University of Virginia Library

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.