Rol.
Not I! I'll kill thee here,
And at this altar wed thee unto death.
[Exit Eli.
Wilt thou not stay? Nay, then, I'll come to thee.

[Exit Roland. Estreldis rushes out after them. A clash of swords is heard behind the back of the scene; then a scream from Estreldis.
Walt.
What cry is this? Fling back the folding-doors!

[The back of the stage is thrown open, and discovers Roland sword in hand, and Eliduke wounded, with Estreldis dead in his arms; he carries her forward.
Rol.
I have killed the woman! Why did she fling herself
Between our swords?

Eli.
This is no painted masque;
Now thou art dead indeed. Lie there, pale case,
Till I avenge thee; and in air above
Let thy lapsed spirit wait a little while;
Mine shall be with it straight.—You were ever generous;
[To Roland.
Bind up my wounds, that I may live to kill thee.

Rol.
(binding his wounds).
Live, and repent.
There's blood enough been spilt.

Eli.
I will not slay thee, Roland, in revenge,
Knowing I well deserved your contumely,
For which I do forgive you; but because
You slandered this Estreldis, who is white
And chaste as is cold ice, I'll offer you
A sacrificial victim to her honour.

Rol.
Alas! you scarcely can uplift your sword.

Eli.
Into thy heart!—
[He beats down Roland's sword, and kills him.
Dead, then! Alas! Estreldis,
It was the noblest heart that ever beat.
My turn comes next. Off, clogs!
[Plucks off the bandages.
Stand back, I say!
I can strike yet. He dies that dares to help me!
The end is come; let me lie down and die.
The end is come; and I, that should have been
A torch to light men onward, must now die,—
Die with the hand of shame thus hot upon me.

Enter Blancaflor and Women.
Blanc.
D'ye keep this wedding with the clash of swords,
Startling my sister at her orisons?
What's this? Lord Roland! Who hath done this thing?

Eli.
I, Blancaflor!

Blanc.
Thou art the plague o' the world,
[She throws herself on the body of Roland.
And with thy bloody hand thou hast defaced
The image of all excellence! Might he not live
Till he had smiled a single smile upon me?—
Look up thy last! What, dead? thou soul of honour!

Eli.
I slew him. Turn, and ask who slew Estreldis,
And with a mournful voice I'll answer, I.
Who slew myself? Why, still I'll answer, I.
I am the root of ill; only from me
This spreading misery springs. Look, look upon me!
I was your man of war, your general,
Your lord, your leader. Look, how low I lie,
Not that I die, but am dropped down from virtue!
Some kind soul pray for me!—Give me more air!
How dim your lights burn! I am failing fast.—
Night gathers.—Oh, not yet!—Your hand, cold child!

[Dies, stretching towards Estreldis.
Walt.
Horror sits only here! Lift up the lady.

Blanc.
Leave me alone! Look, Helen, Margaret,
Roland is dead, the continent of valour,
And speaking tongue of truth; look where he lies!
Back to the nunnery! there I'll end my days,
Nor ever look into the world again.
Roland is dead! I'll hang for ever here!

Walt.
Roland is dead. Passionate Eliduke,
Thy mischief hath beguiled us all to death;
Upon thy soul I heap this load of ills.

A Lord.
He seemed a star, and up his eastern sky
Rose blazing, for his deeds became a man;
And in the very zenith of his fortune,
Shot by false love, stooped, and went out in ashes.
Send to the King. The wedding-day is marred.