University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—Dusk: a Glade of the New Forest. Enter from the shade the King, Gilbert of Clare, Walter Tirel, William of Breteuil, and Attendants.
Rufus.
My horse dead in the hunt; and you dismount!
It was an ugly omen; we will leave
His carcase in the forest: men will say
His rider next will fall, a merry jest!

Breteuil.
My liege, I pray you put away this mood;
I am pursued by a fell lunatic,
A strange distempered man, who dogs my steps
Importunate as sinner for his shrift;
And all his burden—“Woe, woe to the king
In the thick shade:—it is the seat of woe—
The leaves drop poison on him; bid him seek
His safety in the hall of Winchester.”
And oft as I rebuke him he grows wan,
As if with fearful prophecies withheld;
His silence so appalling me I turn
And desperately ravage on his thought,
Which yielded dumbs me with its ghastliness.
His utterances keep no steady pace;
They flit and flicker as a spirit's form
Checked and recurring. Give the omen heed.

Tirel.
I've snapt my bow-string, sure our sport is crost.

Clare.
It's growing dun, and these accursèd leaves
Thicken the texture of the dark. Our path
Is broken into bog; unless we chance
Upon some peasant tramping through the gorse
To his embowerèd cot, we shall keep watch
Till season of these apparitions 'rise.

Rufus.
Tush, Gilbert; you're too often on your knees:
These taxes make men superstitious;
Extortion is unsettling to the brain.
At cost of a few harmless idiots
We'll fill our c—c—o—offers . ...
Gilbert, you are dull,
You cannot grasp my huge ambition;
In kingship I have yet my spurs to win.
What, king of England, Scotland's overlord!
Robert is penniless; I'll buy his lands
From these pinched peasants; I require more coast,
More land, more races under sovereignty.
I covet; and defy the great command
To earth's horizon: my rapacity
Knocks at the very gates of Rome itself.
I'll not be baulked.

Breteuil.
Oh, vaunt at Westminster;
But here there is miasma in the air;
'Tis not a spot for blasphemy.

Rufus.
Let's lure
Our lord archbishop down to bless the place;
And while he makes it wholesome, may the pest
Of a marsh-fever blast him!
It grows dark.
The busy twilight 's weaving bushes now,
And all we know of Malwood's vicinage
Is that the forest girds it; and the trees
[Enter Beowulf.]
Here multiply about us. In a word,
I'm hungry, gentlemen; I'd drink the health
Of this wood-genius that is dogging me
In a fair flagon.

Clare.
Yonder! Curb your mouth.
[Beowulf disappears
Did you not see a monster?

Tirel.
Hollow-eyed,
Ghostly about the temples, terrible.
[Aside.]
Heaven will send instruments to punish him,
If he thus fronts audaciously the threat
Of these dire portents. [Aloud.]
Let us to our prayers;
Hell's habitants are rousing from their sleep.

Rufus.
Our prayers? You shall say grace before we dine;
Starving, my lips shall never trudge to Heaven.
[Re-enter Beowulf.]
Let's question yonder spectre in the mist.
A burly shade!

Tirel.
He'll trap us to our death.
I'll back to horse.

Rufus.
My gallant followers!

Breteuil.
We ne'er have been aghasted on the field;
When God draws shapes upon the air, no eye
Can look upon the doomful images.

Clare.
It is a fresco from the wall of hell
To fright us to repentance.

Rufus
[approaching Beowulf].
Eyeless knave,
Look toward me with your knees; I am your king.

Tirel.
He's taller than a man; he's stalking close.

Breteuil.
Now I discern it is some blinded hind,
With treason lurking in the hollowed cells
Of his orbs' cavities. Keep watch on him.

[Standing near Beowulf with a whip.
Beowulf.
You are my king? I dare you strike at me.
You're out a-hunting?

Rufus.
I don't trap my game;
You're not for royal sport who cannot run.
Come now, mine honest yeoman, I'll forgive
That ancient treason that hath cost thy sight,
And re-instate thee in my royal love,
So thou wilt snuff the track to Malwood lodge.

Beowulf
[goes a little apart].
It must be here: your voice has lit the torch
Of the very moment; yes, it must be here,
Where earth has soaked your curses up like rain
To feed the swelling fibres of your fate.
Here have you planted your malignant sway;
Here have you taught us resignation;
Here are you absolute. [Breteuil with his whip cuts Beowulf's forehead.]
It must be here
Where your vile hand ...

Breteuil.
The king hath struck you not.
I caught my whip across the insolence
Of your audacious brow: leave prophecy
Or I will lop your lifted hand.

Rufus.
Let be:
His fearlessness assuages me; I'm used
To threats of holy men. [To Beowulf.]
Presage your worst.
[Aside.]
I have not cringed to Anselm; here's a power
I would not grapple with; it's like the town
My limbs shook at the siege of ... just a fit.
[Enter Purkis.]
Here is another, and a merrier fiend.
How now? wilt fright us?

Purkis
[to Beowulf].
You old torment, come!
What has the moon to say to you, i' faith?
Will you not home till curfew? [To Attendants.]
Used to be
A bell at the little church; they cut its tongue
At time of the great clearing; doesn't pay,
This mutilation, makes us all confused
To have to look about for eyes and hands.
One needs one's senses pat. [To Beowulf.]
Old lumber-brain,
The frogs are croaking; I must haul you home.

Rufus.
Stay! As I am a knight, my merry knave,
Your voice hath something of the lantern in 't
And promises good guidance. Jovial churl,
Your king is tangled in his forest-boughs;
Release him from his toils: direct his train
The nearest way to Malwood.

Purkis
[to Attendants].
Keep the trees
Well to the left; the lodge is on the height.
[To King.]
My liege, this is my father; he is old;
And though the dark's indifferent to his eyes,
He's open to the chill. By your good leave
I'll take him off to roost.

[Purkis retires with Beowulf.
Rufus.
My mother's soul,
He's a rare son! This filial reverence
Shall be rewarded. [To Attendants.]
Do you know this knave?

Attendants.
Purkis, the charcoal-burner.

Rufus.
Let him own
His bit of blasted ground: he's duteous.
[To Attendants.]
Convey our pleasure to the churl. I'd fear
I tell you, gentlemen, to wrong a piece
Of so sweet filial courtesy: let's on.
I've laid the spectres;—nay, that is the moon
Smiling benignant on us.

[Exeunt.