University of Virginia Library

Scene VI.

—Another part of the Forest: a Glade below Malwood. Enter the King and Walter Tirel.
Rufus.
Tirel, I am a man again; these leaves
Breathe life; the rattle of the quiver shakes
My heart to palpitation and sharp joy.
This freedom makes each throbbing art'ry bold,
And clears my blood of phantasy. I stand
The jolly hunter, with my steadfast bow,
And bosom unconfined with secret thoughts
That girdled my good spirits to this hour
And kept them tight at dinner.

Tirel.
You were sad.
But who could help rejoicing, that is lord
Of these deep forests!

Rufus.
Every inch of ground
Is mine; yon wide-set beeches, mine; the deer
All mine, my father's heritage. Like him
I love them—to the death. One comes. Soft! soft!
I'm ready—now!

[Shoots, and slightly wounds the deer.
Tirel.
It runs.

Rufus.
The light is broad;
It blinds me.

Tirel.
'Tis the setting of the sun.

Rufus.
I'll shade my eyes.—He's there!

Tirel.
See, see, my lord!
Another one!

Rufus.
Shoot, in the devil's name!

[Tirel shoots—the arrow glances from an oak, and pierces the King.
Tirel.
God save me! He is falling on the dart.
It breaks; he grasps the fragment with a groan
And pulls out death from hiding in his breast.
Christ! He hath found his doom. Wretch, wretch am I!
[Coming up to the King.]
For mercy's sake, lift up thy face! The lips
Are speechless; but there's vision in the eyes—
Their egress nearly dumb—and yet they say:
“Pain is my portion; all is lost.” I'll seize
These flow'rs and herbs; perchance the Lord above
Will hold them for a sacrament. He's gone.
Too late! He's clay, and lifeless. I could think—
He looks so stout and proof against his fall—
He'd rise again, and bend once more his bow,
Bend it to slay his murderer. I'll fly.
They'd call it murder though I did it not.
The tree, the oak, was Nimrod in this chase,
And mightily hath hunted.—I am chilled;
There is a wind as if the woods breathed free. ...
There is a terror round me and this man,
A gathering of voices through the shades,
A vengeful trooping of screened witnesses,
A judge's tension in the very air,
As it would aim a sentence 'gainst my soul.
God! I must fly. If I escape with life,
To Holy Land I'll bear my ransomed blood.—
Cold image of dead fellowship, good-bye!—
I dare not pause; so fearful is the spot.
To horse!

[Exit.
[Enter on the other side Robert Fitz-hamon and Gilbert of Laigle.]
Laigle.
Ho, ho! We shall not meet this eve.
There's Friar's lantern unseen in the wood,
Or we should never wander thus like fools.
The sun is down; dew falls and shadows grow.

Fitz-hamon.
What's that—yon heap with glitter on the grass?
Some hunter sorely hurt.—Alas!—the king!
And dead as what he lies on. Ah, too true
The visions swelled around the banks of sleep;
He would not see the warning. Now he lies
In dreamless slumbers that will never wake
Till every night is done.

Laigle.
Alas! alas!
His hands were full of gifts.
[Enter William of Breteuil and Gilbert of Clare.]
Look here and see
Our fortune dead!

Clare.
The king!

Breteuil.
Lift up his bulk.

Fitz-hamon.
Too late. The dart hath scattered all his breath,
And we are ruined.

Breteuil.
Let us to our holds
And gather booty in!

Clare.
Whose deed is this?

Fitz-hamon.
Some churl's offence.

Laigle.
'Twas Tirel rode with him.

Breteuil.
Tirel I saw at gallop even now,
As if the fiend were hindmost.

Clare.
Curse the fool!
We'll follow to revenge this regicide.
Off, off, and after!

[Exeunt Clare and Laigle.
Breteuil.
Nobles of the land,
This is a pause of moment in affairs.
You all declare for Robert. I'll away
And seize the hoard at Winchester.

[Exit.
[Enter the Ætheling Henry.]
Ætheling Henry.
Well met.
I've had my bow-string mended where a dame,
As brown as Earth, was full of prophecy—
Jove! What is this?

Fitz-hamon.
Your royal brother dead.

Ætheling Henry.
Who knows?

Fitz-hamon.
Some three. De Breteuil's on his way
To Winchester.

Ætheling Henry.
I am your king—He's gone.
[Fitz-hamon rides off.
The king that is, left with the king that was,
Both the crowned fruit of one imperial womb.
William, I'll be a wiser prince than thou,
And yet as proud.—My coming fate must have
The heels of Atalanta.—English oaks,
Farewell; ye've crowned the Ætheling. Now I'll race
To Winchester, where all the gold is bright.

[Exit.
[Enter Purkis and Beowulf.]
Purkis.
A sunny eve. I'll prop you 'neath this trunk
You know the girth of, while I gather clods
For the oven.—How his face works! Does he smell
The hunters here about? There is no sound.

[At a little distance he perceives the body of Rufus.
Beowulf.
What do you stand so still for?

Purkis.
Farther off!
[Kneeling before Rufus, and speaking low.]
The very crown of England in the dust;
Those royal eyes sunk in the savageness
Of death! My king—what, no retainer here?
They say thy father lay upon the floor:—
That was in Normandy. We Englishmen
Have awe. Well, well,—a freeman and no churl
Shall bear you to your burial. All soaked
With blood—the very Earth! A majesty
Is on him, and my heart's allegiance
Is his. 'Tis pity that he broke with God.
Such quarrels have one ending. I will kneel,
And humbly as the meekest chamberlain
Put thee to rest, and kiss and fold thy hands
Cross-wise,—the posture's good for judgment-morn,
It turns the Lord's eye off to Calvary
To come back moist with mercy.—How to lift?
Dad can't assist.

Beowulf.
I will have charge of him;
Give him to me. It was the oak that struck;
He wounded it; it gathered up the wrongs
Of generations in its storied pile,
And for the people hath poured out revenge.
The Earth shall leper him; each trampled blade
Of grass shall bear a drop of blood for dew;
Nature shall part the spoil; the gallows fowl
Must not be left unsummoned, the maimed dogs
Must mutilate the quarry.

Purkis.
Father, hush!
Satan has hold of you; you would not curse
A murdered man. I'll fetch the cart to bear
His bones to Winchester; he must be laid
'Mid the old royal tombs.

Beowulf.
Is he not damned?

Purkis.
We are poor folk, and he has rated us.
God 's king; He'll have a fellow-feeling like;
No vengeance in His heart. Leave Him to judge.

Beowulf.
Yea, bear him through the woods like a gashed boar,
Present him dripping to your angry God;
He may not be implacable. In haste
Cloak the foul thing beneath the minster tow'r;
Heap soil on him; choke your rememberance
Of his unnat'ral crime; establish him
In the untaxed dominion of a grave;—
Earth will unhouse him from his tenement;
He shall be dispossessed. The crumbling tow'r
Shall spread in ruins over him: his vault
Shall crack her walls, and open up her roof
To let foul, rushing weather on the clay
That shall rot down with refuse and be lost,
The land-mark broken down, the boundary
And guarding hallowed precinct of a tomb.

Purkis
[aside].
La! he is terrible. I cannot doubt
He's some great advocate to press his wrongs.
It's odd now I should tremble to entrust
A dead man to the keeping of a blind.
Great king, you're in the clutch of Destiny!
Death looks a strong-ceiled house; ah me! I fear
It is a sorry sanctuary from sin.
There's much remains. Some hoary influence
Sits at the chimney-corner of our lives,
Holding a rightful end in store for all.
There's little we can alter. All the same
It's simple we must give him burial.
I'll fetch the cart with Wilfrith.

[Exit.
Beowulf
[carefully feeling the corpse].
There are worms
About his darkness. I am satisfied.
[Leaving the body, he props himself against the oak.
Earth, Earth, O Earth! the tyrant is struck down.
Thou drew'st the arrow from Fate's sluggish hand;
Thou sped'st it mortally. Though thy blind sons
Dishonour thee, seeking the younger love
Of Country, swayed by her caprice, to strive
For law or liberty, while thou art bond,
Far off thou hearest Freedom's yeanling cry,
Orphaned, necessitous; thy motherhood,
O Earth, is prophecy! Thou wilt prevail.