University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

On the Island. A boat and boatmen seen by moonlight at some distance. The Castle on the farther side of the Rhine.
Screitch and Hubert.
HUBERT.
I may not tarry longer for this priest.
The words we bear are winged like thunder-bolts:
Their echo will be louder than themselves.
Do thou stay here.

SCREITCH.
I must—to gather breath.

HUBERT.
All spent so soon? How shalt thou reach the height
Whence Barbara sends her sighs to meet and greet thee?
With clearer wind-pipe sobs the sea-horse drowning!
A leaden Cupid at a Dutchman's gate
Might blush for such a worshipper.—Canst guess
Why both these masters speed their errands thus—
The old and new one chuck thee to and fro?
Canst tell me why?

SCREITCH.
I can.

HUBERT.
Then do.

SCREITCH.
The nurse
Is seen to travel at her weanling's heels,
With hand outstretched to pluck him from the dirt,
And rod to stir remembrance of mischance.
Now for this page's prate of Barbara!

HUBERT.
Wouldst learn her doings—what she is about?
She laughs, and lengthens yet her holiday.
She sits with Rudestein and the Count at supper.
She thinks and speaks of thee—thy love, thy learning,
Thy vigilance to-night, thine embassy.
All three have shining faces through thy means,
But look for larger mirth at thy return.

SCREITCH.
It is a sin to lie if men will credit;
A silly sin to lie when none believes.

HUBERT.
Thou sayest so, Seneschal, of whom?

SCREITCH.
A page
Whose birth, breath, breeding, have none other use.
Rudestein is dead.

HUBERT.
Then lies will be the less.
He must have been a page, or page-begot—
Page-bred, page-principled, and propertied.
We found him at the gate—and thou shalt find him
With empty flasks and Bab on either hand.
Haply she told thee of his death?

SCREITCH.
She did.

HUBERT.
Then Barbara is a page in petticoats.
A Christian soldier lies?

SCREITCH.
Ay, many do.

HUBERT.
Art ready, Seneschal?

SCREITCH.
For what?

HUBERT.
For death.

(Draws.
SCREITCH.
A Christian Seneschal is always ready.
Once since the sunset have I thought me nearer,
But now the readier if thou saidst the truth.
My lord believes me faithless—Barbara is—
Behold, child, I defy thee!

HUBERT.
Get thy breath:
Unsheathe, and then stand fast.

SCREITCH.
I yield my neck,
As Tullius did to those from Anthony.
The sheath is all I have.

HUBERT.
'Twas all I left thee.
Yon bright moon sees me blush.—Here comes the Father.

Enter Philip.
PHILIP.
The Seneschal is old in suffering wrongs,
And like the old, forgets.

HUBERT.
Let there be peace—
On my part love and honour, Seneschal.

PHILIP.
Make me partaker in this league. There is
Enough of wrath elsewhere.

HUBERT.
With all my heart.

PHILIP.
We need not be the merchants of men's hate:
Contention wants not us to speed its traffic.
The peaceful lips are blessed.

HUBERT.
Father, thou hast
No Lord but one who cannot be disgraced—
I keep aloof, mine may.

PHILIP.
Hast thou but one?
And is he honoured best by doing ill?
Best served by worst of services? Wouldst pick
The straws which misery scatters in its haste,
And bind them up as gleanings for the cruel?
His honour who has robbed the house he dwelt in,
Requires to slay his host! If such thy calling,
It is accursed.

HUBERT.
And if dogs felt as men,
I should run mad, to carry in my mouth
No matter what, or what its filthiness.
To chase my last kind feeder out of doors,
And tear grief's freshest robes like beggar's rags.
The Baron was a soldier once—he knows
The shortest way to justice. Here, at least,
He is not rash, but wise.

SCREITCH.
I fain would stake
His white hairs now 'gainst this Count Albert's black,
Were grief away which makes the helmet heavy,
And care which dries the bones.

PHILIP.
It must not be.

HUBERT.
Father, it were the best for both of them!
The loser gains.

PHILIP.
There is one more to think for:
What hath she done amiss? Thyself art young—
Youth should be pitiful.

HUBERT.
If all my blood
Might save the shedding of but half her tears,
It should run every drop!—Does God forsake her,
So fair and innocent as she is? Speak out—
I fear as little as thyself. The Count
Has lost a princely name since yesterday;
And some who serve him, blush for him. Foul love
And this suggesting traitor, damn us all!
This piebald Rudestein! Shall I tell him so?

PHILIP.
Tell truth, but wisely—make this challenge air—
The breath of wrath and rashness, as it was.

HUBERT.
Instruct me as we go. The boat there, Gregory!
This way the bank gives safest footing, Screitch:
Tread where the moon shines—here are steps of stone.

SCREITCH.
It is a youth whose breeding should be cared for:
I will bestow some pains.

[Exeunt.