University of Virginia Library

VIOLENZIA.

A Tragedy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• King.
• Ethel, Earl of Felborg.
• Robert, Earl of Ingelwald.
• Arthur, his brother, Earl of Ingelwald.
• Cornelius, a captain, a friend of Ethel.
• Olave, another captain.
• Haveloc, a younger brother of the King.
• Malgodin, a ruffianly old courtier.
• Violenzia, sister of Robert and Arthur, betrothed to Ethel.
• Waiting-woman.
• Twelve Judges, Captains, Courtiers, Soldiers, &c.

ACT I.

Scene I.

A Garden.
Enter Ethel and Violenzia.
Eth.
Sing, Violenzia.

Vio.
Hark! the still air gives voice, and sings,
And music mounts on murmuring wings;
Grave silence, throned in upper skies,
Unfolds her silken slumbering eyes;
No voice but jars the ear of silence,
Save tuned breath, which doth 't no violence.

Eth.
Thou speak'st it sweetly, Violenzia;
Only thy voice discharms not holy silence.

Vio.
Look, how the heavy-foliaged elm-trees stand,
Like clustered pictures in the western sky;
And there a fainter blue doth still betray
Where bright Apollo had his bedding-place.
High overhead the angels light their lamps,
And with rich gifts and precious influence
Walk the night-wandering winds. Look up, my Ethel!
When on the glances of the upturned eye
The plumed thoughts take travel, and ascend
Through the unfathomable purple mansions,
Threading the golden fires, and ever climbing
As if 'twere homewards winging,—at such time
The native soul, distrammeled of dim earth,
Doth know herself immortal, and sits light
Upon her temporal perch.

Eth.
Wonder not at it,
Since often to our human temperaments
Things contrary inform—not semblances,
And mostly in immortal questionings;
Seeing we ourselves live in their opposite,
And sit in the circumference of death.
Violenzia!

Vio.
My Ethel?

Eth.
Turn thine eyes
From heaven, and look upon me.
Now tell me what thou seest.

Vio.
A dear face,
And image perfectly beloved.

Eth.
And I, in thee,
See such a gift as when I first possessed it
Did recreate my soul; yea, even yet
Doth make me sceptic of the heavenly shore.
For what needs Paradise by poets feigned,
Or those celestial gardens past the grave,
If here, on the condemned, slandered earth,
Perfect felicity visiteth? I, in thine eye,
Or the touch of that white hand, or thy low voice
Whispering thou lov'st me, have such full content
As nothing more can add to't.

Vio.
Oh, if thus ever!
Ever tell me thus thou lov'st me.

Eth.
Do I not?

Vio.
Ah, no! I think thou dost repent thyself
Of the dear hour that broke thy love to me;
And I, that know myself too much unworthy
Of the royal benefaction, too mean a vestal
To feed so rich a fire unquenchably,
May weep, and blame the jealous circumstance,
That such a treasure in my path did lay,
Who am no setting for so proud a gem.

Eth.
It is my love that will not let me speak,
And passion puts a silence on my tongue.
I have no gift of speech; and when I strive
To model that which beats so deeply here,
The dull air gives no echo, but deceives
With faintest semblance. Oh, for the poet's voice!
Within whose bosom no emotion breeds,
Or deep desire doth burn, or fancy sway,
But straight the fashioning brain gives it a shape,
And carves it out in sound of measured verse.
Were I a poet, my dear love should learn
How deep I love, that lack the art to show it.
And that thou mayst not doubt me, Violenzia,
Or think I would forego what is to me
The air of my soul's life, thy love, here stand with me,
And underneath the solemn silent stars,
And passion deep inspiring dark of night,
Let us our mutual vows enregister.

Vio.
With all my soul!

Eth.
Reverently, Violenzia;
For here we stand to bind a chain which neither,
With honour or true happiness, may unlink.
This love which ties our souls is the true wedlock;
And the formal after-ceremony, though essential,
Unites our lives alone, is the honourable bond,
Not the religious. Search thy soul, Violenzia;
If there be any doubt there lingering
If thou affect'st me truly—as well there may be—
We will defer until it be burnt out,
Or if it grow, break off. Tell me entirely
If thou dost love me.

Vio.
If it be to love thee,
To think the enfolding arm of any god
Abhorrent beside thine; in thine eye to live,
As if I thence drank the gold life-giving water;
If it be love to waste the nights in tears,
Because I have no gift that may repay
The least taste of thy affection; if it be love,
At the whisper of thy name, wherever heard,
To feel the life-blood stopping at my heart,
To know all things a blank, dearest friends' news
Trivial, all old distractions nothing worth,
But the empty time only impediment
That severs me from thee; to feel me unworth,
Yet to believe under thy tutelage,
As I do know my utmost should not want,
Something of this light frame might yet be moulded
Worthy of Ethel's wife; if it be love,
Which hath so changed my vain, inconstant spirit,
That I beweep frailties late gloried in,
And think this beauty, lately my life's idol,
And that I did believe outstarred all nature,
But worthy as the pleasure of thine eye;—
If these be love—Alas! I speak it coldly,
Violenzia loves, and dares avow it boldly.

Eth.
Consider yet my faults.

Vio.
Thou art all virtue.

Eth.
I am not, Violenzia. Of a spirit proud,
Over-constant, lost in thought, oft melancholy,
Unused in word or gesture to betray
Affections deepest felt; therefore cold seeming,
But in my heart most true, most true indeed;
I have more wants than I have wit to tell.
Bear with them, sweet.

Vio.
Ethel! I am not proud
To say I'll bear with them—rather I'll love them,
Thinking them part of thee. But for my faults!
Nay, I lack grace to name them. I'll hide them rather,
And root them out ere I become thy wife.

Eth.
Here with this ring I hoop thy finger round.
A jewel of great value, and ancestral,
And with it dedicate my fire of love,
Lighted by thee, and by no other fuel,
Now or henceforth, ever to be sustained,
To thy dear service. For ever thine, Violenzia.

Vio.
And take thou this one, which my dying mother
Gave me to this intent. O lofty Ethel,
I kiss thy lips, and am for ever thine.

Eth.
Look, the moon rises; fair stars wink and shine,
And through the overarching branches peep
To see our ceremonial. Sweet, good night.

Vio.
Good night, dear love. Ride you to-night away?

Eth.
To-night.

Vio.
And with the early morning I;
Arthur stays for me; we shall meet at court.
But late so fair—and now, look, clouds arise,
And the wind begins to blow. We shall have rain.
I think you are not ominous. Well, good night.

Eth.
Good night; soft-handed slumber shut your eyes!

[Exit Vio.
Enter Robert.
Rob.
What, ho! holla! Ethel, thou wandering spirit,
What mak'st thou with the stars? To horse! to horse!
Boot, ere the early cock doth sound his horn,
For we must ride full twenty miles ere morn.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Court.
King, Malgodin, Ethel, Robert, Haveloc, Courtiers, &c.
King.
And now, young Ingelwald, that rid'st so fast,
What news bring you from the East?
As by your face, there should be news within,
Burning to be unbosomed.

Rob.
Gracious liege,
Upon my lips no welcome news abide,
But such as shall on your imperial eyes
Draw down your frowning brow, and bid your voice
Unlock its youthful thunder. The old Swede
Hath broken his bounds; with twice five thousand men
He treads upon the bosom of the land,
Lighting his way with villages on fire,
And driving forth the unhoused hungry swains,
Who, like starved locusts, feeding far and wide,
Eat what the tempest spares.

King.
Where lies his force?

Rob.
Now before Engelborg,
Which nobly yet doth bear his furious brunt,
But scarcely may, unless fresh succour come,
Hold out a seven-night more.

King.
So closely pressed?
Why, then, your castle stands in daily fear.

Rob.
Most imminent, sire, and since my duty here
Hath called me to your hand, fearing to leave
My only sister to the unheaded courage
Of menials, whose zeal, faithful and proved,
Might yet lack in my absence, I have bidden her
Follow me hither.

King.
And do when expect her?

Rob.
This day, my liege.

King.
She shall be welcome hither,
As well befits the sister of her brother,
And taste a royal treatment. For the Swede,
We knew his purpose long, and but awaited
Some overt act like this to lay him bare
To a well-merited chastisement. Here, Ingelwald,
Here hast thou written the several mustered companies
Late gathered, and appointed of the best,
With all equipment needful. The command,
By death late wrested from the shaking hand
Of Otfrid, aged with honourable years,
Take thou, and succour Engelborg. The Dane
Wars with us, but I think we shall not need
His slow-advancing succour.

Rob.
Noble my lord,
You will yourself go forth?

King.
No, Ingelwald;
Me higher state cares do at home detain.
The head that from offence would ward the body
Makes not itself a weapon, but employs
The service of its members. Thus I of thee
Create a hand, whose vigorous employment
I will afar direct.

Rob.
Your majesty
Hath seen no war. Hath royalty such arts
That it can cool the youthful rolling blood,
To sit at home when arms are in the field,
And glory on a fiery wing doth float,
The entranced spectatress of the bloody day?
Oh, let my liege once strap his armour on,
And bind his young thigh with a soldier's sword—
Once hear the clanging trumpet's troubled voice,
And loud citation of the rolling drum,
Bidding fall on—and once, after bold deeds,
Hear victory ring in his amazed ears,
And he will hold a warlike fame more worth
Than these dull cares of state. Befits a king
First to secure or ere he rule his realm.

Mal.
What, shall his majesty go out to war?
And that his precious and irreplaceable person
Submit to the perilous chance of battle-field?
For whom fight'st thou or is thy service worth
But for the King? And that for which alone
We do protect all else—his life, shall we
Stake on the first throw?

Rob.
Why, thou pest of kings,
As I can read a flatterer in thy face—

King.
Content thee, Ingelwald. We go not forth;
Our choice admits not question: use good haste;
Choose thine own officers, as thou best knowest,
Who hold the worthiest faculties.

Rob.
Here is one,
Whom I would fain have second to myself;
So please your majesty commend my choice.
He is the Earl of Felborg, son of him
Who was your royal father's nearest friend,
Counsellor, and warrior, under whose able eye
He studied war, and stands most near to me,
As the betrothed husband of my sister.

King.
If he be like his father all throughout,
As in his grave young face I read a semblance
To that which I from early years recall,
We may hope here for such a prop of state
As kings are rich to own.—Welcome, young sir!
Ethel of Felborg,—as I nothing doubt
You hold your father's name,—second i' the army
We name you here; and as your service holds,
You shall well find that no ungrateful eye
Looks on your works.

Eth.
I humbly thank my liege,
And my best efforts shall not want to show me
Worthy your high conception.

King.
The third place
Your brother Arthur holds; rode he not with you?

Rob.
He waits upon my sister.

King.
Well, move on.
And, gentlemen, to-morrow set you forth.
This evening high festivity let reign
In all our bosoms. We invite you all
To grace our entertainment. Noble Ethel,
Let us not want you.

[Exeunt King, Malgodin, and Train.
Manent Ethel, Robert, and Haveloc.
Rob.
Felborg, know this gentleman,
The brother of our King, and I dare warrant him
As honourable as high-born, and add—may I not, sir?—
Willing to love you.

Hav.
It is extremely true.
Did I not fear to seem too confident,
And over-estimate my worthiness,
I would make bold to sue you for your friendship.

Eth.
You do me, sir, much honour.

Hav.
May I ride with you,
And learn some soldiership under your flag?
You are young, and yet well practised. I so raw,
I fear I shall disgrace your company.

Rob.
You can ride, and use your weapon.

Hav.
That's but little;
But I can be obedient and diligent,
If the Lord Felborg will accept the services
Of such a volunteer.

Eth.
Sir, very willingly.
I'll keep a place for you. Good day, my lord.—
Robert, will you go with me?

Rob.
Ay; I'll follow you.

[Exit Ethel.
Hav.
That's somewhat cold, I think.

Rob.
Who? Ethel cold!
When you have lived with him a little week,
He'll love you like a brother.

Hav.
Would I were worthier;
I could love him strangely. Farewell till to-night, then.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Hall in the Palace.
Violenzia and Ethel, Robert, Arthur, Haveloc, Ladies, Courtiers, &c. dancing.
King and Malgodin.
Mal.
Your blood beats high, my liege.

King.
By heaven, Malgodin!
These eyes did never feast on beauty yet;
With what poor meats my passion hitherto
Hath cooled its appetite!

Mal.

Red and white, red and white; what a fair thing is innocence! Pity it should be spoiled in the using. Very pretty painted crockery, but hot water will crack it.

King.
Blasted be the face
On which she looks with such transported eye!
Ethel of Felborg, we must teach those glances
To wander and set elsewhere. Ay, squeeze hands!

Mal.

A very good arm to fold in a king.

King.

Of a chaste and noble keeping: what, Malgodin?

Mal.

Very light! very light! Such a weathercock

as all women; hath such a fire in her eye as many women, and needs such an excuse as some women. By an equal not to be touched, but by a king.

King.
O sudden passionate blood, burst not my veins
With the anticipation of delight!
To-morrow Felborg goes,—foul shade that hides
The lamp of joy from my dear longing eyes.
To-morrow! oh, too long it lies behind;
Even now I'll speak, and teach her now my mind.

Mal.
Better wait yet; an over-open courtship
May bring some danger.

King.
Danger! from whence?—to whom?
To her?—to them?

Mal.
To you, to you, I fear it.

King.
Away, you fool! I only fear delay.

[The King accosts Violenzia; they come forward conversing.
Vio.
Your majesty doth mock me with fair words.

King.
Why, then, truth mocks; those lie not that do say
The sun outshines dim stars' nocturnal ray;
Those overpraise not heaven that name it blue;
To call a rose sweet, is no more than due.
Thy smile doth pale the sun, heaven's blue thine eyes,
And roses faint before thy breathed sighs;
To wrap all praise in cincture of choice sounds,
And heap it on thee, were to keep due bounds.

Vio.
Yonder stands one, in whose eyes showing fair,
I seek no other praise.

King.
Oh, enviable!
Why, then, I see a king's state is but trouble,
And those on whom, from my high-bolstered state,
I pityingly looked down, may win more grace.
Is 't possible thou shouldst down-glance so low?
Fair women's eyes seem fairest looking up.

Vio.
Down to the Earl of Felborg! I to Ethel!

King.
Talk not of dust. A king bows to thine eyes.

Vio.
And would bewitch me with false flatteries.
Why should your majesty waste grace with me?
Many sit here more fair than I can be.

King.
O blasphemy! The young moon shows not fairer
Among the stars that coldly do ensphere her.

Vio.
Many more witty—

King.
Chattering apes beside thee.
Hark, in thine ear—

Vio.
Nay, I shall blush to hear it.

[Exeunt.
Robert, Ethel, and Arthur.
Rob.
What! do you mark it too? for in your eye
I read but small contentment.

Eth.
I do mark it;
And am very sorry she should seem so vain,
And easily taken with false flattery.
Yet youth may plead her pardon; nor do I think
She spoke him much encouragement.

Rob.
Spoke, man!
Her eyes did speak with bright triumphant sparks
Delight to have a royal pursuivant;
Her smiles did sun the growth of his advances;
Her every gesture cast itself about
To be admired and bent to. Fie upon her!

Eth.
She knows not how this king affects her sex.

Rob.
Affects! why that old dragon famed of old,
Who, issuing from his briny wave-roofed house,
Devoured each day the unfiled rock-bound virgin,
Was not so vast a ravisher of maidenhood,
Nor owned such an insatiable maw,
As this voluptuous youngling.

Enter King and Violenzia conversing.
Arth.
Whispering!

[He crosses and drops his sword in their path.
King.
Who's that?

Vio.
My brother Arthur.

King.
Ho, young lord!
What means this careless mischief in our path?

Arth.
Pardon, my liege; but this young maid, I fear,
Will need a sword to keep her feet from tripping.

King.
Beware, young insolent! she stands not subject
To thee or to thy sword. In my protection
Alone henceforth she lives. Look to it well,
And meddle in it as you love your head.

[Exeunt King and Violenzia.
Arth.
Good brother Robert, did you mark his words?

Rob.
Either I'll tame her young and mutinous spirit,
Or she shall ride back home. Better endure
An honest death than stain her father's name.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

Violenzia's Chamber.
Violenzia alone.
Vio.
How much unworthy of my noble love
Have I this evening cast myself away,
And been the prey of idle vanity!
I have sucked the poison of sweet flattery,
And may digest the venom. Oh, sad weakness,
That only doth repent, and not prevent—
[Knocking.
Who beats at the door? who knocks so loudly there?

Rob.
(outside.)
Open, I say!

[Beating the door.
Vio.
Who is it knocks?

Rob.
(outside.)
Violenzia!
I'll break your bolts else!

Vio.
'Tis my brother's voice!

She opens. Enter Robert and Arthur.
Rob.
What, must we wait the whole night at your door,
Like dogs that howl at the gate?

Vio.
Alas, good brother,
I knew not it was you.

Rob.
You knew not—you!
Say, rather, some more favoured visitor
Was in your mind. We mar your purposes.
Teach, teach your cheeks some shame!

Vio.
Good brother Robert!

Rob.
Good sister Violenzia! good disgrace!
Young shame-breeder to our unspotted house!
Well, now, what would you with me?

Vio.
What means this?
Come, you forget yourself. Go elsewhere, sir,
To spend your drunken humours; I'll not bear them.

Rob.
Perfect in impudence! Beware! beware!

Arth.
You are too hasty, Robert. Let me speak.

Vio.
Speak soberly, I pray you.

Arth.
Hark, Violenzia.
You have this night given us much cause of fear,
By your light toying with the luxurious king;
The danger you perhaps know not. Tell us this—
Are you prepared to sacrifice that name,
Your only honour, of an unstained maid,
To his gross desires?

Vio.
Alas! what have I done?

Rob.
What done! Thou hast looked babies in his eyes,
Tasted his kisses, made him confident,
What's true may be, you want but opportunity
To meet him half-way.

Vio.
I have done none of this.

Rob.
Thou liest, fair infamy! and I begin to hate
That I must call a thing so stuffed with ill
By the name of sister.

Vio.
Brother! too harsh, too harsh.

Rob.
Well, look to it! If from your folly here
There spring the shadow of disgrace to us,
And you do blot that name long shining fair,
Like mountain-top untouched by cloud of shame,
By all that is most sacred in high heaven,
Or terrible in the dark world below,
Your blood shall spill to mend it. Look! I draw;
Draw, Arthur! draw your sword, and swear with me,
If this rash frivolous girl
Should with her baseness mock her father's bones,
She shall not long survive it.

Arth.
Kneeling, I swear it.

Vio.
Stay, brothers! let me speak.
That I have been weak and vain I do confess it;
And did forget that sober staid demeanour
Befits your sister. What more I have done,
Alas! I know not; but by your fierce looks
And menacing swords it should be something worse
Than yet I ever dreamt of: being brothers,
You rather should have warned me of my danger
Than threatened me with death. You do me wrong
Thus coarsely to upbraid me, and I scorn you,
When you dare hint I hold your honour light,
Knowing it false. These are sharp instruments
To teach a sister with. For that ill done,
As yet I scarce do know wherein it lies,
Humbly I ask forgiveness, and will strive
Hence to demean me worthy your approval.

Rob.
So do, and you'll do well.—Farewell, Violenzia:
Think of our words, and think we'll keep our vows. Enter Ethel as they go out.

Good night, good Ethel, in and speak with her.

[Exeunt Rob. and Arth..
Vio.
Come, noble Ethel, my soul's comforter.
In thee I find no angry proud reproach,
But a more moving sorrow. Nay, I'll kneel;
Let me upon my knees entreat thy pardon.
Have I made sad that dear esteemed face,
And grieved that heart, my home of confidence?
As if the earth should frown upon the sun,
That spreads her front with greenness. O poor Ethel!
If thus thine own beloved dare bruise thy life,
What injury shall thy foes inflict on thee?
Their worst of malice shall seem innocent
With thy home griefs compared. The curse of women!
That they love power more than they love their love,
And break true hearts to minister display.
Ah, be not harsh, so lovers should not be;
But let my white hand smooth thy cloudy brow,
And my soliciting kisses intervene
Between the solemn junction of thy lips:
Those that love dearly do forgive small faults.

Eth.
Easily I forgive thee, Violenzia.
But, oh, be tender with me; sway me not
Too far!
Lest I perceive, thy yoke being absolute,
I needs must break it utterly to be free.
I love thee dangerously.

Vio.
If I ever,
In spite of this ill-timed frivolity,
Nourished a thought faithless to my betrothed,
May thy fond love turn to devouring flame
And eat my heart to ashes!

Eth.
I believe it,
Nor think it strange the flatteries of a king
Should scatter so young a spirit. That base thoughts
Live in this temple is not possible.
But thou, unbred in courts, know'st not the danger
Lurks in the smiles of kings. They wither maidenhood,
Faster than gathered roses doth the sun;
Who first draws out their most delicious essence,
But having kissed the secrets of their bosom,
And dried the dew of their virginity,
Puts on a strange face of consuming pride,
And wrinkles them for ever. Now, even now,
Such light encouragement needs royalty,
He in his secret soul believes thee won
To grant his shameful askings.

Vio.
He shall find
Much otherwise, my Ethel.

Eth.
Alas! thou know'st not
What infinite perils set thee. What devices,
What shapes of virtue, and masked semblances,
Shall with the basest inwards lead thee on
To unimagined ruin! Subtler genius
Than ever worked for good shall with foul evil
Tangle thy soul, if thou shouldst show like virtue.

Vio.
It is my punishment. There is no flight—
Nor do I much desire it. Ethel, I know
Thou dar'st leave me unwatched. Tremble not for me.
Save this night's folly somewhat weighs upon me,
And teaches me a strange humility,
I well could scorn the utmost zeal of vice.

Eth.
I trust thee, Violenzia; and believe
From thy unsoiled chastity these assaults,
Like breath from glass, shall fade and leave it stainless.

Vio.
How dared they dream I could be false to thee?
I'll tell my brothers their sharp swords want wit,
While this heart beats and I can hang on it.

Eth.
O Violenzia!
Thy love to me is as the fire to the lamp,
Which wanting it, is valueless and cold.
That which we have, we oft want art to praise,
Until we think to lose it. Thou, kind Heaven,
Rob me of all the graces of this life—
Nay, the necessities; cut off from me
All shoots of sweet affection; let all blood
Kindred to mine be stopped by baneful death,
And all things I most earnestly desire
Fade in the grasping. But this one best jewel,
Against which I have staked all earthly bliss,
Let me not lose. Oh, when our joy's at height,
The swift hours rolling bring revengeful night.

Vio.
Touch lips at parting.

Eth.
Fare thee well, sweet heart.
If any danger threaten, send for me,
And wait not till it's imminent.

[Exit.
Vio.
Soul of gentleness
And truest equanimity, fare thee well.
If I should wrong thee in my lightest thought,
The devils would cry shame on't.
[Knocking.
Dost thou return?

Opens. Enter Malgodin.
Vio.

Who's here? My brothers, if you seek them, sir, left me some half-hour since.

Mal.

What, chamber-visiting? chamber-visiting? Hath your ladyship three brothers, or more brothers? I doubt very many brothers. Two I left in the hall filling wine-cups, and a third came out of this door, and ran over me in the corridor. Oh, mere leavings, mere leavings.

Vio.
What, there! attendance! Sir, I know in me
No hint of such behaviour as should give you
The right to intrude here. Leave me, I say!
What your words aim I know not; but, by your mien,
They are not less than insolent. Those are at hand
Would think your life a trifling satisfaction
For a breath of wrong to me. Pray you, begone!

Mal.
A very round arm. “Pray you, begone!”
Where learned you this action?

Vio.
Will you not go? Nay, then, I'll bring those to you
Shall shake your trembling life out.

Mal.
Nay, you pass not.

Vio.
By heaven, I'll pass! tottering deformity!

[She thrusts him aside.
Mal.

I beseech you! I beseech you! I come from the King.

Vio.

From the King?

Mal.

Why, you did not think I came in my own behalf? Old—old! the days have been, have been—

Vio.

What says the King?

Mal.

A young king to a fair woman. He loves you, and beseeches you to grant him an audience.

Vio.

When? where?

Mal.

Here—now. Oh, I entreat you, use not these old tricks of shyness with him. He is a king, and young.

Vio.
Who and what am I,—rather, what have I done,
That should deserve this thing?

Mal.

Ah, good now, what d'ye stick at? I'll not see you, nor hear his coming. His majesty waits upon you.

Vio.
Why, this is what they told me. Hark you, sir!
If the King did send you here—I'll not believe it;
Yet else thou dar'st not. But if the King did send you,
Go back. Tell him, he shames his majesty
To use so base a messenger; and that his breath
Is tainted in the passage. Tell him, he shames
My maidenhood. I am not of that sort
He loves in this new fashion. Go! no more words.

Mal.

Maidenhood! I'll tell him what you bid me, be sure of it. Those of your kind are proud. I have known many such. Well, well! I shall know it, though you manage it never so secretly; and I'll remember you scorned at me.

Vio.
Get you gone, aged corruption!
[Shuts the door on him.
Is't possible he should esteem me thus?
What fire is this that burns my proud cheeks up?
Did I appear like this? Not so much ceremony
As to affect to woo me! What, to me,
Whose veins do swell with a renowned blood,
The daughter of an earl!—what's more, a maid—
To-night! I'll call my brothers, let them know
What rate their master holds them. They would avenge it
Even with a king's blood—therefore I'll not tell them.
But, oh, beware, thou regal masked baseness!
Two noble hounds I hold but in the leash,
Which at a word will seize thee by the throat.
Ethel, less fiery—no less valiant,
And would with his determined sword hold back
A world that sought to harm me. What do I fear?
I'll call no help. There is no danger nigh
Worthy to fright my spirit. Come, thou proud King;
Try all thy arts: my deep-inspired love
Like a bright shield I'll hang before my heart,
And scorn thy leaden arrows. Come, thou King!

ACT II.

Scene I.

A Hill by the Camp, near Engelborg. Break of day.
Enter Ethel and Cornelius.
Cor.
Why are you so long silent?

Eth.
Stillness of morning,
And the ineffable serenity
And peace of young creation, bind my lips.
Oh, who would mar the season with dull speech,
That must tie up our visionary meanings
And subtle individual apprehensions
Into the common tongue of every man,
And of the swift and scarce-detected visitants
Of our illusive thoughts seek to make prisoners,
And only grasp their garments! Well, let's talk.

Cor.
Indeed, no language can express the hour.

Eth.
It is the very time of contemplation,
More rich for being instinct with coming life.
Short breathing-space between oblivion's sleep
And the world's tumult. Day's virginity,
Unmarried yet to action, nor made mother
Of all that brood of intricate consequents,
Quick progeny of her ephemeral womb,
That twining with their brothers of past birth,
Weave the vast web of circumstance. Oh, think of it!
We are creative gods, and whether we will or no,
Upon the present moment we beget
Shapes of the future time. Most awful present!
That swifter than the winged lightning flies,
And more irrevocable; subtly charged
With some small influence, some diminution,
Or fine accession to our immortal character,
Making a difference that shall never die
In what we might have been. Have you heard of it?
To-day we try our edges on the Swede,
For the relief of Engelborg.

Cor.
The rumour
Got wind last night. Many a young starting blood,
That never yet saw itself sluiced in battle,
Beats thick with expectation, and awaits
The trumpet's summons.

Eth.
'Twill not be till noon.
O peaceful morning-tide, with what rude deeds
Will they deface thy evening! Is it not heavenly?
The air is cool and still; soft dawn shoots up
Into the fleecy heaven, that, like a mother
Uncovering her rosy naked babe,
Looks down upon the tender new-born day.
Strange prelude to a battle.

Cor.
True, it is piteous,
And best not thought of.

Eth.
Piteous it is indeed,
And yet not best not thought of, so is nothing.
We dare not faint at woe and violence,
When we are sure our cause is with the right.
And gaping wounds, and the red skeleton death,
Painted in blood of many slaughtered men,
Though they may stir our gorge more, are in themselves,
And should be to our spirits, less abhorrent
Than living men, walking like sepulchres
Of their dead spiritual lives.

Cor.
I have seen such men.

Eth.
So sick, I have seen many, and some dead.
He is noble that can hang a shield of patience
Between himself and injuries, but most base
That sees injustices unremedied.

Cor.
That did you never.

Eth.
No, nor you, Cornelius,
Nor any man who doth believe in heaven,
But when he sees a wrong must war with it—
By sufferance, if sufferance best abates it,
But only then. And always in his spirit
Eager antagonism, not passive spirits,
Oppose the dangerous devil's mastery;
But sworded and aggressive warriors,
Who with swift charge beat down his mustered ranks,
And all day long maintain the weary war,
And die in faith of unseen victory.

Cor.
Warriors of God; servants of God;—great titles.

Eth.
Oh, that we might be worthy to be such!
Our youth is like this morning, and we stand
Between the night of our unconscious childhood
And the world's monstrous battle, whose loud roar
Grows in our ears. Well, when we mix in it,
God keep us in his hand!

Cor.
Look, the great sun
Streaks all the orient.

[The sun rises.
Eth.
Glorious apparition!

Enter Haveloc.
Hav.
May I speak with you? You keep early hours.

Eth.
We love to breathe the morning; now you have joined us,
Is't not worth while?

Hav.
My brother writes to me
I must come back. That's a strange notion, surely!

Eth.
My lord, I dare not question it.

Hav.
But tell me,
Is't true we fight to-day?

Eth.
So it is commanded.

Hav.
Well, thus much my brief service will have gained me,
To have seen a battle. Will the General use me
To bear the news home?

Cor.
Pardon me, my lord,
That charge is mine.

Hav.
Why, then, I'll ride with you.
I am loth to leave you. Some of you soldiers learn
Too hardened and mechanical a spirit,
Prompt and unscrupulous in your obedience,
And too familiar with the change of death;
Yet in your tents here many virtues spring
The court and city know not; and some baseness,
Which there is drawn familiar as the air,
Shows here still strange and shameful. In your hearts
Self is less ingrained, if sometimes more violent.
Can I serve you in the court?

Eth.
Indeed you may,
And in a service where your least exertion
Shall buy my dearest gratitude.

Hav.
Pray, let me.

Eth.
There is a lady—

Hav.
The fair Countess Ingelwald.
I'll tell her you are well, and living here.
You write your heart to twenty different ladies.

Eth.
Play me no tricks; but in good earnest, sir,
If you will keep an eye upon her state,
And warn me if she is not well at ease,
You'll bind me very closely.

Hav.
I will serve her
In any way I can without obtrusion.
I know your drift, knowing my brother's temper.

Eth.
I have a private task for you, Cornelius.
Come to my tent.—Nay, go with us, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Room in the Palace.
Enter King, Malgodin, and Page.
King.

Did you see her, boy?

Page.

Not without labour, sire.

King.

I say—did you see her?

Page.

I did, sire.

King.

And left those jewels with her?

Page.

No, sire.

King.

How then? how then?

If with the saucy visage of a boy,
And tongue of forwardness, thou didst accost her,
Break the least point of ceremonious bearing
And deepest reverence, knave, I'll set thee up,
A speaking warning to thy fellows. Now!

Page.
Upon my knee, I lowly did accost her,
And in the very shape of true respect
Offered your salutations. She to that
Made answer shortly,—she did humbly thank you,
And would have gone; whereon, with earnest voice,
And in my best of moving eloquence,
I broached your lingering passion, telling her
The royalty of Love had set you down,
And made of one that lately was a king
A trembling subject to a higher power;
Love had discrowned you, Love had broke your rod,
And put you at the bottom of his thralls,
Feeding you only on unfilled desires,
And broken rations of your bursting sighs,
Shutting the visiting slumbers from your eyes,
And steeping them in rain of bitter tears.

King.
You were too cold. You should yourself have wept.

Page.
Why, so I did; more, and much more, I told her,
All of like import; and at every pause
Watered her feet with soft beseeching tears.

King.
When you had made an end, what said she then?

Page.
Sire, with a quiet scorn she answered me,
I was a good ambassador of love,
And bade me lie as well in mine own cause.
I asked an answer for your majesty;
She said, the King hath heard mine answer oft;
Tell him again, I am a maid betrothed,
And that he wastes his idle feigned cares.
Then of your costly gift I made presentment;
At which she not deigned look. I told her then,
King's givings were commands to take. She proudly—
They best obeyed such ill commands that broke them.
And when I would have left the casket there,
She from her window passionately flung it,
To lie in the open street.

Mal.
What! have you brought it?
You should have left it lying. She but waited
Until your back was turned to lift it.

King.
Go, boy,
[Exit Page.
This is the wildest hawk that ever yet
Refused to sit on hand; and her resistance,
Like wind to the fire, blows in me so much heat,
As I will rather lose my herited crown
Than not enjoy those charms. I would gladly welcome
Conquest of half my realm, so I could win by't
The death of her beloved.

Mal.
What if he died
Some other way?

King.
There's murder in thy look.
We're not so base yet. Hoary iniquity,
Show me some easier way.

Mal.
I have already
Whispered abroad, and will yet more completely,
She is your yielded mistress. This being confirmed
On every side, and buzzed about her ears,
Shown in all acts—as you must make the life
Of all your court strictly conform to it—
She thus shall find her valued chasteness leaves her
(If she be a woman) more loved reputation
Not guarded from the stain; and, more than this,
The thought, which now being strange is doubly abhorred,
Shall sound familiar. That vice we think possible
Already's more than probable, when we stand
In junctures that fit with it. Add to this,
The news shall reach her lover, as I'll manage it.
May be he'll break with her, or, at the least,
Even if he disbelieve, show some such anger
As, being unjust, shall rouse a spirit in her,
Since she's quick-tempered, fitter to your attacks.

King.
Subtly contrived, Malgodin. So we'll manage it.

Mal.
And if this fail, there's one way left.

King.
What's that?

Mal.
There's time enough to speak when the time comes.
Something it tastes of hell. You say you'll have her?

King.
Though I should write my soul away, I'll have her.

Mal.
Why, then, you'll have her. Men's souls stick in their way
More than most other things.

King.
I'll visit her now.
This hour, they tell me, she oft walks i' the garden.

[Exit.
Mal.
O my white lady! Good Madam Maidenhood,
We'll see you smutched yet; never doubt it.

Enter Cornelius.
Cor.
Sir, I seek the King: hath he gone hence?

Mal.
The young Cornelius, or I have forgotten
Features worth memory.

Cor.
He, sir; and a soldier.

Mal.
Charged with great news, I warrant, for the King:
The King is in the garden with the Queen.

Cor.
The Queen!

Mal.
For the time being. Pooh! the lady-bird.

Cor.
I take you, sir, and rather than disturb him
Will do my other errand. Can you tell me
Where lodges the high-born Violenzia,
Betrothed of the noble Earl of Felborg?

Mal.
Why,
That's she.

Cor.
That's what?

Mal.
Tush! You are Felborg's friend.
And yet what matter? 'Tis a public thing;
And, as I think, you soldiers least of all men
Hang weight on women's fancies—she's this gardenweed.

Cor.
You speak it lightly!

Mal.
Ay, between ourselves.
Before the King she rules our eyes, our voices—
Is the only fair and honest, and commands
Our sanctimonious reverence. I have seen
Many such toys: soon our great baby breaks them,
And buys himself another—she's fresh yet.

Cor.
Ethel! when thou hear'st this, thy heart will crack.

Mal.
Oh no, sir.

Cor.
How he loved her! Can no love, then,
Buy truth in the hearts of women? Trust them never!

Mal.
It is the old and universal rule;
Yet every woman is her own exception
To some one man that trusts her.
Let it not move you thus.

Cor.
Oh, how he loved her!

Mal.
The sooner he'll forget her.

Cor.
Hapless he
That in the bosom of a faithless woman
Lays up his all of joy; hangs on one string,
That rotten, all his gems of rich affection.
O ruined gamester, on how poor a chance
Didst thou set all thy heart. Forget her? never!

Mal.
You have some news for the King. I have the entry
To the private garden, and will adventure take you.

Cor.
I have a letter for her; I'll go with you;
It is from him. I'll mark her as she reads it,
As I have seen what's penned; if any shame
Inhabit yet her bosom, her hot blushes
Will burn the spendthrift beauty in her cheeks,
Ay, utterly consume her.

Mal.
Come with me.
Yet first we'll search her lodging; it may be
She is not still with the King. How moves the war?

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Garden.
Enter King and Violenzia.
Vio.
Why do you love me?

King.
For thy beauty, sweet.

Vio.
O fatal beauty, which, like bloom on the fruit,
Invites its own destruction. You do love me,
And for that cause would kill me.

King.
I! O heaven!

Vio.
Call it not love, for therein you blaspheme;
Like men that, from their own polluted thoughts,
Build up their worshipped deities. Love loves not
Self, but in the answering breast of the beloved
It consecrates a temple to its joy,
And therein ministering it finds true peace,
Though all be lost at home. Yours is not love,
But base self-liking, apeing love's fair guise.
Me you love not, but love yourself in me,
To use me for your passion and my shame.

King.
The folly of proud women! that love chastity,
That love their loss, or love to seem to do.
Some act, none think it. Seeming-sainted Dian
Best knew what coldness means. In heaven she showed
A virgin face; but stooping to green earth,
Couched often on the starlit Latmian hill,
Sucking the warm breath of Endymion.
The base boy blabbed—from me no breath shall move;
Trust me, I'll be as secret as the grave.

Vio.
You speak of that you cannot comprehend,
As you have never known it, and confound
Things different—chastity and reputation.
My silver reputation that should be,
You, that profess a secrecy after shame,
Have dared beforehand tarnish. Shame on liars!

King.
Ha!

Vio.
You are not angry. Why, I do but say
You have broken truth's law—do you no such wrong
As you do me, when, with an artful tongue,
You would persuade me, being innocent,
To break the law of sacred chastity,
Which is the fostering air of the unstained soul;
And they that with foul thoughts dare cloud it over
Shut out the light and intercourse of heaven.
Nay, beyond this you wrong me—you would have me
Break my sworn faith. What boots it you to swear
With these thick vows you love me, when the same breath
Persuades to perjury? Who shall believe you?
More; I must offer up a love that beats
In my heart's centre, and a man that loves me
As truly as you do falsely, sacrifice
To the depths of shame and grief—that rich affection
Given to my keeping pour on the wasteful ground.
You ask me for my virgin innocence,
You ask me for my heaven-registered oath,
My deep-implanted love, my all of virtue.
What give you in return? Have you no voice?
And yet you call it love! You call it love!
Great Heaven, upon what ill-deserving heads
Hang'st thou thy crowns!

King.
Hark, thou detested girl!
No more I'll say I love thee; something I'll do
Shall make thee fear me.

Vio.
Nothing canst thou do.
If I had yielded to thy base assaults,
If I in thought had fallen from my truth,
And swayed my inclination but one jot
To the alluring pictures of thy vice,
Then mightst thou speak of fear, then might I tremble;
But now I stand in the angels' circling arms,
Whither thy power not stretches, and thence tell thee,
Pompous in youthful beauty, and set up
With regal ornament and absolute power,
All that high fortune heaps on her beloved,
Yet-wanting one thing—virtue, that I scorn thee,
And think thee, when compared to my beloved,
Not worth to touch his hand. What! can love's brow
Hang in so fierce a cloud? Did you not say—
Or have you now forgot that you did say?—
You loved me or you hated? I forget which;
For I was thinking of my own beloved.

King.
Think of him dead; there feed your wandering love-thoughts.

Vio.
Touch not his life—touch not his life, O King!
For never walked so fiery eager a spirit
Of keen revenge as such a deed shall waken.

King.
Darest thou threaten?

Vio.
Oh, no! I dare not threaten;
For in the hollow of a kingly hand
Death makes his home. And what boots dull revenge?
What shall restore the irreparable life?
Be nobler than thy words. Upon my knees
I bend and supplicate. I was too proud;
Low in the dust I lay the audacious face
That dared affront the eye of majesty,
And drown in tears the bold rebellious voice.
Have mercy! ah! have mercy! thou shouldst be
The life-giver; and that thy awful sceptre is not swayed
To guide the assassin's knife, though so to do,
Alas! it lacks not might. They that do murder
Never sleep more, never more taste of peace,
Quaff poison in their drink, see knives in the dark,
And ever at their elbow horror walks,
Shaking them like a palsy. Give me some sign
Of soft relenting grace, undo that frown;
I'll no more love him, no more look upon him,
If my love breed his death. Be merciful!

King.
Stand up. I spake in jest; I will not hurt him;
Nay, you must love me, then.

Vio.
Oh, never! never!
Only He that did create me can new-mould me,
And make this love not part: I cannot change
My mortal fashioning, and cast afresh
These eyes, these lips, this frame; I cannot barter
My hand with yours, and am as impotent
To bend the loving fixture of my soul
Upon another object.

King.
Neither can I, then,
Quench the hot flame that rages here.

Vio.
You may.
Call but your power about you. Budding affection,
And most a wandering fancy, that is guilt,
That will whereon the conscience lays strong hand
Lacks not the force to vanquish; but where conscience
Smiles with clear front on long-fed pure affection,
Where the deep heart's, the eye's, the brain's emotions
Knit up two souls in a fair threefold knot,
You may destroy the lives round which they twine,
But no way else unlace them.

King.
Pish! you talk.
Come, I'll speak coldly with you, and what I say,
Look you consider it; for though the earth
Broke from its centre, never shall my act
Fall from its fixed intent. I will enjoy thee—
Fling not away—despite thy chastity,
Thy vowed love, and thy virtue. If by consent,
The better for thee, and the more concealment;
If not, there is no sin in hell's wide book
Shall stay me, and no blackening taint of shame
I will not smear my life with.

Vio.
Oh, the heavens!
How basely men dare write themselves; would you
Might hear another speak as you do now,
You would condemn him for the most debased
That ever yet left blushing.

King.
Who breaks in there?—
Look you, I'll keep my purpose.

Enter Malgodin and Cornelius.
Mal.
Sire, this gentleman
Brings you good news of a great battle fought;
Victory hath blown upon your royal flag;
Engelborg is relieved, and the vexed Swede
Wheels his now fresh-recruited troops, and means
In a new battle to retrieve his loss.

Vio.
Cornelius! most of all men welcome!

Cor.
Say you?

Vio.
What says he? Quick, Cornelius!

Cor.
Here's his letter.

[Giving a Letter to Viol.
Vio.
Secretly, good Cornelius.

Cor.
Oh, ay! secretly.
Will you not read it?

[As Cornelius is giving letters to the King, Violenzia, putting the letter in her bosom, drops it, unperceived to herself, on the ground. Malgodin picks it up.
King.
These are all your letters?

Mal.
Covertly, covertly; aid me now, good devil.

[Exit, with Letter.
King.
Well, I'll go in and read them.—Follow me.

[Exit King, Cornelius following.
Vio.
Cornelius! hist! a moment, kind Cornelius.

Cor.
What would you with me?

Vio.
News!

Cor.
What news, and whence?

Vio.
O dull! you waste the moments. What says Ethel?
How looks he? lives he? doth he still remember
The girl he left? I dare be sworn he doth,
And speaks of me, Cornelius?

Cor.
Is she mad?
Or thinks me ignorant, or is so base—
Nay, that's not credible—as to think to make him
The cover of her shame?

Vio.
Cornelius, speak, I pray you.
Why do you mutter, and not answer me?

Cor.
I must to the King.

Vio.
Old friend! come, speak to me.

Cor.
Look in my eyes. So steadfast! May hot hell
Be peopled but with women!

[Exit.
Vio.
Stop, Cornelius!
[Exit after him, and returns.
Alas! he's gone. Dear Ethel, where's thy letter?
There's comfort there, at least. Where is't—where is't?
Not here! What, dropt! O carelessness! O heaven!
What was't Cornelius meant? On the ground? let's see;
'Twas here I took it, but where lost it? Oh,
I had rather lost my dowry; and Cornelius
Will tell me nothing. Folly, folly, folly;
If it had been a pin to stick i' the hair,
I could not have more carelessly bestowed it.
I'll seek without upon my steps. False bosom!
The heart within thee's truer.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

A Room in the Palace.
Malgodin alone.
Mal.

(writing.)
A crafty device! I think there is no sport in the world can equal the undoing of a woman. What? Good virtue, have I no art? Can I not reach thee? 'Tis rare to undermine these flimsy palaces of purity. There, peevishness, wilt thou scorn me again? Is't not like? Knowest thou the hand? Canst thou smell a forgery? Here is some gall to mix with the milk of your tenderness. Oh, to hear her cry, Did Ethel write this? and see her weep waterfalls, and then, in a passion, tear it to pieces, and never doubt it the while! Ho! ho! But I must not show in it.— Boy!—Softly, let me burn the original. So, so. Here's a trap for a mouse! Bite, Chastity, bite! Bite, Faith! —Boy! Enter Page.
Take this to the Lady Violenzia. Say you found it in the garden, blown away by the wind—swear it, if need be. Dost thou mark me? It is the King's work. Do it dexterously. [Exit Page.

Enter King.
King.

Well, Malgodin?

Mal.

Will't please your majesty walk; I've news for you; I have given her working medicine. [Exeunt.

Scene V.

Violenzia's Room in the Palace.
Enter Violenzia and a Page.
Vio.

(reading a Letter.)
“How dearly I loved you, you best know. How falsely you have forgotten me, none knows better than I.”—Give me my handkerchief, boy.—Let's see, let's see; my eyes are dim; let's read it clearly. Sorrowfully I should perceive my last hope broken. “Is it possible thou shouldst prefer to be the mistress of a king rather than the wife of thy betrothed lover?” Impossible, Ethel. “What dost thou think of me?” As of one sadly deceived. “Do I write in grief? No, but in anger.” Patiently. “To be vile, Violenzia. Shame! shame! shame!”—Where got you this, boy?

Page.

I found it in the garden.

Vio.

“To be vile, Violenzia.” Was that well writ?

Page.

Blown by the wind, half hid among the leaves.

Vio.
Quickly I'll undeceive him. Nay, not so, perhaps;
He writes in certainty. Men before now,
Ay and the noblest, have been so embraced
By false suspicion, that no clearest proof
Could once unwind her charms. What did they then?
Some did wipe out that blotted life they thought it,
Which yet they loved. Oh, to behold those eyes
Knit in a frown of death; that flattering hand
Sworded against my bosom; to kneel, to weep,
Beseeching mercy from that loving breast;
To stint one's prayer—a day! an hour! a minute!
Only to speak the truth—the truth, O Ethel!
I feel thy sharp sword's pang!—Ay, rain, sad tears,
Wash out the writing from so harsh a scroll,
Or rather turn your course and flood my brain,
Drown memory in your torrent, and dissolve
The apprehension of too great a grief.
I am not shamed. Shame, shame! a thousand times
On one that thus lacks faith: where's now that trust
That shows the generous spirit? On what light proof
Hast thou condemned me! Fie on false suspicion!
Have I for this stood proof against a King,
Scorned all delights, lived like a weeping nun,
Shook off the gauds of flattery, gone without
The common entertainments of my years,
That my behaviour might betray no crevice
Through which a doubt might peep? Have I done this?
And now, when I am set about with wiles,
And first begin to tremble, and not see
Means of escape, dost thou desert me too?
These men, these men! Look, if the boy not weeps.—
What, boy, so young, hast thou too loved?

Page.
Even I too.

Vio.
And she you loved proved false?

Page.
I weep to think it.

Vio.
I knew the boy would say so! On my life,
She was as clear as crystal, and false doubt
Mudded your heart's sworn truth.—Would I have doubted?

Enter Kin; signs to Page to go.
King.
What! so loud, Violenzia?
In tears too! What thus moves you?

Vio.
Pray you go, sire.
I am not what I should be—Oh, most desolate,
And wronged that ever stepped yet! Read, read here!
This is your handiwork. I know it, I.
Give it me again; I will not have you see it.

King.
Softly, Violenzia. Why, he blames you here
That you are false. Is this your truth's reward?

Vio.
He nowhere says I'm false; show me the word.
Wilt thou exchange me for a King? he says.
Be sure I will not. If he did say so,
Who was it sowed these mushrooms in a heart
Worthy beyond expression—who? I say.

King.
I know not, save that it shows plausibly
He needs some pretext to break faith with thee.

Vio.
Thou liest in the thought, King! Why do I keep
Terms, and my swelling breast dissemble to a wretch
As base as thou art? Dost thou hear me, King?
Thy base arts bred these mischiefs; come, deny it!
And for thy pains again I'll say, thou liest!
Oh, noble end of royal machinations,
To ruin a weak woman. Look, look here,
Read in this glass the picture of a craven.
Is it base, is it mean? Where were thy wits, good Ethel,
That such a shallow slanderer could beguile thee?

King.
Art thou mad, woman?

Vio.
Ethel! my last resource!
Harbour of safety! sole security!
Sustainer of my hopes! part of my life!
Of thee too have they robbed me? Now let fate
Blow where it will, I'll no more hold the helm,
But on these sunken rocks of treachery
Let drive, and go to pieces.

King.
What boots truth,
And never-scarred fidelity, that cannot
Secure from base mistrust?

Vio.
Why, much it boots.
Are you not shamed yet? Ah, if you dare think it,
Out of this grief to shape me to your ends,
Widely you miss your aim in it. Why, how?
Shall I, with colour of my own disgrace,
Paint false suspicion true? Because my hopes
Are slendered to a thread, shall I slit that?
More the least chance of his returning love
Is worth than all the world else; and his wrongs,
Unjust suspicions—hatred—sharp revenge—
Sweet opposites to your detested passion.
[Exit King.
Gone without speech, so guilty proven go.
I'll seek Cornelius; perhaps he is not gone.
How should my Ethel doubt me? Oh, that hearts
Should need interpreters, and not be read
Even as they beat! Would mine were cased in glass!

[Exit.

Scene VI.

A Room in the Palace.
Enter King and Malgodin.
King.
Force! Malgodin.

Mal.
Ay.

King.
Violence! why that's—

Mal.
Trivial.

King.
That's death by the law.

Mal.
In subjects, ay.

King.
In subjects—and in kings?

Mal.
Not punishable,
And when a girl turns peevish, a most lawful
And necessary device.

King.
Lawful! Malgodin.

Mal.
Bah! are we children still? Kings are not paled.

King.
Having once passed the fire, she's malleable
To all my future wishes? D'ye hear, Malgodin?
Is it once for all?

Mal.
Doubt it not.

King.
Why, I'll do it.

Mal.
You stand as if you trembled, and look pale
At a trick of youth. Why, so much dreaming on't
Might usher in a murder.

King.
Ay, Malgodin;
Murder's a worse thing—

Mal.
One thing's worse than either—
To go without one's wishes.

King.
Nay, I'll do it.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

Violenzia's Room in the Palace.
Enter Violenzia alone.
Vio.
Cornelius is gone ere I can see him.
I met the old Malgodin there; his eyes
Did frighten me. Enter Page.

Well, boy, what fresh grief now?

Page.
Madam, the prince asks leave to speak with you.

Vio.
Who's that?

Page.
The King's young brother.

Vio.
The King's again!
Tell him, I dare not, cannot if I dare,
Deny him entrance. Did it stand with me,
I have no dearer wish than privacy.

[Exit Page.
Enter Haveloc.
Hav.
Pardon me that I break upon your quiet,
In spite of your dissuasion; but a matter
Lies in my hand that touches you so nearly,
And I have such scant chance of speech with you,
That I will rather brook to be called rude
Than do you wrong by courtesy.

Vio.
Alas, sir,
It is the fashion of your brother's court
To do us wrong by courtesy.

Hav.
Do you know me?

Vio.
By report, for one that holds the secondrank here
With dignity unblemished, and whose young years
Ne'er showed the bud of vice yet. But report
Lies mostly; and when gods drop from their height,
We think no mortals steadfast.

Hav.
I am grieved
If any act of mine have lodged distrust
Where now I seek belief.

Vio.
There's no such act, sir.
Yet here's a letter, penned to break the heart
Of childlike confidence.

Hav.
Believe me thus far,
I honour you; and trust me when I tell you
There's danger near you.

Vio.
He who came to tell me
There was no danger, would bring fresher news:
Tell me I breathe.

Hav.
I say it's imminent.
Put by these false suspicions, and be bold
Rather to leap at safety, though in the dark,
Than chain yourself to ill. The King, my brother,
Plans something that by his brow should seem unusual.
He swears to break that virtue which you hold
(And which hold ever!); and that hell-souled wretch,
Malgodin, drives him past all bar of pity.
I bid you fly!

Vio.
Whither? and when? and how?

Hav.
Whither, you best know. When, when best you may.
On you the doors are fast; but this my ring
Will open all that's locked.

Vio.
An hour ago,
If you had given me this, I would have blessed you,
And called you my deliverer.

Hav.
And now?

Vio.
Oh, now, the open way I so much longed for
Leads nowhere. Oh no! no! I dare not see him,
For being moved he might be terrible.
Before I loved, I feared him.

Hav.
Go to your brothers.

Vio.
Alas! why, if my Ethel could believe
The miserable stories that are vented,
What will a brother's quick suspicious ear
Not give a welcome to! No, well I knew
To them I must not flee. But I believed
There was one place of refuge in the world—
One arm, pressed in whose loving sanctuary,
I might defy the malice of a King,
And passionate brothers' rage; and one true heart,
Upon whose roof malignant slanders would
Beat impotent.

Hav.
Felborg believes you false?

Vio.
Ah! woe the day that I must say he does.
Whither, then, can I flee?

Hav.
He is not noble!

Vio.
How, sir!

Hav.
I say that it discredits him,
Upon mere rumour to believe you false.

Vio.
Well?

Hav.
I'll visit him, and make your peace with him.

Vio.
No, pardon me; I'll have no go-betweens.
I'll write to him, and as I hear from him
Perhaps go to him.

Hav.
Cornelius will carry it.

Vio.
Cornelius is gone.

Hav.
Well, let me have it;
I'll see it well delivered. To your Ethel
I promised to assist you in your needs;
Indeed they are come now. Therefore be careful,
And scruple not to use me. I am honest.
Longer I dare not stay; therefore, good night.

Vio.
Good night, my lord, and for your courtesy
Take my best thanks.
[Exit Haveloc.
I'll cut this babbling tongue out!
Must I complain to every silken boy
That gives soft words; and speak so of my Ethel
That he shall dare to say he is not noble?
Shame on my shrewishness! Come, I'll be patient,
And write to him. A little biding time,
And I dare swear all will be well again.

[Exit.

Scene VIII.

Night. A Corridor in the Palace.
Enter King and Malgodin.
King.
The air's cold, Malgodin.

Mal.
Tis the fitter, then,
For a bedfellow.

King.
Hell! hell! May kings be damned?

Mal.
Doubtless, your majesty.

King.
I hate you deadly!
Look you continue necessary, for sometimes
I have a madness nothing will assuage
But to see you dead and earthed.

Mal.
Ingratitude
Is a common vice of kings.

King.
Ingratitude!
Such gratitude I owe thee as lost souls
Owe to the devil. And grant it be a vice,
Is't the worse for that, old mischief-maker? ha?

Mal.
A good and sober night to your majesty.
I'll in, and pray to Heaven that your repentance
May be as sound as sudden.

King.
Where's the key?

Mal.
I beseech your majesty, forego this act.
The lady's of a fiery temperament,
And the brothers quick and bloody.

King.
Where's the key?
I am likely to be angry.

Mal.
Here it is.
You know the trick of the lock. The busy world
Is drowned in sleep, and no one lies so near
As to hear her shrieks, though they be louder than
Those that ghosts vent in hell. Go, if you dare;
But go not, if the passion of a girl,
Weak fears of another world, or such diseases,
Eat up your trembling will.

King.
To bed! to bed!
[Exit Mal.
The flaring candle backward bends its beams;
My passion backward bends, but fiercelier burns.
I love and loathe. Proud girl—that didst invite
War and not peace, rude storm for soft surrender—
Yet, oh, forgive me, sweet—no more—Again
The passionate fever surges in my veins.
Out, curious spy of day! And, oh, dark night,
[Extinguishing the light.
Be deaf and patient, like a wicked slave,
That watches while his master fills a grave.

ACT III.

Scene I.

The Camp. Ethel's Tent.
Ethel and Cornelius.
Eth.
And now, Cornelius,
Let's drop our mask of business, and be friends.
Welcome again. I missed your talk o' nights,
For through these tents the cold wind whistles lonely.
How stands my loved Violenzia in the court?
Uneasily, I fear. She's well, you say?

Cor.
Strange we should say, “he's well,” and mean thereby
The least part of him! Ay, as men speak, she's well.

Eth.
And ill, as who speak?

Cor.
Alas! why, as the angels.

Eth.
She is not dead!

Cor.
Not dead.

Eth.
Not dying? Oh,
You waste me! Speak!

Cor.
Untouched she lives in body and in spirits.

Eth.
In spirits? Then not troubled by the King?

Cor.
Oh, no! not troubled.

Eth.
Healthful and in peace;
Why, then, I think there's nothing in the world
Can shake me far. Nay, clear your brow, Cornelius;
Give it a voice, and you shall find me bold,
With such endurance as becomes a man,
To bear the strokes of fortune.

Cor.
Well I know you
For one whom no light touch of outward things
Can stir from wonted temperance. Yet I fear you;
For I do know you too for one whose heart
Beats deeply in his bosom, and who leads
In those he loves a more essential life
Than in himself takes root.

Eth.
Those I love best,
Herself, yourself, her brothers,
Sit in the house of safety. Speak, Cornelius.

Cor.
O forward spirits of men! whose airy hopes
See fortune rising ere a crimson cloud
Break in the east; but when the thick clouds gather,
Forego their prescience;—only the lightning wakes them.
Violenzia's false! Do you smile?

Eth.
And is this all?
Of how great weight have you unbosomed me!
Bring me no ill news lined with greater truth,
I'll never style you raven.

Cor.
Why, what's this?
You'll not believe it, then?

Eth.
Why, no, Cornelius.
And though I laughed, I'll ask you yet in earnest,
How you came to believe it. Trust me, an answer
Not showing some excuse for't will go far
To scar our friendship.

Cor.
False with the King, I say!

Eth.
Say it no more, I charge you, by my love.

Cor.
What! must I stretch you on particulars,
And rack you with the items? When I gave her
Your letter, she, being private then with the King,
“Secretly, good Cornelius,” she cried,
Her finger on her lips; and when she saw
The King marked all, she played her part aside;
In her false bosom feigning to conceal it,
She let it drop to the ground. Oh, not an act—
No word—no gesture—but did o'er-confirm,
Beyond the power of doubting, that was true
Which the court buzzed with;—the warm King had won her
To all his wishes aimed at.

Eth.
Look, Cornelius:
If I should say you lied in what you tell me,
What would you put against it?

Cor.
Your close friendship,
And knowledge of my truth.

Eth.
Why, so I do.
Therefore I say not, in your facts you lie,
But in the consequents you idly draw,
And base suspicions. Yet, if thus far I trust you,
How much upon the faith of my beloved
Shall I not more be bold, and to more knowledge
Accord an answering confidence! Go, Cornelius!
I never thought to find a cause to say
You were so much unworthy. You that knew her,—
Cornelius, whom she called her friend! Nay, go!
And till your slanderous thoughts be burnt away,
Look not upon my face to call me friend.

Cor.
You do me wrong. I'll go, not to return.
I seek no love of one who dares discredit me
Even a hair's breadth. [Exit.
[A storm; heavy rain.


Eth.
How the wind rushes, and the gusty rain
Comes pattering in the pauses of the blast!
Cornelius will soon repent of this.
Meanwhile Violenzia lives at ease in the court;
And when these tardy-footed wars are past
I'll knit her mine for ever. What a spirit
Of undisturbed peace makes visit here;
And in my soul a calm delight keeps house,
Ranging its chambers like a white-stoled babe:
As if no jarring of the ill-fitting world,
Or tyranny of petty circumstance,
Could ever more invade me; and those thoughts
Brooding imagination doth invent,
Of perfect harmony and bliss unstained,
Were real, and the dusty time-worn world
Hidden in second spring-time! Can it be
That these soft spirits may make apes of us,
And, while we nourish sweet content at home,
Calamity strike abroad? As I have heard—
What's that? Is't true that spirits ride the wind?
Most melancholy ones, then. Hark, again!
The sound of weeping, making awful pauses
Of the short hushes of the storm. Who sighs
Against my threshold? My warm blood runs cold,
And gathers at my heart. What, am I mad?
Let's see what may be seen.
[Goes out, and returns.
The empty dark,
Wherein no star doth pierce the thick eclipse,
But all is shrouded in a watery veil.
Again! again! That's human! who goes there?

[Exit. Returns, carrying Violenzia. She throws herself on her face before him.
Eth.
Violenzia!

Vio.
Oh, hide me! Oh, my misery!

Eth.
What art thou, that thus bred of sudden night
Shakest my knees with sobbing? Stand! stand up!

Vio.
Lay not thy hand upon me.

Eth.
In my breast
Strange thoughts take substance, and begin to shake
My soul's foundation. Thou—thou—art not?—speak!

Vio.
I am! I am!—The King!—

Eth.
Away! away!
Hell hath no words for it.

Vio.
Alas! alas! alas!

Eth.
By heaven, 'tis midnight, and the lunatic moon
Peeps through my tent-holes.
Art thou the thing that thou pretend'st to be,
Or some accursed midnight wandering ghost
Come to afflict me? With my bright sword's point
I'll try thy substance.

Vio.
Mercy! oh, have mercy!

Eth.
Where's mercy, since she hath forsook the heavens?
Who guides—who guides the terrible machine?
O Violenzia, take back thy words,
And make me subject to a false alarm,
Or with my sword I'll break these gates of life
That shut in living death.

[Pointing his sword against himself.
Vio.
Alas! alas!

Eth.
I dream! I dream! It is not yet near day.

[A long pause.
Vio.
Speak, speak to me!

Eth.
Say'st thou? Stand up, I say!
Why beat'st thou with thy forehead on the ground?
This is no shame; this is our misery.
Lift up again that streaming face of thine,
Wet with unutterable woe. Look up!

Vio.
Touch me not, Ethel! Oh, your touch is fire,
And burns my abhorred miserable flesh!
How shall I break these walls, or how get free?
I am cased in such pollution as makes sick
My soul within me. Oh, that these my tears
Could quite dissolve my substance, and the ground
Soak up my detested being. Would I were dead!
Would I were dead! were dead!

Eth.
Peace, shaken child!
Control the greatness of your agony.
Alas, I cannot! My perturbed soul,
Like an imprisoned mist, doth shake and wave,
And I perceive no light.

Vio.
To doubt my truth!
Oh, it was base in you! Nay, to make surety
So strong that you dare call me vile! Ay, now,
Now call me vile,—it suits,—now call me stained!
Heap epithets upon me, none so foul
As can express my misery: but then—
I was as clear as daylight.

Eth.
Alas! what mean you?

Vio.
Your letter! oh, your letter! Did you not write it?—
O most egregious fool! he did not write it.

Eth.
Nothing but love; what did you get from me?

Vio.
O me, I nothing know; only I think
The heaven above's unroofed, and there's no bar
Against the powers of evil.

Eth.
Oh, be patient!
Go in with me. I hear friends.

Vio.
Where? oh, where?
Hide me, sweet Ethel; let me not be seen.

[Exit Ethel and Violenzia into an inner room.
Enter Olave and Cornelius.
Ol.
Do you believe it? why, man, let me tell you,
I, that did never more than once enjoy
The touch of her frank hand,—that in such courtesy
As one, till then a stranger, might exact;
And never more than once looked on her face,
A garden where the flowers of beauty sprang,
Troubling the sense with richness; never but once
Took through the dazzled windows of my soul
Her proud and innocent gaze; I, that not knew her,
And of her musical speech heard no more tones
Than go to make a greeting,—I'll believe
Rather the diamond should fade and rot
Than she be turned to folly.

Cor.
Be it so.
And were it otherwise, I was a fool
To seek to make him think so. But this message
Puts it beyond dispute—whether by force,
Or slipped by inclination, she is ruined.
This he must know that all the world now knows.

Ol.
Ay, or he'll hear it coarsely.

Enter Ethel.
Ol.
Look! he knows it!

Eth.
Good morrow, friends. Give me your hands
Let's see—
This should be Olave, this Cornelius.
Hath any deadly mischief come to you?
You shake your heads. No plague-star stands i' the sky,
And rains disease? I know it is not so;
No earthquake gapes. I know—I know it, I.
Open the door. The jolly sun mounts up;
Why should he stain his glittering cheeks with tears?
O dewy grass! O voice of birds! O friends!
Look, I can smile too; but within me here,
Ay, in my heart, there's fire—there's fire—there's fire!

Cor.
O piteous voice!

Ol.
Will you not cut his heart out?

Eth.
Revenge—revenge—they say that word's not lawful,
And sweet Religion weeps at it. Dark, dark,
O God! I know whom Thou afflict'st with griefs
Thou look'st for great things from him. If my acts
Must grow up to the measure of my woe,
I shall amaze the world.

Ol.
Ay, with revenge!
Whose fiery wing shall overtake your shame,
And blind the eyes of them that look on it.

Eth.
Who plagues me with revenge? Am I not mad enough?
Have I no devil here? Cornelius!
Is it not said we must forgive our foes?

Cor.
So it is said.

Ol.
For priests! for priests! not men.

Eth.
For mine own wrongs, I could as soon forgive them
As dip my hand in water; but that she—
O most accursed monster! why, the sun
Would not too boldly look on her. Foul thoughts
Did from her presence and fair virgin eyes,
Like ghosts from daylight, fly ashamed. Alas!
Was there no way to strike me singly—none?
But for my sins must needs another soul,
And in myself a dearer nobler self,
My life's life—my heart's blood—my air—my centre—
Must that for me be shattered? Oh, yes! yes!
I had no crown to lose but my heart's crown;
No wealth but my heart's wealth—unpriceable;
Rich reputation none; no mother's eyes,
But my love's eyes did ever look upon me;
Here was I graffed, here grew, and since the stock
Is blasted, here must wither!

Ol.
Will you bear it?
I would you were dead sooner! Have you heard?
He sends to seek the lady,—ay, sends here
To you and to her brothers, threatening death
To any that detains her. Is't enough?

Eth.
Did my brothers hear this? Robert and Arthur both?

Ol.
Ay, and so heard as if the shameful words
Were javelins in two angry lions' sides,
And gnashed their teeth, and could not speak for rage.
But you'll forgive,—you'll bear it?

Eth.
What I shall do,
As yet I know not. This I will not do,—
Now, when my soul is mad, and I perceive not
The right from wrong, let my blind rage take wing,
And the great tasks and terrible purposes,
With which Heaven sets my soul and martyrs me,
Mix in confusion irretrievable.
Yet not the less, for this my slow delay,
Will I be swift in execution,
Steadfast, and frightful to the guilty soul
Of him that did this thing. Leave me, good friends.
[Exeunt Olave and Cornelius.
Why so.
Oh, horrible! detestable! I'll not think of it.
Oh, pitiful! oh, wondrous pitiful!
I shall go mad if I do think of it.
What's to be done? Back, back, you wandering thoughts,
That like whipt hounds hang with reverted eyes,
Back to the carcass of my grief! O villain!
Away! It is some devil whispers me.
What! no revenge? Young, young too, and a soldier.
No noble rage? Must we endure like clods,
Under the heavy tread of tyranny?
Whereto, then, had we this quick fiery spirit,
That starts at injury? the bruised worm turns;
And man, framed delicate and sensitive,
On whose fine soul injustice drops like fire,—
Must he bear all? Stay there, Ethel of Felborg.
Art thou so personal? affects it thee?
Such deeds strike deeper. This is not a thing
The impulsive moods of angry men may mix in,—
No, nor admits a passionate remedy;
But an occasion when, men standing amazed,
The visible hand of awful judgment should
Crush up iniquity, and retribution
Divine walk on the earth. No; no revenge.
Teach me, O terrible God!
I do believe—witness these swift hot tears—
I do believe Thou lov'st me even in this;
And therefore now thy sovran hand put forth,
And my dejected desultory soul
Bind up to thy great meaning. I believe.
I'll go and seek my brothers.

[Exit.

Scene II.

Robert's Tent.
Robert and Arthur.
Robt.
Ay, when he's dead I will be calm.
Enter Olave and Cornelius.
Where's Ethel?

Ol.
He takes it coldly.

Robt.
By my father's blood,
Thou liest, man!

[Olave makes a show of anger, half drawing his sword.
Cor.
Have patience! he is mad.

Robt.
Saddle my horse! Plague take these loiterers!
Who rides with me? Death! I'll endure no more
These slow delays; each moment that goes by
Puts daggers in my breast. Arthur, go with me;
Upon our foaming blood-embathed steeds
Up to his throne we'll ride, through all his rout
Of scattered courtiers. Come down, thou King!
I think I see his face upon the floor
Crying for mercy. Mercy!—Ha! ha! ha!—
What is it, gentlemen? Saw you never yet
A man made infamous? Well, well! I look
To see my sword peep through his back.

Arth.
For shame!
Forget yourself not out of reason thus.

Robt.
Are you ice-tempered too? I shall go mad!

Arth.
I nurse as fierce a temper as you do;
But such a rash unsteady course will mar
Certainty of completion. My revenge
Shall step as sure as life-blood through my veins,
And to a certainty as dead as death.
We'll run no risks; take all advantages;
Gather our chances with as strict a hand
As sureties; cherish our meanest hopes,
And knit the poorest opportunities
All to one end: so that no loop remain
For failure to slip through.

Robt.
Ay, but be swift;
For time lets in a thousand obstacles
Worse than the worst foreseen.

Arth.
Both swift and sure.

Robt.
Ay, but be swift. For all the air about me
Is heavy with ancestral countenances,
Looking to me for blood with frowning brows;
A thousand whispers of the shame-stirred dead
Cry in my ears, Revenge! Enter Ethel.

Ha! welcome, Ethel!
Ay! such a countenance becomes a man
So wronged as you are. We shall have it now;
A most sufficing vengeance.

Eth.
Oh, not vengeance.

Robt.
Is there another name more terrible?

Eth.
I will not have it so.

Robt.
What, will you not?

Arth.
Listen to me. This is our safest course.
You are the general, Robert, and beloved
Of all your soldiers. Take them over with you—
All the whole army. Who dares stay behind?
Make one with the enemy, on the sole condition
That they march straight unto our common end,
And seize the King; resistance he can make none,
More than a straw against fire. Once in our hands,
But for the time that I can stretch my arm,
Then I'll be swift!

Robt.
And I'll be careful then!
Most wisely planned.

Eth.
Oh, monstrous! what will you do?
Have you forgot all virtue? Will you bring in
Strange conquerors upon your native land,
Let bloody war and ravage feed themselves
Upon the bodies of your countrymen;
And, to avenge a wrong done to yourselves,—
But how much more to mighty throned justice!—
Let in a thousand wrongs as terrible,
And give injustice scope?
Is this a cure? Tears and the sighs of orphans,
The shrieks of women, groans of ruined men,—
Will these heal wrongs, or rather make of you
Ten times the nurses of that wickedness
You thus avenge in others?

Robt.
Now, I swear!
Although the eyes of dead unburied men
Should stare the bright stars out of countenance,
And tears of children be so plentiful
That their warm rain would melt the ponderous ice,
And set the winter-frozen Baltic free;
More women groan their bitter souls away
Than would make populous the empty air
With weeping ghosts; ay, though this native land
Become a dish for horror and despair
To glut themselves to overfulness on,—
I care not, so I drive along with it
Unto my end.

Arth.
Well spoken, brother Robert!

Eth.
I say this shall not be!

Robt.
Thou say'st!—thou! thou!
Art thou the pander to these love-tricks—thou?

Eth.
Peace, you passionate insolent!

Arth.
Robert, be calm.—
Ethel, if you are that tame-spirited thing,
That colder than the lizard, that you feel not
The greatness of your injury, be it so.
We that are not so natured will do that
Which shall suffice for all.

Eth.
I say you shall not!
This wrong is mine a thousand times more deeply
Than it is yours. I do not wink at it,
Nor do I see what other instrument
Can work the great intents of wounded justice
Save this weak spirit of mine; but to that end,
And that I may not stain the holy hand
Of this my mighty mistress, nor let doubt
Check at her just award, I must put off,
Like robes unconsecrated from a priest,
This temper which you nourish. I have controlled it,
And so must you. For this most traitorous plan
You have conceived, think nothing more of it;
I'll fight against it to the death.

Robt.
Fight well, then;
You'll fight alone.

Eth.
Not so. The God of battles
Shall on my side put forth his hand. And fear me.
For I have no compassion in my spirit
For wilful wickedness.

Robt.
Brother, away!
It irks my soul to stand here chaffering
With this dull metal. What, Ethel, whom we thought
Honourable! oh, how much past our apeing!

Arth.
Go with us.

Ol.
Not I. You'll pardon me.

Robt.
You will not? Ha!
Bring me the man that will not go with me;
I'll trail him after at my horse's heels.

Arth.
Peace! you mar all. Think of it, gentlemen.

[Exeunt Robert and Arthur.
Eth.
How say you, Olave and Cornelius,
Will you too join the Swede?

Cor.
I'll fight with you,
Wherever that may be.

Ol.
I'll not take arms
Against my country with the rascal Swede.
Had I your cause, I might.

Eth.
Are you firm now?

Ol.
Ay, I have chosen. There's nobleness moves in you
That takes me, though I be no match for it.

Eth.
Go to the officers of each regiment;
Tell them the objects of the General,
And say, I, in his traitorous default,
Now claim to lead them. Those that would not be traitors,
Let them look to their soldiers, and stand firm.
Bid them assemble in my tent to-night,—
No, in yours, good Cornelius, let it be.

Ol.
Ay, maybe the officers will stand firm enough;
But what boots that, if the men go? About Ingelwald
They'll flock like hiving bees, and where he bids
Follow like sheep. I will not answer even
For my own men.

Eth.
Go to the officers.
If the men mutiny, I'll speak to them;
And Olave, the new levies that are coming,
Stop them at distance. Send a trusty officer;
Let them not mix at all with the other men.
I nothing fear the victory.
[Exit Olave.
Cornelius,
You have a woman waits upon your wife,
And did once on the Countess Ingelwald;
Send her into my tent. You guess at it.
Be silent, good Cornelius.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

Ethel's Tent.
Violenzia and her Waiting-woman.
W.-wo.
Take comfort.

Vio.
Ay, take comfort! Bid me take
Ice out of fire,—or bid me sleep,—
Or eat,—or die,—what's most impossible
And most to be desired; or bid young peace
On airy winnowing wing visit the earth,
And make her home with me—her sepulchre.
Methinks these eyes should be too eloquent,
And sadder with the saltness of my tears,
Not to persuade you out of that word comfort.
Comfortless comfort!
Will he come back? I do not think he will.
Why, what am I, that any living thing,
And least of all a lover, having power
To move away, should ever turn to me,
Being that thing I am?

W.-wo.
Maybe he'll come again.

Vio.
Maybe! The girl speaks doubtfully.
Base minion! if thou darest even imagine
He will not come again, I'll kill thee.
And yet I wish he would come back again.
I would not ask to touch him—only—only
At his feet to die, that dying I might tell him
How past imagination was my love;
For never once did I in all my life
Tell him how much I loved him.
I love him!
As if a yearning dead man in his grave,
Cold in corruption, should be sensible,
And wish to whisper in a living ear
That yet he loved.
What's this? a sword! Helena,
Whose sword is this?

W.-wo.
Madam, whose should it be,
Unless your lord's?

Vio.
My lord's! Well, well.
Yet once he was my lord. Does the sun shine?

W.-wo.
Ay, madam.

Vio.
Ay, and the moon; grass grows;
Men go about their business, all things move
In the old accustomed circle, and no hinge
Of the great earth creaks; and I!—Oh, the word desolate
Hath lost its meaning in all mouths but mine.
Misery and shame, wretchedness and despair,
Were but the types of that which was to be,
And I, fulfilment. Men shall point at me
In their distresses and their bitterness,
And hug themselves with comfort.

W.-wo.
O my lady!
Such things have been before.

Vio.
I'll not believe it!
Twice such a thing, and the great frame of nature,
Though physical, would have cracked—not borne it.
Ha!
Gone! and his sword left here. That's a shrewd hint.
Is't sharp, Helena?

W.-wo.
'Tis a good sword, I think.

Vio.
Could he have meant it? Prick me, Helena.

W.-wo.
Not I. Indeed I will not.

Vio.
Is it painful?

W.-wo.
No; but blood makes me sick.

Vio.
Sick! I am sick,
Beyond all med'cining but the great physician's,
Death.
O death! O dreams! mortal imaginations,
And spiritual hopes! What things are we,
That, like an infant groping in the dark,
Feel not the edge o' the bed? Bright instrument!
I can unloose with thee the threads which bind me
Unto this mortal state, and go—Oh, whither?
What is the dark that clips us round about,
And the veiled power whose irresistible mood
Plays with our helplessness? What I believed,
Or dreamed I did—the lessons of my childhood—
Are words to me. I stagger and am lost.
Alas! my tongue blasphemes. What shall I do?
I am anchorless, and drift upon the waters.

W.-wo.
What shall I do with it?

Vio.
Give it to me.
I do not think he meant it to that end;
He is compassionate. Oh, if I die,
Shall I behold that face of his again?
Merciful Heaven! be thou pitiful;
I do not say, let me be happy there.
I ask not much, you merciful sweet Heavens;
I have deserved much pain, I will endure.
But only once in many a thousand years
Let me behold his face in bliss serene.
Ah me! ah me!

W.-wo.
Wring not your hands so cruelly,
Unhappy lady.

Vio.
Would I could wring my heart!
Enter Ethel.
He has returned!

Eth.
Have patience, Violenzia.
Go in with me. Dry up these passionate tears.
Great are thy trials, O afflicted child;
But merciful the hand that sent them. Use them
As an obedient infant bitter medicine;
Or the poor dog that yet licks the painful hand
Of his kind surgical master. Shall he have faith,
And we, my Violenzia, that know
Perfect beneficence holds the scales of the world,
Shall we be too much troubled, and forget
It is a Father who thus touches us?
This is not misery, nor any grief
That on the outside lances us is not:
Sin and rebellion, this is misery.

Vio.
I have rebelled, I have rebelled, O Ethel;
But in my passion and my bitterness.
Speak to me, teach me; I will conform my heart—
I will be patient. We, that late were lovers,
May yet be friends; may we not? Say, oh, say,
You do not loathe me.

Eth.
Violenzia!
That honour and that love I have for you,
Deep, deeper than my tongue can signify,
I never will renounce, and when you doubt it,
You wrong yourself and me.

Vio.
Ethel! my Ethel!
These are not bitter tears.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

Ground near the Camp.
Enter Ethel, Cornelius, Olave, Officers and Soldiers of Ethel's Regiment.
Eth.
Stand, there!
Cornelius, are these new levies come?

Cor.
They are drawing down now, and still ignorant
Of all that's passing here, but the officers
Are with you quite.

Eth.
The Swede's alert, I hear.

Ol.
Ay, and if these men under Ingelwald
Join with them, we are lost.

Eth.
What think you, gentlemen?
May not this single regiment hold back
Ingelwald's troops, unofficered as they are,
Till the new levies join us?
[Offic. show signs of dissent.
Tut!
Let's hear what the soldiers say.—How say you, friends?
I have seen you fight at odds; will you do it now
In a good cause? will you not, my own soldiers?
And never yet was there a nobler cause
For men to die in, than when treachery,
With confidence of overwhelming power,
Strikes at your land and homes. Will you stand by me
Against the traitorous general and his troops,
Should they attempt to face us? In your needs
I have been kind to you—on battle-field
Have not been backward—and no man can say
I was not just. To-day it is my need,
My dearest need, and those that stand to me
Shall be my friends and brothers—not my soldiers.
I think I see a fervour in your eyes.
Why, battle-field is a great game for the spirit,
Only against vast odds. What, gallant friends!
These officers shake their heads, and say—too dangerous!
You and I will fight it out.

Sol.
To the death! to the death!

Eth.
Stand firm; look where they come.

Enter Robert and Arthur, leading forces.
Robt.
What! is he mad,
To think with these to stop us? Felborg, give way!
Draw back your troops, and make us room to pass,
Or else be cut to pieces.

Eth.
Ingelwald!
Traitors are not strong in heart, though strong in seeming.
There is no man that stands upon this side
Into whose bosom death can thrust a fear.
For God and Right we stand, and fear you not.

Robt.
Cut him down!

[Robert's Soldiers hesitate, and murmur.
Eth.
Hear me, fellow-soldiers!

Robt.
Hear him not, I say!

Sol.
Hear him! hear him! It is the Earl of Felborg.

Sol.
His father was a great man. Hear him!

Sol.
Hear him speak!

Eth.
Who brings you here thus armed, and whither march you?
Do you not know this is rebellion?
Do you not know it, and you that late were soldiers
Take each a traitor's shape? Oh, yes, you know it.
Think, then, before you put your feet too far,
What 'tis you do. Where are your officers?
They have fallen from the traitors you yet cling to.
I am your general. Here are your officers.
Will you be officered with Swedes, your foes?
Ay, and they shall rebuke you with sharp taunts,
Calling you rebels and base mutineers.
And will you not be? raising wicked hands
(As they will stick you in the front of battle)
In shameful execution against those
With whom but yesterday you drank, shook hands,
And who in true companionship have seen
Many rough days with you, and all for what?

Sol.
For Ingelwald!

Robt.
Well shouted, fellow! I'll remember you.

Eth.
Ingelwald is a traitor, and those that join him
Shall have the meed of traitors. Many among you
Have fought under old Felborg's honoured sword;
You may remember how he dealt with you.
Those that were true, he loved them like a father;
Those that were false, they too remember him.
Beware! for I have something of his spirit.
I say, beware! for as the right is mine,
So shall the victory be mine. Look to it!

Sol.
Down with him! Does he threaten?

Sol.
Stand away! No man shall touch him.

[The Soldiers crowd about him; his own Men come forward to the rescue.
Eth.
(to his own Men).
Stand back, you fellows there! stand back, I say!
Obedience is your best love. Draw back again!

Sol.
Speak again, noble Ethel; your dead father
Speaks on your lips.

Sol.
Speak not, upon your life!

Eth.
I am the son of that old Earl of Felborg
That never yet looked danger in the eyes
But he outstared him; and shall I, his son,
Shrink from the pale brows and unhearted arms
Of mine own soldiers turned to traitors? No!
With my own arm I will make good the day
Against a thousand such. And after defeat,
Look for the punishment of mutiny!
Ay, look for it!
For as you know me mild and pitiful
When you deserve it, so, being turned to traitors,
Believe I can put on a mood most terrible
And less compassionate than famine. Look—

Robt.
What, will you hear him?

Eth.
I say peace, Sir Robert!
I will not have you mix your tongue with mine.
Here are some souls that for mine own sake love me,
And more, that for my father's sake will fight
Upon my side. Most, and I value most
Those that abhor the vile name of a traitor
Unto their country, and have too much wit
To raise dishonourable godless arms
Against their dearest duties. Lift your faces up,
You that are true and honourable soldiers—
Not hirelings, not assassins. Draw your swords,
And shout, God and the Right!

Sol.
God and the Right! Long live the Earl of Felborg!

Eth.
What! so many?

Arth.
Away, good brother Robert!
Draw, and strike for it.

Eth.
Ho, there! seize these traitors!

Arth.
This way! this way! Well struck, good friend!
Stand round us
Until we reach our horses.

[Exeunt fighting.
Re-enter Ethel and Olave.
Eth.
They have escaped. Whose regiment went with them?

Ol.
Arthur of Ingelwald's.

Eth.
Away! let the officers
Rejoin their men. Send in Cornelius to me.
We'll fight the Swede now, while the blood's up.
Get me a horse. We will reserve these levies.
Was not Cornelius hurt?

Ol.
Only a scratch.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Field.
Ethel armed, save his head; his sword in his hand as from battle. Cornelius, Olave, and Officers, &c. apart.
Eth.
What! against majesty?
Does the great King choose his vice-regents here
So carelessly, that we weak atomies
May judge them, and condemn? I tremble at it.
Shall power exempt? When ministerial kings
Handle iniquity, and stain their brows,
Which should be crystal, who shall punish them?
Heaven.
Ay, but by instruments. What influence is't
That whispers me, “Thou art that instrument”?
O sacred Justice, warrior of God,
Strong brother of the precious weanling Mercy,
Evener of the Fates, thou passionless arbiter,
That with a forceful and unsparing hand
Knittest me up into thy purposes,
Make me not only a base instrument,
And sword of execution; enter me
Into thy secret counsels; clear these eyes,
That are so bitterly possessed with dark,
That only in the blindness of my night
I sometimes seem to touch thy guiding hand,
But see thee never.

[Exit musing.
Ol.
What is't, Cornelius?

Cor.
I think he broods
On his great injuries. The battle over,
His sword unwiped, his reeking hair thus matted
About his brows, his face begrimed with dust,
Plashed with the blood of others—for he took
No touch himself,—unrested, nay, not asking
Particulars of our victory, he falls
Into this musing humour. You may speak to him;
He hears it not.

Off.
I came with the new levies.
How went the battle? It was short at least.

Ol.
Ay, and a perfect rout; the Swedish King
Lies on the field. The Ingelwalds have fled,
Though they fought well.

Cor.
They had good cause for it.

Ol.
Yet we fought better; and for our reward
What shall we reap? cold looks, thin smiles at court,
And the white faces of smooth table-servers
Thrust in before us. We must keep our distance,—
We, but for whose bold lives, set in the breach,
His breath were stopped ere now. Go out and look
How many slain unburied men lie cold,
Brave hearts too, ay and noble ones among them,
And all for what? Why, for a King that is not
Worth the least spirit among them. While we bleed,
He lies in the lap of riot. That breeds plaguy thoughts.

First Off.
Ay, and makes free with our wives too.

Sec. Off.
Curses on him!
I had a daughter. Well, she was a light girl,
And I thank God she is buried.

Ol.
Had you so?
I have a tender loving wife at home,
I think there is no woman kinder, truer,
And yet she fain would go to court to see
What 'tis this King is made of, that so takes
The hearts of all her sex. She says she hates him,
And yet would gladly see him. Trust me, I'll see her
In her coffin first.

Third Off.
D'ye think so, my good captain?
While you are here she may slip there unknown.
Will you trust her, then, good Olave?

Ol.
I'll trust fools
With a taste of my sharp sword, sir!

Fourth Off.
I'll be curst,
I think the women love him for his wickedness.

Cor.
'Tis not the women only;—he taxes us
For his luxurious feasts, and nourishes
Flatterers and devils for his favourites.
Why did our Ethel make us fight for him?

Ol.
Why, let us think 'twas not for him we fought,
But for our country and ourselves against
Foreign invasion, and which not to have done
Were indeed treason.

Cor.
I think Felborg means yet
Something against the King.

Ol.
I would he did;
I would he would depose him, and get up
Into his place.

Off.
That were a king to live under!

Ol.
Ingelwald would well join in such a scheme.

Cor.
What, for another?

Ol.
Ay, for he would see
The best must be put up; and Arthur too.
Well, for my part, if he should aim at it,
My best aid shall not fail.

Cor.
Nor mine.

Officers.
Nor mine.

Ol.
How gallantly he showed i' the field to-day!
Where did he lose his helmet?

Cor.
'Twas the clasp broke.
I would have picked it up, but he stopped not.
“Let it lie,” he cried; “I shall not die to-day.”

Off.
I saw it too; and still in all the battle,
Where there was stand of men or desperate charge
His unarmed face shone like a morning-star
Gleaming among the drifting clouds of war.
They were bold men that met his angry eyes,
And dared the terrible swiftness of his arm;
And yet instinctive mercy clung to his sword,
Over defenceless and disarmed heads
It hung i' the air.

Enter Ethel.
Eth.
Cornelius, come hither. Speak to me;
May I do justice on this King?

Cor.
Do justice!
Surely you know he's dead?

Eth.
Dead!

Cor.
Ay, as dead as
A well-thrust lance sent through a man could make him.
'Tis not yet known who did it.

Eth.
Not the Swede;
I mean our own King.

Cor.
May you punish him?

Eth.
Ay, may I punish him?

Cor.
I think you may;
'Tis easy, if you will.

Eth.
I know I can,
And I conceive I may. Alas! I must.

Cor.
You will do good service to your country by it,
To free it from a most pernicious tyrant.

Eth.
The Lord doth lay his hand upon my head,
And says, Do this. Shall I refuse the Lord,
Who through great toils and tears, heavy affliction,
And trials touching to mortality,
Moulds me unto his mighty purposes?
Shall I, that am his child, tremble at it?
Alas! I tremble at it. Who shall believe me?
Shall I not be alone in all the world?
Oh, if in meditation of this act
I melt with ruth thus, and my flooded eyes
Rain these afflicted tears, what shall I do,
When, in the face of scorn and keen contempt,
These little, but the misconstructing hearts
Of dear-loved friends coldly confirmed against me,
And good men's faces turned away, and even
God's face sometimes (oh, grievous!) hidden in mist,
I must enact what now I do but dream.—
O Thou that shak'st me with these thoughts, put in me
The power to execute them!—I am resolved,
And all my mortal being dedicate
To this great service, that all men may see
The hand of God reaches iniquity.

Enter an Officer hastily.
Off.
Where is the General?

Eth.
Here. What seek you with him?

Off.
Earl Robert, my good lord, and Arthur of Ingelwald
Are brought in prisoners.

Eth.
Prisoners! to me!
Oh, no, great God! not that! oh, add not that!

Off.
Shall they be brought before you? Those that took them
Await your voice.

Eth.
(hurriedly.)
They are traitors taken in arms;
I am the judge and executioner.
There is no doubt, no question, no escape.

Off.
They were not taken without long pursuit
And stout resistance.

Eth.
Idiots! dolts! madmen!
It is the over-forwardness of fools
That spoils the world.—Give me a seat, kind sir.

[He sits.
Cor.
What is it, sir? Ingelwald prisoner?

[To the Officer.
Off.
Ay, both of them.

Ol.
By cross! that's mischief done.

Off.
You look askance at that which should rejoice you.

Cor.
Should we rejoice? What will he do?

Eth.
Cornelius!
Robert of Ingelwald and his brother Arthur
Are taken prisoners; bring them in here.
[Exit Cornelius.
Olave and gentlemen, stand round about me.

Enter Cornelius, with Robert and Arthur brought in guarded.
Rob.
Ethel, the fortune of the day is with you.
Fools, to make compact with the dastard Swede!
You are generous, and therefore I must tell you,
If you should say, go free, it cannot win us
To change our aims.

Arth.
Peace, man! there's death in his face.

Eth.
What is the doom of traitors taken in arms?

Arth.
Death.

Eth.
Death let it be.
I do not see how I can show you mercy.

Arth.
We do not ask it. Yet, until the morning
Grant us reprieve.

Eth.
Until the morning be it;
And make your peace with Heaven.—Cornelius,
Remove them hence, and have them in your charge.

[Exeunt Cornelius, Robert and Arthur guarded.
Eth.
Silent, gentlemen?
Have I not acted well? was it not just?

Ol.
Most just, and yet most bloody.

Eth.
O bloody justice,
That break'st the heart of the world!
They were my only brothers.
[Covers his face.
Leave me, gentlemen,
And draw into the town of Engelborg.—
Good Olave, stay awhile;—and, gentlemen,
Look well to the wounded; be as diligent
As if your children lay with frosted sores
And quenchless thirst, waiting your charity,
On the cold remorseless ground. Spare not for means;
What any man expends I will repay him,
And think he honours me.
[Exeunt Officers.
Let me lean on you;
[To Olave.
I am weary past imagination.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Guard-room in Engelbory.
Soldiers drinking.
First Sol.

Humphrey shall sing.

Sec. Sol.

Humphrey'll be damned first!

Third Sol.

Let him be; he'll sing when he's drunk.

First Sol.

Ay, and better when he's damned. The

devil chirps about him like a sparrow about a grain of wheat. Dost thou not fear to be damned, man?

Sec. Sol.

I believe not in damnation.

First Sol.

Then thou art a worse heathen than I took thee for.

Sec. Sol.

Didst thou ever see a man damned?

First Sol.

Never yet.

Sec. Sol.

On whose word dost thou believe it, then?

First Sol.

On the word of the clergy.

Sec. Sol.

Good! Didst thou ever hear one of the clergy say that he — id est the clericus — should be damned?

First Sol.

Never.

Sec. Sol.

Then thou that believest the clergy, believest they shall not be damned. What then? Why this. Shall a monk be saved, and a soldier be damned? Quod est absurdum, which is absurd. Ergo, Q. E. D., quod est demonstrandum.

First Sol.

I am stranded indeed.

Sec. Sol.

Anglice, which was to be proven. Videlicet, a soldier shall be saved. Come, fill me a cup of wine.

Third Sol.

When wert thou at the university, Humphrey?

Sec. Sol.

In the year when Noah encountered the dragon, which being interpreted by Scripture history, is—never.

Third Sol.

Where gott'st thou thy learning, then?

Sec. Sol.

My mother ate lollipops wrapt in the

Latin grammar, which infected her milk, whereby I sucked in learning.—Drink, you fools. Come, let one sing.

Fourth Sol.

I'll sing you a song.

Sec. Sol.

Away! thou hast a little piping voice like a sickly weasel; I had as lief hear a grasshopper. We'll none of it. It turns the wine sour on the stomach.

Third Sol.

“Where horny Sigfrid handled—”

Sec. Sol.

Stop him! appease him! quiet him! Why, man, are our ears anvils, that thou hammerest them thus? If thou must needs sing, go out to sea a quarter of a mile or so, and sing to them on shore, and let them see that the wind be against thee.

First Sol.

Edmund shall sing.

Sec. Sol.

Oh, he sings beastly out of tune. Nay, if you will have it, I'll sing myself; and do thou with the little tiny voice sing with a helmet over thy face, and let him with the big horrid voice sing from under a cushion and so keep chorus.

Enter Ethel in a cloak, with a lantern.
Eth.
No rioting, knaves.
Sing if you will, but no drunkenness.
Who guards the prisoners?

Sec. Sol.
Two steady men within, sir.

Eth.
Show me the room, one of you.

[One goes out with Ethel.
Sec. Sol.
There goes a fellow now. Whewgh!

Re-enter Ethel.
Eth.
Who are they that took these gentlemen prisoners?
Why do you look at one another?

Sec. Sol.
They heard you called them idiots, and chafed at them.

Eth.
If I said so, I was not temperate;
They have done good service. Let them come to me,
And look to be rewarded.

[Exit.
First Sol.

I am glad of this. I thought it was a lie that he was angry with poor fellows for doing their best.

Third Sol.

Ay, and it was a tough job they had of it too. But what means he now by going in to them? Will he let them go free?

Sec. Sol.

Look you, this he means. Do you know tomorrow we march against the King, our own King?

Sols.

Against the King!

Sec. Sol.

Ay, he shall be deposed, and his head chopt off: so say I that know. And who shall be king

in his stead? Our friend in the cloak, I take it. Ergo, this will he do. He will in, and say, “Robert, thou beast, arise!”—for Robert, mind you, shall be asleep, and Arthur shall be awake. Then shall he say, “Will you help me to put the crown on this head?” and he shall tap his own.

Third Sol.

Then will they say yes?

Sec. Sol.

Will you hear it? or will you tell it? If you know it, tell it. I say, they shall not say yes; but tell it you.

Sols.

Tell us you, Humphrey, what they shall say.

Sec. Sol.

Let him hold his tongue, then. They will say, “No;” or, they will say, “Ay, we will.” If they say no, then he saith, “Die and be” what I believe not: for he believeth it firmly. If they say, “Ay,” he shall say, “Cut and run;” and then shall they cut and run, but first shall our friend in the cloak have told the two fellows on guard they are not wanted, and bid them come drink with us.

First Sol.

And what shall fall to them when their prisoners escape?

Sec. Sol.

What, the guard? Oh, they shall be hung by Cornelius, look you, for deserting their post; and their story of Felborg coming in will be a monstrous and inconceivable lie; and we, mind you, we shall have been very drunk, and mistaken the devilknows-who in a cloak for the Earl of Felborg. For my part, I shall have been so drunk, I shall not have

seen any body at all, and I would have you all drunk to the same degree. Drink about.

First Sol.

The General will play no such scurvy tricks. If he mean to let them free, he will bring them out through the middle of us. I can tell you the General loves fair play; ay, and will see it too. Dost thou remember, man, when we were had up on a false charge of plundering after proclamation — how he that is in prison there for joining the Swede would have hung us out of hand, and how Felborg made him take time, and how he ferreted and laboured and toiled till he got at the truth of it?

Third Sol.

Ay, ay.

Fourth Sol.

I remember this much of him, when I was left for dead in the field, that if he should bid me cut my throat, ay, or another man's for the matter of that, look you, I would do it and never wink.

Sec. Sol.

Ay, as far as that goes, I too would do what he bid me; for a man would look queer that should disobey him. Let him say to me in his way, “Humphrey, thy father's head tomorrow!” Lord, I should bring it him, like John the Baptist's, on a battlehorse.

Third Sol.

Why on a battle-horse, Humphrey?

Sec. Sol.

Nay, I know not; but so it is written.

Third Sol.

A charger, man; it is written a charger.

Sec. Sol.

And if a charger be not a battle-horse, thou art not an ass, which is absurd. Q.E.D., which was to be proven. Ergo, thou art an ass.

Third Sol.

Thy father would think thy obedience over-exquisite.

Sec. Sol.

Tush; I would convince him. I would say, Pater reverendissime, which is, God bless you, father. Unto different men are different dispensations; to dead men and robins worms, and to live men meat and raiment,—the godly preach, and others have their infirmities.

First Sol.

This will convince us that thou art drunk, but scarcely thy father to lend thee his head for ever so short a while.

Sec. Sol.

Nay, but look you, the General would not bid me do it without good reason; and I would tell him the reason.

First Sol.

And that would convince him?

Sec. Sol.

That and the other would convince him, which is in Latin. I know not what it is in Latin.

Third Sol.

But is't good truth that we march against the King?

Sec. Sol.

Ay, is it.

First Sol.

I thought he was not born so leadenspirited as to endure his injuries.

Third Sol.

And yet he wears an even face.

Fifth Sol.

An even face, my God, but such a sad one!

Sec. Sol.

Loquitur, he speaketh; try again, Silence.

Fifth Sol.

'Tis a strange temper; I can tell you that. I have seen him passionate, too, with a peevish drummer lad that struck an innocent child for begging

bread. I would not have you anger him. Over his face came night, and lightning out of's eyes; I would have eaten myself to be out of his way.

Third Sol.

What did he do?

Fifth Sol.
He stood a moment; then with mild eyes,
But steadfast, that I trembled, and calm voice
Remonstrating, but oh, the music of it!
He spoke to me; with one arm, like a father
He lifted to his breast the naked babe:
“What, fellow!” said he, “do you strike these helpless ones?
Think of it, boy!” his hand laid on my head.
The action, the endearment, the white child
Weeping in's breast,—oh, if a man had seen it,
He would have thought that Charity and Mercy,
Not two, but one, had left their homes in heaven,
And in a soldier's coat went to the wars.
To me he seemed an angel; my repentance
Rained itself down in tears.

Sec. Sol.

Is that the lad that goes about with you?

Fifth Sol.

Ay, the same child. God knows he shall not want while I eat bread.

Third Sol.

You served Felborg?

Fifth Sol.

I was his body servant after that. You say you love him; I wonder if the heart of any other holds him as dear as I do.

First Sol.

What's this about the Lady Violenzia? Is't true they ravished her at court?

Fourth Sol.

She was naught.

Fifth Sol.

You lie!

Third Sol.

By all the fiends in hell! are you mad to die? I would not have her name in my mouth in the same continent with yonder cloak—not for gold pieces. Let him hear you!

Fourth Sol.

I'll in and sleep.

Third Sol.

There's a big fire in the anteroom: get another bottle, and Humphrey shall finish his song.

First Sol.

Ay, he's singing drunk.

Sec. Sol.

I am as drunk as an owl; which is, to be sapiently intoxicated. Come away.

Third Sol.

How those dogs of Swedes ran today! [Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A Room.
Robert and Arthur asleep. Enter Ethel in his cloak, bearing a light.
Eth.
They are asleep;—asleep! and by tomorrow
They will have looked into the mystery,
And seen the other side of awful death.
O me! what men or immaterial shapes
Walk by the rivers of that unseen shore?
What fates, what accidents, what circumstance,
Await the wasted and time-wearied ghost,
That, melted from impediments of earth,
Lifts the black curtain up of monstrous night,
And finds itself—why do I tremble at it?
What is't to me, that I should vex my soul
In dim forebodings of what is to be,
For them, or me, or any other man?
It is enough I know, and ache to know,
What on this bridge of time I have to do,
Not overlook the abysm, till my head fail.
What, can they sleep like new-baptized infants,
Who have sinned deeply? Yet be charitable;
That which in me had been a crime unspeakable,
Their heady and fierce natures could not consider.
I'll think in part they erred; yet they must die for it,
And I must execute.—Brothers, awake!
Brothers, I come to touch your dear loved hands
And be at peace with you before you die.
Though in the world I wear a hateful face
And brow of judgment, I may forget them here.
Repent your sin; forgive and pity me,
That the sad fates, which no man may gainsay,
Have put me to this duty.

Arth.
Why, will you murder us?

Eth.
Call it not murder; be more merciful.
Say you have not deserved it; make that clear,
You shall walk free as air.

Arth.
We have deserved it
As the world's judgments go, but not from you.

Eth.
Oh, how can I escape? Do you not know
I must do that which, howsoe'er I tread,
The world shall wonder at, and scarce believe.
Reverence and loyalty shall look pale to see me
Put forth my hand into their sanctuary,
And from beneath the shelter of a crown,
Under whose sacred circle sits a king,
Pluck forth the sheltered wrong, and punish it;
Ay, in the person of anointed majesty.

Robt.
By Heaven, we'll help you in it! Let us go free!

Eth.
Too late, too late.

Robt.
When we are dead, indeed,
Then it will be too late.

Eth.
It was too late,
When first you raised your swords against the right;
Then it became too late.

Robt.
Is this our Ethel?
That he was true and loving, this we knew,
But never pitiless.

Eth.
I am that Ethel,
On whom the rigorous powers lay such stern hands,
That of my dearest duties they make fires
To burn my friends. She that makes heaven terrible,
Yet only trustworthy, immaculate Justice,
Who dares not overlook unpurged offences,
Hath chosen me to be her officer;
And I, who am a man and son of God,
Have dared to undertake the high commission.
Can I, then, tamper with her least decree?
Can I,—
Who tread the mixed and intricate confines
Of punishment and personal revenge,
And in the balance of my private bosom
Have dared to weigh delinquencies of kings,—
Can I play fast and loose, wink with one eye,
And when disorder comes within my scope,
Because it is my kinsmen suffer it,
Let the soft witch Affection sway my acts,
And melt the life of Conscience?

Arth.
It is enough;
Our deaths more than our lives are serviceable.
You'll not forgive that we disdained your counsel,
And dared to fight against you.

Eth.
Nay, but stay;
You are not innocent that speak thus with me,
Nor against me have sinned; I have no choice
To say go free. Taken in arms you were,
Against your country, leagued with foreign foes;
And, set aside the task I have in hand,
My duty is as open as the day;
I cannot pardon traitors.

Arth.
Ay, so call us;
And when you march against your King tomorrow,
You are no traitor!

Eth.
Oh, the difference!
Arthur, play not the casuist with me;
That which we feel down in our heart's deep centre,
Let us not mess with words. The time is awful;
I neither can forego your punishment
Nor quench the love I bear you. Look upon me.

Arth.
Nay, I care not.

Eth.
Be patient with me, brothers!
Is it so much to die? I think it is not.
Oh, pity me the greatness of my woe,
Which, like the central subterranean fire,
Burns in my breast, and not abides the day.
Your sister, oh!

Arth.
Doth she yet live?

Eth.
Ay, I thank God she doth.

Arth.
Dost thou thank God for that? Where is she now?

Eth.
Now here in Engelborg.

Robt.
In Engelborg!
Before I die—

Arth.
Hush, Robert! on your life!

Eth.
What is it, Robert?

Arth.
Robert!

Robt.
Well, no matter.
This is the end of a most noble house.

Eth.
Indeed, I pity you; give me your hands.

Arth.
Sir, if you love us, cease to trouble us;
You are that Earl of Felborg we thought honourable,
That Ethel whom we loved—

Eth.
Oh, love me still!

Arth.
And now you are, I know not what, a priest,
If you be true, or madman; and, if you be not,
The murderer of your brothers. Fare you well,
And let us sleep.

Eth.
Now could I break my heart,
And with the baby-droppings of a boy
Make your proud spirits melt. Oh, I have loved you,
And do, beyond my utterance; for, indeed,
I ever was cold-tongued, and therefore I think
No man in all the world did ever love me.

Robt.
Yea, that did I, and dearly.

Eth.
Didst thou, Robert?
Ah now, then, when I kneel to thee, forgive me,
And think me not a brother, but a sword
In the hand of Justice. Had it been your lot
To have slain me—as, oh, rejoice it is not—
I would have thanked, not cursed you.

Arth.
Oh, have done!
Do you come here to play the hypocrite?

Eth.
I do not, Arthur; by my soul, I do not!
Now I forget myself to kneel to you,
For you are stubborn and impenitent,
And will not see the greatness of your sin.
Farewell, I never more shall see your faces;
But oh, repent, repent before you die!

[Exit.
Arth.
Now, Robert—

Robt.
I was sleeping.

Arth.
So was not I,
For I have sent for young Cornelius,
And feared he might arrive ere Felborg went.

Robt.
Why should he waken me? Is it not cold?
I wonder shall we feel it in our graves.
What time of night is that? What, ten? no more.
I would tonight, and half tomorrow too,
Had been brushed off the dial; the clocks then
May strike what hours they will, and never trouble us.

Arth.
Listen to me.

Robt.
I will not listen to you.
For God's sake, let's have done with talk at last.
You are a talker, and a great adviser,
And you it was that brought us to this pass.
Why did you join those ever-damned Swedes?
You spoiled the game my boldness might have won.
Oh, I could eat my heart out of my breast!
The King that hears of it shall sweetly smile,
His arm about my sister. Oh, this Ethel!

Arth.
That which we did, we did it for the best,
And were't to do again, I would not change:
These idle lamentations are mere air;
The past is done, there leave it. Have you a spirit
To meddle with the future, and wash out
The golden grains of hope there?

Robt.
Bah, what hope?

Arth.
I trust Cornelius has not met with Ethel;
He stays too long.

Robt.
What will you do with him?

Arth.
This will I make him do. Give us our swords,
Open these doors, and let us walk as free
As morning out of night.

Robt.
Can you do this?

Arth.
I think I can, for he is weak and changing,
Borrowing his mood, like a contagious fever,
From him who touched him last. Trust me, we'll find
A way to move him to it.

Robt.
What! do you think
Tomorrow we shall breathe the air of heaven,
And not lie under ground? I laugh at it,
And am a man again. Then to the court;
We'll trust our own arms, Arthur.

Arth.
Ay, but stay!

Robt.
By Heaven, a little while ago it seemed
A dreadful thing to die; by how much more
Doth it now seem a glorious thing to live!
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
We'll bathe in morning, and the mounting sun,
That feared to have beheld us pale and cold,
Shall laugh to see us under open sky,
Feeding on light and blown by early winds.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!

Arth.
Be patient yet awhile;
There's more to do.

Robt.
What is't?

Arth.
Violenzia.

Robt.
What dreadful thought possesses you?

Arth.
Must she live?

Robt.
I am a clod again. What! murder her?
And yet I do not see how she can live.

Arth.
To be a standing index of our shame;
A breathing monument, drawing men's eyes
To gaze on our disgrace. No, she must die;
Blood washes clean, at least. Nay, in mere pity
'Twere best to kill her.

Robt.
Oh, the sadness of it!
Would you had never spoke to me of freedom!
Would I were dead, and this were not to do!

Arth.
A harlot of our house!

Robt.
Shut, shut your lips.
She dies, and there's an end on 't.

Enter Cornelius.
Arth.
Ha, Cornelius!
Why did you stay so long? have you met Ethel?

Cor.
I have not seen him. He was here with you?

Arth.
Ay, not a moment since. Quick, good Cornelius!

Cor.
What would you have with me?

Arth.
We would be free!
And we would have you open these our doors;
See us safe through your guards; give us our swords;
And put our horses under us.

Cor.
Is this all?
Give you good night, then.

Arth.
Be not mad, Cornelius!
Your folly will mar all, and kill us indeed.
You do not think Ethel intends our death?

Cor.
He acts it well, then.

Arth.
Palpably he does.
Because the thing was open, and we taken
In the very act, he needs must sentence us;
But to suppose he left no loophole for us,
Would be to think he'd murder us. Are you so dull?
Why did he visit us now, but to say this?
Why did he give us into your charge, man,
On whom he might rely to guess his meaning,
And do it without questioning?

Cor.
By my faith,
He gave no hint of this.

Arth.
A hint, Cornelius!
What would you have? Will you go speak to him,
And drive him by plain questioning to deny it?
Do it, and murder us. By holy cross,
It makes me mad that we must lose our lives
Because this man is witless!

Robt.
Nay, good Arthur,
Be not so hot; he knew not Ethel's meaning;
He cannot miss it now. By mass, Cornelius,
'Twas well we sent for you; you had not come else.

Cor.
Nay, I remember when you first were taken
He groaned at it, and cursed at them which took you.

Arth.
Ay, and controlled himself before we came,
And so condemned us; did he not? Why, think!
Would he so coldly have passed sentence on us,
And thought it carried death?

Cor.
Hardly, I think.

Arth.
Nay, if you lack the heart to venture out,
Back to your bed. He'll frown on you tomorrow,
And you would take't for earnest. Fie, Cornelius!

Cor.
I'll move the guard away, and send you swords.

Arth.
And have us horses ready. And, Cornelius,
Show us our sister's lodging; we would speak to her
Before we go.

Cor.
Without there! open the door!—
I'll send to you straightway. Avoid these drinkers.
I am glad to serve you in it.

[Exit.
Robt.
By Heaven, it's done!
Let's flee at once!

Arth.
No, no; he sends us swords,
Without which we are nothing. Listen to them.

[Soldiers heard singing.
Enter Soldier with swords.
Sol.
Look you, some of us will be hung for this.

Arth.
Do you think so, fellow? Oh, no.

Sol.

Ay, you may laugh at it; but I must obey Cornelius, though I see I shall hang for it. That's my duty, and the gallows will be my payment.

Arth.
Well, lead on, fellow.

Robt.
Will he not hang Cornelius?

Arth.
Like enough

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

Ethel's Quarters in Engelborg.
A Council of Officers.
Ethel, Olave, Cornelius, and Officers.
Eth.
Speak, gentlemen.
Your duty lies not in your neighbour's eyes;
Search your own breasts; he that falls off from me,
And does it simply from his soul's conviction,
I will believe he is as true a man,
As tender of the right, and as courageous,
As those who most applaud me;
He that hangs doubtful,
Oh, let him think, before he turns away,
Unredressed wrong grows rich in his defection,
And mighty Justice like a beggar stands,
Craving his alms. Who speaks? Who goes with me?

[The Officers whisper together.
Old Capt.
My lord, we are plain men; deal plainly with us;
Tell us in bold words you desire the crown,
We'll aid you faithfully.

Sec. Capt.
Ay, do; you wrong us,
To muffle up your secret purposes
In these fine words.

Third Capt.
Be open with us, sir;
Many are here that love you.

Eth.
In dear truth,
And as I am a soldier and a gentleman,
I have no private end. Let no man go with me
That hopes to win a gain by my advancement.

Third Capt.
He will not trust us.

Sec. Capt.
Tell us, General,
Will you set free the Earls of Ingelwald?

Eth.
I will not free the Earls of Ingelwald.

Sec. Capt.
Nor I, then, will not countenance a man
Who scruples not in death of dearest friends
To root the ambitious ends he mis-styles virtue.
Go to, you fair-faced lord, we are not children!

Eth.
Be it so;
Some of you present judge me worthier.
Yet think not by your hanging back to move me
From my first course—nor by worst opposition.
If every man should turn his back on me,
Unto the rough breast of the common soldier
Will I appeal. Judge as you will of me,
And send me word how you will deal with me.
Oh, that a man might take sincerity
Out of his breast, and lay 't before your eyes!—
Cornelius, take my place here.

[Exit.
Ol.
Let me speak:
I tell you, he is made of simple faith,
And what he says he means.

Cor.
Tush! not a whit.

Ol.
What, do you not believe it?

Cor.
I? oh, yes.

Fourth Capt.
Cornelius knows his mind; let's hear Cornelius.

Cor.
Nay, gentlemen, so much I cannot say;
And what close policy lies in these masked speeches
I guess not; only these two things I know,—
Unto his friends was Felborg never false,
Nor ever knew the vice ingratitude;
His bounty flows as liberal as water
To his least servitor. And for those gentlemen
That fear for the two noble Ingelwalds,
Let them not trust me if he means them harm.
He'll not acquit them; is't not possible
Their doors may be ill-guarded?

Ol.
Now, by Heaven,
You wrong him wickedly, Cornelius!
And though their love did lie about his soul,
He will not spare them.

Sec. Capt.
Look to yourselves, gentlemen.
Fidelity, long service, true attachment,
Weigh not a grain against his fantasy,
Nor earn you any liberty.

Ol.
Not to be traitors!

Sec. Capt.
Who dares to talk of traitors? All are not such
A rambling fancy styles so. Ha!

Cor.
Come, come;
He's not so strict. Maybe I should not name it,—
They have found open doors!

Ol.
Who? by whose means?
It's false! most false!

Cor.
What will you wager on it?

Ol.
My life.

Cor.
Your purse?

Ol.
Ay, all I'm worth i' the world.

Enter Soldier.
Sol.
My lord! the General, where's the General?

Cor.
Your news, fellow? your news?

Sol.
Away! they are loose!
I saw them o' horseback. Where's the General?

[Exit.
Cor.
Ha! ha! ha!

Ol.
If this be true, and with his cognisance,
Farewell, fair faith; I'll break my sword and leave him.

Enter two Soldiers.
Sol.
The Ingelwalds have escaped! The Earl of Felborg
Calls out aloud for you.

Ol.
For me?

[Exeunt Olave and Soldiers.
Cor.
Now, sirs,
Will any man refuse to go with us?

Third Capt.
Humph, what he says is true; the men will go;
No man can doubt that he will gain his end.
I ride, for one.

Sec. Capt.
And I.

Fourth Capt.
Would he were honester!
There was a time he could not hide his meaning.
We must go on with him.

Fifth Capt.
Thus much for me,
Where Felborg leads, I'll follow.

Sixth Capt.
Do! to hell.
Well, I'll make one with you.

Cor.
Thanks, gentlemen;
And when his head lies in the golden hoop,
Power will enrich his gratitude.

Old Capt.
For me,
I pin my faith with Olave, and believe
He nothing seeks himself.

Cor.
But will you join us?

Old Capt.
Ethel I'll join; not you, nor any such.

Cor.
No man says nay; I'll tell the General so.
Break up; we shall be moving with the morning.

[Exeunt all save two Captains.
First Capt.
You are not one of them?

Sec. Capt.
I hang. 'Tis monstrous odds
If the King can stand against him.

First Capt.
If he should, though?

Sec. Capt.
Let's send him a messenger and give him warning;
If Felborg fail, that might make peace for us.

First Capt.
And stay ourselves?

Sec. Capt.
Why, it's the likelier side.

First Capt.
Unless his heart should fail. Well, we must risk it.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.

An Anteroom to Violenzia's Bedchamber. Dark.
Enter Robert and Arthur, with their swords drawn.
Arth.
Hist!
She sleeps within there.

Robt.
Let me breathe a moment;
What we are doing is not known in heaven yet;
The night is balmy fair, and the stars shine.

Arth.
Knock at the door.

Robt.
Oh, peace! listen awhile.

Arth.
No creature moves.

Robt.
Silence is audible,
And buzzes in mine ears. Hark where she comes!
Enter Violenzia in a white undress, bearing a light.
O frightful apparition! this is her ghost.

Vio.
My brothers!

Robt.
Hark! it speaks! O dreadful thing!

Vio.
Why do you stand with drawn swords and white faces,
Like wintry ghosts set in the gleaming moon?
You will not murder me? Help! help!

Arth.
(threatening her with his sword.)
Be still!
Open your lips again only to breathe,
I'll—

Vio.
I will not cry again, indeed I will not.
Why are you come? Have mercy! Why will you kill me?

Arth.
What boots the reason? you must die tonight.

Vio.
Oh, not tonight! good Robert, not tonight!
Kind Arthur, courteous Arthur, not tonight!

Arth.
This hour, this moment.

Vio.
Oh, a moment spare me!
What have I done?

Arth.
What did the Roman matron
When the base tyrant shamed her? Ha! are you noble?

Vio.
Where's Ethel, who did tell me that to dream of it
Was sin beyond redemption. He speaks truth.

Arth.
He is the damned'st slave!

Vio.
O bitter villains!
When you were traitors merely, I wept for you
More tears than you were worth; now I perceive
You are but hardened ruffians. Well, despatch.
I do not fear to look on death. O brothers!
When the great King sits on his awful throne,
What will you plead? All the vast judgment-crowd
Shall shrink when they behold your crimson hands,
Wet with a sister's blood, held up for mercy
In vain, as mine are now.

Arth.
Prepare yourself.

Vio.
Let me retire into my chamber here,
And pray before I die; so much your rage
May yet grant to a sister.

Arth.
Well, be swift.
You will not seek to escape?

Vio.
Oh, no! I will not.
God pity me! for I am innocent.

[Exit.
Robt.
God pity me! she said, God pity me!
Sweet Arthur, I have loved you tenderly
Since we were nothing higher than our swords,
And of my joys made common harvest with you,
And carried half your sorrows. Once, remember it,
When the fierce bear had got you in his gripe,
I thrust my arm into the monster's jaws
And stabbed him with my knife. This is the mark;
I swear, this is the mark.

Arth.
Well I remember it.

Robt.
Do you indeed? And many a time in battle
I have stepped in between an imminent sword
And your dear life. Do you remember this too?
Why, then, I see you have a grateful heart,
And kind affection hath her mood in you.
Now, then, repay the good that I have done you
More than a thousandfold told thousand times.
Let me lie here upon the earless earth,
And torture up my eyes, and seal my hearing,
And go you in alone and do the deed.
Joy of my soul, sweet Arthur, will you not?
She loved me most. Christ! I remember her
A little earnest child, whose secret lips
Would steal to kiss my hand. I cannot do it! [Throwing himself on the ground.
[Exit Arthur into the inner room.


Robt.
He is gone in to do it. O just God!
What torments are laid up for us hereafter!
Hark! she will cry soon.—Will it never come?
Let him be quick, not cruel. Re-enter Arthur.

Is she dead?
O damned murderer!

Arth.
Let's fly from hence.

Robt.
Murderers and fratricides! The damned will start,
When we with bloody swords break into hell!

Arth.
Rise up, I say!

Robt.
My ears drank up her voice
When she did cry for mercy, yet I heard it not.
There is no devil in the waste of hell
But would have melted when she cried for mercy.

Arth.
For God's sake, come away!

[Pulls him; Robert strikes him.
Robt.
Stand off, you devil!
I am not damned yet.

Arth.
Is he mad indeed?
Hush! I hear footsteps in the corridor.
Be still as death.

[Robert rises; they listen.
Robt.
Ay, death is still indeed.

Arth.
Hark! they draw near; no whisper!

[They listen.
Robt.
Oh, have mercy!
She moves in the inner room.

[Knocking.
Ethel.
(outside.)
Who speaks within there?

Arth.
Be ready for a rush.

Eth.
Violenzia!

Robt.
Hark! she will answer. I can bear no more.
[Knocking.
Come in, I say. Why do you beat the door?
Come in, and see two pale-faced fratricides
Shaking their palsied swords.

Enter Ethel and Soldiers; they rush on Robert and Arthur, and secure them.
Eth.
O bloody-hearted brothers! what have you done?

[Ethel goes in, and returns with the body of Violenzia, which he lays on the stage, and stands looking at it.
Robt.
Let me look on her.
O God! that this thing were to do again!

Ol.
(to Arth..
This monster! Do you not repent?

Arth.
Repent!
Let those that have let opportunity
Slip through their hands repent; I cannot do it.

Ol.
Cold-hearted wretch!

Arth.
Ay, cold. And yet I'll tell thee,
Could I have stretched my arm into the past,
And undone that thing which hath once been done,
She should have lived a spotless maid again,—
Ay, though my soul were made a thousand souls,
And each one damned for ever. Well, what matter?

Eth.
Take them away to present execution,
And bring back word to me when they are dead.

Arth.
Lean on me, Robert.

Robt.
Pah! you smell of blood.

Arth.
Well! well! well!

First Sol.
He cared but little for her.

Sec. Sol.
Not a whit.

[Exeunt Olave and Soldiers conducting Robert and Arthur.
Eth.
He did not care for her! no, not a whit!
I did not love thee, Violenzia!
Be it so! be it so! be it so!
I can bear it—I can bear it—I can bear it.
Being dead, I now may kiss thee, may I not?
Cold angel, the last time I touched those lips—
Have done! Look down, you heavenly arbitrators;
Be not harsh with me, if my heart should burst
Because a girl is dead. Nay, I can bear it.
I do not fling myself upon the ground,
And drown the thirsty earth with rainy tears;
I do not tear my hair, or beat my breast,
Or heave my labouring heart from its foundations.
I can be patient. See, my God, she bleeds!
Is there no more to bear! Oh, no, not thus.
I do not tax, high Heaven, thy great designs,
No, nor abate my faith a single jot.
Why, this is mercy; do I cavil at it?
She is in heaven by this, where angels flatter her,
And soothe her with white hands; I would not have her
Alive for all the world. Oh, she is dead!
Her beauty was the rapture of my eye,
And her affection was the corner-stone
Of all my reared existence. That was long ago;
Chaste marriage-joys, the faces of young children,
And all the sweet felicities of home—
These are old dreams, and long since vanished.
Soul-softening memory, fly! Take up, O heart!
Peace is for angels, and we mortal labourers
Must die in harness; I am content, great Father,
And kiss thy tender hand.
Smil'st thou, pale innocent? Was death so kind to thee,
That came in guise so barbarous? Come, dear burden,
I must not leave thee here.

[Exit, bearing Violenzia into the inner room.

Scene VII.

Ethel's Quarters in Engelborg.
Ethel. Soldiers bringing in the Guard who had Robert and Arthur in charge.
Eth.
Are these the men that had the care of them?
I saw thee at the door. Is this the other?
By your gross negligence they have escaped,
And done foul murder in the dead of night.
Away with them! Yet stay! speak, if you will.

First Gu.
Nay, I care not to speak, 'twill not be believed.

Eth.
Yet I'll not hang them. What, after battlefield,
Because reluctant overstrained nature
Conquered the struggling will? Which one of us
But every day sleeps in his mortal charge,
And lets swift time with noiseless key slip in
And ravish opportunity? Yet I must punish them,
Lest this quick vice of ease become contagious.—
Fellows, I give you back your lives.

First Gu.
Look, General,

I'd have you know we are innocent in this. You may hang us or pardon us as you will, I care not. I obeyed orders, and there's an end on it.

Eth.

Orders? from whom? what orders?

First Gu.

Why, straightforward orders to give them swords, and find them horses, and let them go. Nay, you'll not believe it.

Sec. Gu.

Cornelius took me from my post.

First Gu.

Ay, look you, a man must obey orders.

Eth.

Cornelius!

First Gu.

Yonder he comes to forswear it. Hang us or drum us out, it's all one. Do it and never question, that's your rule, and then hang us for it.—Cheer up, comrade!

Enter Cornelius.
Eth.
He comes in smiling! By the immortal saints,
I think men mock at me. Cornelius,
Have you yet heard the Ingelwalds are broke loose?
These men, about to pay the penalty,
Charge you that you knew of it. What is this?

Cor.
Indeed!

Eth.
Indeed me no indeeds, sir! answer me!
I am not in my pleasant mood. Learn, too,
That these fell traitors have put murderers,
A new addition, to their names. D' you shrink?
Their sister's blood cries to the breaking day,
And blisters the pale stars.

Cor.
This is not so!

Eth.
I say it is. Even now their wretched bodies
Render their forfeited breaths.

Cor.
Cruel and treacherous!
They have betrayed me to my death. Hark, Ethel!

Eth.
Stand back! speak out! Does no man know me yet,
To think I will play off and on with them,
And make desert lackey the heels of favour?
These men stand yet in bonds; if by your order
The doors were opened, say it at once; each moment
Stamps your shame deeper.

Cor.
It was I that did it.

Eth.
Let them go free?

Cor.
Nor did I seek to hide it.

Eth.
Cornelius, I had rather seen you dead
Than thus betray your trust.—Stand round him, there.

Cor.
Hear, yet a moment hear me. They deceived me
By lying semblances and false reports,
Feigning it was your will they should go free,
And that you but condemned them for a show,
They made great seeming proof, and my confusion
Could not withstand their haste. Oh, pardon me,
Not for my fault, but that I could imagine
You could do thus.

Eth.
Could you believe it of me?
O bitter day! O bitter, bitter day!
Who shall be true to me, who shall believe me?

Cor.
I, Ethel! Kill me for my grievous error,
And dying think me true. It was my weakness
That made me judge you falsely by myself,
And not my lack of love; I was too shallow
To fathom your nobility. Let me die.

Eth.
Have I done well to take this thing in hand,
And put myself into the judgment-seat?
Have I been treacherous, base, and given to lies,
That my close-bosomed friends thus construe me?
That action wherein if I trod aright
Over the ploughshares of my dearest affections,
I thought would unseal all men's eyes, and make them
Confess my honesty, is turned against me,
And made a trick and meanness. Yet have courage.
When it is ended, and the cold earth lies
On this o'erburdened bosom, they will believe;
Till then I'll fight it out alone.—Cornelius,
As I had given these poor men their lives,
And as it was your weakness more than guilt,
I spare your life. Lay down your office, though,
And tokens of command; no more a soldier.—
Take off his sword.

Cor.
Take it; I have deserved it.
I dare not touch your hand. O Earl of Felborg,
Some time when I have wiped away this blot
Call me your friend again.

Eth.
Farewell, Cornelius;
[Exit Cornelius.
And with you go the last of all I loved.

Enter Olave.
Ol.
The traitors are despatched, my lord.

Eth.
So be it.
Violenzia sleeps. Alone on the broad earth.

Ol.
Your officers and soldiers love you dearly.

Eth.
I thank you very heartily.—Is it strange
That our diviner impulses, great thoughts,
And all the highest holiest life of the soul,
Should yearn for mortal sympathy and not find it,
No, not in women,—nay, not dare to ask for't?

Ol.
What is it you say, my lord?

Eth.
Do you not see,
It is the exceeding goodness of our God,
To bend our love unto his Father's breast,
And press our heads to his bosom? We are greater
As children than as brothers.

Ol.
Now he dreams again:
But they are dreams which I begin to think
Nobler than all I know. Is it possible
A man should be both saint and soldier?

Eth.
What is it to me, then, that no eye that meets mine
Shines with a kindred light; that should I speak
That which burns in me, oh, no tongue so strange
As my unfeigned utterance; that my acts, even,
Beget bewilderment, and are construed
Clean from their purposes? This should not trouble me,
Nor mortal solitude oppress my spirit:
It is for me to walk my single road;
There is in heaven a holy sympathiser
Shall smile to find me faithful. The time flies
Wherein I should be active; what's the hour?

Ol.
Early, my lord.

Eth.
What, do the soldiers sleep yet?

Ol.
Oh, no, my lord; the last reveillé sounded
An hour ago.

Eth.
Then they are on the march.

Ol.
In part they are.

Eth.
Christian of Lodenstern
Is a good officer and an honest man;
Have you not marked it?

Ol.
He is very worthy.

Eth.
Cornelius it was who broke his trust,
And set the prisoners free; he is disgraced.

Ol.
I was very sad to learn it.

Eth.
So was I.
Christian of Lodenstern shall have his place,
And stay here with the garrison.

Ol.
Do you think so?
He is a kinsman of the King's.

Eth.
What matter?
You say he is efficient. Send him to me
At my own lodging; so far I'll walk with you.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.

A Room in the Palace.
The King; to him enter Malgodin.
Mal.

My lord! here's news from the camp at last, and great ones. I think Lady Fortune laughs at our little frailties, and takes side with us. The hot-brained brothers and the confederate Swedes have been defeated—and by whom, think you? Ethel of Felborg. Laugh at it, it is true: and he hath taken the Ingelwalds prisoners; and oh, it is more laughable yet, hath condemned them to death, and by this time they are dead, and by his means. Here's news for a man to get fat upon, if his merriment spoil not his digestion; Ethel hath done them to death.

King.

Hath Felborg defeated the Swedes?

Mal.

Why, 'tis a very wise fellow; he could not marry the girl now. What should he get by joining the Swedes, being a Christian, and not of a revengeful temper? What should he do, but make favour with you? Tush! he'll bring you back the girl in his hand. Oh, the ingenuity and great good temper of the devil!

King.

She's dead, Malgodin.

Mal.

But your majesty must not trust this Felborg: 'tis these forgiving spirits, these mean pocketers of insult, that bear a long memory; I never smiled on a man yet that struck me, but I gave him a dig in the dark, ay and a deep one. And the girl, again, your majesty! blushing scarlet, and praying forgiveness for running away like a fool; she shall go on her knees, which is a pretty attitude in so fair a woman.

King.

Be silent, you damned beast! I say she's dead.

Mal.

(aside.)
What's in the wind now? Bah! he frightens me as a tame cat does when she turns to bite: he can wound me, but I am his master as much as ten times his wickedness can make me. Magister scelerum, that's your true degree, and a good working distinction. He walks to and fro like a hungry bear.—Why is your majesty so restless and moody? Are these not good news?

King.

I tell thee, Malgodin, I saw her last night.

Mal.

Whom did your majesty see?

King.

Violenzia.

Mal.

In the flesh?

King.

No; in the spirit.

Mal.

A very poor exchange in a woman.

King.
Peace, you devil!
About the middle of the night she came,
Or nearer morning, as I lay awake.
My curtain shook, and on my spirit came
A sense of something savouring of death;
At which my hair 'gan rise, and all my body
Was bathed in anxious dew: yet could I not
Take off my eyes from where the curtain moved;
Which parting, showed me Violenzia,
Who with straight staring eyeballs uninformed
Looked into vacancy; on her white side,
Whiter than her torn robe, she grasped her hand,
And through the parted fingers I could see
A sword's deep stab with red and gaping edges.
A year I gazed at her, until my blood,
All thronged into my drawn suspended heart,
Burst with a great leap back into my veins,
And then I fainted.

Mal.
'Twas a pretty dream.

King.
I have a dagger in my belt. Beware!
It was no dream.

Enter Attendant.
Att.
A messenger from the army, so please your Majesty,
Would speak with you.

Mal.
Let him come in at once.

[Exit Attendant.
Enter Messenger.
Mal.
Now, what's the news?

Mess.
O mighty Sovereign—

Mal.
Speak to me, knave. He will not be disturbed.

Mess.
Oh, I must bring my liege unwelcome news
That hangs upon my tongue.

Mal.
Peace, wordy fool!
Tell it in little space.

Mess.
Earl Ingelwald
And his condemned brother did last night
Evade their guards, and, being at liberty,
Fled to the private lodging of their sister,
And slew her sleeping.

Mal.
Is this all?

Mess.
Being taken,
They were this morning executed.

Mal.
Hence!

King.
Nay, stay awhile; I'll hear it over again.
What is't about the high-born Countess Ingelwald?

Mess.
Slain by her angry brothers, gracious liege.

King.
Slain by her brothers with a sword, you say?
They stabbed her in the side?

Mess.
Ay, very like;
I think 'twas in the side.

King.
In the white side.

Mal.
Fellow, be gone!

[Exit Messenger.
King.
Why, then, it is no dream!
Up to this moment I did well believe
It was a painted and fantastic dream.
Why, then, we do not die; and what you taught me
Of the material structure of our being
Is false, and there's a life beyond the grave.
Her face being ghastly, pale, and sorrowful,
Betrays we have affections, and keep memory
Of that which we did here. Oh, what remembrances
Shall I there feed upon! If she, an angel,
Wore a sad face in memory of her faults,
What inextinguishable dreadful pangs
Shall I not be condemned to! Is there no help?
No, not a whit! Why let it be and come,
I cannot alter it.

Mal.

Not unless you could go back into your longclothes and be born again, as the righteous are.

King.
I'll picture you my hell. Thus shall I sit,
Frozen to stone, yet more than sensible;
And all affections I have ever quenched
Of mild-eyed piety and soft compassion
Shall throng up in my bosom: then shall be brought
Myself, and all the deeds wherein I acted,
And every person that was mixed in them;
And all the mischiefs that I ever did
Shall there be set before me; all the griefs,
The pain, the anguish, and the misery
That ever my misguided will did breed,
Down to remote and finest consequence,
Shall there be shown; and I sit staring on,
Debarred from weeping, while the scene displays
Such sights as would make Pity waste her eyes,
And down the face of Winter draw warm tears.
There shall be played a weeping chamber-scene,
And screams be heard that would have moved the dead;
And there rebellion shall make hasty home
In honest bosoms; and white gleaming swords
Shall, in the hands of brothers, bend their points
Against a sleeping sister; and a king
Shall be portrayed, beating his bosom—thus.

Mal.

A very ingenious and pleasant mode of passing eternity; same, though—same.

King.
This serpent I have nourished in my breast
Is grown so bold he scoffs me to my face,
And I endure it. Why, what should I do,
Were I to kill the only wickedness
That can outmatch my own?

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
More news, my liege.

King.
More news—more grief—more hell!

Enter another Messenger.
Sec. Mess.
Fly, my good lord! an instant flight may save you;
The Earl of Felborg rides against you fast,
And all the army, sworn to do his will,
Follow behind; the cry is all against you:
They will depose you, and he shall be king.
Fly, for your lives!

Mal.
O these forgiving saints!
I think the game is almost played away.
This fool begins to rave too.

Mess.
Haste, my liege!
'Tis more than imminent; they're on my heels.

King.
He comes whose face, being seen in endless hell,
Shall make me mad with vain attempts to die.

Mal.
What boots a flight? I shall be apprehended:
I'll try my knack at managing a Christian.
He that can ride a wild beast may a tame one;
Yet they're mule-mouthed sometimes.—Take heart, my liege.
(Aside)
What a poor slave it is!—Swallow some wine.

King.
(throwing it down.)
What should I want with wine? my mood is cold,
Cold as despair. Enter Ethel, Olave, and Officers.

Who breaks into my presence without leave?
Bent brows, bold eyes, and bonnets unremoved—
Is treason ripe, and so unmannerly?
[Drawing his sword.
Come on, you hateful traitor; I abide you
As I do leprosy.

Eth.
Disarm him, gentlemen;
I do not come to measure swords with him.
You are my prisoner, and for this I charge you,
That you have ruled this country most amiss,
And done foul wrongs and monstrous wickedness,
Whereat heaven aches, and will no more endure it.
For this you shall be tried; and on the morrow
Expect to make your answer.

King.
Who shall try me?

Eth.
(pointing to Malgodin.)
Arrest him for a common malefactor.
If he vent blasphemy, gag him.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

An Anteroom.
A Soldier on guard. Enter Gentlemen.
First Gent.

May we pass in?

Sol.

Ay, sir; it is as open as the day. [Exeunt Gentlemen.

Enter others.
Sec. Gent.

What! it is not over yet?

Sol.

Oh no, sir; they have but just met.

Sec. Gent.

I have ridden twenty miles to see it.

Sol.

Had you come sixty, it had been worth your while. It is the finest spectacle I ever set eyes on. Earl Felborg hath summoned all the judges, and they sit all in a row in their robes; 'tis the finest sight—and the great throne stands empty. The King himself makes answer at the bar.

Sec. Gent.

They say he shall be hung; that's not possible.

Sol.

It is certain—on a gallows a hundred feet high, and Malgodin on a little one beside him.

Third Gent.

I hope it will be big enough to serve; I would not have him 'scape.

Sol.

What, Malgodin? No fear. There's no chance

for him in all the chapter of accidents. If the gallows will not work, they'll stone him to death in the crowd.

Sec. Gent.

Come, I'll go see it. [Exeunt.

Enter others.
Fourth Gent.

What! is the King tried yet?

Sol.

Judgment will pass shortly.

Fourth Gent.

In, gentlemen. We shall have no places. [Exeunt.

Sol.

Nay, I'll not miss it either. I may as well stand inside as out. A guard's small use where all may go in. [Exit.

Scene III.

A great Hall; the Throne standing empty, with the Insignia of Royalty lying on it.
Ten Judges in their robes. The King and Malgodin before them. Ethel surrounded by his Officers, Olave, Cornelius, and Haveloc.
Crier.

Hearken all men,—the court will pronounce its judgment.

Chief Just.
On this Malgodin
We pass the doom of death, so often merited,
That if the strictness of a legal sentence
Could be strained past the pains of simple death,
More had been his; the law admits it not,
Therefore his sentence is no more than death.
Let him be hung upon the common gallows.

Mal.

Well, the gallows is a very creditable ending.

The rack or the wheel had been more so; but the gallows is very creditable. Send his Majesty after me; I shall need such a slave in hell.

King.

Does he mean me? [Trying to rush on.
Malgodin. Guard.
Stand back, sir!

Chief Just.

Carry him off to instant execution.

Mal.

Must I go, gravity? Och! there are hearts here I should like to leave knives in. Well, I have done, and must die. If wickedness work below as well as it doth in this religious world, I'll be a king there.

Eth.

Why do they suffer him to speak?

Mal.

Ah, why? Adieu, master Christian, the devil be with you, good lord Tender-mercies, close count Anti-revenge, that can see a throne empty—and you, justiciary owls, that can find a villain in one that was honest so long as the King's wing covered him. Adieu, young Luxury, king Scamblewit the ghost-seer, that thinks souls are made of matter.—Ha! ha! And good people all, fair faces and rotten hearts, farewell; that is, follow me to hell. You are devil's eggs all. [Exit, guarded. The Judges consult.

Eth.
O God, with what a terrible scope of freedom
Hast thou endowed the ranging wills of men;
Yet they are circled: with untroubled eye
Thou see'st them press upon the farthest verge
From thee and good, their sin thou pitiest,
And of the evil (as we speak) thence springing
Thou shapest good. They dare not judge the King.

Chief Just.
We have considered and well weighed our task,
And find against the King our tongues are dumb;
We dare not call him innocent or guilty;
There is no precedent or form of law
Which doth include his person, and no rule
That circumscribes the freedom of his acts.
We are no more than servants of the law;
Nor dare we stretch our office, which to do
Would be to break the bounds of limited duty,
Wherein we ably serve the intents of justice,
And make confusion give us jurisdiction
In that whereunto we have no appointment.
Let him go free at once.

King.
Why, this is well!
Give me my crown again; those thorns are weak
That would perplex the feet of majesty.
I am not on your level, nor amenable
To mortal jurisdiction.

[He ascends the throne.
Eth.
Then I take up
The burthen of my fate; the end is come
Whereto my steps have drawn me. Look upon me,
Thou that assum'st the port and high aspect
Of kingly dignity. Oh, you are pale!—
Witness, you soldiers who stand round me here,
Whose god is honour; you, great guardians
Of civil honesty, and all good men
Who keep religion chambered in your bosoms,—
I call you all to witness: air and you elements
Whose presence is mortality, and all
Spiritual influences that persuade
Against the breath of time, and move within us
By holy spirited touches; angels, and you
Fine powers whose being is beyond the grave,
And most thou Holy Spirit, whose white hand,
Dipt in the waters of our human heart,
Purifies and persuades us back to God,—
Behold what now I do, and hear my words;
And testify this voice whose hollow tones
Pronounced two brothers' judgments, and these lips
Made marble with the touches of dead love,
And testify a tongue that never lied,
And life that when it saw where justice aimed,
Willingly never strayed—the thing I do,
And doing which I tremble, is not bred
Out of a passionate spirit of revenge,
But out of reverence for the broken law,
And to protect weak spirits from more wrong.
Thou King, that with a fresh triumphant haste
Snatchest again the circle of dominion,
And gatherest up thine old audacity,
Dost thou believe, because thou art outside
The narrow confines of the law's dominion,
The continent of justice holds thee not?
Or that the sceptred dignity of kings
Can sway the even balance in her hand,
Or make the wrong the right, or play with sin;
Or in the opposing substance of stern duty
Find but a dancing shadow? Oh, no, no!
The penalty, like universal heaven,
Clouds every head, and when a king dares err
Beyond the endurance of the patient skies,
God lifts his dreadful eyes to punish it.
Sometimes of sharp revenge he makes his rod,
Using another sin to scourge the first;
And sometimes prompts a tardy diffident spirit,
As he doth mine, to break old sanctioned rules,
And in the obedience of a bidden child
To vindicate his justice, and lay low
The offending brow.

King.
Ay, ay! my time is come.

Eth.
This King, being sick to surfeit with all sin
That lies in luxury and self-indulgence,
And having broke his burthen'd people's hearts,
And let disorders, like rank poisonous weeds,
Spring in the fertile garden of his realm,
Conceived the strained forbearance of grave heaven
Allowed some margin yet. What did he then?
A deed whereat, that such a thing should be,
The heavenly hosts grew pale, and shook in faith,
And the reluctant spirits of the damned
Groaned at their monstrous jubilee; the dead,
Alarmed to think good was no more omnipotent,
Could not abide the silence of their graves,
But with appalled eyes broke forth.

King.
Enough!
It is enough! repeat it not again!
Lest the bright noontide be not ward enough,
And the sad ghosts of the revengeful dead
Walk in the day.
[Covers his eyes.
Tell me she is not there,
Or I will never more undo my eyes,
But from the high meridian of my days
Fall blindfold to the grave.

[The people murmur.
Eth.
What is't you fear?

King.
Away! I do repent me of my sins;
I have done all that you do charge me with,
And coped iniquity with such an act
As makes me sick to think on 't. I submit me
Unto your jurisdiction, and lay down
The insignia of abused royalty:
Pronounce your sentence; I bow down to it;
But oh, be merciful! not present death,
For I have heard no man is so abandoned
But may retrieve his soul before he dies.

Eth.
I thank the grace of Heaven, which moves you thus,
And makes my labour lesser than I thought it;
And after all the struggles of my soul
Shows me the face of God. Your life is spared;
The tears of your repentance have made soft
The edge of punishment; renounce your crown,
With such formality as shall make secure
Against the reassertion of your claim,
And in a private station end your days;
And, oh, may tears and faithful act of duty
Efface the memory of your sins!

King.
Amen!
Into your hand I give my crown; sit thou
Where late I sat so ill: but ere I go
To sue with my washed prayers another throne,
Ethel of Felborg, the most wronged of men,
Forgive my injuries and touch my hand.
The faces of the men that pampered me
And flattered me in all my wickedness
Are turned to frowns; here only I perceive
A countenance of judgment mixed with mercy.
Look, at your feet I fall, and will not rise
Until you pardon me.

Eth.
Rise from the ground.
Heaven judge my soul as I have wiped away
Resentment of all injury you have done me.

King.
I ask for the protection of your soldiers,
And so much wealth as may suffice to bring me
To some far-distant shore; new air, new scenes, new life
Best suit with the new spirit that moves in me.

Eth.
You have your will.—One of you wait on him,
And see him safe from harm.—God give you grace! [Exeunt King, Officer, and Soldiers.
(The people cry)

The Earl of Felborg shall be king!
Long live King Ethel!

Eth.
Ah me!
Thou didst not join that cry; I thank thee, Olave;—
Nor thou, Cornelius, once again a friend.

Cor.
Dost thou so soon forgive thy weak Cornelius?
My lips imprint my heart on this loved hand.

Hav.
Ethel, you mar the greatness of your acts
To clench them with usurped authority;
The throne my royal brother has renounced
Succeeds to me. I lay my claim to it,
And with my sword I will defend my right.

Eth.
Are you so bold, young sir? Give me your hand.
[He leads him to the throne, and puts the crown on his head.
Upon a head stainless and innocent
I lay temptation and a thousand cares.
I do not give it you; it is your right,
Which God forbid I should gainsay: so wear it,
That when you die, good men may weep for you.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Malgodin, heartless and impenitent,
Hath yielded up his wretched life.

Eth.
'Tis well;
My task is almost ended. Let me kneel.
[He kneels before Haveloc.
My liege, I do you homage. Take my sword;
The work whereto I dedicated it
Is done: henceforth I have no need of it;
The awful wielding of it lies with you.
It is a sacred weapon; handle it so
That it may be a terror to offenders,
And safety to the innocent. Be just.
It is ended and accepted; this is death.
[Music, and cries saluting Haveloc king.
Ethel falls lower to his face.

Hav.
Rise, noble Earl; too long you kneel to us.
What! look to him.

[They raise him up.
Cor.
He swoons.

Ol.
It is no swoon.

Cor.
Stand back from him!—Sweet Ethel, speak to me?
He's dead. Alas, he's dead!

Hav.
So suddenly!

Cor.
This is some damned poisoner!

Ol.
I think not, sire.
He hath of late been tortured with sharp spasms
And pains about the heart, which his physician
Looked grave upon; such pains bode sudden death.

Cor.
He is well dead; indeed, you speak it truly;
His heart was killed before his body was,
By grief and by the faithlessness of friends.

Hav.
O young and heavily tasked! how should I live
That tread from such a death unto a throne?
Truly and fearfully.—Gather him up,
And show him to his soldiers,—many rough cheeks
Shall stain themselves with tears,—and let them bury him
With high observances and mournful state,
Such as become his nobleness. Touch him tenderly.