University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A Heath in Hampshire.—Dunstan and Gurmo in flight
Dunstan.
The night shall shield us like a raven's wing.
What hear'st thou in the wind?

Gurmo.
A moaning cry.

Dunstan.
Thou faint'st with hunger.

Gurmo.
Can I fast so long
And not be hungry?

Dunstan.
'Tis a wolf that cries,
And he is hungry too. Make forward still.

Gurmo.
I see a light.

Dunstan.
Hist! in the lull of the wind
I hear the stroke of hammers. On apace!
It is a blacksmith's forge. I'll harbour there.

Scene II.

—A Blacksmith's Forge.—The Blacksmith at work. Serfs and Boors dropping in, with a Monk and others.
Blacksmith.
(blowing the bellows and singing).
But now I wax old,
Sick, sorry, and cold,
Like much upon mould
I widder away.

I have taken the liberty to borrow this from the “Processus Noe,” one of the Towneley Mysteries, printed by the Surtees Society. In another place I have taken a mode of expression from the following lines in the “Mactatio Abel”:—

“Felowes, here I you forbede
To make nother nose nor cry:
Whoso is so hardy to do that dede,
The Devylle hang hym up to dry.”

1st Boor.
Look, thou horse-cobbler; call'st thou this a shoe?
I know thee; since the slaughter at the ford
Thou'rt warming old ones up.

Blacksmith.
Oh me, st. Giles!

2nd Boor.
And mark this coulter; look you at this mattock.

Monk.
Repent and do thy work more workmanlike,
Or in a twinkling him shalt thou behold
That came to holy Dunstan's forge unbid
And staid unwilling. Marry, Sir, thy tongs
Would touch him not, and he is roaming now
Through all the land.

3rd Boor.
'Tis true; I saw myself
The print of his hoof. 'Twas in Dame Umfrieg's garth,
And Father Egelpig discovered it.
'Twas like a goat's.

Monk.
My son, he's there and here
And everywhere, since that most holy man,
The Abbot Dunstan, by the godless King
Was forced to fly.

4th Boor.
I've sent for Father Crid
To bless and exorcise my cattle and swine.

Monk.
Thou hast done well; but thy best safety lies
In holy Dunstan's prayers. At Winchester
Ye heard how in the west end of the church,
The night that Dunstan fled, the Devil skipped
And with great laughter in his roaring fashion
Took up his “O be joyful!”

“The Divell was heard in the west end of the church, taking up a great laughter after his roaring manner, as though he should show himself glad and joyful at Dunstan's going into exile.”— Holinshed, chap. 23.

Who are these?
A brother of mine order is the one.
If I mistake not. Benedicite!

Enter Dunstan and Gurmo.
Dunstan.
God save you! holy brother: sons, and you!
We seek for shelter from the coming storm.

Blacksmith.
Father, you're welcome.

Monk.
Come ye from the south?

Dunstan.
From London last.

Monk.
From London? yea, indeed!
What tidings bring ye then?

Dunstan.
What would ye know?

Monk.
Canst thou be so insensible to ask?
The holy Abbot Dunstan—where is he?
What fate attends him?

Dunstan.
That we know not yet.

Blacksmith.
A price is on his head—ten thousand marks.
Lilla, the King's Gerefa of the shire,
Proclaim'd it far and wide.

Dunstan.
Give me thy hammer;
Thou canst not make a coulter so; look here;
Strike endways—thus—and thus. What said the shire
To Lilla's proffer? Was it hailed with joy?

Monk.
Torn down and trampled in the mud. This shire
Will yield them many a Peter with his sword,
But ne'er a Judas.

Dunstan.
Is the shire so hot
In Dunstan's cause?

Monk.
It kindles hourly. Nay,
'Tis said that Lilla and his men were met
On Chilton-down by fifteen hundred boors
And scantly saved themselves by flight.

1st Boor.
'Tis true;
'Twas Titchburne township that turn'd out the first:
But we of Droxford will be up betimes;
See if we be not.

Dunstan.
If ye be, my friends,
The Abbot will be presently amongst you;
For this way comes he, having in his mind
To cross the sea to Flanders. But, my friends,
If ye be hearty in the cause of God
Ye will not let him go. Shame to this shire,
Shame be to England and to Christendom,
If he that fasted and that watched for you,
And day by day to save your perishing souls
Flayed his poor body streaming down with blood,—
Shame to your country and yourselves, if he
Should flee before the wicked!

Boors.
We'll rise! we'll rise!
It never shall be said. He shall not flee.

Dunstan.
He will not, if ye stead him in his peril.
But ye must be alert. Go forth this night,
This very night go forth, and call your friends
In all the hamlets round, to meet at Stoke
By dawn to-morrow. Thither Dunstan comes,
And ye shall bid him go no further forth.

Monk.
What! Dunstan's very self? will he be there?

Dunstan.
I say he will.

2nd Boor.
Then, mattock, go thy ways;
I'll run to meet him.

3rd Boor.
All—we all must run.
We all have souls.

Monk.
Come to the abbey first,
And ye shall have your doublets lined with mead,
Wherewith defended ye may face the storm,
Flying from house to house, and send the news
From village on to village.

Blacksmith.
And, father, you,
And this your friend, shall rest the while with me.

Scene III.

—Derby.
Edwin and Athulf.
Athulf.
With patience we shall prosper. That alone
Is wanting to us now.

Edwin.
Nay, do not chide.
I have been patient, Athulf, in my cell;
Patient of wrongs and cruelties and threats,
Sickness and imminent death; but this is worse;
To be at large, and yet be checked and curbed,
When now my wife's deliverance only waits
On my advance.

Athulf.
With measured speed we pass
To an assured result; with hurried steps
We should but bring the shadow of a host
To issues that would then be full of doubt.
Our marches are too hasty, and the force
Begins to break. Pause, I beseech you.

Edwin.
Well;
You are a soldier tried in many a field;
And I am but a King. Have, then, your way.

Athulf.
So please you, then, pass onward to the front,
Whilst I hang back and gather up the rear.

Scene IV.

—Audley in Staffordshire.
Leolf and Emma.
Emma.
Could not the Queen await the coming up
Of the King's army? Must she hazard yours?

Leolf.
My army moves not. A few mounted thanes
Alone go with me. No, she hazards nought,—
Nought that is worth a care, except herself.

Emma.
She hazards all.

Leolf.
True, for her safety's sake
I could have wished her to let time declare
What should ensue at Malpas. But the signs
Bid fair for peace, and barring misadventure . . .

Emma.
'Tis a rash reckoning in such times as these
That bars a misadventure.

Leolf.
Nay, not so.
With Dunstan fled the spirit of the storm,
And Indiscretion, that was fain to hide
Its battered plumage, now may gambol forth
On bolder wing.—Earl Sidroc, by my life!
Welcome to Audley!

Enter Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Nay, Lord Heretoch, nay;
Before you make me welcome, hear my news.

Leolf.
No, you are welcome. If your news be bad,
Welcome the more, for then the more's the need
Of your good counsel.

Sidroc.
Dunstan is at large—
Nay more, has joined the Witenagemót.
I chased him to the coast, where in a night
The boors of Hampshire rose five thousand strong
And snatched him from my hands.

Leolf.
At Malpas now!
Already there!

Sidroc.
I fear he is indeed.
But have you then no tidings? Hear you not
From Malpas?

Leolf.
We had looked to hear anon.
There comes a fellow with an open mouth
And eager eye.
Enter Messenger.
The sequel? Speak, my friend;
What more beside the message in thy face?

Messenger.
The Abbot is at Malpas.

Leolf.
That we knew,
Or nearly knew. What did he then when there?

Messenger.
He called the Witenagemót together
And bade them never more to speak of peace
Until the Church were founded in her rights.

Leolf.
And he was heard?

Messenger.
By some he was opposed
That stood around him, but the floor fell in
And they went headlong; on the only beam
That brake not, Dunstan, standing undismayed,
Stretched forth his arm and bade the multitude
Confess the hand of God.

Sidroc.
By Peter's Keys
Another miracle and a murder too
Done by this cunning carpenter!

Leolf.
What next
Needs not be asked. Peace was renounced, no doubt?

Messenger.
It was, my Lord.

Emma.
The salvage may be high,
But something there is saved by this. The Queen
Will now sit close.

Leolf.
I know not that; foul winds
Preach patience; but adversity, to some
So sedative, to others is a goad.
Aught that disturbs her, hurries her to act.
—Then hears the King her husband of her peril,
And he is hurried past his reason too.—
I pray you come. But, Ernway, get you ready
To carry letters south.

[Exeunt Leolf and Sidroc.
Emma.
Now will he write
Commending care and patience to the King,
And take the danger solely to himself.
But think you, Seneschal, the Earl's dear life
Should thus be thrown amongst the enemy
And all of us behind?

Seneschal.
What else can I?

Emma.
Why this: So soon as he is gone, the force
Is at thy order—move it on to Lea,
Whence thou canst see, if aught ensue amiss,
To Leolf's safe return.

Seneschal.
Nay, but the King,
If he be patient to the Heretoch's wish,
Will be but late to join us though we wait;
And should we move . . .

Emma.
The King will follow fast
Once he shall know you gone; which that he shall
In all its import know, trust to my care,
For I will forth with Ernway, and perchance
In this affair my counsel with the King
Shall weigh as heavy as the Heretoch's.

Scene V.

—Malpas.—Dunstan surrounded by Ealdermen and Military Leaders of the Monastic Party.
Dunstan.
No more of Witenagemóts—no more—
Councils and courts we want not.—Get ye back,
Back to your posts, and pluck me forth your swords,
And let me hear your valiant deeds resound,
And not your empty phrases. Ecfrid, Gorf,
Look to your charges—Nantwich stands exposed—
Whitchurch lies open to the enemy—
Burley and Baddeley have sold themselves—
Wistaston is as naked as Godiva
And not so honest. Eadbald, Ida, Brand,
What seek ye here when honour is in the field?
Forth to your charges!—What! Ceolwulf too!
Enter the Coastwardens, Ceolwulf and Æthelric.
And Æthelric! Why come ye hither, Sirs?
Must ye too have your parley and your prate
And leave your charges in extremity
To join this gossiping Gemót? St. Bride!
Is Somerset not worth your pains, my Lords,
Or hath the Dane, too, from the seaboard slunk
To prattle about peace?

Ceolwulf.
Lord Abbot, hear;
We are not come . . .

Dunstan.
Not come to pule and prate?
What are ye come for? If aught else ye seek,
Ye seek it where it is not. Back to your charge!

Æthelric.
You will not hear, my Lord; we have no charge—
We have no force; our men are slain, ourselves
Escaped by miracle; the Northmen, led
By Sweyne and Olaf, landed yesternight
In Porlock Bay and clipped us round at Stoke,
And thinned as we had been, we fell perforce
An easy prey. Not twenty men are left
To tell the tale.

Dunstan.
In Porlock Bay! At Stoke!
—Have I not bid you to your posts, my Lords,
And must I bid you twice? Get ye hence all.
If news ye came for, ye have heard it.—Stop,
Ceolwulf. Whither go the Northmen next?

Ceolwulf.
To Glastonbury it is thought, my Lord.

Dunstan.
To Glastonbury do they go? Alas!
My mother there lies sick.

Scene VI.

—Ashborn in Derbyshire.
Edwin and Athulf.
Edwin.
Still this is gained,—the everlasting word
“Halt!” shall be heard no more; and never more
Shall my heart sicken at its detested sound.
Now, thinking of Elgiva close at hand,
We shall be filled with her victorious cheer.

Athulf.
I would to God that I could think her wise.
All is in jeopardy through her. By Heaven!
I know not which is worst—to come too late,
Or come with broken strength.

Edwin.
To come too late
Is worst by far. When Leolf went from Audley
'Tis true he bade us to beware of haste;
But then he knew not that the enemy's force
Would move on Nantwich, thus, with his at Lea,
To bring them cheek-by-jowl, whilst us it leaves
More laggard than we were.

Athulf.
I'll stake my head
'Twas ne'er by Leolf's wish his force was moved
So far as Lea; but be it so or not,
'Twas moved in error; it can bring no aid
To Leolf and Elgiva; nay, I fear,
'Twill draw the forces of the enemy down
Upon the very wayside of their flight.
Still moved it is, and I deny not now
That we should follow at our best of speed.

Scene VII.

—Night. A Coppice near Acton in Cheshire. —In front is a mortstone.

This was a large stone by the way-side between a distant village and the parish church, on which the bearers of a dead body rested the coffin.

Enter certain Retainers and Servants of Leolf.
1st Servant.
This is the road; bring up the horses, ho!
Hark! heard'st thou aught? If Dunstan knew, my friends,
He'd ope his book and read a verse of power,
And send a goblin that should . . .

2nd Servant.
Hush! thou fool!
Is it not hither the Earl should come?

1st Servant.
'Tis here,
Six furlongs from the chapel. What is this?
Oh me! the mortstone! No, it is not here;
'Tis further on.

3rd Servant.
Seest thou not something white?

1st Servant.
Jesu Maria, save us! 'tis a Spirit.

[Exeunt.
Enter Leolf and Elgiva.
Leolf.
Fresh horses should have met us here; what chance
Hath hindered them, I know not; we must wait
Till these be rested. Here is a rude stone-seat;
We may rest likewise.

Elgiva.
Is there danger still?

Leolf.
But little here; the dangers of the road,
I trust, are left behind.

Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf! much
I owe you, and if aught a kingdom's wealth
Affords, could pay the debt . . .

Leolf.
A kingdom's wealth!
Elgiva! by the heart the heart is paid.
You have your kingdom, my heart has its love.
We are provided.

Elgiva.
Oh! in deeds so kind,
And can you be so bitter in your words!
Have I no offerings of the heart, wherewith
Love's service to requite?

Leolf.
The least of boons
Scattered by royal charity's careless hand
O'erpays my service; to requite the rest
All you possess is but a bankrupt's bond.
This is the last time we shall speak together;
Forgive me, therefore, if my speech be bold
And need not an expositor to come.
I loved you once; and in such sort I loved
That anguish has but burnt the image in
And I must bear it with me to my grave.
I loved you once; dearest Elgiva, yes,
Ev'n now my heart is feeding on that love
As in its flower and freshness, ere the grace
And beauty of the fashion of it perished.
It was too anxious to be fortunate,
And it must now be buried, self-embalmed
Within my breast, or living there recluse
Talk to itself and traffic with itself;
And like a miser that puts nothing out
And asks for no return, must I tell o'er
The treasures of the past.

Elgiva.
Can no return
Be rendered? And is gratitude then nothing?

Leolf.
To me 'tis nothing—being less than love;
But cherish it as to your own soul precious;
The heavenliest lot that earthly natures know
Is to be affluent in gratitude.
Be grateful and be happy. For myself,
If sorrow be my portion, yet shall hope,
That springs from sorrow and aspires to heaven,
Be with me still. When this disastrous war
Is ended, I shall quit my country's shores
A pilgrim and a suitor to the love
Which dies not nor betrays.—What cry is that?
I thought I heard a voice.

Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf, Leolf!
So tender, so severe!

Leolf.
Mistake me not;
I would not be unjust; I have not been;
Now less than ever could I be, for now
A sacred and judicial calmness holds
Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed
The picture of the past presents itself
Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen
In his last moments by a drowning man.
Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf;
Time and the elements conspired its fall;
The worm has eaten out the tenderer parts
And left this curious anatomy
Distinct of structure—made so by decay;
So at this moment lies my life before me
In all its intricacies, all its errors,
And can I be unjust?

Elgiva.
Oh, more than just,
Most merciful in judgment have you been,
And ev'n in censure kind.

Leolf.
Our lives were linked
By one misfortune and a double fault.
It was my folly to have fixed my hopes
Upon the fruitage of a budding heart;
It was your fault,—the lighter fault by far,—
Being the bud to seem to be the berry.
The first inconstancy of unripe years
Is nature's error on the way to truth.
But, hark! another cry! they call us hence;
Why come they not to us? Hark! Hist! again!
A clash of swords! Our band then is beset;
Alas, Elgiva!

Elgiva.
Leolf, we are lost.
Say, is it so? I am not afraid; but, oh!
Forgive me, Leolf, for I have wronged in you
The noblest of your kind. Oh, Edwin! . . . Leolf,
Tell him that I was true till death to him,
Though sometime false to you.

Leolf.
Fly, fly, Elgiva!
Our horses are at hand—we still may fly.

Scene VIII.

—Lea in Cheshire.
Edwin, Athulf, and Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Neither of them nor those that with them went
Nor those that went to meet them, can I glean
One grain of tidings. Even lies are scarce
And false reports arrive not.

Athulf.
They are lost.

Edwin.
Peace, Athulf! If you would not I lost heart
Now, when my courage will be needed most,
Speak not that word again. They shall be found.
Let us but march on Malpas.

Sidroc.
By the way
It may be we shall meet them. But if news
Of them be wanting, of the Danes 'tis rife.
In Somerset, which now they leave behind,
Town, hamlet, monastery, church and grange,
Lie smoking; and at Glastonbury Sweyne
Wasted the Abbot's lands, his treasure took,
And scared his bedrid mother, that she fled,
Though seized with mortal sickness.

Athulf.
Hurt to her
Strikes at the human corner of his heart.

Sidroc.
Upon him now, then, while his cheer is low.

Athulf.
Oh, Sidroc! what is ours?

Edwin.
Nay, hope the best;
Sidroc is right; on Malpas let us march,
Sending the women to our friends in Wales.

Scene IX.

—Malpas.
Bridferth and Ruold.
Bridferth.
He is in much perplexity of mind;
You cannot see him. Since his mother's death
He comes not from his chamber, save at night
When the sad brethren of St. Benedict
Say masses for her soul.

Ruold.
His mother dead!

Bridferth.
At Glastonbury she lay sick, and thence
Driven by the Dane, the terror of her flight,
Conspiring with her malady, put out
Her spark of life. To her great son she sent
Her dying charge that he as best he might
Should heal his country's wounds and give it peace,
And rescue from the Northmen's ravages
Its poor remains.

Ruold.
Indeed! His mother dead!
Well, had he lost ten mothers ten times told
Still must I see him.

Bridferth.
What's your errand, then,
That is so instant? Of the Queen's escape
He knows already.

Ruold.
That is not the last
Nor yet the sharpest of the untoward strokes
That destiny hath dealt us. What I know
I fear to tell, save to the Abbot's self.
But, lo, he comes! And by my life I shrink
From telling it to him. Stand back a space.

[They retire. Dunstan enters.
Dunstan.
Why did I quit the cloister? I have fought
The battles of Jehovah; I have braved
The perfidies of courts, the wrath of Kings,
Desertion, treachery,—and I murmured not,—
The fall from puissance, the shame of flight,
The secret knife, the public proclamation,—
And how am I rewarded? God hath raised
New enemies against me,—from without
The furious Northman,—from within, far worse,
Heart-sickness and a subjugating grief.
She was my friend—I had but her—no more,
No other upon earth—and as for Heaven,
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom
No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother!
—Who's this? What are you, Sir? What brings you here?
Oh, ho! I know you; you are Ruold; well,
What news from Chester? Easy watch you kept
Upon Elgiva. Let that pass. What more?
Your father's merits have redeemed your head
That else was forfeited.

Ruold.
Lord Abbot, still
It stands a forfeit, if adversity,
Loss and disaster make a forfeiture.
Chester is burnt. The Dane came up the Dee,
And landing in the night, ere break of day
Slew half my force and fired the town.

Dunstan.
So! so!
Deemedst thou that this should jeopardize thy head?
Far otherwise. But send Harcather here.
This news is welcome.
[Exeunt Ruold and Bridferth.
Is it not welcome? Yes;
It rings a shrill alarum in mine ears,
Telling me that the murderers of my mother
Are come to judgment. Give me back, O God,
My health of heart, and waken me to wield
The weapons of thine anger. Oh, my mother!
Thy deathbed was illuminate from Heaven
And in the glory of prophetic light
Thy soul departed. From thy place thou seest
Thy word fulfilled—the Heathen hems us round—
Next shalt thou see thy son perform thy bidding,
And gathering into one the broken force
Of this divided realm, with headlong might
Reject the Northmen to their native rocks.
Enter Harcather.
Harcather, we are threatened, hear'st thou not?
The raven that was watching from afar
Our mortal throes, deems that she now can tear
The body of the land. Nay, ravenous Dane,
We are not yet exanimate. Let all
That ever dreamt that they were Christians, join
To fight against these robbers of the sea
And hurl them backward to their brine. Proclaim
A peace betwixt King Edwin and the Church—
In furtherance whereof will I divulge
Letters of absolution for those Earls
And others that are excommunicate.
Send me a Herald to King Edwin's camp.
What staggering knave is this, with bloodstain'd pate
And livid lips? 'Tis Gurmo. What bring'st thou?
The Queen? Where is she? Hast thou got her safe?
He cannot speak.

Gurmo
(who has entered).
Lord Abbot, she is dead.

Dunstan.
Dead! By what chance? Alive I bid thee take her,
And wherefore is she dead?

Gurmo.
Her horse was fleet,
But fleeter is an arrow than a horse.
An arrow from my bow is in her heart.
And Leolf, too, is slain. But lo! I bleed;
For ere they slew him, I was hurt to death
And by his hand. Short shrift for me I wot!
A priest—a priest—not you, Lord Abbot, no—
King Edwin now comes rushing on—look out
Or you shall be surprised.

Dunstan.
Harcather, fly;
The forces that are scattered draw together
And plant them close and strong. A Herald send,
I say again, with overtures to Edwin,
Inviting him to peace. A priest, good Gurmo?
No, 'tis myself must shrive thee; to my cell
Supporthim. Is he dead? Not yet—not yet.

Scene X.

—A Village on the Borders of Wales.
Ethilda, Emma, Ernway, and Sidroc.
Sidroc.
To Ernway's escort must I leave you now,
Lest my return should find a foughten field
And not a field to fight. The road is safe,
And Ruthin Castle you will reach ere long,
With a warm welcome from the good Ap Rhys.

Ethilda.
When shall the tidings of the battle come
To Ruthin Castle?

Sidroc.
When to-morrow's sun
Behind the summit of Llanvarroch sinks,
Look down the valley. If the day be won,
A white flag flying in a horseman's hand
Shall fan you from afar, and kindle joy
In all your hearts.

Emma.
No, never more in mine.

Sidroc.
If it be lost, perchance you shall descry
Some remnant that may fight their way to Wales,
In shelter of the mountains to abide
Till better times.

Ethilda.
Commend me to the King,
And tell Earl Athulf I am strong in hope,
Rejoicing alway in his absolution,
And trusting we shall meet to part no more.

Scene XI.

—The Walls of Malpas.
Dunstan, Harcather, and a Messenger.
Dunstan.
“The Dane! The Dane!” Why pesterest thou mine ears
With that perpetual cry? How face the Dane,
Not knowing yet if Edwin be for peace?

Harcather.
For peace, Lord Abbot! nay, he cannot choose.

Dunstan.
Let me know that, I say; let me know that.
See ye the Herald coming?

Messenger.
Ay, my Lord.

Harcather.
At Herald's pace; these fellows dream and prance
Ever as in a pageant and procession.

Dunstan.
I bade him,—when in sight of Edwin's camp.

Harcather.
If he be now in sight thereof, that camp
Is nearer than we thought. It may be so.

Messenger.
But lo! he pricks his prancing to a gallop;
And see, my Lord, from forth the valley's gorge
Issues a cloud of dust.

Harcather.
By Egbert's bones
It is the dust of Edwin's army. Stay—
A gleam comes through it—run thou to my son,
And bid him lead the vanguard out forthwith.
Send me my horse.

Dunstan.
What think'st thou? Is it war?

Harcather.
Else wherefore this advance? To horse! to horse!

Dunstan.
Stop; be not hasty; now the Herald comes;
Hear we his tale.
Herald enters.
Well, Sir, what saith the King?

Herald.
He saith, my Lord, what I should but blaspheme
Should I recite it.

Dunstan.
What! thine office, Herald!
Speak me the very words.

Herald.
My Lord, he saith
That with a bloody and a barbarous hand
You have torn out the very sweetest life
That ever sanctified humanity.
He saith that should he covenant to make peace
With the revolted Angels, yet with you
He would not; for he deems you more accursed
And deeper in perdition. And he saith
Not she that died at Gibeah, whose twelve parts
Sent several through the borders and the coasts
Raised Israel, was avenged more bloodily
Than shall Elgiva be, the murder'd Queen.
Wherefore he bids you come to battle forth,
And add another crime or answer this.

Dunstan.
Harcather, hear'st thou? To the field—away!
The gates of Hell stand wider than their wont
To let this infidel and his army pass!

Scene XII.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.—The left of the field. Alarums and skirmishing. Enter Athulf and Sidroc with forces.
Athulf.
Three minutes till the rearward force is up—
Halt for three minutes—Sidroc, look, oh, look!
The King is plunging madly forward still;
Either an ambush he will find or else
They'll lure him through the gates. Go to him, Sidroc.

Sidroc.
No need of ambush for that headlong boy;
A town is not so manifest a trap
But it shall catch him.

Athulf.
Fly, then, to his side,
And bring him back. I cannot go myself,
For now the rearward gathers up behind,
And lo! Harcather comes against us. Charge!

Scene XIII.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.— The right of the field. A body of Monks are seen ranged on the walls, holding up crosses and relics. In front, Edwin with forces.
Edwin.
Nay, stagger ye at a show of hoods and gowns!
It is a murderer's disguise, I say,
And not a Christian's garb.—What spectre foul
Is you that rises o'er the ruined wall?
I see the accursed Abbot's skinny hand
Held up aloft! Now God befriend the right!

Scene XIV.

—Before the Walls of Malpas.—The left of the field. Alarums and a retreat sounded. Athulf with a remnant of his force, and Ruold.
Athulf.
I knew you not; why pressed you thus upon us,
Alone and wounded as you are? Fall back.

Ruold.
I seek my death,—but, Athulf, not from you.

Athulf.
Oh, gentle Ruold, in my sister's right
I bid you live.

Ruold.
Her spirit calls me hence.
Had I been resolute, she had lived to-day.
Farewell, brave Athulf. You have lost your King.

[Exit.
Athulf.
It shall not be. Nay, hold your ground, my friends;
Turn on them—'tis the last time—ay, the last—
Lo! there Earl Sidroc gallops from the right
To tell us if the King can yet be saved.
Stand fast but till he comes. Crossbow-men, see!
They round the hill, the villains! Shoot together—
There flies the sleet that whistles in their beards—
Charge once again—no archery like yours!
And here comes Sidroc. Well, how fares the King?

Enter Sidroc.
Sidroc.
Outwitted, lost, inveigled, snared, and worse,
If worse it be, wounded—they say to death.
Soon as the execrable shape appeared
Of Dunstan on the walls, the tempest rose
Upon his heart and drave him to his fate.
Athulf, away! for longer now to stand
Were worse than vain.

Athulf.
They circle us about,
But we shall break their circle to their cost.
Well have ye battled for your King, brave hearts!
And now I bid you but to save yourselves.
Look not too narrowly at the fence, but leap;
And if it chance, as like enough it may,
That we be scattered, we shall meet again
At Ruthin, whither is the Princess fled.
Round her we rally. Ride, Sirs, for your lives.

Scene XV.

—Malpas.—Interior of the Cathedral. Candles burning and altars decked as for a service of thanksgiving. A corpse lies on a bier in the transept, and the chaunting of a service for the dead is heard at intervals from a side-chapel. Monks enter in procession, and lastly Dunstan.
Dunstan.
So flee the works of darkness. Sing ye the psalm
“Quid gloriaris.”—Stop: a hasty step
Rings in the cloister.

Enter a Soldier.
Soldier.
I am bid, my Lord,
To seek the Lord Harcather, for his son
Ruold is slain.

Dunstan.
Silence! no more of that;
Harcather is gone forth to meet the Dane;
Let him not know it yet.
Enter Bridferth.
Well, Bridferth, well?

Bridferth.
Athulf and Sidroc have escaped, my Lord,
The prisoners say, and as I learn elsewhere,
Doing much havoc in their desperate flight.

Dunstan.
'Tis true. I thought no less.—What corse is this?

A Monk.
The Queen's, my Lord, awaiting burial.

Dunstan.
Hers?—
Withdraw the winding-sheet, that once again
I may behold her.—Art thou she indeed!
The blankness of mortality in thee
Seems more than in another. Where be now
The flushings of the fervent cheek, the fires
That lightened from those eyes! Oh, rueful sight!
Methinks that thou dost look reproachfully.
Not me—not me—upbraid not me, pale Queen!
I slew thee not, nor yet desired thy death;
I would have willed thee to repent and live,
But lo! the will of God hath mastered mine.

Chaunt from the side-chapel.

Dunstan
—Better be so than be the living cause
Of death eternal and a nation's lapse
To mortal sin. Nor sin nor sorrow now
Hath power upon thee; nor canst thou, fair mask,
Be ever more their minister.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord,
The King, so please you—

Dunstan.
What, Sir, of the King?

Attendant.
He is again delirious, and hath torn
The bandage from his wound. He bleeds amain.

Chaunt again.

Enter another Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord, the King, the King!

Dunstan.
What! comes he hither?

Enter Edwin, followed by a Physician and Attendants.
Edwin.
Where art thou, my beloved? Come to me!
Art thou not here? They said so, but 'twas false—
Thou art not here, for if thou wert, I know
Thou'dst fly to meet me.—Ha! I see thee now—
And yet thou mov'st not. What! in chains again!
Not so, Elgiva—thou art free, my love—
I smote them with the sword. Oh, come to me!
Give me thy hand.

Dunstan.
Doctor, thou mad'st report
The fever had abated.

The Physician.
Had, my Lord;
But rages now afresh.

Dunstan.
How came he hither?

Attendant.
He asked us if the Queen were buried yet,
Or where the body lay; we told him, here;
And he commanded we should bring him.

Dunstan.
See!

Edwin.
Thy hand is very cold.—Come, come, look up.
Hast not a word to say to so much love?
Well—as thou wilt—but 'twas not always thus.
So soon to be forgotten! Oh, so soon!
And I have loved so truly all this while!—
I dream—I do but dream—I think.—What's here?
'Tis not the dress that thou wert wont to wear.
This is a corpse! Attendance, here! What, ho!
Who was so bold to bring a stone-cold corpse
Into the King's apartment? Stop—be still—
I know not that. Give me but time, my friends,
And I will tell you.

The Physician.
Draw him from the corpse:
This loss of blood that drains the fever off
Anon will bring him to himself.

A Monk.
My Lord,
I hear a shout as of a multitude
In the north suburb.

Dunstan.
Bridferth, mount the tower
And look abroad.

Edwin.
That was a voice I knew—
It came from darkness and the Pit—but hark!
An Angel's song . . . 'Tis Dunstan that I see!
Rebellious monk! I lay my body down
Here at thy feet to die, but not my soul,
Which goes to God. The cry of innocent blood
Is up against thee, and the Avenger's cry
Shall answer it. Support me, Sirs, I pray;
Be patient with me . . . there was something still . . .
I know not what . . . under your pardon . . . yes . . .
Touching my burial . . . did I not see but now
Another corpse . . . I pray you, Sirs, . . . there . . . there . . .

[Dies.
Bridferth
(from the tower).
My Lord, my Lord, Harcather flies; the Danes
Are pouring through the gate. Harcather falls.

Dunstan.
Give me the crucifix. Bring out the relics.
Host of the Lord of Hosts, forth once again!