University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The earthworks outside the royal hovel in the marshes of Athelney: with sentinels, and Ethelnoth with Hereward looking out: a sentinel, in the distance, calmly says,—
I see a harper coming,—and a girl.

Ethelnoth
(with fervour),
Thank heaven! it is the King!

Hereward
(calling at the cottage window),
Safe, safe! the King!

[Queen Elswitha and the Children run out, and all are eagerly crowding to the distant parapet, looking out, and waving hands; the Queen kneeling, and looking up gratefully. After a pause, Alfred mounts over the parapet, where he flings off his disguise, and lays down his harp,—Bertha behind him.
Alfred
(exultingly).
Now give me my five hundred!
[the boys run up to him.
Father!
[and the Queen still on her knees.
My husband!

[a touching tableau, Alfred in the midst: he looks up, and then affectionately round on all, and then speaks, tenderly.
My wife,—my little ones,—my noble friends!

(they shout)

God save the King!

Ethelnoth
(on one knee).
O thou art greater now,
More glorious far, in this dark time of trial,
Than even when on Ashdune's crimson field
Thou stoodst a conqueror crown'd!

Alfred.
Hearken, my friends,—
Good Providence, or He whose name that is,
Hath sped me on my way;—and Bertha too,
Brave sister, daring that most hideous risk,—

Bertha.
How gladly did I stand beside thee, brother;
And, but that I had gone, Elswitha here
Had even left the babe for love of thee!

Alfred.
Dear wife! Oh what a happy, tender name,
When those who bear that name are such as thou!
Obedient, gentle, loving, sensible,—
But,—Ethelnoth! My soldiers! Hereward!
This night, my Ethelnoth, this happy night,—
Hereward, speak,—are my five hundred sure?

Hereward.
All staunch and true; men that have burning wrongs
And pine to quench them, with inveterate hate,
Like hissing torches in the blood of foes,—
Men that love thee and England,—

Alfred.
I could wish
To hear the love of England and her King
Set far before a craving for revenge,—
But this may pass, good Hereward; my five hundred,
Let them be ready at sunset, armed, provisioned,
(They drove in cattle with them, I remember,)
And, somewhile after midnight, from the Dane
Secure, and scattered in the villages,
As taking license after victory,
We, creeping through the woodlands, will regain
At Ethandune what Chippenham had lost.
Take this, Friend;
[he gives to Hereward the Alfred jewel.
Wear it as a badge of honour:
Take this too, Ethelnoth;—
[he gives him a ring.
Let it be an heirloom.
Would I were richer to reward your zeal,—
And soon I shall be, friends, and will remember.
Bid my five hundred eat their fill, and sleep;
See to their weapons; and anon will I
Speak with them each, and thank them: now, away!

[they and the sentinels go out, leaving Alfred's family alone.
Alfred.
Queen,—since that sacred meal, the unbroken loaf,
The empty pitcher marvellously abrim,
And that bright vision seen of none but me,
I have stood strong in hope, a hope assured
That this right-hand shall yet recover England!
To-night I take no leave of thee, dear love,
Though I am off at sunset to the Dane,—
For in the morning thou shall set the crown
On my victorious head at Ethandune.
One kiss:—and now to gladden my five hundred!

[they all go out.—Scene changes.

SCENE II.

A narrow strip of country: enter stragglingly from both sides a multitude of the English, variously armed, as to a rendezvous and bivouac; they lie down in picturesque groups and talk and eat together: then one speaks to his mates.
First Soldier.
Ay, if our great ones only trusted England
And weren't so jealous of us, so suspicious,
We had been round five-hundred-thousand good
And not this poor five hundred.

Second.
We're enow!
King Alfred well may reckon for a million.

Third.
Nay, but it's bitter grief and burning shame
They held us back, and would not let muster,
And kept the arsenals close,—when willing hands
Good able hands with stout hearts at their root,—
Had swept off clean this seascum of invaders!

First Soldier.
Our great ones (how unlike the King himself,—
He wears a heart!) are all too grand, too cold,
Too wrapt in phrases and in courtesies,
Too hand-in-hand with other foreign great ones,
Too deep in pleasures, or in politics,
To feel for England's wrongs, or fear her peril.
They muster troops,—we paying for their levy,—
All to protect themselves, and tread us down;
And lest our indignation should break loose
Against their shameful truckling to the foe
They snub our patriot zeal, keep us disarmed,
And give us over to the wolf like sheep!
But look,—the King!

[they get up quickly and range themselves: Alfred enters, armed, with Ethelnoth and Hereward.
Alfred.
God bless you, my five hundred!
I come to thank you in His name, and England's!
I come to lead you on to certain victory,
To help you win your rights, and quench your wrongs,
Conquering Liberty once more for England!
O friends, O countrymen, my band of heroes,
We now go forth, prepared and resolute men,
Assured of one thing,—we must,—we will conquer!


(they shout)
We will, we will, God save the good King Alfred!

Alfred.
Yet, mark me: all must steadily obey,
Each at his post. Ethelnoth,—Hereward,—
That these my brave intelligent Englishmen
May work our plan, they all must comprehend it:
Confidence in my people is my generalship.
Listen, good men; more gladly then obey.
The Dane, some eight miles off, at Ethandune,
Revels in gluttonous security,
And all is heedless license in the camp.
The full moon rises two hours after midnight
And in the dead of dark, their drunken sleep,
We will surround, surprise, and overwhelm them.
Hereward, tell our men by fifties off,
Ten companies: ye know your country, mates,—

Voices.
Ay, ay, every track and byeway: every inch of it.

Alfred.
In single file wind through the devious woods,
Avoiding villages,—and flanked by scouts.
Each company, elect its separate leader,
To follow and obey him, and keep silence.
Now, Ethelnoth, take first your chosen fifty,
Sweep widely to the north, and reach the camp
Eastwardly just at midnight. Hereward,
Take thou an opposite track through the morass,
And just at midnight touch the camp full south.
These other fifties, each at interval,
Close north and west and every point between:
And I, standing here last, will be there first
To attack the nearest foe. Thus well arrived
By steady combination silently,—
Let all be hushed in eager readiness,
Until ye hear my bugle; then with shouts
“Alfred and England,” fly upon the foe!
[the bands march out, and as the last company is filing off they stop,—while Alfred prays, standing,
O God of Christian England, hear her King:
Spare, spare thy People, thine inheritance:
Let not the heathen have his wicked will,—
But help the righteous cause. Amen. Amen.

[and so they go out; and the scene slowly changes, all the stage being dark.

SCENE III.

Midnight: the camp of the Danes, all asleep at their posts after a debauch of wine: the balefires nearly out, and all dark; suddenly a sleeping Dane starts up, and calls to his comrades beside him.

Askytal! Hubba! Why it was a dream—
Is any wine left i' th' beaker?—I 've been dreaming,
And woke in a foolish fright:—give us the wine,—
I dreamt that Alfred and his men were on us!

Hubba.
Coward! to wake us up,—what if they were?
There, drain it, fool,—and off to sleep again.

[slowly, through the darkness, from the back and sides, steal in Alfred and his Captains and their companies, quietly guard every tent and sleeping man, and especially surround Guthrom's tent, and the Lords and Jarls lying about in different attitudes of sottish sleep, with beakers and flagons, &c. beside them. Then Alfred pulls aside Guthrom's tent-curtain,—a light hanging within shewing him asleep on a couch,— and suddenly blows an alarm on his bugle! Instantly they raise the warshout,—“Alfred and England;” there is everywhere confusion,

---

42

separate battles, all being overpowered, a picturesque military tableau,— and Alfred master of the position: he speaks.
Alfred.
Guthrom,—give order that they drop their weapons:
We will not spare one man in arms against us,
Nor slaughter the defenceless! Drop that mace.

Guthrom
(unwillingly, and folding his arms).
I yield me.—Captain of my bodyguard,—
What, lying in drunken slumber? Hew him down!
Thanks, Sidroc! Lo,—great Alfred, we are thine.

[they throw down their weapons in a heap.
Alfred.
Now, Viking, quick with us; the morning dawns,
I have a tryste to keep before 'tis day:
Come on. For you,—O you base English lords,—
How despicable!—bind them fast with chains,
These Danish fetters handy, suitable,—
Ethelnoth, see not one of them escapes:
Hereward,—make our other prisoners sure:
We will deal justice with the rising sun,
Justice and Mercy. On, to Ethandune!

[as the moon rises over the empty camp, they all go out, leaving a bright picturesque desolation of weapons and beakers, and moonlit deserted pavilions, and so closes Act IV.
(Interlude music to be suggestive of “Come if you dare,” “The land, boys, we live in,” or “See the conquering hero comes,” &c.)