University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene.—The same. Night. A Storm raging. Sigurd discovered alone.
Sig.
Forsworn, forsworn! within an hour, forsworn!
Unless the spiteful pilot of the world,
Who laughs to see men sorry, should bethink him
Of that same silken-favoured Norman there,
As a fair freight worth wrecking in its prime,
And blasting into everlasting waste,
Just when it promises best. Why, when I die,
I needs must have some share i' the government
Of mortal business, for it goes almost
As cross as I would rule it.
Enter Rolf.
Well, what news?
What does your master? Does he know the hour?

Rolf.
He sits and watches time as it goes by;
And ever as the last sands leave the glass,
And mark another footprint on the day,
He moves his lips and mutters to himself
Something I cannot hear.

Sig.
He has been thus
All the day long?

Rolf.
All the long night and day,
Since he beheld Thordisa, has he sate
Locked in his turret, all access denied,
Save to me only; and on me he looks
As upon nothing—sees me, knows me not.

Sig.
Has he not spoken?

Rolf.
No; though once or twice
I thought he named Thordisa.

Sig.
Let her come
And look upon her work. Now, but for her,
Last night had ended all; but since she came,
And cast the icy shadow of her presence
Upon the face of the sun, I might as well
Move yon dull rock to strike the insolent waves
That chatter at its base, as wake in him
The spirit of his fathers. Ay, howl on!
Nature herself is up in arms to-night,
In censure of our paltering, and the Spirit
Of Death rides forth upon the wings o' the storm
To claim the craven who invoked him here,
And dares not stand the challenge.

Rolf.
What a flash!
Methought it showed me that white form again,
Waiting for Harold. What a slave was I
To stay his hand! I should have armed it here
In triple steel against the Norman stranger,
Who were more fit to die to spare an ache
To Harold's finger, than my lord to fall
For all the blood that waters Normandy!
There may be time—

Sig.
Too late! The spell is on him,
Which none may loose but the fell witch that wove it.
Send his Thordisa here.

Enter Thordisa.
Tho.
Who speaks of me?
Lord Harold's evil spirit?

Sig.
Oh, fair creature,
I would not claim precedence of yourself;
But 'tis no time to bandy courtesies.
Do you love Harold?

Tho.
If you love him, no.

Sig.
Say that I love him not, then. Only think
That every storm-driven minute, as it goes,
Is heavy with his life, and bid him hasten
To keep the oath he swore.

Tho.
Bid Harold come,
If my poor name has yet the charm to draw him
To a brief converse. Do not answer. Go!

[Exit Rolf.
Sig.
His life is in your hands; oh, think of that!
A word from you will steel the nerveless heart—
A look from you will fire the frozen spirit.
Could I but rob you of the power you own
To move him to your wishes, I would kill you
Here where you stand, in your pale saintliness,
And think the deed well done.

Tho.
I ask no better:
It is not good to live.

Sig.
'Tis ill to die.

Tho.
Yes; to die ill is ill; but to die well
Is better than the best.

Sig.
Tell Hugo that;
And do not rob him of so great a boon.
For me, I am not enough in love with death,
To court it for myself, or for my boy.
What will you say to him?

Tho.
Leave that to me.

Sig.
I cannot read the purpose of your heart
In that cold eye of yours. But mark me, woman!
If that harm comes to Harold, you shall rue it,
For I will kill you.

Tho.
Pagan! to your knees!
And pray the Heaven, whose stern arrest you dread,
To strike at others, but to spare you yet
For late remorse—repentance—sorrow—shame!
Talk you of killing—you, whose every word
Might kill the one immortal part in you,
But that it is immortal, which should make
Even of that crooked form a thing more fair
Than the dead glories of the universe?
Thou, that hast lived for evil from thy birth,
Thou, that in very wantonness of ill
Hast laid this bitter sin on Harold's soul,
On Harold's whom thou lovest! lovest—thou!
Thou, that hast perjured him, and widowed me;
Thou, that hast blighted man, and outraged God,
Look on the ruin round thee—'tis thy work!

Enter Harold.
Sig.
Harold!

Har.
Go in; this is no place for you,
For where she is is Heaven; go forth from it.
[Sigurd shrinks off.
You sent for me?

Tho.
Yes.

Har.
Why?

Tho.
To look on you,
And bid you look on me. Are you afraid?
Is this the Harold whom I knew erewhile?
Oh, no; for he was weak, perchance, and yielding,
But he was fearless. In his eyes there shone
A light that made a halo where he went,
And stamped him noble in his own despite.
Where is that lustre now? And where is he?
This Harold is not Harold.

Har.
If you will,
Stab me with sharp reproaches; on my head
Pour all the words of love I spoke to you,
Transmuted into gall; and let thine eyes,
Changed more than mine, flash anger back on me,
Which once had gathered all the light of love
Into their magic circle. Do all this,
But do not stand thus cold and passionless,
As is the marble to the craftsman's hand,
When he has lost his cunning, and no more
Can fashion life out of the sleeping stone!

Tho.
Artist, you wrong yourself! Good sooth, you do!
I am not marble, but poor common earth,
That served as matter for your 'prentice hand
To mould in plastic shapes, then throw away
For work more worthy. Oh, your cunning, sir,
Has grown with practice, and your latest model
Has been more deftly carved of fairer stuff.
She sent me to you.

Har.
Who?

Tho.
Have you forgotten
Her name so soon? She is called Isabelle,
And asks you for her husband.

Har.
You know all?
That I am bound within this hour to kill him,
Or pay the forfeit with my life?

Tho.
I know.

Har.
And you would have me—

Tho.
Pay it!

Har.
And be perjured!

Tho.
Is perjury to you so hard a thing?

Har.
And is my death so slight a thing to thee?

Tho.
Lighter than such dishonour. Oh, this deed
Would top dishonour, and would underwrite
My griefs against thee with so black a charge,
That Mercy's self must scorn to plead for thee
Before the bar of Justice. Not for me,
That have no longer right or part in you,
But for your soul's sake, stay your hand to-night,
And let the Norman go.

Har.
I had no soul,
Save that thou lentest me. I'll not stay my hand
For such a scruple. Ask for thine own sake
All that thou wilt. I'll do or leave undone
Anything, everything—so thou wilt plead
As thou wert wont to do.

Tho.
Oh, shame upon you!
Do you not hear the wrath of God cry out
Upon your sacrilege? Do you not see
God's eye dart forth the flame to burn you up,
Where self-attainted in his sight you stand?
I will not plead with you as was my wont,
Lest, as your wont was, you should lie to me!
But I will beg the name of Isabelle;
And, being Isabelle, to whom you swore,
But yesterday, a truth beyond the grave,
I say to you, be true but for an hour,
And give me back my husband!

Har.
And I answer,
I will not. If I love you, Isabelle,—
You, Isabelle, loving me—what offering
Can do such grace to us and to our love,
As this your husband's blood? What blow can rivet
Closer the links of our unhallowed chain,
Than that which strikes him down?

Tho.
She loves you not,
Vain-glorious boy! Think you all women are
As weak as I, as easily wooed and won?
With ear so ill-attuned to the rich ring
Of sterling metal, as to take the dross
For the pure ore, the burnished lead for gold,
The churl for the knight, the lackey for the lord?
She loves you not, I say! She played with you,
As, had I courtly breeding, I had played,
Poor puppet in her strings of fairy silk!
And as thy sin, so is thy punishment!

Har.
Was that her message? Give her mine again.
Tell her, my love was counterfeit as hers,
Tell her, my passion grew but of my pain,
And that one sin gave monstrous birth to another,
Worse than itself! I read but in her eyes
The record of mine oath, that oath which damned me
Past all redemption of thy love and thee!
She was the phantom of thy beauty, dear!
I sought in her forgetfulness of thee,
But still thy shadow overshadowed all
Her ripe reality, and made the substance
Seem but the seeming; when I pressed her hardest
With my hot words, it was thy breath that fired them,
Even with the shame it ever cried on me!
Tell her I love her not! Tell her I ask
Her pity and her pardon! Tell her I have
One love—one life—one hope—one saviour—
All called Thordisa. Do not turn away!
What's Hugo now to us? or Isabelle?
Come back to me, come back; I love you so,
That I must wipe my sins out with that love,
Had they ten times their burden. Answer me!

Tho.
What can I answer?

Har.
Kiss me!

Tho.
Never, never!
What, are you tired of the new toy already,
And would have back the old? Too late, my lord!
Not all the encircling air shall breathe again
Into the frozen ashes one brief spark;
Or, if it seem to do so, it shall be
Like will-o'-the-wisp upon a barren moor,
To lure you to your death!

Har.
Your words are cruel;
I do not know Thordisa.

Tho.
I myself
Now know myself no longer. Oh, the sin,
To change a nature that was soft and kind,
To such a thing as thou hast made of me!

Har.
Thordisa, listen!

Tho.
No; between us two
The words of that troth-plight are as a bar
Words cannot overleap. Let Hugo go!
And in His sovereign mercy may the Lord,
Whose face thy guilt has covered, hold His hand,
And spare you to repent. Ay, and me, too;
For I had all forgot Him in my wrongs,
And He is angry (muttered thunder).
Do you hear Him? Hark!
It is our sentence.

Har.
Let me meet it, then,
As a man should. The ways of Him you pray to
Are dark to such as I, and I am lost
In their strange mazes. If, forsworn to thee,
I must for thee forswear myself again,
Why, I will do it! What you ask of me
Is Hugo's life, and what you ask I give,
Come what come may; but if I fall for him,
First he shall know the truth, and on his sword
I'll pay the forfeit of my broken vow,
And blot dishonour out! Hugo!

Enter Sigurd.
Sig.
Too late!
Some juggling devil has been here at work.
Hugo has fled.

Har.
Fled?

Sig.
How or where I know not.
But he has gone: and even now the hour
Draws to its fatal ending. Who has been
Hell's messenger to him? Who warned him?

Tho.
I!

Sig.
The Christian witch again! nay, then all's lost!

Tho.
All's won, all's gained, if Heaven but gain a soul!
I dared not hope that my weak voice could win
The boon I asked for. For your sake, not his,
I wrestled for his life; for with the morning
He left the castle. He and Isbelle
Are far away ere this.

Har.
I am dishonoured,
And you have done it. Are we even now?

Sig.
We will be, traitress. (To Harold).
Now you know the worth
Of her that has ensnared you. Gone, those two,
To make a sport of the northern savages
Among their courtly minions.

Har.
Gone!

Enter Hugo.
Hugo.
Not yet.

Har.
Ah!

Sig.
(to Harold).
There is time; kill him!

Tho.
Oh, God, have mercy!

[Hugo and Harold face each other with drawn swords.
Hugo.
I have learned all, young sir, from Isabelle.
I will not call you knight; for in my country
The man who thus, under his own roof-tree,
Plots 'gainst the life and honour of his guest,
And masks the face of murder and of lust
With the fair-seeming smile of fellowship,
If such a thing could live, must strike the spurs
With his own base hand from his serpent heel,
Ere dare to wear them! Oh, that one so young
Should be so old a villain! Think you, sir,
That I would leave this coast infested thus,
Nor strive to rid it, first, of such as thou!
Defend yourself.

Tho.
Oh, spare him!

Hugo.
Gentle lady,
I saw you not. If you will go with us,
My Isabelle shall tend you as a sister,
For your kind service.

Tho.
For that service, spare him!

Hugo.
You are too true a woman not to know
A true man's sacred duty. For my wife
And for my honour. Leave us, I entreat.

Sig.
(to Thordisa).
Stand by, and watch the issue of your love.

Tho.
What have I done? Where are you, Isabelle?

[Exit.
Sig.
(aside).
Now then, my trusty counsellor!

[Half drawing his sword.
Hugo.
To your guard.

Har.
I will not fight with you.

Hugo.
What?

Har.
You have spoken
The truth, and less. Yes, I have been most base;
Base and unknightly. Yes, I swore to kill you,
And would have done it. Yes, I would have made
Your wife my mistress. But all this is nothing
In my great sum of sin; for from my brow
I plucked the brightest jewel of the earth
And trod it in the mire. Thordisa's love
I had, and lost. Look on my sword, Sir Hugo;
As keen and shining was my honour once,
As smooth and fair my fortune, till one day
I broke them—thus. (Breaking his sword).
Kill me; it is your right.

[He folds his arms across his eyes.
Sig.
Ay, and his duty! Use it, Norman, do;
And let thy hand do justice for us all
On this degenerate puny stripling here,
Who shames all manhood. These be your new creeds,
That teach a man to write himself a cur.
I'll none of them, or you, but I will go
And rail my tongue out 'gainst a world that rears
Nothing but mongrels. I have cared for you,
That do not even care to curse at me
For bringing you to this. Well, peace be with you!
A Christian peace! and may all pagan plagues
Be doubled in that word. Die, fool, and rot!

[Exit.
Har.
You see me as I am, a butt for all,
Good men and knaves, to shoot at; and already,
If words could kill the body, as they kill
The heart beyond all surgery, should I lie
Mere carrion at your foot. Why do you wait?

Hugo.
I am no executioner, Sir Harold,
Nor you the thing I thought you. On your face
I read an open record fairly writ,
That doth belie your fault. May Heaven forbid
That I should mar its blazon! Boy, you sinned
But in the thought; and standing self-condemned,
You stand to me acquit. Young brother-in-arms,
I do absolve you freely. Fail no more!

Har.
Come these words from your heart?

Hugo.
'Tis in my hand,
Take it.

Har.
Ay; with my lips, and on my knee.

[Kneeling.
Enter Thordisa and Isabelle.
Tho.
Come with me, come! Oh, lend me strength to plead;
Lend me thy winning tongue, thy fairy grace,
Thy mellow wiles, the blush that burns betimes,
To light up worship. Come! I am so weak
That thought myself so strong in scorn of him,
That I would rather see him in your arms
Than at your husband's foot.

Isa.
(smiling).
Yet he is there.

Hugo.
Rise, Harold. Here is she to whom your knees
Owe all their fealty.

Tho.
(drawing back).
Safe!

Hugo.
Come, Isabelle.
(To Tho.)
Forgive him, lady, he is worth forgiveness.

Har.
(to Isabelle).
First give me yours, fair Norman, and farewell;
If you should think of me when you are gone,
Be it as of one who died when he was young,
And had not learned to live.

Isa.
I will think of you
As of a wayward but a noble heart,
Kept in such keeping, that its fitful pulse
Beats with a steadier music day by day,
Till age steal gently o'er its harmonies,
And lull them to repose more musical
Than the best concords of a jarring world.
Adieu, Sir Pagan! As I think, you know
The trick of lovers' vows, forget it not!
You are forgiven. Sister, fare you well!

[Exeunt Hugo and Isabelle.
Tho.
Farewell! I know not how all this may end;
But as from you black storm-cloud breaks the sky,
So hope shines through thy sin. The tempest's fury
Is well-nigh spent.

Har.
There are more clouds behind:
And even their latest message teems with fires
That carry death. Look! It is dark again,
But through their rift the moon showed at the full,
And the bell treads upon the stroke of one.
My hour is come, Thordisa. I have broken
That oath for thee, and I did well to break it.
But turn thy face in kindness upon mine,
For I shall never see it any more.

Tho.
It cannot be!

Har.
I know it.

Tho.
Dreams! And yet
What change is on thy face! Some unseen hand
Writes on its page in fearful characters
Something I cannot read. Come closer to me.

Har.
The unknown language of the land unknown.
I soon shall hear it spoken. Hark! In the air
I hear it now.

Tho.
It is the dying storm!

Har.
That shall not die alone. Thordisa, listen,
There is so little time. I give my life
To please you—that is nothing. Where I go to
You say you know—I do not—but it must be
Where I shall be a stranger. Let me take
Some gentle record of the place which knew me,
To bear me company where I am not known,
Or I shall feel so lonely.

Tho.
Hush! oh, hush!

Har.
Ay, soon I shall! Tell me—when I am gone
Into that country, and the trackless hills,
Which are its nearest confines, have shut out
Earth's real sounds for ever, shall I not
Hear for awhile the echo of my life
Roll back across them, in the words that last
Fell on my living ear?

Tho.
Harold!

Har.
Oh, yes!
That is the sound that I would take with me!
I have not heard it for so long—so long!
All has been bitter here! Say that again,
Say just my name! I dare not ask for more!

Tho.
But you shall have it! You shall have it all
That heart can fashion or words imitate,
For I adore you! I forgive you—no—
I know that I have nothing to forgive—
Nothing! It was not you that played me false!
It was not you that broke your troth to me!
It was your evil angel, who had drugged
Your own true self to sleep, and breathed that oath
Which, like the sudden blast upon the grain,
Blighted the promise of our harvest time!
And as it was not you, so shall not you
Die for the forfeit.

Har.
Love! But now I can.

Tho.
You will not be so cruel; do not leave me
Just when I find you. No, you cannot die,
Shielded by such a death-proof love as mine!

The bell strikes one, and the White Pilgrim appears. Both pause, chilled and horror-stricken. The Pilgrim advances.
Har.
(dazed).
I do not know that form.

Tho.
Ah, God, I do!

Har.
(facing the Pilgrim, who has come down between them. Thordisa has fallen back.)
Yes, it is coming. I am not afraid.
Why, this is sleep—no worse. Who art thou, then?
What is thy message?

Pil.
To the restless—rest!

[Unveils to Harold, who sinks at her feet. Thordisa springs forward as the veil closes again.
Tho.
Harold!

Har.
Why, Death is not so hard as Life.
'Tis better so, belovèd, better so!

[Dies.
Tho.
Oh, not alone! Dear Spirit, look on me!
I know my heart is breaking—is it not?
For if it were not, it were worse than stone.
I must go hence; I will not stay behind!
Sweet Spirit, let me not! Unite us now
In the one union we may ever know—
We that so loved each other! Oh, draw back
The envious curtain that enfolds you both,
And let me see the face behind the veil!
(Triumphantly).
My heart is broken!

Pil.
(unveiling to Thordisa).
Like a tired child!

[Thordisa sinks down by Harold's side.
Tho.
[Dies.

The figure of the Pilgrim disappears. Enter Sigurd, Leofric, Frioth, Rolf, Gerda, and others with torches, who rush up to the figures, then stand awe-struck and silent. Gerda in Rolf's arms. The music breaks out from the Chapel in the hymn which closed the Second Act:
Death here is Lord of all!
Spread we the funeral pall,
Hoping, not sighing!
In the far land where rest
Those whom God loves the best
There is no dying.

Curtain.