University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Hall of the Castle.
Count Albert and Rudestein.
COUNT.
The lamps are burning; 'tis not midnight yet.

RUDESTEIN.
Whether or no, we are the last awake.

COUNT.
Thy chamber is too sultry, thou too choleric:
Walk here awhile and cool.

RUDESTEIN.
I care not where.
With larger room the devil may ease our elbows.
We packed too close before.

COUNT.
His hap was hardest:
It scarce could be his choice.

RUDESTEIN.
This is not skill,
Nor luck, nor drink!

COUNT.
May he account for it?

RUDESTEIN.
He hath his partialities, no doubt;
Nor fails to help his favorites—still the preference
Were gross between your highness and myself.
A hundred crowns!

COUNT.
'Twere better ponder first
The time to pay these debts, than how we made them.
Nor I nor he can rightly guess at that.

RUDESTEIN.
I do abhor all mysteries!

COUNT.
Nevertheless
This payment is a great one.—So then ignorance
Has marred thy better fortune?

RUDESTEIN.
I did not gain
My learning from the conjuror, great or small;
Nor how to shift the dice. A hundred crowns
Escape me every night!

COUNT.
Canst tell me whither?
Not one of them has passed this way—the first
Should come to me.

RUDESTEIN.
Two thousand crowns in debt!
What needs this everlasting prate of payment?
Hast not mine obligation for so much?
Let that suffice.

COUNT.
'Tis lean sufficiency;
And yet, I fear it must.

RUDESTEIN.
Vouchers, what not!
Indentures clerkly penned! on front and back
Both seal and signature!

COUNT.
Wouldst spare thy wax?
Then bring the crowns instead. I should be pleased
With liquidation better than the bonds.

RUDESTEIN.
Dost doubt mine honor, Count?

COUNT.
No whit beyond
Thy means and will—they all are much alike.

RUDESTEIN.
Speak out! no mysteries!—ay or no, at once?

COUNT.
I do not doubt if thou be drunk or sober.
But first this honor singly:—let us say
Some creditor should seem incredulous—
How then?

RUDESTEIN.
He might receive of neither kind—
Nor gold nor pledge—and yet not lack his payment.

COUNT.
Why thou preposterous puttoc! what dost blink at?
Canst not distinguish me from Screitch?—thine honor!
With left hand gently tapped against its hilt—
That ancient household scowl, and eye askance,
Grinning like Roland in the needlework!
Hast lost both wits and money?—nay, not money—
Not gold, but obligations!

RUDESTEIN.
Ay.

COUNT.
Wouldst hear
How is it that I win them?

RUDESTEIN.
Prithee say.
The secret had been better worth my care
A month ago; but still—this sleight—how is it?
How dost thou change the balls?

COUNT.
Dost doubt my honor?
'Twere better make this devil thy better friend,
Or spare to tell me so.

RUDESTEIN.
He has his choice.
I fear no mysteries! plucked and trussed by one,
Then roasted by the other!

COUNT.
We should find
The bird at last but little worth our pains:
A sort of bastard hawk—half owl, half cuckoo.
Get hence to roost! I will not lose my time
Preparing scarecrows for some garden's gallows.
Go, sleep this bravery off!

RUDESTEIN.
Were the dice honest?
First tell me what was promised me.

COUNT.
To-morrow:
Let us not quarrel here. Thou wilt sleep sounder
Without a bloody napkin at thy flank.
What mountebank has missed his fool—that risks
More than he ever had, in hopes to win
More than he ever will have—so is angry?
Bah! get to bed.

RUDESTEIN.
Give me this secret first.

COUNT.
Lose all thou hast, the reckoning is but short:
Thy two alternate suits, one on, one off—
A borrowed horse at pawn—a serving man,
Paid, fed, and liveried at the Baron's charge—
Three bows, some shafts, an ill-spliced fishing-rod—
And that hereditary sword to tap at!
Thus armed against misfortune, why shouldst fear her?

RUDESTEIN.
I fear no fortune, Count, but trust elsewhere!
The sword is mine at least—wouldst see it naked? (Draws.)

No shifts, no mysteries—daylight suits me best,
But pull its fellow from thy side—out with it!
Try which is pointed sharpest.

COUNT.
Thou wouldst swear
The devil was on my part again—seeing double—
Two swords for one.

RUDESTEIN.
I care not if I do,
Unless the second were the abler soldier.

COUNT.
Wait till to-morrow come.

RUDESTEIN.
I thought so! wait!
To-morrow's reservations may discern
'Twixt Counts and gentlemen. I would at once
Discharge these bonds, and set my vouchers free:
But no—'twere better wait, and fight to-morrow!
Come, try a fairer game, and look about thee!

COUNT.
My luck is quite as good as this—at least
It used to be.

(They fight. Rudestein is disarmed as Weilenberg and Servants enter.)
WEILENBERG.
Rudestein, stand off—get back!—
What drunken brawls are these?—begone I say!
Give me his sword, Count Albert.

COUNT.
Willingly.
It is a drunkard's brawl—but I, being sober,
Have striven to keep the peace. His sword was out,
And mine, preventing mischief, took it from him.

RUDESTEIN.
Lend it an hour to-morrow?

COUNT.
Ay, a month.

RUDESTEIN.
His father slew mine uncle!

WEILENBERG.
What of that?

COUNT.
Who told thee so?

RUDESTEIN.
It was my kinsman here.
Our blood lies on the ground—but what of that?
Why, faith, not much—nor less to him than me.
I had forgotten it—he remembers better.
But what of that? It is a mystery!
We will make plain to-morrow what it is.

WEILENBERG.
The clearance must begin with me.

RUDESTEIN.
With both—
The devil to boot! Let me stand steadily—
Daylight and eyesight! What care I for uncles?
'Twas he reminded me.

WEILENBERG.
Get hence to bed!
Take him away.

RUDESTEIN.
Our blood lies on the ground!
But what of that?

(Servants force Rudestein out.)
WEILENBERG.
Such pastimes, Count, are perilous,
And ill adjusted to the hour.

COUNT.
They are so:
But he, not I, preferred them—nor had either
Much space for choice.

WEILENBERG.
This is, in part, my fault—
And yet I scarce know it how is. Forgive
If nearer cares have spoilt us here as hosts.
Your highness sees our strait.

COUNT.
I do, and blush
To find my present haste my best excuse
That, needing one so long, the time is lost
In which to choose a better.

WEILENBERG.
Let us wait
Till happier hours shall make my shame the less,
For grace so ill requited and deserved—
When grief and dread have left us all.

COUNT.
To-night?
Will the gates let me out?

WEILENBERG.
To-morrow they will.

COUNT.
Forgetful as I was, and wished to be,
There scarce required so hot a summoner
As this contentious kinsman with his sword.

WEILENBERG.
By him I sent no summons.

COUNT.
Then he was
Precipitate as studious how to please;
Gleaning the sheaf of sense from straws dispersed;
Made apt by hints—Something he said just now
Of blood between our houses.

WEILENBERG.
Well—what then?

COUNT.
Ay, truly; what of that?—words dropped by chance—
No matter what! Being drunk, the babbler spilt
This new suggestion of his uncle's death.
He let good counsel leak.

WEILENBERG.
He did not drink
With me to-day, nor will I halve his quarrel.

COUNT.
You watched its issue near at hand, my lord:
You and your servants might have interposed
A step too late, had I been a loser in it.
But what of that?

WEILENBERG.
You credit what you speak?
Or is it said in haste, Count?

COUNT.
I believe
That such close watchers watched expectingly.
What did they hide for else?

WEILENBERG.
I have been rash:
Shame on mine age, I may be so again.
But now my blood is cool enough. You have
No present power to quicken it.

COUNT.
He lied—
This kinsman lied, then? If he did, it was
Before your face. He spoke of blood between us:
The morning's lesson was not taught for mirth.
Who chid his ill remembrance?

WEILENBERG.
I did, sir.
He is my kinsman—often to my hurt:
Most men have one, at least, for whom they blush.
He talked to-day in honour of your grace—
Would make us kin—supposed alliances.
I spurned at trash like this; but not that peace
Resumes its trust.

COUNT.
As shame is young and bashful,
It should have blushed to hide amongst these knaves,
And harken how a drunkard's task might speed.

WEILENBERG.
Count, for myself, at all times else but this,
I shall not lack an answer when I need one.

COUNT.
Take time to find a better—this is naught.

WEILENBERG.
My servants love their mistress, nor would break
The sleep which wakes, at most, but once again.
Their silence was not taught them: what they feared,
Was what they harkened for. Nor they nor I
Expected brawls to-night.—Who waits? bring lights:
Ulrick; tread softly! bear them with his highness.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Chamber.
Screitch and Barbara.
BARBARA.
Who stepped between the quarrellers first?

SCREITCH.
Not I.
It is a foolish thing to mix with quarrels—
Wait ever till they end. The time for peace
Is after strife, when men will honour reason.
But while the swords are out, the ears are heedless;
I never meddle then.

BARBARA.
Methinks thou art
Less apt for war than council, Screitch—being agèd.

SCREITCH.
Believe me, no.

BARBARA.
Indeed?

SCREITCH.
I thought to fight
A great deal once.

BARBARA.
Didst think of fighting much,
Or much of fighting? He who thinks so greatly
Before he fights, may fight at last but little.
Whom didst thou quarrel with, and what about?

SCREITCH.
With Rudestein, and about thyself.

BARBARA.
Alas!
But wherefore didst not fight him, then?

SCREITCH.
Because
I thought that strife might yield thee no great praise—
And me still less. It argues pride—pride, folly.

BARBARA.
Well—this is wise!

SCREITCH.
The wise leave well alone.

BARBARA.
Perfect on both sides, bearing and forbearing!
I would not have thee fight.

SCREITCH.
Lest he should slay me?

BARBARA.
Fie! any fools may fight with swords who wear them.
But why should wisdom cast her harness off,
Weapons of proof and ancient mastery—
Or bare the reverend crown to blows?

SCREITCH.
So far
This Rudestein's brains are safe enough, beyond
The chance of lessening. Why does Barbara yield
Her company to the sot?

BARBARA.
Didst not conspire so?
To bridle lips which else might bruit abroad
The love I bear thee?

SCREITCH.
Dost thou love me, Bab?

BARBARA.
Not I.

SCREITCH.
Ah, ah!

BARBARA.
Well, was it not agreed?

SCREITCH.
It was—but look, thy mistress leaves at last.
In this I make my comfort. Bab, henceforth,
Lives free to love and wedlock.

BARBARA.
I lose my mistress!

SCREITCH.
Thou shalt gain patience by mine aid: we two
Will read what Rusmundanus lately left us,
Myself interpreting the tongue.

BARBARA.
On patience?
'Twere better after marriage, when we need it.
Teach Rudestein patience, too, for charity:
He will lose all.

SCREITCH.
I yield the crowns he hath—
And horse; but lend no more.

BARBARA.
He may not ask;
Else were it good to grant them him.

SCREITCH.
Why so?

BARBARA.
To prove whose state is happiest, wealthiest, wisest,
Thine own, or his. To justify my choice.

SCREITCH.
The debt grows great, as love and reverence lessen.
At first, his suit was urged with modesty.
Himself he likened, then, to Philip's son—
Me to the Stagyrite.

BARBARA.
He owns thee wiser.

SCREITCH.
I mean to prove his judgment right in this,
And lend no more.

BARBARA.
Thus is advantage maimed!
So must I suffer both ways!

SCREITCH.
How?

BARBARA.
There be
Dues pertinent to wedlock—Hymen's offerings—
Rings, ear-rings, bracelets, buckles, stomachers,
With chains of gold, and mantles made of fur.
All these do suitors tender on their knees,
And we, the sought, receive in gentleness.
Thou, pressed by graver cares, art slack and slow;
Rudestein, meanwhile, is poor withal. Through him
Who hunts thy venison for thee, toil is spared.
Do thou provide fit instruments for the chase,
And send him duly furnished—else I look
Direct to thee.

SCREITCH.
Well, do so. I will bring thee
Gifts far beyond the worth of purest gold—
Wisdom, good sooth, which is a crown of glory,
And meekness for a chain about thy neck;
Chaste thoughts shall be thy stomacher, and love
Thy mantle lined with fur! Come, kiss me, Barbara.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Anti-room to the Chamber of the Baroness.
Ellen and Ursula.
URSULA.
Barbara is stirring; so is Screitch—but he
Is swift beyond my speed: his wisdom soars
Past hope of following.

ELLEN.
Were they swords we heard?

URSULA.
Have they disturbed my lady?

ELLEN.
No—not much:
She stirred, but sleeps again. I pray thee, Ursula,
Whence came those cries?

URSULA.
A drunken battle fought
By two main friends when sober.

ELLEN.
Drunk to-night?

URSULA.
Ay, Rudestein every night: Count Albert's brains
Are not so thin as his by half.

ELLEN.
The Count?

URSULA.
Trust me thus far—that face of thine has lost
More blood than both the combatants. Cheer up!
'Twas pale enough before. Alas, poor bird!
I fright thee, flutterer! These have done no harm.
Speak now, what ails thee?

ELLEN.
Was my father there?

URSULA.
He was, they say; but all are now dispersed.
My lady stirred, but did not wake? Such sleep,
A month ago, had saved her!

ELLEN.
Quarrel to-night!

URSULA.
Behold their reverence for the house of death!

ELLEN.
My mother's face is darker than it was?

URSULA.
It is the lamp which changes. Let me watch.

ELLEN.
I cannot sleep again.

URSULA.
Hast slept at all?

ELLEN.
Till these tongues woke me—like a careless nurse,
I slept and dreamed.

URSULA.
What didst thou dream about?

ELLEN.
Of what my mother told me—of my brothers.
Hast ever thought on death as near thee, Ursula?
I never did till now.

URSULA.
He is not near thee.

ELLEN.
But should we fear believing that he is?

URSULA.
A footstep!—hark, child!

(Enter Weilenberg.)
WEILENBERG.
Does thy mistress sleep?

URSULA.
She has slept well till now, my lord.

ELLEN.
Look in.

[Exit Ursula.
WEILENBERG.
I woke her, then?

ELLEN.
She stirred awhile ago.

WEILENBERG.
Is she in bed?

ELLEN.
She will not rest in bed.
The couch is easier, and it may be moved.
Such changes give her ease.

URSULA
re-enters.
She is awake,
And asks to see your lordship.

[Exit Weilenberg.
ELLEN.
He looks faint.
Would God my mother's peace might reach to him!

URSULA.
Men want humility, so suffer more.
The pride which wars with nature may prevail;
But she, though conquered, will not lack revenge.
His daughter hath a share of it.

ELLEN.
Of pride?—
The saints forbid!

URSULA.
Some tears would do her good.
Would she not rather that their hindrance choked her,
Than spend them on this Count?

ELLEN.
Ay, would she, Ursula.
If every drop retained were fire, she would.
Tears for a mother dying—and for him!
Cruel to mock me now!

(Enter Barbara.)
URSULA.
Barbara, awake!

BARBARA.
Tears!—is my lady dead?

URSULA.
Tread carefully.

BARBARA.
There is no rest to-night: I must not sleep:
This Count pursues me round the house with prayers.
I dare not go to bed, lest he should follow!
He kneels before me—highness as he is!

URSULA.
Is he not soberer yet?

BARBARA.
Who?

URSULA.
What dost seek?

BARBARA.
Count Albert soberer?—has he been otherwise?

URSULA.
Prithee, begone—what is the Count to us?

BARBARA.
My lord is angry, and, I hear, unjust.

ELLEN.
Go somewhere else! I shall think worse of both.

BARBARA.
He fears so—this it is which makes him mad!
The strife was not his seeking—so he says—
He swears it—yet my lord will chase him forth.

URSULA.
Bethink thee who may hear thee!

BARBARA.
Who?

URSULA.
My lord.

BARBARA.
He is not here?

URSULA.
He is.

BARBARA.
Then mercy, Ursula!
This crazy Count will follow me, if we stay!

URSULA.
He will not dare! He must be crazed, indeed!

ELLEN.
You fright me, Barbara! He will not come here?

BARBARA.
His summons was to quit at break of day;
And he will see you first—if nowhere else,
Why here he will.

URSULA.
He dares not!

BARBARA.
Heaven forbid
That while their tempers are so fell and spiteful,
My lord may find him here. What here!—good saints,
We shall have swords again!

ELLEN.
Barbara, where is he?
Make haste to find him!—Ursula, come with me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Chamber of the Baroness.
Baron Weilenberg, and Baroness, on a Couch.
BARONESS.
Her cheeks have lost their freshness: I could wish
This watching, night by night, were well at end;
But now to thrust her back would fret impatience—
I must not do it now.

WEILENBERG.
Keep her beside thee.
She will be easier so, happier hereafter.
Let us not both abhor ourselves.

BARONESS.
Let neither
Think otherwise than peacefully of one
Who is at peace.

WEILENBERG.
At last—but it was late!

BARONESS.
Let me die thankfully: I will believe
That both have ever loved me.

WEILENBERG.
There have been
These twenty years for me to tell thee so—
It were but mockery now!

BARONESS.
Peace, Weilenberg!

WEILENBERG.
I do not ask it. Peace returns no more—
While here, at least, may God forbid it should!

BARONESS.
I wished a parting easier to us both.

WEILENBERG.
Forgive me, then—I know thou wilt—thou hast
Daily these twenty years! Had love been less,
I should have made thee so much less unhappy.
Once more forgive me!

BARONESS.
Never for an hour
Did I retain the privilege to forgive.

WEILENBERG.
Yet say so.

BARONESS.
Ay, with all my heart I say it.
What else was prayed for has been granted me;
And much I dared not ask. But trust this child!
Thou hast no power to make her love thee less;
Trust her, for my sake, and believe her love.
Our other children call their mother hence.
This innocent girl is wiser than she seems,
And will re-place us all. Now promise me!

WEILENBERG.
To promise that were one more injury.
How should I trust her love who doubted thine?

BARONESS.
It is the last thing asked of thee!

WEILENBERG.
I promise!

BARONESS.
God grant his peace to both! Now send me Ursula,
And leave me till to-morrow. I would sleep.

SCENE V.

Night.—Castle Hall.
Count Albert, Ellen, Ursula, and Barbara.
COUNT.
This goodness brings me health again: I see
That all are not unjust.

ELLEN.
Your highness sought me?

COUNT.
Ay, so I did—but not these witnesses.

URSULA.
We have our cares elsewhere, and must go hence.

COUNT.
Ay, do so, mistress Ursula—fare thee well!

ELLEN.
She stays as long as I do.

COUNT.
Hear me, Ellen!

ELLEN.
Then speak—we may not tarry here.

COUNT.
Nor I.
Has Barbara told you that I must be gone?
Because I would not yield my throat to murder,
But lightly took a drunkard's sword away,
Must part at dawn from Rolandseck?

ELLEN.
The need
Hardly foreruns another stronger still.
My father's wishes are mine too.

COUNT.
Then needs it
That you and he should think alike in this?

ELLEN.
It is becoming that we should.

COUNT.
That both
Refuse to hear me—prove alike unjust?

ELLEN.
He is not so.

COUNT.
Nay, if in all things else,
Why not in this?

ELLEN.
Who tells me that he is?

COUNT.
This change to frowns is needless, at the least.
He drives me hence, and asks me why I tarried—
But justly you cannot.

URSULA.
We shall be missed!

COUNT.
Promise me justice—all may ask for that.

ELLEN.
I will not doubt the honor of your highness—
If I shall pledge me farther than is asked,
Promise in turn to leave without offence.

COUNT.
I do.

ELLEN.
To part from Rolandseck?

COUNT.
Twice promised.

ELLEN.
I will think justly, if I may—I must
Think kindly of your grace. That which was earned
In happier hours, shall be my care to cherish.
My peace requires so much: is this enough?

COUNT.
Enough to make me happier! You shall guide me.
I will be patient, grateful,—what you please.

ELLEN.
Then point not misery sharper than it is.
Do I lack patience less?

COUNT.
You have my pledge.
We shall be happier when we meet hereafter.
Let these two stand as witnesses.

ELLEN.
Of what?

COUNT.
My vows and yours—of faith and love between us.
Give me that hand.

ELLEN.
I never will, Count Albert.
It is not said in anger, nor in haste.
There is a mightier witness hears me too.
I never will! We part without reproach;
But, by his truth, one roof—with my consent—
Shall never shelter both of us again.

[Exeunt Ellen, Ursula, and Barbara.
COUNT.
Only a moment! Bless this little fool!
She has made me a great one. Fade, ye willows!
Now for a brook and garland!

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

Chamber in the Castle.
Rudestein and Barbara.
RUDESTEIN.
I will not see him till we meet elsewhere:
Now prithee go and say so.

BARBARA.
To the rash,
Wine is less perilous in its fumes at night,
Than in its fogs to-morrow, child. It is
The morning's fermentation that o'erthrows thee—
What Screitch calls crapula: hence desperate pride,
Crazed pertinacity in wrong—or worse,
Headlong repentance that exasperates sin,
But never tarries long enough to mend.

RUDESTEIN.
We are not married yet, so peace!

BARBARA.
'Tis well!
Do thou and Screitch resign prëoccupance—
This Count shall have my heart.

RUDESTEIN.
I yield my share.

BARBARA.
He soars above hate's archery and its cries,
On wings proportioned to the weight they carry.
Such grief as love's disasters, loss of friends,
Or hoped alliance set aside—at most
Flash some brief sparkles from his eyes, compress
His lips a little closer, tinge his paleness,
And shape his smiles the sharper. Sour or sorry
He never seems, and least when most perplexed.

RUDESTEIN.
What ring dost rub and breathe upon?

BARBARA.
It is
A gift, and not from Screitch.

RUDESTEIN.
Who gave it—he?

BARBARA.
Dost see the little lamp a-blaze within?
Look! look!—Nay, hand and all—let those sick eyes
Draw lustre from it.

RUDESTEIN.
Babbler, was it his?

BARBARA.
Brawler, wilt fight with me? Let go, I say,
And hear its history. It was the Count's:
Ellen's it should have been, but fell to me.
He gave it with a kiss. See how he mourns,
Man's moods, and mortal mutabilities!
Thou first didst quarrel with thy friend—and next,
The Baron with his son-in-law—and last,
The gentle Ellen bade her love farewell!
After the clock had stricken twelve last night,
Thy crowns, his baronies, her favour, vanished:
At one, his heart and brains were cool as ever;
He kissed, and gave me this.

RUDESTEIN.
What said he since?

BARBARA.
Just now?

RUDESTEIN.
Ay, half an hour ago.

BARBARA.
He said
He would come hither straight.

RUDESTEIN.
For what?

BARBARA.
Ask him.
He bade me nurse thee, boil a posset for thee,
Give thee a single flask of weakest wine,
Put thee in temper, make thee wise and social,
Then say that he will fight with thee no more.
Lo! here he is—so peace.
[Exit Barbara.

(Enter Count.)
RUDESTEIN.
There scarce is time,
Count Albert, for regrets. Last night, believe me,
I was half drunk.

COUNT.
Believe me, thou wast quite.
Why, I was half, nor did we drink alike.

RUDESTEIN.
Your highness was not ruined too—at least
We differ in this.

COUNT.
Faith, but I was! ask Barbara:
As surely so as she is, by your doings!
Past help, or hope, like her! Canst tell me why—
Unless we needs must quarrel yet again—
These losses should afflict thee thus?

RUDESTEIN.
I have
At present for their payment but the promise
That sometime I will pay.

COUNT.
This is the growl
Of thunder in the sunshine, long and low,
So far away. Now that the storm is passed,
Behold the rainbow! Let us talk awhile
Wisely, as we were used to do. This sometime,
Which shall eat up all promises at last,
As Saturn ate his babes, though stones in hardness,
How near dost think it is? Since yesterday
My rights are mine by luck, and law, and battle—
Two thousand crowns are trebly due to me.
Canst give a tithe in earnest of the whole?
Canst find two score?

RUDESTEIN.
I may hereafter, perhaps.

COUNT.
Ay, doubtless—or a dukedom! look about!
Perhaps does, indeed, brings strangest things to pass!
The imperial crown itself is findable—
All possibilities we grant. Such men
As thou have been made popes. Bestir thyself!
Awake! who knows?

RUDESTEIN.
What would your highness have?

COUNT.
Thine aid, thy brains, thy fellowship, and Ellen.
And thou shalt have these vouchers back again;
Two thousand crowns to boot.

RUDESTEIN.
My life is yours!

COUNT.
When will these yeasty wits have purged themselves?
I must not wait thine head-ache.

RUDESTEIN.
It is gone.
Haply this quarrel may be turned to use:
We thrive but ill as friends. Before last night,
My footing here was slippery at the best:
Yet can I help no longer than I keep it.
We may be better credited apart.

COUNT.
Alas, a day too late! I must be gone.
It is a day too late! (bells tolls.)
What bell is that?

RUDESTEIN.
Hark! from the chapel! 'tis the passing bell—
My cousin's farewell to a graceless world!

COUNT.
There is another farther off—dost hear it?

RUDESTEIN.
These nuns have waked their loudest. Every knee,
Within a league, is bent but yours and mine.
If prayers and sighs may waft a soul to bliss,
Hers will not lack a gale.

COUNT.
Lend thine aid too—
She was no kin to me.

RUDESTEIN.
She might have been,
But would not wait.

COUNT.
Had death come yesterday,
He might have turned me out, and saved offence—
Saved us our last night's buffet—spared my sighs—
Left me the baron's debtor and his daughter's—
Who must not find me here.

RUDESTEIN.
These bells still tolling,
He scarce would feel a tug upon his beard.

COUNT.
I hope to find a time for giving that
When he shall feel.

RUDESTEIN.
Our little Countess pouts?
What did she say last night?

COUNT.
She has her cares—
She will think justly, kindly.

RUDESTEIN.
Good! all good!

COUNT.
I thought so too, and gave my promise bravely:
Therefore she wishes me a long adieu—
Thenceforth she has renounced me!

RUDESTEIN.
Was it thus?

COUNT.
Bear witness that it was, her own saint Ursula,
And thy saint Barbara! It was gravely thus!
Majestically thus!

RUDESTEIN.
My pretty cousin!
Last leaf above the rotten root of Roland!
Our crabstock keeps its savour still!

COUNT.
The puppet!
A bright-eyed laughter-loving simpleton,
With rosier cheeks than Hebe's six weeks back!
Now would she change their hue for Cynthia's paleness
While he, who slept at Latmos, woke at last
To wonder that the stars were almost gone,
And feebly lighted by her waning moon.

RUDESTEIN.
The ill-digested wine has made me sad—
Or else, belike, this chapel-bell afflicts me!
Pains plague the Sacristan! The stomach's qualms,
And qualms of conscience are so near alike,
I scarce know which is which. It rings the passing
Of one who, though in thought she loved me little,
Was little less, in deed, my friend for that—
Quenching hot wrath, and covering frailties.
Beside, she lent some crowns without a bond.
She kept no vouchers, Count.

COUNT.
Till late last night
My dreams were ever bestial!

RUDESTEIN.
What about?

COUNT.
Of flowery pastures, with this milk-white lamb,
In which to graze at large—the bride, nor less
The barony. But love prevails at last!
Love pure as Tancred's, when he fought too well.
Those cheeks must blush again, those eyes must sparkle,
And laughter light upon those lips—or else
I rest no more.

RUDESTEIN.
We have a ready road
To such repose, but rough withal.

COUNT.
Which way?
Wilt follow?

RUDESTEIN.
Will your highness follow me?
I should go first—it suits a soldier's step:
The politician's were a pace too slow.
There is no danger but in drawing back.

COUNT.
Keep honor from beneath our feet, and then
Which way you will.

RUDESTEIN.
Who bars us after reckonings?

COUNT.
I may do what I can—and what I wish
I will do when I can, and how I can,
With this brief reservation. Power content
To rest unquestioned, smiles on me.

RUDESTEIN.
Why—so
I would be Emperor yet ere Lammas day:
And in my realm there should be Empresses
More numerous than the walnut trees! Pledge that,
And I will give thee, for a summer grange,
This castle where we are—its parks for sport—
Its farms for sustenance—my cousin's lordship—
Old Roland's fortress for a hunting-lodge.
Screitch shall be seneschal, and father Philip
Thy guide to peace.

COUNT.
How soon?

RUDESTEIN.
Stay while I count.
John Baptist's martyrdom comes Thursday next:
Thou shalt sup here, then, on John Baptist's eve—
As heir, if this suffice and please thee best,
Or else as lord.

COUNT.
Wooing the good old way,
With shield and spear, Achilles-like—or how?
But what says honor?

RUDESTEIN.
Honor sees us chased
Like dogs, to-day, with scourges at their tails:
And honor will but laugh if, three days hence,
We chase the scourger. Mount, sir, and look sad!
Your highness tarries here too long.

COUNT.
I quit
Both house and wife; do thou take care of them.

RUDESTEIN.
It is a two day's charge.

COUNT.
Where shall we meet?

RUDESTEIN.
Where the brook widens at the forest side:
Look for me there at sunset. Now, adieu!

SCENE VII.

Chamber in the Castle.
Baron Weilenberg and Father Philip.
PHILIP.
Self-tyranny in excess provokes rebellion:
The ill-conquered spirit will break off its chains,
And rage still worse! Remorse is surfeit's leech,
Easing, by pain, the hot heart's plethora.
Impatience we prohibit—not remorse;
But gladly bid God-speed where grief is humble.
For if she may do nothing by herself,
Like faith who can do nothing—yet without her,
Repentance never comes, nor that late peace
With healthful tears half-dried upon her cheek—
Whose stern apparitor must sweep the house.

WEILENBERG.
Thou seest how dark it is, but not how foul!

PHILIP.
He sees it better still who pities all—
How mixed and moody, mad and miserable,
Yet how mysterious are we too—as good
Till self-depraved, and may be good again.
Our daily nature seems unnatural
Once every day at least. He that would burn
A metropolitan city in his wrath,
To-morrow scatters crumbs before the birds.
Use thou her scales to weigh thyself—who knew
So well, yet loved so greatly.

WEILENBERG.
She forgave;
The dying lamb complains not! With its breath
No bleatings pass to shame the slaughterer!
This damns an earlier murder.

PHILIP.
What, in war?
War is not murder! Oft the strong are gentle,
And iron-handed soldiership forbears,
While palms, which might be peaceful, itch for vengeance.
All should thus look on strife—but while some love it,
The rest must learn it, and are justified.

WEILENBERG.
There is a curse called down upon myself
By cursing lighter sins in other men.
Answer as he should do whose office awes him,
Speak, servant of the persecuted—thou—
Canst thou absolve it?

PHILIP.
Lord of Weilenberg,
I need no adjurations! In His name,
I say there is forgiveness.

WEILENBERG.
What! for murderers?

PHILIP.
Why else were murderers prayed for? Whom hast slain?

WEILENBERG.
A tyrant for his tyranny, and now
The meek for being such!

PHILIP.
What tyrant was it?

WEILENBERG.
A fellow-soldier in the field when young,
Ill-joined by common friends and services.
One tent sufficed us, followed by one page,
A widow's child, sickly and slow, but patient:
Studious to please, he would have served alike,
But loved the harshest least. Wretch, if he erred,
It was through dread, when threats extorted tears,
And tears provoked to stripes again! He grew
Helpless through blows—was scourged for being helpless!
I found him thus, and smote the murderer.
We fought—behold the avenger! who consumed
In doing that which he, at least, did briefly—
These twenty years!

PHILIP.
The curses of our youth,
Like arrows shot toward Heaven, at last fall down,
To light upon our age! Peace be with both—
For lo, a better comforter!

(Exit Philip. Enter Ellen.)
ELLEN.
My father!

WEILENBERG.
Dost ask me for thy mother, child?—She is
Not as we are, but happy. She rests now!

ELLEN.
I should not be unhappy, were you not.

WEILENBERG.
You did not help to make her miserable.

ELLEN.
She bade us think her happy—and I do so.

WEILENBERG.
She is escaped—at least thank God for that.
One of the two is free!—but art not fearful?

ELLEN.
Of whom?

WEILENBERG.
Of me—thou hast none else to fear.

ELLEN.
What have I done?

WEILENBERG.
Why, what she did,—endured,
And hid thy tears.

ELLEN.
You do affright me now!

WEILENBERG.
I have begun in time—through me were lost
A mother and a lover since the dawn!

ELLEN.
Let me but try to make my father happy,
And I will love none else.

WEILENBERG.
How shouldst thou love me?

ELLEN.
Pray, father, for her sake grant this! It is
The first prayer in her name!

WEILENBERG.
It was her last!

ELLEN.
Will you reject us both, then?

WEILENBERG.
Try to love me!
Remind me daily of my vows last night.
Teach me humility. I would excuse
What must seem cruel, done at such a time.
Let sorrow conquer shame, and both speak plainly—
Count Albert's heart is harder than mine own!
I never could have mingled wine with death,
And drunken brawls with misery.

ELLEN.
I did not wait
Till this was told me.

WEILENBERG.
Did not wait for what?
I cause these tears!

ELLEN.
They are the last for him.
Count Albert knows we shall not meet again.
Before my mother died, I told him so.

WEILENBERG.
It is a vow which death has witnessed, then!
Didst wish to see me less unhappy, Ellen?
I am so now.

[Exeunt.