University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Border of a forest, with a brook in front. The Castle seen at some distance, backed by mountains.
Count and Rudestein, meeting.
RUDESTEIN.
So far on foot? Stand back a little, Count—
A little farther, prithee, in the shade!
That buckle on thy belt is seen a mile—
Or some such glitterer flashed the sunbeams off it,
Ere I had reached midway. The time was sunset,
But love outruns his promises.

COUNT.
Hast seen
This widowed kinsman since his loss last night?

RUDESTEIN.
Doubtless I have, with proffered services.

COUNT.
What said he?

RUDESTEIN.
Not one word.

COUNT.
A fair escape!
Grief tames the tamer.

RUDESTEIN.
As a she-wolf softens
Unmilked since yesterday, whose cub is missing.
I might have guessed the meaning of that scowl,
If Screitch had held his peace.

COUNT.
Interpret it.

RUDESTEIN.
The dead must first be buried—then farewell
To him and Rolandseck! Your highness keeps
Some kinsman sleek at home to carve the meat,
Draw off too tight a boot on hunting days,
Or see the hawks well trained and wisely tended?
The basest things serve best for common use.
When state dismounts, and lays its housings by,
A sheep-skin feels as soft. We ease your heels,
And save the cost of boot-jacks.

COUNT.
Now, the moral?

RUDESTEIN.
I will not yield to eldership. I have
No house but this. If one of us must quit,
He can provide another, I cannot.
Here dwelt mine ancestors, and I dwell here.

COUNT.
John Baptist's Martyrdom comes Thursday next!

RUDESTEIN.
No matter which is master, he or thou,
Here will I build my nest.

COUNT.
Thou shalt.

RUDESTEIN.
I will.
Our scuffle might have maimed the spirit's wings!

COUNT.
When will begin these obsequies?

RUDESTEIN.
To-morrow.
At dawn the day which follows will begin
This quittance that we wot of.

COUNT.
Not to-morrow?

RUDESTEIN.
We bear our dead no farther than the church,
And leave them near the altar. Custom asks
A ten days sepulture beside and after.
Requiems are chaunted for the soul enlarged,
Alms are dispensed, and masses multiplied.
Religion perfects all her offices
Ere shuts its mouth the pavement underneath.

COUNT.
Thy living lease at Rolandseck is less
By just nine days to one.

RUDESTEIN.
I will not quit!
Your highness is content to bide down here?
Small faith in scaling ladders, Count, and swords
Are sharp above.

COUNT.
My courage, matched with thine,
Falls short a flask and half to-day.

RUDESTEIN.
If both
Were fairly on the outside of the moat,
We should be special climbers, or remain there.
When will your highness take the equivalent,
And give me back my bonds?

COUNT.
On Thursday next.

RUDESTEIN.
Then come to-morrow night—bring company—
As many friends and servants as you please.
Let them not lose their stomachs by the way,
And I will find the feast.

COUNT.
Nay, not to-morrow.

RUDESTEIN.
Then not at all.

COUNT.
It is Death's festival—
I would not drink to Venus from the bowl
Prepared for grief by him!

RUDESTEIN.
Well, we are quits.
Behold, the effects we sealed upon are tendered—
Revenge and Rolandseck with love and Ellen!
Make ample riddance, and release the debt—
I do my part.

COUNT.
Dost grace these obsequies?

RUDESTEIN.
Not I—my duty aggravates offence—
That stare was all its thanks.

COUNT.
Will Ellen be there?

RUDESTEIN.
Ellen will not be there; her father will.

COUNT.
Art sure?

RUDESTEIN.
Screitch says so, Philip, Barbara—
She will not follow—women are exempt.
What hare is this a-foot we must not hoot at
While doubt holds back the dogs?

COUNT.
We might shut up
The mourners with their dead, were all together—
Lock the church doors behind them?

RUDESTEIN.
Bravely, Count!
'Midst all thy scruples, keep an eye to thrift!
So might we save a second ceremony—
Hold priest and people, bride and father ready!
But woe the while! Our coupling, to be perfect,
Wants just one-half—Ellen will not be there!

COUNT.
How is this church defended?—fourscore spears
Might hunt the ancient otter in his isle?

RUDESTEIN.
Beside the generations sprung from Roland—
His bones and theirs—time, sanctity, remorse—
It will be garrisoned with flesh and blood
Out-numbering fourscore spearmen four to one.
Blind, deaf, maimed, crippled scarce may bide at home
In twenty miles to-morrow! All her children
Will mourn this mother of the miserable.
They may not think to fight, indeed—but oft
Men fight the better for the want of thinking.
Nor will a part lack arms—What! Sacrilege!
True thou art skilful, valiant, fortunate—
As fresh as Mercury, and as light of foot—
But spare to tempt this elder nevertheless:
If thou must strike at all, strike first.

COUNT.
Not I.

RUDESTEIN.
Thou shalt fight none but Ellen, then.

COUNT.
There needs
Long wings or ladders for a war with her.

RUDESTEIN.
The gates may let thee in, while Bab and I
Do stand as porters to an empty house.

COUNT.
This song seems inspiration!

RUDESTEIN.
Fie, Count, fie!
Repent the trespassing on sacred things!
Let churches be! The child secures the sire—
And she bides there with me—a man disgraced—
A man put out of office! reprobate!
And left behind as naught! By twos and threes,
On foot and horseback, bring the best thou hast;
Then tarry here till twilight.

COUNT.
Well—what next?
How shall we hide their weapons?

RUDESTEIN.
Yeomen's weapons!
They need not hide them! Hundreds like themselves
Will don such gear, and come as colts new harnessed.
A woodman's crates may hide the better sort.
Only shun ostentation. Mixed or not
With humbler gazers, let them trudge this way
By twos and threes—do thou keep out of sight.
Death's march begins not till the sun goes down;
Thou mayest discern its torches whence we stand.
Hold fast awhile—give time enough—be wary,—
Fright not the ferrymen by over haste.

COUNT.
And then?

RUDESTEIN.
Mount to the gate, sir! What forbids?
My gentle cousin needs a comforter.

COUNT.
If we might gain the ferry-boats as well,
We should consummate! Sisters, mourners, idlers—
Old Roland's isle thronged threefold, like a warren,
Must yield or starve!

RUDESTEIN.
I will provide for that.
But softly, sir—the praises of your grace—
A careless eye, an easy-gaited conscience—
Are precious gifts, no doubt—but qualified—
Good gifts, I say, indeed—but dashed with worse—
Such be that goatish honor, horned and bearded,
Which looks so grave, and stands almost on nothing—
Punctilious pride, fantastic fickleness!
Your grace may quit as lightly as you came,
And leaving me behind to pay the rent,
Ride forth elsewhere.

COUNT.
At this time yesterday
The baron's wine was on my lip—last night
He and his daughter warned me out of doors:
Now am I free to enter how I can.

RUDESTEIN.
Thou wouldst get back again, and I would tarry.
My choice is 'twixt provision with the birds,
Or fire-side drinking and two thousand crowns.

COUNT.
Two thousand in the purse, and one paid yearly.

RUDESTEIN.
Good night, then, to your highness.

[Exeunt.