University of Virginia Library

ACT I

SCENE.—A room in Ingleram's house in Arles. At the back a large door opens into a garden. Through the trees in the garden glimpses of the horizon, a rolling wooded line, are seen. On the left of the garden the backs of other houses are visible. There are doors right and left, that on the left being well back. A broad latticed window at the back looks on the garden; a smaller one in a recess commands the street. The walls are hung with tapestry. In front on the right a table with four chairs set about it: a flask of wine and glasses are on the table. There is a seat in the recess; and on the window-sill several vellum-bound books. In front on the left a couch. Chairs on which are the hats of Ingleram, etc., are set conveniently. A spinning-wheel near the large window. A summer morning.

When the act-drop rises Ingleram is closing the door at the back; and Dagobert and Berthold are seated at the table. Ingleram is stout; grey hair, moustache, and pointed beard; about fifty; richly dressed. Berthold is pouring out wine for himself; his hair is untidy, and he has a dissipated appearance; about thirty-five; his dress has been splendid, but is faded and stained. Dagobert, about thirty, lounges with his head on his hand; richly dressed.

With the exception of Godfrida, Ingleram, Clare, and the servants, the persons in this act enter and go out by the door on the left.

Berthold.

Cyprian is coming.

Ingleram
[sitting at the head of the table].

He joins
us, then.

Berthold.

Yes.

Ingleram.

I have not seen him since he returned from
Algiers.

Berthold.

He is the portrait of discontent. If he
were the only creature left alive, I believe he would cut
his own throat to be avenged on mankind.

Ingleram.

He was shamefully neglected.

Berthold.

More so than we imagined. He tells me

that besides his own venture, he sailed upon business for
the Duchess herself when the Dey's galleys seized him.

Ingleram.

And she would not ransom him!

Berthold.

Oh, she promised! But the late Duke left
the treasury at a low ebb; and then came the war with
Esplandian to keep her coffers empty.

Ingleram.

That will not solace Cyprian.

Berthold.

No; it is difficult to console a man for a
year's slavery; his very soul is tanned and wealed.

Dagobert.

It puzzles me to think why Isembert should
have paid his ransom.

Ingleram.

Isembert, having climbed into the Chancellorship
by the usual ladder of friends, kicked the
ladder down in the usual way. Now, a man in power, if
he has no friends, must have creatures; and so Isembert
hopes he has bought Cyprian, body and soul.

Berthold.

But I know better. Cyprian serves only
his own ends; and that Lucifer will find.

Ingleram.

Lucifer?

Berthold.

His excellency, the Chancellor, Isembert
the proud.

Ingleram.

Proud is too good for him; an impudent,
fantastical, spurious sort of genius. Provence is tired
of him.

Dagobert.

But why the devil is Cyprian late? We

shall see no part of the tournament if we have not our
talk over quickly.

Berthold.

True. And the tournament will not see us,
which would set tongues wagging. I wonder if he is
near. [Goes out and re-enters immediately.]
Here he
comes! [Sits and pours out wine for himself.

Enter Cyprian. He stands near the centre of the stage. He is plainly dressed in dark garments; his face is almost black; his hair grizzled. He has an inkhorn and case of pens at his girdle.
Ingleram
[rises and offers his hand. Cyprian gives him a finger].

Welcome back to Provence, Cyprian.
Our plot needed only you. You shall bring us luck; fate
has some peculiar use for a man who is snatched from
the grave.

Cyprian.

From a worse place.

Ingleram
[jocosely].

Indeed, you have been singed.
[Resumes his seat.]
Sit, Cyprian. We have little
time.

Cyprian
[doggedly].

I must know more than Berthold
has told me. I must know the individual roots of
your conspiracy. My own ill-will at the world is of the
simplest, the deepest. I thought myself as others do, a
careless, gallant fellow, capable of heroism—when there

is nothing else for it. A cut or two of the bastinado,
and I howled out my recantation.

Dagobert.

Forswore the cross!

Cyprian.

And was despised for my pains; set to the
most laborious and meanest employments: chained and
scourged. If I know myself, I take my stand deliberately
on the side of evil. My purse is empty; my misery
fathomless. Your plot promises—to me, wealth; to
Isembert, whom I hate for his arrogant appropriation
of my life, ruin and despair; but before I sit with you
I must know why you, and you, and you have become
traitors: to secure myself against betrayal I must be
certain that it is your pleasure to sacrifice the world's
good opinion and your own self-respect.

Ingleram
[uneasily].

Well—

Berthold
[angrily].

Oh!

Dagobert.
Bravely pronounced. [Rises.]
You face the naked fact.
We're ruined too, bankrupt in purse and soul.
Old Ingleram has spent his niece's dower;
Under the Duchess shame, imprisonment,
Perhaps a halter, lie in wait for him.
Berthold is deep in debt to Ingleram;
And for myself—

Ingleram
[starting up].

I shall account for you.

Our poor Dagobert—there's for your “old Ingleram”
—I say our simple Dagobert, as you know, was once
Constable of Provence. Surely that is reason enough
why he should avenge himself on Siward, a wandering
fellow, who changed defeat into victory, drove Esplandian
over the border, and supplanted Dagobert in her
Grace's favour.

Dagobert.
Eclipsed, abandoned, broken, thrust aside,
Except as traitors we are wholly lost.
Wealth, power, and vengeance will repay our crime
If to Esplandian we deliver up
The Duchess and her coveted Provence.

Cyprian.
Yes. Well; I join you.

[They all sit.
Ingleram
[effusively].
My dear Cyprian—

Cyprian.

No hypocritical fellowship. We know what
we are.—Why will the Duchess not wed Esplandian?
That no one has ever told me. He is her cousin, and
the next heir. It would be a most politic union; besides,
it would deliver her from Isembert, at whose control she
begins to chafe.

Ingleram.

There it is! The late Duke urged the marriage
on his death-bed; and that is Esplandian's excuse
for his former invasion, for the invasion which is preparing,
and for our policy.

Dagobert.

Then he is much older than she; and, if

she were to wed him, she would become of no importance
in the state, he being, as you say, the next heir, and an
exceedingly crafty ruler. Moreover, she is resolved never
to wed at all. In fact—

Berthold
[rises, impatiently].

She is a woman, and
will have her own way. [Crosses to door on the left.]

I'm for the tournament. There is no more to be said.
Come, we shall be missed.

[A general movement towards the left door.
Cyprian.

This will end, as it begins, with the spilling
—of wine. You have no plot.

Ingleram.

Nonsense! Esplandian has stolen across
the Rhone already, and I expect an immediate message
from him.

Enter Isembert. He is tall; clean-shaved; iron-grey hair hanging to his shoulders; between forty and fifty; richly dressed.
Ingleram.

The Chancellor!

Dagobert.

Isembert!

Berthold
[swaggers up to Isembert and offers his hand, which Isembert declines].

Most opportune!
We four desperadoes, plotting some means of restoration
to her Grace's favour, talked of you this very moment;
and, you know, talk of the devil—

Isembert.

And don't tell him too much of your mind.

[Crosses to Ingleram.
Berthold
[blustering after Isembert].

You disdain
me, sir?

Isembert
[over his shoulder].

I disdain your condition.

Berthold.

By stoop and cup, sir, I would have you
know that I can be brimful of wine and yet not drunk!

Isembert.

So can a bottle.—Ingleram, I want you.
[Ingleram bows stiffly. As the others seem indisposed

to leave, Isembert looks from them to the door on the

left; and they go out, Dagobert jauntily, and Berthold

in a fume. As Cyprian goes out Isembert

gives him a significant glance, to which he replies with a

nod.]
What keeps Godfrida from the tournament?

Ingleram.
I wish I knew! Not her own will.

Isembert.
Whose then?

Ingleram.
The Duchess flatly bade her stay at home.
[Isembert walks across the stage in deep thought, paying no heed to the rest of Ingleram's speech.]
It puzzles me. They were companions—friends
Since childhood; daily meetings, messages,
Letters and gifts cease suddenly, no cause
Assigned.—I am afraid I tire you.

Isembert.
No;
I was n't listening.

Ingleram.
Then what brings you here?

Isembert.
I wish to see your niece.

Ingleram.
Concerning what?

Isembert.
I love her.

Ingleram
[astonished].
You among the fry of boys,
Of widowers, dotards, and adventurers
Who seek her for her fortune and her face!

Isembert
[scornfully].
Her fortune!

[Goes up stage.
Ingleram
[to himself].
Does he know? . . . What hope have you?

Isembert.
The highest hope. This is the day the fate
Within me has appointed to disclose
The love that in Godfrida's heart and mine,
Unhidden though unuttered, waits my word.

Ingleram.
Godfrida is a girl, and you as old
Almost as I.

Isembert.
Time is the earliest thrall
Enslaved by men who shape the world. My years
Are all attainments in Godfrida's eyes.
[Looking out at the back.]
She has just now left the garden. Bid her come.

Ingleram.
This overweening style of yours to me!

Isembert.
To you, sir. Bid her come.

[Comes down stage.
Ingleram
[to himself].
What does he know?

[Goes out at the back.
Isembert crosses quickly to the door on the left, which he opens. Re-enter Cyprian.
Cyprian.
You want me?

Isembert.
Yes. Hide somewhere in the street.
When Ingleram has gone, return.
[Cyprian goes out.]
[Re-enter Ingleram from the garden.]
She comes?

Ingleram.
After a little. She is with the maids.

Isembert.
She is a famous housewife, I believe.
I shall await her here. Follow your friends.
[Ingleram goes out surlily by the door on the left.]
This drudge was once a man! Ignoble aims
Meanly pursued would rot a hero's heart.
[Re-enter Cyprian.]
Well; a conspiracy?

Cyprian.
As you divined.
I am hand and glove with them to share the spoil
After Esplandian's [ironically]
certain victory.

Isembert.
They know Esplandian has crossed the Rhone?
[Cyprian assents.]
What is the arch—the keystone of their scheme?

Cyprian.
'Tis all unhewn. They wait Esplandian's stroke.

Isembert.
But Siward's prowess: have they counted that?

Cyprian.
They have counted nothing but necessity—
Their debts, disgraces, losses, wounded pride.

Isembert.
Well, we shall see. Back with you to the lists
And not a word of this to Ermengarde:
If she should ask for me, say I am busy.

[Cyprian goes out.
Enter Godfrida from the garden; beautiful; twenty years old. She is grave on her entrance, but as soon as she sees Isembert the cloud passes from her face.
Godfrida.
Oh, my lord Chancellor! My uncle said—
And doggedly refused the suppliant's name—
A hapless lover sought his coup-de-grâce.
Good-morning, Isembert.

Isembert
[holding her hand].
I am tongue-tied
Before your beauty, now that I have come
To claim it for my own.

Godfrida
[withdraws her hand, amazed at first; then pleasantly].
Well-acted, sir!
What part shall I play in your comedy?

Isembert.
You . . . No! My love for you unknown to you?
Have you not watched and felt yourself become
The essence, the idea of my life?
Your eyes are branded on my heart; your voice
Stored in my hearing like a golden hoard;
The lustre of your presence gilds the world;
Your haunting memory lights my loneliness:
And I believed you loved me.

Godfrida
[sadly].
That was rash.
But men will still mistake good-will for love.

[Goes up stage.
Isembert.
You love me not! [Godfrida is about to go out.]
Godfrida! [Godfrida turns.]
Hate me then.
This sorrow, this majestic tenderness
Disarms and baffles me. Be petulant;
Be scornful; sting my pride; then could I hate
And wound you with a scorpion-lash of words:
Give me your hate; for I must love or hate.

Godfrida.
But it is thanks I owe you, Isembert.
I think that love when it is love indeed
Exceeds in value everything besides:
When I shall love I hope for thanks at least.
Believe me, sir, I thank you from my heart.

[Goes out at the back.
Isembert
[sinks on the couch, then rises slowly].
Must I distrust my passion and my hope,
The angels of my life, that ne'er till now
Misled me? Can it be that like the ruck
Of humankind my passion and my hope
Are only lackeys to my vanity?
I know not what to do, or what to think!
This is defeat—for me, whose thoughts are deeds.
[Goes up stage and looks out.]
Already gone! When in her heart she feels
And truly understands that I . . . Yes! Clare!

Enter Clare from the garden; about forty; calm and gentle, without the appearance of a dependant.
Clare.
Your excellency?

Isembert.
I shall come to-day again—
To-day.

Clare.
To see my mistress, sir?

Isembert.
To-day—
After the tournament.

[Goes out.
Clare summons servants, who enter from the right and remove the flask and glasses. Godfrida re-enters from the right, and sitting in the window-seat becomes absorbed in a book.
Clare.
The Chancellor
Will visit you to-day again, he says.

Godfrida.
Indeed, I hope not, and I think not, Clare.

[When the servants have gone, Godfrida takes her book to the table and begins to pore over it. Clare sits at the spinning-wheel.
Clare.
What are you reading?

Godfrida.
Magic, sorcery;
Of love-charms and of love.

Clare.
You are in love.

Godfrida
[startled].
I never said it, Clare.

Clare.
No, but I know:
You are in love with Siward.

Godfrida.
What is this?
Siward? My champion is Sir Adomar.

Clare
[amused].
Oh! Adomar!

Godfrida.
He wears my ribbon.

Clare.
True;
He is your valentine; but that is play:
You have not said three words to Adomar.

Godfrida.
I have not said one word to Siward yet;
Nor met him; nor been near him.

Clare.
But your thoughts
Have parleyed: you remember when he rode,
After his first great victory, down the street,
How from your lattice—Oh, I watched you well!—
His eyes drank in a look of yours. And then
Your constant talks with Anselm, Siward's friend,
And yours—nothing but Siward and his deeds,
His beauty and his strength!

Godfrida
[half angry, half happy].
You witch! For shame!
I talk of whom I please.

Clare.
Who pleases you.

Godfrida.
Does Anselm think I love this Norseman, then?
Clare, do they talk of this? Is this supposed?
I am a woman: I can veil my thoughts:
It cannot be; a child can hide her love.

Clare.
Not from a witch. A silly prating boy,
Like Anselm, sees it not; nor any one
Save me: your secret is your own and mine . . .
And Siward's too.

Godfrida.
Impossible!—Clare?—Speak!

Clare.
If to Godfrida Anselm talks of Siward
In frankest innocence and boyish pride,
He talks to Siward of Godfrida too.
A soldier knows the world: in Anselm's looks
Fresh from your presence Siward sees a glass
That holds an image of your secret love.
And now I think of it, another knows:
Do you not guess why you are driven from court?

Godfrida.
The Duchess's caprice. Thrice in a month
She has commanded me to keep the house.
She has the power, and treats me like a girl.

Clare.
No more than that you think.

Godfrida.
What do you mean?

Clare.
The tournament. To-day Siward will fight
And carry off the prize.

Godfrida.
I hope so. Well?

Clare.
Why, every time you have been driven from court
Some festival or pageant was on foot.

Godfrida.
What then?

Clare.
Siward and you have never met.

Godfrida.
In God's name, cousin, tell me what you mean!

Clare.
The Duchess Ermengarde is jealous of you.
It all grows clear to me now as we talk.

Godfrida.
Jealous of me! Does she love Siward too?

Clare.
You are her only rival in the land;
As rich, as beautiful, and people say
Sweeter, and of a nobler mind than she.

Godfrida.
This cannot be! In love with Siward? No;
The Duchess means to live and die unwed;
Often she told me so when we were friends.
What friends we were too, Clare! But that is past.
During her reign I was to rule, she said:
She reigns; and all our friendship is forgot.

Clare.
Her jealousy.

Godfrida
[with an impatient gesture returns to her book. After a brief pause].
Clare, did you ever make
A philtre of a wryneck smoked and ground?

Clare.
That have I.

Godfrida.
Did the philtre work your will?

Clare.
She whom I made it for obtained her wish.

Godfrida.
Let us make such a love-compelling charm.

Clare.
There's art more subtle, magic braver far,
And craft more potent than a shelf of books.
No spell, no philtre, no melodious charm
Did ever make a hateful woman loved,
Or make her lovely. Beauty, youth, and grace
Enchant against the strongest sorcery.

Godfrida.
But that's no news; for five strange years have men
Blushing or bronzed, or silvered, at my feet
Or at my window, said and sung such things.
Now, tell me of the philtre that you made.
Was it most mighty?

Clare.
It had no more might
Than any other beakerful of wine.

Godfrida.
What wrought the purpose of the giver then?

Clare.
The purpose of the giver—

Godfrida
[with sudden conviction].
Wrought itself!
When love has wrenched and broken all their pride,
Then luckless ladies turn to sorcery;
But win their will by virtue of their will,
And not by means of thrice-decocted draughts.
The fixed resolve to wed the men they love,
Despite their soul's perdition, leads them on
To woo so sweetly and so valiantly,
That what their happier beauty could not do,
The beauty of despair accomplishes.
Philtres and charms, indeed! My own desire
Enchants my soul, and shall enchant the soul
Of him whom I delight in and adore.

Clare.
Siward.

Godfrida.
Yes, Siward. Oh! I love him, Clare.
[Kneels at Clare's side, and lays her head in her lap.]
What must I do, Clare? Shall I send him word?

Clare.
I think you must not send him word.

Godfrida.
Why, Clare?
Ladies in straits like me have broken rules,
And won true husbands; who have worshipped them
Because they had the courage of their love.
You think me foolish?

Clare.
Only rash, sweetheart.

Godfrida.
And I think brave. I would be always brave.
Wise? Yes; but not with guile; and always brave.
Siward is brave.

Clare.
Patience a little! Soon
Your purpose, as you said, may work itself
In some delightful, unexpected way.

Godfrida.
You think so, Clare?

[A knock is heard at the door on the left. Clare goes to the door. Godfrida sits at the wheel.
Clare
[at the door].
Who's there?

Anselm
[off stage].
I, Anselm.

Godfrida
[whispering].
No!

Clare
[opening door].
Godfrida is engaged.

Anselm.
Tell her I know
The issue of the tournament.

Godfrida
[whispering eagerly].
Yes, yes!
[Clare admits Anselm. He is a tall, handsome boy in his sixteenth year.]
Well, saucy boy, truant again?

Anselm.
Oh, no!
I was forbidden to attend the lists.

Godfrida.
For what new mischief, sir?—But tell me, now;
Have you determined yet to run away,
And be a viking bold and scour the seas?
[Anselm hangs his head.]
What, Anselm,—sulky. Not a kiss for me?
Indeed, it's time that ended. I protest—
Look, Clare! His upper lip! But yesterday
Smoother than mine: and now, behold!
[Anselm runs to Godfrida and kisses her cheek.]
Young man,
You must be muzzled.

Anselm.
With a helmet! Yes!
Next year I'm going with Siward to the wars.
Godfrida, I have grown an inch since Christmas.

Godfrida.
You'll be a giant, Anselm.

Anselm.
Do you know
I measure round the chest almost as much
As Siward? Yes, and I can swing his sword.

Godfrida.
You'll match him some day, Anselm, never fear.

Anselm.
But do you think so? Would it not be great
If I, unknown, could meet and conquer him,
And then, unhelmed, beg pardon on my knees?
And yet I should not like to conquer him:
He never has been conquered.

Godfrida.
Has he not?
This tournament may bring about a change.
I think you said you had some news of that.
I think he said so, Clare?

Anselm.
I said so; yes,
Wishing to enter here.

Godfrida.
You lied to me!
Begone!

Anselm.
Well—

Godfrida.
Go!

Anselm.
But I can truly tell
The issue of the tournament. I can!
You know, they fight in companies to-day—
A score against a score with naked steel:
And Siward said—you mustn't say I told—
He meant to win the ribbon from your knight.

Godfrida.
From Adomar! What did he know of that?
You mean to say you talk to him of me?

Anselm.
To you of him; of him, to you; what else?
Ah! But he knew, as everybody knew,
Who wore your favour. So he challenged him:
And Adomar turned white, but took the gage.
Siward will wear your favour now. Some day
Perhaps I shall.

Godfrida.
You foolish little boy!

Anselm.
You know you promised me to be my wife.

Godfrida.
I know. I was your sweetheart; you were ten,
And I was fifteen. You are fifteen now—
And tall and strong and handsome as a man.

Anselm.
Oh, damn! Boy, man; man, boy! Godfrida, which?

Godfrida
[laughing].
Not man enough to storm becomingly.
[Anselm is about to go in a huff.]
Going already? Come and say good-bye.
Come; kiss me, Anselm. Will you not? Well, then;
[She goes to Anselm and kisses him.]
This is the last time I shall kiss you, boy.
There, sir, and there! Henceforth you are a man.
Good-bye, good-bye!

Anselm.
No! keep me boy forever!

Godfrida.
I would I could!

Anselm.
Your little sweetheart!

Godfrida.
No.
Next year you'll be a gallant cavalier,
And have a little sweetheart of your own.
Go; be a man.
[Anselm goes out sadly.]
A flower has withered, Clare.

[Goes out at the back.
Re-enter Anselm triumphantly, followed by Siward. Siward is twenty-seven; strong, handsome face; yellow hair; long Norseman's moustache. He wears a complete suit of tilting armour, with his vizor raised. He has a crimson ribbon in his hand.
Anselm.
Siward is come, victorious.

[Looks about for Godfrida.
Clare.
In the garden.

Siward
[laying his hand on Anselm's shoulder].
My horse is at the door, dappled with froth,
Will you be kind to me, and ride him home?
Give him a pint of wine and see him groomed.

Anselm.
Ride Siward's horse?

[Flings up his cap, and goes out joyfully.
Siward.
Say not that I am come;
But say a messenger from Siward.

Clare.
Why?

Siward.
We have not met; but I would know her face,
And see none other in a chosen throng
Of the world's beauties: if her eyes greet me
As certainly my errand is half done.

Clare.
I'll say a messenger from Siward, sir.

[Goes out at the back.
Siward removes his gauntlets, unbuckles his sword, and lays them on the table. Re-enter Godfrida, carrying roses. She leans against the garden-door in her surprise at beholding Siward. Siward does not see her entrance.
Godfrida
[to herself].
Siward himself!
[Comes down stage. Siward approaches Godfrida eagerly.]
From Siward! Is he well?

Siward.
Never so happy in his life before.
By me he sends Godfrida deference,
And something that was hers and now is hers
Again.

[Offers the ribbon. Godfrida lays her roses on the table, but does not take the ribbon.
Godfrida.
And how did Siward come by that?

Siward.
Clusters and throngs of eyes massed up to heaven
Girt the loud tournament; but Siward watched
This only, streaming like a crimson flame
Above the mêlée on a lofty crest.
He spurred through drifts of dust and blood-stained plumes:
Three knights who barred the way he overthrew
With one unsplintered lance: then Adomar—
A foolish knight, but strong and deft in arms—
Fell at his touch like one by lightning struck.

Godfrida.
And is he killed?

Siward.
No; Siward spared his life;
I have his ransom here. But if you wish
He shall be killed?

Godfrida.
Oh, God forbid!

Siward.
Nay, then,
This Siward was a fool to waste his strength.
Farewell. He shall return to Adomar
The favour which it seems was rightly his.

Godfrida.
You—you are Siward. You—have come to me!
[Siward takes her hand; gradually draws her into his embrace, and bends down to kiss her.]
Nay, let me go, sir.

Siward.
To Sir Adomar?

Godfrida.
How can you say it!
[Takes the ribbon and ties it on his arm.]
In the sight of men
Wear this and guard it, if in heaven's sight
You mean to wear my love about your heart.

Siward.
About my heart! Accoutred in your love
Shall I not move unsmirched through courts: through war
Unwounded; and through fire and flood unscathed.
[He embraces her; but she turns her face away when he would kiss her.]
Must I not kiss you? Ah! you love me not!

Godfrida.
I love you so, that were your ease concerned
I think I could compel my love to die.
But do not kiss me yet, Siward; not yet.
[They sit on the couch. She helps him to remove his helmet.]
And you are Siward! Let me see you, close.
Is it not strange?—most strange! But yesterday
You were a being of another sphere,
Beyond my hail and seldom seen by me;
And now you are my hero in my arms.

Siward.
When shall I kiss you?

Godfrida.
When the time has come.
A kiss of love is the most hallowed thing
That women have to give. I pray you wait.
Our first kiss must be sweet and wonderful;
And we must wear it like a talisman
Upon our lips, and in our memories
Enshrine and seal it everlastingly.

Siward.
Nay, all our kisses, though their number be
More than the flowers, more than the stars, shall live
Forever singly in our thoughts, each one
Denoted by its character, but all
Most fragrant, radiant, rich, and sacro-sanct.

Godfrida.
All sacro-sanct! And I shall whisper, “Now,”—
Nay, you shall know without a murmured word
When we must kiss. What—what if I should die
At the first kiss of love?

Siward.
Death might seal up
Our kiss more certainly than life: the grave
Is the securest casket.

Godfrida.
Death—of death
We talk, now that our lives begin to be
Of worth!

Siward.
For everything receives from love
Glory and virtue, grace and dignity
Before unknown; and chiefly shapeless death
Becomes most debonair and beautiful.

Godfrida.
How great and how courageous is the world
That has within it such a quenchless fount
Of beauty and delight for all to drink!

Siward.
Do you remember when our thirsty eyes
Partook their eager, earliest draught of love?

Godfrida.
You rode bareheaded from your victory:
The happy people shouted “Siward!”

Siward.
Yes!
And I looked up and at a lattice saw
Your face!
[Godfrida closes her eyes and he kisses her.]
Our second kiss! Our souls first kissed
When first our glances blended.
[Enter Thangbrand hurriedly. About thirty-five; with a rough likeness to Siward.]
[Starting up.]
Thangbrand!

Thangbrand.

The Duchess bade me find you. She
expects you now.

Godfrida
[has risen].

The Duchess!

Thangbrand.

She is not one that puts off till tomorrow.
When Sir Siward left the lists she flung down
her baton and despatched me for my master and the
Seneschal for you, madam.

Godfrida.

For me!

Thangbrand.

He is close behind me.—Shall I wait
on you at home, sir?

Siward.

Surely. I must doff my harness before I
go to court.

Thangbrand
[at the door].

Here is master Gaucelm,
sir.

[Goes out.
Enter Gaucelm, passing Thangbrand at the door. About fifty, wearing a chain of office.
Gaucelm
[to Godfrida].

The Duchess commands
your attendance at the palace.

Godfrida.
The Duchess shall be obeyed. At what time?

Gaucelm.
Within an hour.

[Godfrida assents. Gaucelm goes out.
Siward.
The Duchess has some pique against you.

Godfrida.
Yes.
She is jealous of me, Siward; jealous—jealous!

Siward.
Jealous of you?

Godfrida.
She loves you, Siward.

Siward.
Me!
She only loves her country and herself.

Godfrida.
How could she fail to love her warrior!
Siward, if she should offer you her hand?

Siward.
She will not.

Godfrida.
If she did, what would you do?

Siward.
I should reject it.

Godfrida.
Are you sure of that?
We gather violets because the skies
Are far beyond our reach; but if a star
Came down to us with sweet fire overbrimmed,
We might forget the simple violets.

Siward.
And when the moon comes we forget the stars.
No other planet in the firmament
Can make my heart leap since your love-lit eyes
Looked on me from your lattice earnestly,
And all the aimless longing of my life
Began to flow in one full tide to you.

[He embraces her and goes out by the door on the left.
Godfrida walks across the stage slowly. Re-enter Isembert unseen by Godfrida. He goes up the stage and watches her. Godfrida, crossing again, takes a rose from the table.
Godfrida
[to herself].
And all the aimless longing of my life
Began to flow in one full tide to you!

Isembert
[comes down quickly].
I passed your flashy ruffian at the door!
Are you Godfrida—or a serving-maid,
Whose heart goes pit-a-pat to hear a drum?
Siward!—a ruthless, wanton vagabond
Who puts his sword to auction—and his love!
What! do you keep him, then?—I heard them join
Your name with Siward's—as I hear the wind
That whispers naught for me. Could I believe
She who had known the treasure of my soul
In jewelled speech and silences that set
The thought to music, would degrade her heart
For a mere daub and signboard of a man—
A common fighting bully with a lie
In every word, a wench in every street!

Godfrida.
I cannot pardon this that you have said
Against my lover, though upon your face
Prone in the dust, you begged me all your life.

Isembert.
Prone in the dust!—And so I broach your hate:
It shall have cause to flow, I promise you!
[Godfrida with a contemptuous look turns to go. Isembert seizes her hand, and the rose falls at her feet.]
I have more to say. I came this time to plead—
I, who exalt myself above mankind,
Came meekly to implore a thing denied;
For I forgave what I conceived to be
Perplexity at love's unlooked-for dawn.
Instead I find a sin against myself:
You knew me, and preferred a sort of slave,
A despicable huckster of his blood.
Now, though my senses still cry out for you,
I would not for a kingdom have your love.
But I shall make you mine in hate—a bond
Most intimate, most durable, most chaste.

[With a smothered scream Godfrida runs into the garden. Isembert crosses to go out. Looking about with his hand on the door, he sees the flower that fell from Godfrida's hand; goes quickly and picks it up—stealthily, as if ashamed to find himself doing so.