University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An Apartment in the Palace. The Marquis alone.
MARQUIS.
Now is the first fear present. If she stands,—
If all go as I think—she shall build up
Honour for me, and for her sex a name,
Better than did the best; proud ones, who scorned,
Hearing her swear the oath, shall live to hear
How my brave peasant-queen could keep her word.
Yet is contentment wise; and if she fail,
My love goes with her courage.
Enter Martino.
Thou didst my message yester night?

MARTINO.
Aye! my lord.

MARQUIS.
She gave it patiently?

MARTINO.

When she was certified of my warrant, she rendered
it without complaint. There was a piteous
sorrow of the eye and a working with the lip, that
shook me wondrously. I had liever do thy next
message to my lord's enemies than to my lord's
lady.

MARQUIS.

Thou art not less worthy; but did she question
my will in nothing?

MARTINO.

Not a whit. I delivered myself roughly as thou

badest, which she rather bore with gentleness, as
in my office, than put off with resentment.

MARQUIS.

She gave it thee for the death?

MARTINO.

I led her plainly to that thinking; in the heart
of which sorrow she took comfort, for the little
one smiled, she said, after thy fashion, and sweetly
bade her despatch.

MARQUIS.

Rare Lady! Look now! The trustiest one of thy
following hath this pretty one in charge; let her
be cared for as a king's daughter. After the feast
I will appoint thee a time when thou shalt take
the boy; then do thou, with the fleetest horses,
bring them to Bologna, my sister's court, to whose
care commend them with the scroll I shall give thee.

MARTINO.

My lord, I will.

MARQUIS.

Let this secret meantime be thine and mine only.
Go now, and let one of her women desire for me
the Lady Griselda's presence.
[Exit Martino.
She'll not fail!

No! no! she shall be as a precious gem
Found on a desolate and savage shore,
Whose lustre lay with none to marvel at it,
Lost on the sands; till I, a voyager,
All love-struck with its light, did beat my way
O'er perilous seas, through danger and through doubt,
To bring my jewel to the farther world,
Every beholder's wonder. She is coming,
I'll try if she can keep her sorrow still.

Enter Griselda.
GRISELDA.
You sent for me, my lord! What is your will?

MARQUIS.
Nay, I know not! I'm sick and sad, Griselda;
Look that thou make me merry.

GRISELDA.
Will love do it?
I'll sit and soothe thee to forgetfulness;
Or lay thy head upon my heart, and keep
With wifely kisses all thy grief away:
They have a charm to do it.

MARQUIS.
No! not that,
I should soon weary thee.

GRISELDA.
Art thou ill here?
I'll bind my kerchief round about thy brow.
Art heart-sick? I will fetch the virginals,
I have some skill thereon,—thou saidst it once,
And play a measure that I love to play
When I am sad.

MARQUIS.
Nay, then, I think, Griselda,
'Twere all as well for thee to play it now;
Thine eyes are red with weeping; thy face shows
Paler than mine. Go to! here have been tears;
I see all down the whiteness of thy cheek
The path they went. How is it?

GRISELDA.
I am sad,
If thou art so; my visage is deject,
If thine lose cheer: is this a wonder, Walter?
Good sooth, it should not be.

MARQUIS.
Aye! thou art right,
Doubtless I erred. Come then! Sith thou art well,
Tell me a story of some wileful lady,
Who paid her tyrannous lord with scathe and scorn
In the high Eastern style. I love to hear
How well they smiled and stabbed.

GRISELDA.
I never learned one.
I know a story of a lowly lady
Who gave her heart away, and with her heart
Its pains and pleasures, keeping but enough
To ponder how she gave it.

MARQUIS.
So do I;
That tale is old, as we are. Well then! play
This doleful lay of thine.

(Griselda plays, and falls asleep.)
MARQUIS.
Lo! my sweet leech
Medicines herself. Sleep! thou art kindly come,
Keep thy soft fingers on her lids awhile.
(He takes the instrument from her hands and bends over her.)
Last night thou couldst not close them for her tears.
What have we here, worn with such curious care?
I never saw it yet—a golden curl
Cut from her child—Sweet! thou must add another,
And crop a silken fillet from thy boy,
If these be worn for lost ones. How she sleeps,
Poor weary Niobe! I've heard it said
That, sleeping so, they'll answer asking ones,
As if the soul spake to the catechist
With all its truth, soul-like and solemnly.
I'll make the trial. Hearest thou, Griselda?
No answer!—Lo! they take thy child from thee.
(She sighs.)
Oh! aye! that reaches to her heart asleep.
I'll try anew!—This daughter that is lost,
Didst thou, Griselda, love her very well?

GRISELDA
(faintly, and in her sleep.)
Yes!

MARQUIS.
It was Lord Walter took thy girl from thee;
Thou wilt not love this Walter any more?

GRISELDA.
I will.

MARQUIS.
But thou dost dote upon thy bonny lad;
And where the sister is, the brother goes,
And I shall send him: wilt thou love me then?
(She sighs.)
Say! wilt thou love me then?

GRISELDA.
Yes! very well.

MARQUIS.
Excellent patience! I do think thou wouldst;
Yet am I sore, sweetheart, to tempt thee thus.
Grant me for what is done, and shall be yet,
Sweetly thy sleeping pardon. Didst thou wake,
Thou'dst see me kneel for it, and set seal to it
Here on the gracious lips that grant it me.
So then I'll put this treasure back; and now
Open tired eyes again!

(He plays the same strain louder, till she wakes.)
GRISELDA.
Ah me! my lord!

MARQUIS.
What is it, good my lady?

GRISELDA.
Sooth I am
A slothful nurse to sleep upon my charge;
How gott'st thou that my music?

MARQUIS.
Even thus;
Your ladyship sank to a sudden sleep,
Medicined with this same melody, whereat
I tried its potency.

GRISELDA.
Thou mockest me.

MARQUIS.
No! not a whit. I grieve my little skill
Trifled too loudly with the strings, and so
Broke on thy pleasant slumber.

GRISELDA.
Oh! not pleasant,—
I dreamed my boy was dead.

MARQUIS.
Ha! didst thou so?
Sometimes these dreams come for bewilderment,—
Sometimes for warning,—sometimes that the heart
May gather strength before the tempest comes.

GRISELDA.
What tempest, Walter?

MARQUIS.
Trial, good my wife,—
Trial that strikes adown the steady soul,
Unless it look to stand.

GRISELDA.
It was not that,
Nor yet a common dream, for being sad,
It ended with strange joy.—Art thou sick now?

MARQUIS.
No; 'twas a passing ailment. Thou wilt grace
Our tourney, sweet?

GRISELDA.
Aye! if it please thee so.

MARQUIS.
It doth; the knights are mated,—let us go
And see what spears are come.

GRISELDA.
Lord! as thou wilt.