University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Street in the Suburbs of Ghent.
The Lord of Occo, meeting Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt.
Occo.
Sir Guisebert Grutt, and, by my faith, I think
Sir Simon Bette too! Pray you pardon me;
I thought that you were sped upon your mission
To treat for peace at Bruges?

Sir Simon.
Sir, in good time.
We'd have a word with you before we go.
You are a noble born, my Lord of Occo;
And let me tell you, many marvel much
To find a gentleman of so great worth
A flatterer of the Commons.

Sir Guisebert.
Yea, my Lord:
It looks not well when nobles fall away
One from another. That the small-crafts here
Should lift their hands against their natural Lord
Is but the plague and sorrow of the time,
Which we, that are of credit, must abide:
But ne'er till now a gentleman of name
Was found amongst their leaders.

Occo.
Oh, dear Sirs,
I could remind you how your sometime selves
Bore less goodwill towards the Earl's affairs
Than spurs your errand now; and if to you
Pardon be promised, I would fain be told
Why not to me as well.

Sir Guisebert.
Truly, why not?
To whoso merits it 'twill freely fall;
So give us leave to make a good report
Of how you stand affected.

Occo.
You are kind,
And I am nothing loth. So please you, say
That I am not of them that evermore
Cry out for war, and having not a hope
Of the Earl's mercy, act as desperate men;
For were I sure the many would be spared,
It should not then behove me to stand out
For my particular ransom,—though, to say truth,
The Earl should get himself but little gain
Were he to deal too hardly with us all.

Sir Simon.
'Tis fairly spoken, Sir. When we come back,
Bringing conditions with us as we trust,
We'll ask your aid amongst the Commons. Yea,
For truly there are here a sort of crafts
So factious still for war and obstinate,
That we shall be endanger'd. Suing for peace
Is ever treason to the White-Hoods. Well,
We'll look for your support.

Occo.
In me, be sure
A friendly overture shall find a friend.

[Exeunt Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt. Van Aeswyn comes forward.
Aeswyn.
My Lord, were those that parted from you here
The worshipful negotiators?

Occo.
Ay!
Would they had pass'd the windmills—how they crawl!—
And met no babbling burghers on their way.

Aeswyn.
What! you have made an offer?

Occo.
No, not so;
I've flung my line, and yonder pair of hooks
Are aptly baited to ensure me one;
But I am not, nor mean I to be bound,
Till it be seen if yet my suit may thrive
With yon fair frozen dew-drop, all that's left
To represent Van Merestyn's hot blood.

Aeswyn.
'Tis said she is but backwardly inclined
To any of her swains.

Occo.
Such wealth as hers
Makes a maid whimsical and hard to please.
She that can have her will, be what it may,
Is much to seek to settle what it is.
The damsel must be tried; for if she yield,
The charier must I be, whilst times permit,
Of the good town's goodwill. Her lands lie all
Within the Franc of Ghent. Time presses now,
And I must press my suit. This very hour
I bade her to expect me. Forth we go.

Scene II.

—The House Van Merestyn.
Adriana Van Merestyn and Clara Van Artevelde.
Clara.
I do not bid you take him or refuse him;
I only say, think twice.

Adriana.
But once to think,
When the heart knows itself, is once too much.

Clara.
Well; answer what you will; no, yes—yes, no;
Either or both; I would the chance were mine;
I say no more; I would it were my lot
To have a lover.

Adriana.
Yours? why, there's Sir Walter.

Clara.
Sir Walter? very good; but he's at Bruges.
I want one here.

Adriana.
On days of truce he comes.

Clara.
I want one every day. Besides, the war
Ne'er slackens now; a truce to truces now;
And though on moonless, cloud-encompass'd nights
He will, in his discretion, truce or none,
Hazard a trip, yet should he be discover'd
Mild Van den Bosch would pat him on the head,
And then he'd come no more. But ponder well
What you shall say; for if it must be “no”
In substance, you shall hardly find that form
Which shall convey it pleasantly.

Adriana.
In truth,
To mould denial to a pleasing shape
In all things, and most specially in love,
Is a hard task; alas! I have not wit
From such a sharp and waspish word as “no”
To pluck the sting. What think you I should say?

Clara.
A colourable thing or two; as thus:
My Lord, we women steer not by our hearts,
Nor yet our judgments, but the world's loud voice;
And though I prize you dearly in my soul
And think you of all excellence made up,
Yet 'tis a serious and unhappy thing
To hear you spoken of; for men protest
That you are cruel, cowardly, and cold,
Boastful, malicious, envious, spiteful, false;
A bull in ire, an ape in jealousy,
A wolf in greediness for blood.

Adriana.
No more?
Am I to use no courtesies but these?

Clara.
No more? Yes, plentifully more! where was I?
This for your mind's repute. Then for your person,
(Which for my own particular I love,)
'Tis said that you are hideous to behold;
Your brow as bleak as winter, with a fringe
Of wither'd grass for hair; your nose oblique,
Pointing and slanting like a dial's hand;
They say the fish you had your eyes of laugh'd
To see how they were set, and that your mouth
Grows daily wider, bandying of big words:
All which imaginations, good my Lord,
Grossly as they may counterfeit defect
Where worth abounds, are yet so noised abroad
That in despite of that so high esteem
In which I hold you, I'm constrained to say
I'd sooner wed your scullion than yourself.

Adriana.
Thanks for your counsel; cunning is the maid
That can convert a lover to a friend,
And you have imp'd me with a new device.
But look! Is this—no, 'tis your brother's page.

Clara.
All hail to him! he is my daily sport;
Of all things under heaven that make me merry
It makes me merriest to see a boy
That wants to be a man.

Adriana.
His want fulfill'd
He will not be the worse; 'tis well for them
That have no faults but what they needs must leave.

Clara.
Are my faults of that grain? What faults are mine?

Adriana.
Perchance I err in thinking that I know;
But grant I know and err not, 'twere not wise
To tell you. Many will beseech their friends
To tell them of their faults, which being told,
They ne'er forgive the tellers. And besides
I've heard you oft confess them.

Clara.
Well, I own
There's a main difference betwixt faults confess'd
And faults arraign'd. We tell ourselves our faults,
And at ourselves ourselves take no offence,
For we are well assured we mean no harm;
But should my friend accuse me of the like,
Though I had charged him to be blunt and frank,
I seize him by the throat.
Enter the Page.
Sir Henry! Ah!
'Twas you I dreamt of; whither away, brave knight?

Page.
I'm coming but to pay my duty here;
The lady Adriana lets me come.

Clara.
I wish thy master knew it.

Page.
So he does;
He tells me to come too.

Clara.
Alas, poor man!
Has he no eyes?

Page.
I know not what you mean.

Clara.
Why, when our pages steal away our loves,
Tell gardeners to keep blackbirds. Look—look here!
See you this drooping melancholy maid;
What have you done?

Page.
Who, I? it was not I.

Clara.
Who was it, then? Well—“kissing goes by favour”—
So says the proverb; truly, more's the pity!
Yet I commend your prudence, Adriana,
For favouring in place of men and monsters
This pure and pretty child. I'll learn from you,
And if, when I have kissed my pug and parrot,
I have the matter of a mouthful left,
For fear of waste that's worse, I'll spend them here.

Page.
I would advise you to be more discreet.

Clara.
So-ho! and wherefore? Oh! so old you are!
Full fifteen summers older than your beard,
And that was born last week—before its time.
I told you, Adriana, did I not,
Of the untimely birth? O' Wednesday 'twas,
By reason of a fright he gave his chin,
Making its innocent down to stand on end
With brandishing of a most superfluous razor.

Adriana.
You told me no such tale; and if you had,
I should not have believed you; for your tongue
Was ever nimbler in the track of sport
Than fits for hunting in a leash with truth.
She is a slanderer, Henry, heed her not.

Clara.
Ay, no one marks me. I but jest and lie,
And so must go unheeded. Honest times!
Slanders and jests have lost the ear o' the world!
But do I slander him to say he's young?

Page.
I am almost as old as you.

Clara.
I grant you;
But we are women when boys are but boys;
God gives us grace to ripen and grow wise
Some six years earlier. Thank Heaven for that!
We grow upon the sunny side o' the wall.

Page.
Methinks your wisdom grows o' the windy side,
And bears but little fruit.

Clara.
What! malapert!
It bears more fruit than thou hast wit to steal
Or stomach to digest. Were I thy tutor
To teach thee wisdom, and beheld such store
Of goodly fruitage, I should say to thee,
“Rob me this orchard.” Then wouldst thou reply,
“Five feet three inches stand I in my shoes
And yet I cannot reach to pluck these plums,
So loftily they flourish!” God ha' mercy!
Here comes the Knight upon an ambling nag.
Now, Adriana!

Adriana.
I am sore perplex'd.
What shall I say?

Clara.
My counsel you have heard,
And partly slighted: wherefore seek to better;
Take we direction from our full-grown friend.
Henry, a Knight will presently be here
To ask our Adriana's hand in marriage:
What shall she answer?

Page.
Let her say—“My Lord,
You are the flower of Flemish chivalry,
But I have vow'd to live and die a maid.”

Clara.
A goodly vow! which grant her grace to make,
So it be not too troublesome to keep.
But he's no more the flower of Flemish Knights
Than you the pearl of pages. Adriana,
Bethink you of your answer; have it pat,
Lest he surprise you and you speak the truth.

Adriana.
Prithee, what truth? There's nothing I would hide.

Clara.
Except, except—yes, turn your face away
That so informs against you. Here he comes.

Enter the Lord of Occo.
Occo.
Fairest of ladies! an unworthy Knight
Does homage to your beauty.

Adriana.
Good my Lord,
If 'tis to beauty you pay homage, here
You see it less in me than in my friend,
A daughter of the House of Artevelde.

Occo.
Fair damsel, I am happy in the beams
Which shine upon me from two spheres at once.

Clara.
Fair Sir, I thank you; you're as true as brave,
And there is none in Ghent with ears to hear
Who has not heard recounted night and day
The exploits of Lord Occo.

Occo.
On my soul
I blush to hear it said; though true it is
I have perform'd what little in me lay
To bring renown to Flemish chivalry.
I give to God the glory, and, next Him,
To her whose charms would fire the faintest heart.

Clara.
Whoe'er inspired your valour, your exploits
Must give that lady high pre-eminence.
Three hundred men-at-arms, I think it was,
You freely fell upon with sword in hand,
After the storming of the fort at Sas,
And not a soul survived?

Occo.
Your pardon, no;
Some other trifle's in your thoughts; at Sas
There is no fort, and they who perish'd there
Were but three hundred peasants who were burn'd
By firing of a barn to which they'd fled.

Clara.
Ah, was it so? At Zeveren then, surely—

Occo.
What happen'd there, too, was of no account.

Clara.
Oh, pardon me; the modesty which still
Accompanies true valour, casts in shade
Your noble actions. I beseech you tell
What came to pass at Zeveren?

Occo.
The town
Was taken by surprise.

Clara.
Ay, true, and then
The garrison that made themselves so strong
Within the convent's walls—

Occo.
At Zeveren
There was no garrison.

Clara.
You say not so?
How false is fame! I'm certain I was told
Of a great onslaught in the convent there.

Occo.
Well; a proportion of the sisterhood
Met with mishap. But, Lady, by your leave
We'll treat of other things. Haply not knowing
The usages of war, you scarce approve
Proceedings which its hard necessities
Will oft-times force upon us warriors.
A softer theme were meeter, and there's one
On which I burn to speak.

Clara.
Alack, alack!
Then I am gone; soft speeches please mine ear,
As do soft pillows—when I fain would sleep.
But what's the time of day? Come, Henry, come;
We walk by high examples in this world;
Let's to the poultry-yard and win our spurs.
Give you good day, my Lord.

[Exeunt Clara and Page.
Occo.
A merry lady,
And swift of speech: but now that she is gone,
I must entreat your hearing for a word
Of graver import—grave, if aught imports
The life or death of this poor heart of mine.
A burning fiery furnace is this heart;
I waste like wax before a witch's fire
Whilst but one word from you would make earth heaven,
And I must soon be nothing or a god!
There's an unutterable want and void,
A gulf, a craving and a sucking in,
As when a mighty ship goes down at sea.
I roam about with hunger-bitten heart,
A famine in my bosom, a dry heat,
A desperate thirst, and I must glut it now,
Or like a dog by summer solstice parch'd
I shall go mad.

Adriana.
Your pardon, good my Lord,
You flatter me or else deceive yourself;
But, so far as I may, I yield you thanks,
And if no more than thanks, the poorer I,
That have not more to give.

Occo.
Nay, Lady, nay;
Deem that I've been tormented long enough
And let this coyness have a timely end.

Adriana.
I am not coy, and plainly now to speak,
When aught but plainness should be less than just,
I cannot be your wife.

Occo.
And wherefore so?
'Tis not that love is foreign to your breast;
You will not tell me that?

Adriana.
I've told you all
Which it can profit you to know.

Occo.
Ah! now
I see it clearly; there's some smooth-tongued rogue
Has been before me,—yea, some wheedling slave,
With song and dance and lute and lily hands,
Has wriggled into favour, I the while
Fighting hard battles to my neck in blood.
Tell me in honesty if this be sooth:
If it be not, in charity say No.

Adriana.
In charity I never will speak more
With you, Sir Guy of Occo:
Nor, till I see a sign of gentle blood
Or knightly courtesy in one so bold,
Will I again hold converse, or with him
Or any that abets him. This to me!

[Exit.
Occo.
Thanks, gentle Lady! Thanks, kind, loving soul!
I am instructed; there came out the truth;
Much more those eyes flash'd out than tongue could tell.
They are as plain to read as are the stars
To him who knows their signs. Would that I knew
The name of him who blocks the way; his name,
And what star rules him in the house of life.
Who hither rides and waves that long salute?
Philip Van Artevelde! 'Tis he, 'tis he,
And no more need I knowledge of the stars.

Scene III.

—The Stadt-House.
Enter Myk Steensel, followed by several Burghers.
Myk.
And who is Van den Bosch, resolve me that:
I say, Sirs, who is he, to lay on taxes?

1st Burgher.
Or Ackerman, or Launoy, who are they?

Myk.
I say, Sirs, if our goods be not our own,
Better our natural liege Lord should have them
Than thus to render them to John or Peter.

2nd Burgher.
Why, look you, Sirs, our case stands simply here:
The Earl of Flanders is a valiant Lord,
And was a gracious master, till the Devil,
Who never sleeps, awaken'd them of Bruges
To dig about the Lis to turn the water.
But what, Sirs,—we have fought enough for that.

Myk.
Why still the more we fight the more we lose;
For every battle that our White-Hoods win
But gives a warrant to this Van den Bosch
To spoil us of our substance.—Welcome, Sirs.

Enter two Deans of the Crafts.
1st Dean.
Friends, have ye heard the news?

Myk.
I know not, Sir;
If the news be, we owe the White-Hoods pay
For giving us a hosier for our liege,
'Tis old, Sir, old.

2nd Dean.
No, this is what you'll owe them;
A ready market for your rats and mice.
Corn is already risen cent. per cent.,
Though many question if the news be true.
Our John of Launoy's slain with all his men,
The Quatre-Metiers lost and much beside.

Myk.
No more supplies from Brabant then. But say,
How came it all about?

2nd Dean.
'Twas briefly thus:
Beside Nivelle the Earl and Launoy met;
Six thousand voices volley'd to the skies
“Ghent the good Town! Ghent and the White-Hoods! Ghent!”
But from that force thrice-told there came the cry
Of “Flanders with the Lion of the Bastard!”
So then the battle join'd, and they of Ghent
Gave back and open'd after three hours' fight,
And hardly flying had they gain'd Nivelle
When the Earl's vanguard came upon their rear
Ere the gate closed, and enter'd with them; then
They all were slain save Launoy and his guard,
Who, barricaded in the Minster tower,
Made desperate resistance, whereupon
The Earl wax'd wrothful and bade fire the church.

1st Burgher.
Say'st thou? O sacrilege accursed! Was't done?

2nd Dean.
'Twas done,—and presently was heard a yell,
And after that the rushing of the flames!
Then Launoy from the steeple cried aloud
“A ransom!” and held up his coat to sight
With florins fill'd; but they without but laugh'd
And mock'd him, saying, “Come amongst us, John,
And we will give thee welcome; make a leap;
Come out at window, John.”—With that the flames
Rose up and reach'd him, and he drew his sword,
Cast his rich coat behind him in the fire,
And shouting “Ghent, ye slaves!” leapt freely forth,
When they below received him on their spears.
And so died John of Launoy.

1st Burgher.
A brave end.
'Tis certain we must now make peace betimes;
The city will be starved else—Will be? nay!
Starvation is upon us; want and woe
Stand round about and stare us in the face.
And what will be the end?

Myk.
Believe me, Sirs,
So long as Van den Bosch bears rule in Ghent
You'll not have peace; for well wots he no terms
That spare his life will pacify the Earl.
Sirs, if we make no peace but with the will
Of them whose heads must answer it, woe to us!
For we must fight for ever; Sirs, I say,
We must put down this Van den Bosch, and up
The men that with the Earl stand fair and free,
Who shall take counsel for the city's weal.

Burghers.
Truly we must,

Myk.
Then, friends, stand fast by me,
And as we're all agreed to give no doit
Of this five hundred marks, a tongue have I
Will tell him so in words more just than nice.

Enter Van den Bosch, Frans Ackerman, and the Lord of Occo, with a retinue of White-Hoods.
Van Den Bosch.
Good morrow, worthy friends; good morrow, all!
'Tis a sweet sight to look on, in these times,
A score of true and trusty friends to Ghent
So fresh and hearty and so well provided.
Ah, Sirs, you know not, you, who lies afield
When nights are cold, with frogs for bed-fellows;
You know not, you, who fights and sheds his blood
And fasts and fills his belly with the east wind!
Poor souls and virtuous citizens they are!
'Tis they that keep the franchises of Ghent.
But, what! they must be fed; they must have meat!
Sirs, have ye brought me these five hundred marks
That they demanded?

Myk.
Master Van den Bosch,
Look round about; as many as stand here
Are of one mind, and this is what they think:
The company of White-Hoods, some time past,
Were, as thou say'st, brave citizens and true,
And they fought stoutly for our franchises;
But they were afterward as beasts of prey,
That, tasting blood, grow greedy and break loose
And turn upon their keepers: so at length
The city, like a camp in mutiny,
Saw nothing else to walk her streets unharm'd
But these your free companions. They at will
Enter'd our houses, lived upon our means
In riotry, made plunder of our goods,
Debauched our wives and daughters; and if once
Some hardy fool made bold to lift his hand
For safeguard of his own, he met his death.
Now this no longer will we suffer; no,
Nor will we give our substance so to feed
The lewd excesses of your crew.

Van den Bosch.
How now,
Myk Steensel! Truly thou art bold of tongue;
I marvel thou shouldst speak so traitor-like
In presence of such honest, virtuous men
As these thou seest about me. How can I,
Think you, give warranty that some good soul,
Inflamed with anger at thy foolish speech,
May not cut out thy tongue and slit thy nose
For uttering of such treasons?

Myk.
Van den Bosch,
Thou thinkst by this to hound thy pack upon me;
But dog and huntsman I alike defy.
Thy brother Launoy with his men-at-arms
Will never answer to thy bidding more:
And if thou dare do violence to me
Thou shalt be fain to take as long a leap
As his was at Nivelle.

Van den Bosch.
Oh, ho! good Sirs!
'Tis this then that emboldens you, this tale
Brought by Van Borselen, who ran away
Before the fight began, and calls it lost
That so his cowardice should stand excused;
For which his foul betrayal and false report
I have already had him gibbeted.
Bring not yourselves, I pray you, gentle Sirs,
With the like nimbleness to a grave i' the air.
I say, Sirs, bring me these five hundred marks,
And that or e'er to morrow's sun go down—
Five hundred marks—I'll bate you not a scute.
Ye slothful, hide-blown, gormandizing niggards!
What, all must starve but you, that lie a-bed
Paunch uppermost, and lack a day of fast
To purge your grossness. Know ye who I am?
Or are ye sleeping off the last night's wine,
And deeming this some tustle with your wives
For pulling of a blanket here or there?
Five hundred marks—begone and bring it!

Myk.
So;
Begone we will. Let's to our homes, my friends;
And what we'll bring thee thou shalt know betimes,
Nor wait the setting of to-morrow's sun.
Not gold, Sir, no, nor silver, be thou sure,
But what shall best befit a brave man's hand.

[Exeunt Myk and the Burghers; the retinue of White-Hoods follow. Manent Van den Bosch, Occo, and Frans Ackerman.
Van den Bosch.
You see, Sirs, how the rogues take heart and rail
On this mishap.

Occo.
I saw both that and more;
Our White-Hoods looked like recreants faint with fright,
As though they knew not which to fear the most,
Thy rod and gallows-tree, or the Earl's block.
Peter, we're crumbling.

Van den Bosch.
You have judged aright.
But what can I? Our chiefs drop one by one;
Launoy, too truly, perish'd at Nivelle;
Le Clerc lies leaning up against a hedge
(Till some one dare go bury him) at Chem;
Your cousin fell with Launoy. Now, Van Ranst
And Lichtenvelde are good for men-at-arms,
But want the wit to govern a great town.
And I am good at arms, and want not wit;
But then I'm sore suspected of the rich,
By reason of my rudeness, and the fruit
Which that same gallows-tree of mine has borne:
And to say truth, although my wit be good,
It has a fitter range without the gates,
In ordering of an enterprise, than here.
The city leans to peace for lack of brains,
And on its shoulders we must stick a head.

Occo.
Hast thou bethought thee of a man that's wise
And fit to bear this rule?

Van den Bosch.
Why such there be;
Though one that's wise would scarce be wise to take it.
What think'st thou, Frans? Canst pick me out a man
That, being wise, were willing?

Ackerman.
There's no game
So desperate that the wisest of the wise
Will not take freely up for love of power,
Or love of fame, or merely love of play.
These men are wise, and then reputed wise,
And so their great repute of wisdom grows,
Till for great wisdom a great price is bid,
And then their wisdom do they part withal:
Such men must still be tempted with high stakes.

Occo.
Tempt them and take them; true, there be such men;
Philip Van Artevelde is such a man.

Van den Bosch.
That is well thought of. Philip is the man.

Scene IV.

—The House Van Merestyn.
Adriana Van Merestyn and Clara Van Artevelde.
Clara.
So you have dismissed the Lord of Occo?

Adriana.
Yes.

Clara.
How many suitors have you discharged this morning?

Adriana.
How many?

Clara.
Yes. Was not Philip here?

Adriana.
He saw me through the lattice and stayed his horse an instant under the window.

Clara.
Was that all?

Adriana.
Yes—no—yes—I suppose so.

Clara.
Oh that maids would learn to speak the truth, or else to lie becomingly!

Adriana.
Do I not lie becomingly?—Well, 'tis from want of use. What should I say?

Clara.
What say? Had my sworn friend so questioned me,
And I been minded, maugre all our vows,
To coil my thoughts up in my secret self,
I with a brave and careless hardihood
Had graced the disavowal of my love.

Adriana.
But did I say I loved him not? Oh, God!
If I said that, I say since truth was truth
There never was a falsehood half so false.
I say I love him, and I say beside
That but to say I love him is as nought;
'Tis but a tithe and scantling of the truth;
And oh! how much I love him what can tell?
Not words—not tears—Heaven only knows how much,
And every evening when I say my prayers
I pray to be forgiven for the sin
Of loving aught on earth with such a love.

Clara.
Well, God forgive you! for you answer now
Like a true maid and honest, though a sinning.
But tell me, if that's mention'd in your prayers,
For how much love has he to be forgiven?

Adriana.
Alas! I know not.

Clara.
Nay, but you can guess.

Adriana.
Oh I have guessed a thousand times too oft;
And sometimes I am hopeful as the dawn,
And up my fluttering heart is borne aloft
As high and gladsome as the lark, and then,
As meeting in mid-flight the fowler's shaft,
It comes plumb down with such a dead, dead fall.

Clara.
And all the while is he, I nothing doubt,
As wayward and as love-sick as yourself.

Adriana.
He love-sick! No—it may be that he loves,
But if he does, 'tis in no sickly sort.
His nerves are made of other cord than ours;
He strays as is his wont along the Lis,
A careless angler with his rod and line;
And when he told me he must come to-night,
And that he then would lay a burden down
Too long in silence borne, so calm and strong
His voice, I doubted if it could be love
He harboured in his thoughts.

Clara.
Oh! much the doubt!
But this I knew; I read it written large
When answering with your vacant No and Yes
You fed upon your thoughts.

Adriana.
But honestly,
What think you? Think you that it must be love
He comes to speak of?

Clara.
Well, 'tis either that
Or else to tell you of what fish he caught.

Adriana.
Oh, do not tease me, Sweet; I am not well;
I cannot frisk and gambol.

Clara.
As you please;
But if your love's so lamentable sick,
Nurse it yourself: I'll go.

Adriana.
With all my heart;
You're too light-headed for my company.

Clara.
Is it with all your heart? Then I'll not go,
Or else I'll take you with me. Come, I say;
Your garden has its troubles like yourself
And lacks your tendance; from the soft south-west
The winds have broken in, and many a flower
Looks ruffled and is hanging down its head
Since the bold kissing of those wild intruders.
Come then with me; the dew is on the grass,
Two snails are running races, and ere night
A frog that jumps and stares and stares and jumps,
A little frog, light-headed if you will,
But having eyes to see, will know which wins.

Scene V.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Philip Van Artevelde and Father John of Heda.
Artevelde.
I never look'd that he should live so long.
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
He seem'd to live by miracle: his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind
And peril to his body. He was one
Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment known to few;
Then comes the man who has the luck to live
And he's a prodigy. Weigh chance with chance
And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times
Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endowed
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand more
Have had their fortunes by haphazard wreck'd
Whilst lighter barks push'd past them; to whom add
A smaller tally, of the singular few
Who, gifted with predominating powers,
Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

Father John.
Had Launoy lived he might have passed for great,
But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges.
The sphere, the scale of circumstance, is all
That makes the wonder of the many. Still
An ardent soul was Launoy's, and his deeds
Were such as dazzled many a Flemish dame.
There'll some bright eyes in Ghent be dimm'd for him.

Artevelde.
They will be dim and then be bright again.
All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion,
And many a cloud drifts by and none sojourns.
Lightly is life laid down amongst us now,
And lightly is death mourn'd: a dusk star blinks
As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo!
In a wide solitude of wintry sky
Twinkles the re-illuminated star,
And all is out of sight that smirch'd the ray.
We have not time to mourn.

Father John.
The worse for us!
He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turn'd out
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
Yet such the barrenness of busy life!
From shelf to shelf Ambition clambers up
To reach the naked'st pinnacle of all,
Whilst Magnanimity, absolved from toil,
Reposes self-included at the base.
But this you know.

Artevelde.
Else had I little learn'd
From my much learn'd preceptor.

Enter the Page.
Artevelde.
Whence art thou?
Hast thou been idling in the market-place?
Canst tell whose chattels have been sold to-day
For payment of the White-Hoods?

Page.
Sir, I cannot;
'Tis at the house Van Merestyn I've been
To see the Lady Adriana.

Artevelde.
Her!
Well, and what said the damsel?

Page.
Sir, not much;
For Mistress Clara was her visitor,
And she said everything; she said it all.

Artevelde.
What was it that they spake of?

Page.
When I came
The talk was all of chivalry and love;
And presently arrived the Lord of Occo.

Artevelde.
And what was talk'd of then?

Page.
Oh! still the same.
The ladies praised him mightily for deeds
The fame whereof, far-spreading, should eclipse
Sir Rowland's and Sir Oliver's.

Artevelde.
Mark you that,
Good Father, mark you that! Hearts soft as wax
These damsels would be thought to bear about,
Yet ever is the bloodiest Knight the best.

Father John.
Oh, it is true. Full many a dame I've known
Who'd faint and sicken at the sight of blood,
And shriek and wring her hands and rend her hair
To see her Lord brought wounded to the door—
Many to weep by day, at night lie down
The nightmare sole sad partner of their bed,
Rise up in horror to recount bad dreams
And seek to witches to interpret them,—
This oft I've known, but never knew I one
Who'd be content her Lord should live at home
In love and Christian charity and peace.

Artevelde.
And wherefore so? Because the women's heaven
Is vanity, and that is over all.
What's firiest still finds favour in their eyes;
What's noisiest keeps the entrance of their ears.
The noise and blaze of arms enchants them most:
Wit, too, and wisdom, that's admired of all,
They can admire—the glory, not the thing.
An unreflected light did never yet
Dazzle the vision feminine. For me,
Nor noise nor blaze attend my peaceful path;
Nor, were it otherwise, should I desire
That noise and blaze of mine won any heart.
Wherefore it is that I would fain possess,
If any, that which David wept,—a love
Passing the love of women.

Father John.
Deem you not
There may be one who so transcends her sex
In loving as to match the son of Saul?

Artevelde.
It may be I have deem'd or dream'd of such;
But what know I? We figure to ourselves
The thing we like, and then we build it up
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:
For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world
And home-bound fancy runs her bark ashore.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
Sir, here is Master Van den Bosch below
Desires to speak with you.

Artevelde.
To speak with me!
I marvel on what errand Van den Bosch
Can seek Van Artevelde. I come. So say.
Will you not stay?

Father John.
No, no, my son; farewell!
The very name of men like Van den Bosch
Sends me to prayers.

Scene VI.

—The Market-place, at the entrance of the Clothiers' Hall.
The Provost of the Clothiers, with several Burghers and the Chaplain of that craft.
Provost.
Him! did ye say? choose him for Captain? So!
Then look about you in the morning, friends,
For ye shall find him stirring before noon;
The latest time o' the day is twelve o' the clock;
Then comes he forth his study with his book,
And looking off and on like parson preaching,
Delivers me his orders.

1st Burgher.
Nay, Provost, nay;
He is a worthy and a mild good man,
And we have need of such.

Chaplain.
He's what you say;
But 'tis not mildness of the man that rules
Makes the mild regimen.

Provost.
Who's to rule the fierce?
“I prithee, Van den Bosch, cut not that throat;
Roast not this man alive, or, for my sake,
If roast he must, not at so slow a fire;
Nor yet so hastily impale this other,
But give him time to ruminate and foretaste
So terrible an end.” Mild Philip thus
Shall read his lecture of humanity.

Chaplain.
Truly the tender mercies of the weak,
As of the wicked, are but cruel. Well;
Pass we within; the most of us are here,
And Heaven direct us to a just resolve!

[Exeunt all but two Burghers.
1st Burgher.
The scaffold, as I see, is newly wet.
Who was the last that suffer'd?

2nd Burgher.
What, to-day?
I know not; but the brave Van Borselen's blood
(God rest his soul!) can scarcely yet be dry
That suffer'd yesterday.

1st Burgher.
For treason was't?

2nd Burgher.
The treason of the times; the being rich;
His wealth was wanted.

1st Burgher.
Hath he not an heir?

2nd Burgher.
A bold one if he claim the inheritance.
Come, pass we in.

Scene VII.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
This is a mighty matter, Van den Bosch,
And much to be revolved ere it be answered.

Van den Bosch.
The people shall elect you with one voice.
I will ensure the White-Hoods, and the rest
Will eagerly accept your nomination,
So to be rid of some that they like less.
Your name is honour'd both of rich and poor;
For all are mindful of the glorious rule
Your father bore, when Flanders, prosperous then,
From end to end obey'd him as one town.

Artevelde.
They may remember it—and, Van den Bosch,
May I not too bethink me of the end
To which this people brought my father? Yes,
Of his good husbandry they gorged the fruits,
Till, drunk with long prosperity, and blind
With too much fatness, they tore up the root
From which their common weal had sprung and grown.

Van den Bosch.
Nay, Master Philip, let the past be past.

Artevelde.
Here on the doorstep of my father's house
The blood of his they spilt is seen no more;
But when I was a child I saw it there;
For so long as my widow-mother lived
Water might touch not that memorial stain.
She loved to show it me, and then with awe,
But hoarding still the purpose of revenge,
I heard the tale—which like a daily prayer
Repeated, to a rooted feeling grew—
How long he fought, how falsely came like friends
The villains Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,—
All the base murder of the one by many.
Even such a brutal multitude as they
Who slew my father, yea, who slew their own,
(For like one had he ruled them first and last)
Even such a multitude you'd have me sway.

Van den Bosch.
Why, what if Jacques Artevelde was killed?
He had his reign, and that for many a year,
And a great glory did he gain thereby.
And as for Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,
Their breath is in their nostrils as was his;
If you be as stout-hearted as your sire
And mindful of the villainous part they play'd,
Their hour of reckoning is well-nigh come.
Of that, and of this base false-hearted league
They're making with the Earl, these two to us
Shall give account.

Artevelde.
They cannot render back
The golden bowl that's broken at the fountain,
Or mend the wheel that's broken at the cistern,
Or twist again the silver cord that's loosed.
Yea, life for life, vile bankrupts as they are,
Their worthless lives for his of countless price,
Is their whole wherewithal to pay their debt.
Yet retribution is a child of grace,
And I could well baptize it in their blood.

Van den Bosch.
Then will I call the people to the Square
And speak for your election.

Artevelde.
Not so fast.
Your vessel, Van den Bosch, has felt the storm:
She rolls dismasted in an ugly swell,
And you would make a jury-mast of me
Whereon to spread the tatters of your sails.
And what am I?—I fain would be the oak
That, rooted in the vale of life apart,
Welcomes with equal breast each wind that blows,
Nor knows of fair and foul.

Van den Bosch.
Ho! what is this?
I pray you, speak it in the Burghers' tongue;
I lack the scholarship to talk in tropes.

Artevelde.
Then view the matter naked as it stands:
Shall I, who, chary of tranquillity,
Not busy in this factious city's broils,
Nor frequent in the market-place, eschew'd
The even battle,—shall I join the rout?

Van den Bosch.
Times are sore changed, I see; there's none in Ghent
That answers to the name of Artevelde.
Your father did not carp nor question thus
When Ghent besought his aid. The days have been
When not a citizen drew breath in Ghent
But freely would have died in freedom's cause.

Artevelde.
With a good name the cause you christen. True;
In choice of despots is some freedom found,
The only freedom for this turbulent town,
Rule her who may. And in my father's time
We still were independent, if not free;
And wealth from independence, and from wealth
Enfranchisement, will partially proceed.
The cause, I grant you, Van den Bosch, is good;
And were I link'd to earth no otherwise
But that my whole heart centred in myself,
I could have toss'd you this poor life to play with,
Taking no second thought. But as things are,
I will review the matter warily,
And send you word betimes of my resolve.

Van den Bosch.
Betimes it must be; for some two hours hence
I meet the Deans of crafts, and ere we part
Our course must be determined.

Artevelde.
In two hours,
If I be for you, I will send this ring
In token I'm so minded. Fare you well.

Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, a greater man
Than ever Ghent beheld we'll make of you,
If you be bold enough to try this venture.
God give you heart to do so, and farewell.

[Exit Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Is it vain-glory which thus whispers me
That 'tis ignoble to have led my life
In idle meditations—that the times
Demand me, echoing my father's name?
Oh! what a fiery heart was his! such souls
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages. Father! Yes,
Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades
Unto dominion than thy death deters;
For that reminds me of a debt of blood
Descended with my patrimony to me,
Whose paying off would clear my soul's estate.

Enter Clara.
Clara.
Was some one here? I thought I heard you speak.

Artevelde.
You heard me speak?

Clara.
I surely thought I heard you,
Just now, as I came in.

Artevelde.
It may be so.

Clara.
Was no one here then?

Artevelde.
No one, as you see.

Clara.
Why then I trust the orator your tongue
Found favour with the audience your ears;
But this poor orator of mine finds none,
For all at once I see they droop and flag.
Will you not listen? I've a tale to tell.

Artevelde.
My fairest, sweetest, best beloved girl!
Who in the whole world would protect thy youth
If I were gone?

Clara.
Gone! where? what ails you, Philip?

Artevelde.
Nowhere, my love. Well, what have you to tell?

Clara.
When I came home, on entering the hall
I stared to see the household all before me.
There was the steward sitting on the bench,
His head upon his hands between his knees;
In the oak chair old Ursel sate upright
Swaying her body—so—from side to side,
Whilst maids and varlets stood disconsolate round.
What cheer? quoth I. But not a soul replied.
Is Philip well? Yea, Madam, God be praised.
Then what dost look so gloomy for, my friend?
Alack a-day, the stork! then all chimed in,
The stork, the stork, the stork! What, he is sick?
No, Madam; sick!—he's gone—he's flown away!
Why then, quoth I, God speed him! speaking so
To raise their hearts, but they were all-too-heavy.
And, Philip, to say truth, I could have wish'd
This had not happen'd.

Artevelde.
I remember now,
I thought I miss'd his clatter all night long.

Clara.
Old Ursel says the sign proved never false
In all her time,—and she's so very old!
And then she says that Roger was esteem'd
The wisest stork in Ghent, and flew away
But twice before—the first time in the night
Before my father took that office up
Which proved so fatal in the end; and then
The second time, the night before he died.

Artevelde.
Sooner or later, something, it is certain,
Must bring men to their graves. Our every act
Is death's forerunner. It is but the date
That puzzles us to fix. My father lived
In that ill-omen'd office many a year,
And men had augur'd he must die at last
Without the stork to aid. If this be all
The wisest of his tribe can prophesy,
I am as wise as he. Enough of this.
You have been visiting your friend to-day,—
The Lady Adriana.

Clara.
I come thence:
She is impatiently expecting you.

Artevelde.
Can she with such impatience flatter one
So slothful and obscure as Artevelde?

Clara.
How mean you?

Artevelde.
Clara, know I not your sex?
Is she not one of you? Are you not all,
All from the shade averse? All prompt and prone
To make your idol of the million's idol?
Had I been one of these rash White-Hood chiefs
Who live by military larceny,
Then might I well believe that she would wait
Impatiently my coming.

Clara.
There you're wrong;
She never loved the White-Hoods.

Artevelde.
She were wise
In that unloving humour to abide;
To wed a White-Hood, other ills apart,
Would put in jeopardy her fair possessions.
Fatal perchance it might be to her wealth;
Fatal it surely would be to her weal.
Farewell her peace, if such a one she loved.

Clara.
Go ask her, Philip,—ask her whom she loves,
And she will tell you it is no such man.
Why go you not?

Artevelde.
My mind is not at ease.
Yet I am going—to my chamber now,
Where let me own an undisturb'd half hour
Of rumination;—afterward to her.

Scene VIII.

—The Market-place in front of the Stadt-House.
Enter two of Van den Bosch's Officers, dragging a Burgher between them, and followed by an Executioner with an axe and a crowd of Citizens. A scaffold is seen at a distance.
1st Officer.
Where hast thou put it?

Burgher.
What? Put what—put what?

2nd Officer.
A few last words—where is it?

Burgher.
Mercy! what?

1st Officer.
Oh, very well! Come, clap his thumb in a winch.

Burgher.
No need of that—what is it that ye seek?

1st Officer.
Van Borselen's head. 'Twas sticking on that spike
At nine last night. Who took it thence but thou?

Burgher.
I never touch'd it.

2nd Officer.
Thou art next of kin,
And rightfully shouldst fill his vacancy.

1st Officer.
Thy head to his stands in a just succession.
Besides, they are as like as are two cherries.
Bring him away!

2nd Officer.
Friend with the axe, come on!

[Exeunt all but two Citizens.
1st Citizen.
When will this end?

2nd Citizen.
When Van den Bosch . . .

1st Citizen.
Hush! Hush!

Scene IX.

—The Entrance-Hall of the House Van Merestyn.
Enter Artevelde with Attendants.
Artevelde.
Bear thou these letters to my steward; say
That messengers must straight proceed with them
To Grammont and elsewhere, as superscribed;
And should mishap occur to any one
Upon the road, which is not over free,
I charge me with ten masses for his soul. (To another)

The Lord of Occo's counsel I will weigh;
So tell him, with my service and my thanks. (To the rest)

I will return alone. If any come
To seek me at my house, entreat their stay.
They withdraw, and a Waiting-Woman enters.
This, if I err not, is the pretty wench
That waits upon my Lady. What, fair maid!
Thy mistress, having comeliness to spare,
Hath given thee of it. She's within, I think,
Or else wert thou a truant.

Waiting-Woman.
Sir, she is.

Artevelde.
Acquaint her then that I attend her here.
[Exit Waiting-Woman.
There is but one thing that still harks me back.
To bring a cloud upon the summer's day
Of one so made for happiness and peace,—
It is a hard condition. For myself,
I know not that the circumstance of life,
Change how it may, can so far work within
As makes it much worth while to look before.
But she is younger,—of a sex beside
Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire,
More sudden and more perishable too;
So that the gust which vivifies the one
Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair!
As fair as Heaven to look upon! as fair
As ever vision of the Virgin blest
That weary pilgrim, resting by the fount
Beneath the palm and dreaming to the tune
Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal.
It was permitted in my pilgrimage
To rest beside the fount beneath the tree,
Beholding there no vision, but a maid
Whose form was light and graceful as the palm,
Whose heart was pure and springing as the fount,
And spread a freshness and a verdure round.
This was permitted in my pilgrimage,
And loth am I to take my staff again.
Say that I fall not in this enterprise,
Yet must my road be full of hazardous turns,
And they that walk with me must look to meet,
Not lions only in the path, but snakes.—
Danger from foes—a daylight danger that;
Danger from tyrants—that too is seen and known;
But jealous multitudes and envious friends—
In dusk to walk through endless ambuscades—
[A pause.
Still for myself, I fear not but that I,
Taking what comes, leaving what leave I must,
Could make a sturdy struggle through the world.
But for the maid, the choice were better far
To win her dear heart back again if lost,
And stake it upon some less dangerous throw.

Re-enter Waiting-Woman.
Waiting-Woman.
My Mistress, Sir, so please you, takes her walk
Along the garden terrace, and desires
That you'll go forth to meet her.

Artevelde.
For if Fate
Had done its best to single out a soul
Whose very birthright should ensure her—Ah!
The garden say you, and the terrace? So.

[Exit.
Waiting-Woman.

Now there's a man might make my Lady happy if he would but waken up. That's the

point. Comely we may grant him and gracious; but though a lover were never so goodly to behold, what is the use of him walking in his sleep like a bat or a dormouse?—Coming, coming, Steward, I hear you. Always shouting after me. Truly there is a whisper abroad that he cannot live without me.

Scene X.

—A Garden.
Artevelde and Adriana.
Artevelde.
I have some little overstayed my time.
First pardon me that trespass.

Adriana.
Yes, indeed;
I said to Clara when the sun went down,
Now if,—though truly 'tis impossible—
He come not ere yon blushing cloud grows gray,
His word itself is but a tinted cloud;
And look how gray it is!

Artevelde.
A hectic change.
The smiling dawn, the laughing blue-eyed day,
The graybeard eve incessantly pass on,
Fast fleeting generations, born of time
And buried in eternity—they pass,
And not a day resigns its little life
And enters into darkness, that can say,
“Lo! I was fair, and such as I have been
My issue shall be; Lo! I cast abroad
Such affluence of glory over earth,
That what had been but goodly to the sight
Was made magnificent, what had been bare
Show'd forth a naked beauty—in all this
Was I thus rich, and that which I possess'd
To-morrow shall inherit.” False as hope!
To-morrow's heritage is cloud and storm.

Adriana.
Oh! what a moody moralist you grow!
Yet in the even-down letter you are right;
For Gerard, who is weather-wise, says true,
That when the sun sets red with the wind south
The morrow shall be stormy. What of that?
Oh! now I know; the fish won't take the bait.
'Tis marvellous the delight you take in fishing!
Were I to hang upon a river's edge
So tediously, angling, angling still,
The fiend that watches our impatient fits
Would sometime tempt me to jump headlong in.
And you—you cannot quit it for a day!
Have I not read your sadness?

Artevelde.
Have you so?
Oh! you are cunning to divine men's thoughts.
But come what may to-morrow, we have now
A tranquil hour, which let us entertain
As though it were the latest of its kind.

Adriana.
Why should we think it so?

Artevelde.
My gentle friend,
I trust that many such may come to you;
But for myself, I feel as if life's stream
Were shooting o'er some verge, to make a short,
An angry and precipitate descent,
Thenceforward much tormented.

Adriana.
Why is this?
What can have fill'd you with such sad surmise?
You were not wont to speak despondently.

Artevelde.
Nor do I now despond. All my life long
I most have prized the man who knew himself,
And knew the ways before him, rough or smooth,
And from amongst them chose, not blindly brave,
But with considerate courage and calm will;
And, having chosen, with a steadfast mind
Pursued his purposes. I train'd myself
To take my place in high or low estate
As one of that scant order of mankind.
Wherefore, though I indulge no more the dream
Of living as I hoped I might have lived,
An inward life of temperate content,
Yet I repine not, and from this time forth
Will cast no look behind.

Adriana.
Oh, Artevelde!
What change has come since morning! Oh! how soon
The words and looks which spoke of joy and peace,
To me at least—how soon are they revoked!
But let them be—it matters not: I, too,
Will cast no look behind—Oh, if I should . . .

Artevelde.
Now see! ere aught is utter'd you run wild
In false conjecture; hear what I would say.
If hitherto we have not said we loved,
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love
By all the tokens wherein love delights.
We heretofore have trusted in each other,
Too wholly have we trusted to have need
Of word or vow or pledge or plighted faith.
Where is it gone, that trust?

Adriana.
I trusted not;
I hoped and feared, doubted and hoped again,
Till this day, when I first breathed freelier,
Daring to trust—and now—O God, my heart!
It was not made to bear this agony—
Tell me you love me or you love me not!

Artevelde.
I love thee, dearest, with as large a love
As e'er was compass'd in the breast of man.
Hide then those tears, beloved, where thou wilt,
And find a resting-place for that so tost
And troubled heart of thine; sustain it here,
And be its flood of passion wept away.

Adriana.
What was it that you said then? If you love,
Why do you terrify me thus?

Artevelde.
Be calm;
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fix'd,
What fate thou mayst be wedded to with me.
Thou hast beheld me living heretofore
In staid tranquillity as one retired:
The dweller in the mountains, on whose ear
The accustom'd cataract thunders unobserved,
The seaman who sleeps sound upon the deck
Nor hears the loud lamenting of the blast
Nor heeds the weltering of the restless wave,—
These have not lived more undisturb'd than I:
But build not upon this; the swollen stream
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer
And drive him forth; the seaman roused at length
Leaps from his slumber on the wave-wash'd deck;
And now the time comes fast when here in Ghent
He who would live exempt from injuries
Of armed men, must be himself in arms.
This time is near for all,—nearer for me:
I will not wait upon necessity
And leave myself no choice of vantage ground,
But rather meet the times where best I may
And mould and fashion them as best I can.
Be warned then of the hazard and the cost,
The threatenings of the hour, the frowns of Fate,—
Yes, weigh them well, and in your own free choice
Take or reject me.

Adriana.
Say you my free choice?
Oh, Artevelde! my choice is free no more.
Be mine, all mine, let good or ill betide;
In war or peace, in sickness or in health,
In trouble and in danger and in distress,
Through time and through eternity, I'll love thee:
In youth and age, in life and death, I'll love thee,
Here and hereafter, with all my soul and strength;
So God accept me, as I never cease
From loving and adoring thee next Him;
And oh, may He pardon me if so betray'd
By mortal frailty as to love thee more.

Artevelde.
I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash
And passionate resolve that thou hast made:
But how should I admonish thee, myself
So great a winner by thy desperate play.
Heaven is o'er all, and unto Heaven I leave it;
That which has made me weak shall make me strong,
Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love;
And if some tax thou payest for that love,
Thou shalt receive it from Love's exchequer.
Farewell; I'm waited for ere this.

Adriana.
Farewell.
But take my signet-ring and give me thine,
That I may know when I have slept and waked
This was no false enchantment of a dream.

Artevelde.
My signet-ring? I have it not to-day:
But in its stead wear this around thy neck.
And now, my Adriana, my betroth'd,
Give Love a good night's rest within thy heart,
And bid him wake to-morrow calm and strong.

Scene XI.

—Bruges.—An Apartment in the Palace of the Earl of Flanders.
The Earl and Sir Walter D'Arlon.
D'Arlon.
I marvel, my good Lord, you take that knave
So freely to your counsels.

Earl.
Treason done
Against my enemies secures him mine.
Ghent never can forgive him what is past,
Which knowing, he will therefore cleave to me.
Besides, he learns the minds of men; how each,
Here and in Ghent, is leaning, off or on.
For this and other serviceable arts
I show him favour, not for better gifts.
Have you not seen a jackdaw take his stand
On a sheep's back, permitted there to perch
Less out of kindness to so foul a bird
Than for commodious uses of his beak?
As to the sheep the jackdaw, so to me
Is Gilbert Matthew; from my fleece he picks
The vermin that molest me.—Here he comes!
Enter Gilbert Matthew.
Well, honest Gilbert, are the Knights not gone?

Gilbert.
Not yet, my Lord: they urge in lieu of lives
The forfeiture of sundry burgages
To fill your coffers. I denied them.

Earl.
Why?
I bade thee not!

Gilbert.
Lives, lives, my Lord, take freely,
But spare the lands and burgages and moneys.
The father dead, shall sleep and be forgotten;
The patrimony gone,—that makes a wound
That's slow to heal; heirs are above-ground ever.

Earl.
Well, be it so.

Gilbert.
The Knights wait here without.
They ask an audience of leave, and more,
They bring a new adherent.

Earl.
Bid them come.

Gilbert Matthew goes out, and returns with Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt.
Sir Simon.
This audience we made bold to crave, my Lord,
To notify your Highness that our friend
The Lord of Occo, hazarding his life,
Hath ventured hither in disguise, to tell
How matters stand in Ghent.

Earl.
And does he wait?

Sir Simon.
He does; and with your leave I'll call him in

[Exit.
Earl.
But is he worth his pardon?

Gilbert.
Past a doubt
He has his hand upon the balance now;
And free forgiveness for all past misdeeds
Will make him wholly yours.

Earl.
Well, we shall see.
'Tis no such urgent need we have of him;
But if he be so contrite, it is well. Re-enter Sir Simon Bette with Occo.

You're a bold man, my Lord of Occo, you
That have so long borne arms against your Liege,
Without safe-conduct to come hither.

Occo.
Sir,
My sole safe-conduct is the good intent
I bear to your affairs; nought else prevailed
To start me hither, and nought else, I trust,
Is needed for my safe return.

Earl.
Enough;
Thou shalt return in safety. Say, what news
Bring'st thou from Ghent?

Occo.
My Lord, peace, peace! is there
The only cry, except with desperate chiefs,
Who are so weak, that fair conditions now
Would draw their followers from them to a man.

Earl.
Our proffer of conditions is made known
Already to our good Sir Simon Bette
And Guisebert Grutt.

Sir Guisebert.
Indemnity to all
Save some three hundred souls; and who be these
He names not now, but will hereafter.

Occo.
Well!
These terms are just and merciful indeed!
But then they must be promptly proffer'd; yes,
You know, my Lord, the humour we of Ghent
Have still indulged—we never cry for peace
But when we're out of breath; give breathing-time,
And ere the echo of our cry for peace
Have died away, we drown it with War! War!
Ev'n now the faction hopes to be redeem'd
By a new leader.

Earl.
What may be his name?

Occo.
Philip Van Artevelde.

Earl.
Thou say'st not so!
That is a name I like not; it means much.
Whenever sunshine has come near my house
An Artevelde has cast his shadow there.
I have not heard the name of Artevelde
Since that usurper Jacques died the death.
This Philip then, I think, was but a child.
What is he made of? Of his father's metal?
A dangerous man, in truth, Sirs, if he be.

Gilbert.
Oh, fear him not, my Lord; his father's name
Is all that from his father he derives.
He is a man of singular address
In catching river-fish. His life has been,
Till now, more like a peasant's or a monk's
Than like the issue of his father.

Occo.
True;
Yet is his name so worshipp'd of the crafts,
That were the time permitted and the scope
To grow expert, some danger might ensue.
Wherefore 'twere well to note him on the list
Of those three hundred doomed.

Earl.
No doubt, no doubt.
Let him be noted. Think you, then, Sir Guy,
That they'll accept our terms, or still hold out?

Occo.
Let these good Knights make instant speed to Ghent
And call the burghers to the market-place;
Then let to-morrow at their bidding wear
The aspect of to-day, and all will thrive.
Take them whilst yet Nivelle is in their thoughts.

Earl.
You counsel well. Prepare, Sirs, to depart;
We'll have the terms engross'd and send them you.
Farewell, my Lord; farewell, Sir Simon Bette!
Sir Guisebert Grutt, farewell!

[Exeunt the Earl, Gilbert Matthew, Occo, and Sir Simon Bette. As Sir Guisebert Grutt is following he is detained by D'Arlon.
D'Arlon.
One word, fair Sir.

Sir Guisebert.
My good Lord, at your pleasure.

D'Arlon.
Only this:
I have a foolish errand in your town;
There is a damsel . . . . . . but your head is white;
You will not heed me.

Sir Guisebert.
Pray proceed, my Lord;
I have not yet forgotten how in youth
A damsel's love, amongst the amorous,
Was more than bed of down or morning posset.

D'Arlon.
In brief, kind Sir, conveyance hence to Ghent
Is what I crave. Methinks amongst your train,
And habited like them, I well could pass
And no one mark me.

Sir Guisebert.
Sir, you're free to try;
And if our friends should still be uppermost
You will risk nothing. Should the faction reign,
You shall do well to keep your secret close
And make your best speed back.

D'Arlon.
Leave that to me.