University of Virginia Library

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.