University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The European Shore of the Propontic.—Isaac and Alexius Comnenus.
Alexius.
But for that hair that's twisted in the grain
I had not known thee.

Comnenus.
Youth, Alexius,
Knows nought of changes; age has traced them oft,
Expects, and can expound them. You yourself
Are somewhat altered, but the few years more
Of time which I have travelled through have taught
The art to know what has been from what is,
What's like to be from both: change is youth's wonder:
Such transmutations have I seen in men
That fortune seemed a slow and steadfast power
Compared with nature.

Alexius.
There is nought you've seen
More altered than yourself.
I speak not of an outward change alone;
For you are changed in heart.

Comnenus.
Ay, hearts change too:
Mine has grown sprightly, has it not, and hard?
I ride it now with spurs; else, else, Alexius—
Well, many a sage has said the best of life
Is childhood, and I sagely say the same.
Life is a banquet where the best's first served,
And when the guest is cloyed comes oil and garlic.

Alexius.
Childhood! But later years went well, and gifts
Came with them that were better worth than joys.
Have you forgotten how it was your wont
To muse the hours away along this shore—
These very rippled sands?

Comnenus.
The sands are here,
But not the footprints. Would you trace them now?
A thousand tides and storms have dashed them out;
Winds brushed them and waves worn them; and o'er all
The heavy foot of Time, who plods the shore
Replenishing his sand-glass, trodden down
Their vestiges and mine. Look, here's a rock—
His seat or e'er he pushed it from the cliff,
And which shall now be ours; a goodly seat;
He's worn it smooth—smooth as the fair round cheek
He lies in wait for, nor has touched with care
Nor stained with tears, nor even tutored yet
To dimple into lies.

Alexius.
Look! what is here,—
Here, carved upon the rock?

Comnenus.
That know not I,
But Time has ta'en it for a poet's scrawl—
He's razed it.

Alexius.
No, not wholly; look again;
I take it for a lover's.

Comnenus.
What! there's some talk
Of balmy breath, and hearts pierced through and through
With eyes' miraculous brightness, vows ne'er broken
Until the Church had sealed them, charms loved madly
Until it be a sin to love them not,
And kisses ever sweet till innocent.
How much that should be written in the stream
Has our fond lover written in the rock,
Not knowing of its nature?

Alexius.
Hardly much;
Two words there are,—no more.

Comnenus.
And what are they?

Alexius.
“Alas, Irene!”—Why, your looks are now
Such as I once beheld them heretofore;
'Twas when our mother died;—what troubles you?

Comnenus.
Now this I hate, to stand and be deciphered,
Pored on industriously and puzzled through
Like riddles that are read o'winter's nights
When maids and boys have nought to prate on else.
Alexius, forgive me. Leave me now.
There's business waiting for us both.

Alexius.
Oh no;
I cannot leave you yet; there's yet to tell
A seven years' history since last we met.

Comnenus.
Go put it down in four and twenty books
'Cleped “the Comneniad,”—to be read at leisure.
We'll have no more of this; my youth is past
And I would not recall it.

Alexius.
Isaac, oh!
Can you stand here and say so? Can you look
On this soft-rolling, deep-embayed sea,
With yon blue beautiful ridge half-compassed round,—
Hear the low plash of wave o'erwhelming wave,
The loving lullaby of your mother Ocean,
(We, like the Cretan, are not sons of Earth,)—
See the rocks stand like nature's ruins round,
For man's were never so majestical—
The boundary forts of Earth and Ocean's empire,
The deep-scarred veterans of their countless wars,
Your native and your father's native shores—
Can you be so surrounded and speak thus!
Are they not lovely?

Comnenus.
It is not the eye
To which these things seem lovely, but the mind,
Which makes, unmakes, remodels, or rejects.
When I was in the country whence you come,
I oft would watch the sun go down; and there
He sets with such refulgency of red,
That the whole east, with the reflected glow,
Is crimsoned as it may be here at dawn:
I would the life of man did so decline,
But that still darkens to the cloudy close.

Alexius.
There is an after-dawn.

Comnenus.
That way I look,
Or I have used to look, and that way turned
I turned my back upon the past. With you
It faces me again.

Alexius.
We'll let it rest.
How is our cousin Anna?

Comnenus.
Well, quite well:
The natural infirmities of youth,
Sadness and softness, hopefulness, wishfulness,
All pangs for which we do not see good cause
Let's take no count of. If at ninety years
A man shall die, accusing no disease,
Only by reason of the ninety years,
So shall a maiden languish at nineteen
Only by reason of the time and state.
Enough for nature if she keep us sound
In the slow tide and tenor of our lives,
Betwixt youth's flushings and the lapse of age.

Alexius.
A rumour went our gentle cousin's charms
Were to have filled for you this gap of life.
If she grew up with what I call to mind
Of gifts that graced her childhood, few like her!

Comnenus.
I own it, but I own it unenslaved.
I scarcely care for beauty.

Alexius.
Have you nought
But that to care for? May we not say love?

Comnenus.
That is a point to which most men would speak
In words of dubious import, to imply
That they are loved, but very loth to tell it.
I answer, Yes, she loves me.

Alexius.
And you her?

Comnenus.
Ay;—with a difference, though: her love's untold,
Though I am not so young in the world to doubt it;
I tell her that I love her every day.
I have designed her for a happier fate,
And she shall learn to love herself, not me;
Soon taught, soon taught.

Alexius.
And wherefore not love both?

Comnenus.
Because she never can be true to both.
Hast no talk meeter for a battle's eve?

Alexius.
All is arranged; there's nought upon my mind.

Comnenus.
Nor need there be; but there is much on mine,—
A weight of foregone years crowding along
That seem pressed back by some approaching close:
We'll talk of times to come to-morrow night.
What time the watch is set I take me hence:
I sleep beside Blachernæ.

Alexius.
Do you so?
Is't not too near the walls?

Comnenus.
I go alone.
One man at dusk will scarce be seen.

Alexius.
Alone?
And take you not a guard then?

Comnenus.
Not so far.
I have a watchful eye to yon monks' kennel;
For, as I said, if aught be stirring there
I'll seize upon the post by break of day.

Alexius.
You fear not for our sister?

Comnenus.
But thus far:
I think when Pagans such as we make war,
The safeguard of the Church is not so good
But that my own is better.

Alexius.
Like enough.
My way is with you half the distance.

Comnenus.
Well.
Macrinus then shall lead; we'll play the spy.
Let's to his tent; there must be orders given;
My armour too is there; ere all is done
Dusk will be well-nigh here and we'll set forth.

Scene II.

—Evening.—An outpost of the camp. Tents in the distance. Fires at intervals, reaching to the shore and throwing light across the Propontic. Soldiers lying on their arms. In front a Sentinel walking his rounds.
Sentinel.

So, so! There is like to be wild work tomorrow, and as to what is to happen to me, it may be
known or it may not. It was scarcely right and just a
little venturesome of my wife, to betake herself to the

old wizard. Ah! after to-morrow never to walk more
but with a wooden leg. Why, what then? My
threescore and ten in this world is well-nigh out, and Father
Jerome says a man may stump about in heaven with a
wooden leg as stoutly as with the best.

Enter Alexius.
Alexius.

Thou art one of Count Isaac's men, art not?

Sentinel.

How dost thou know that? Methinks by thy sunburnt face thou shouldst belong to my Lord
Alexius.

Alexius.

True, I am from the east; but we are comrades for all that.

Sentinel.

Yes; for we are all Count Isaac's men now, mind'st thou.

Alexius.

True.

Sentinel.

Count Alexius is now no more than second in command.

Alexius.

No more.

Sentinel.

And in so small an army that is next to nothing.

Alexius.

'Tis little, but as much as he deserves.

Sentinel.

Nay, I did not mean that: only I would have thee understand that thy master serves my master.

Alexius.

He does. There are few men worthy to serve thy master. I would that Count Alexius were.

Sentinel.

Not that I mean any ill of Count Alexius; he's young.

Alexius.

Ay, but one might be wiser, even at his years.

Sentinel.

Nay, I know not that. When I was two and twenty I know not if I had much more sense than he
has now. 'Tis a miracle how sense will grow upon a
man after he has mounted guard a few years. Thou
wouldst not believe how many thoughts come and go
in a wise man's head as he walks his four hours backwards
and forwards upon an outpost.

Alexius.

How long hast thou been walking here?

Sentinel.

The matter of an hour.

Alexius.

And what thoughts have come and gone in thy head?

Sentinel.

The matter of four.

Alexius.

What was thy first thought?

Sentinel.

I bethought me that the wind was easterly and one ought to hear the waves break upon the
Symplegades.

Alexius.

What was thy second thought?

Sentinel.

I thought when the moon rose I should see the tops of the fig-trees at Galatá; that's my birth-place.

Alexius.

And thy third?

Sentinel.

I thought if I was to fall to-morrow, I could like it were thereabouts.

Alexius.

Thy fourth?

Sentinel.

I thought when Count Isaac was Emperor, he would be for recasting the army, and I should tell
him I was getting old in the service and could like to be
one of the Immortals.

Alexius.

That I'll be bound for him thou shalt.

Sentinel.

How canst thou tell?

Alexius.

I know he takes care of those that stick to their old generals and look cold on the new.

Sentinel.

How know'st thou that? Thou art of the eastern forces.

Alexius.

None knows thy master better.

Enter an Officer.
Officer.

My Lord, your brother waits you hard by where the roads meet.

Alexius.

I come. Farewell to thee. See thou keep a keen look-out to the north and west; the moon will
soon be up, and on the scout side of the field; all thou
need'st take heed of comes between thee and the light.
Farewell. I'll tell Count Isaac thy deserts.

[Exeunt Alexius and Officer.
Sentinel.

Holy Mother of God! that will be the young Count himself. 'Tis well he takes it no worse;
for, to say the truth, I did him but scant justice. What
was it I said to him? No doubt but I told him plain
out every thought that has come into my head for this
year and more.

Scene III.

—A Churchyard.—Comnenus, Alexius, and Guide.
Comnenus.
This road is but uneven. How is this?

Guide.
It is the burial-ground, my Lord; these hills are graves.

Comnenus.
Then do we trespass; but the dead ne'er heed us.
Ha! Pray you, trip not up my heels, good friends,
That lie in wait so stilly.

Guide.
Hush, my Lord.

Comnenus.
I tell thee that they heed us not.

Guide.
Our feet
They heed not and they hear not; but some tell
How a light word's recorded till the day
When they shall burst their graves.

Comnenus.
And so it is;
Words though from earth with wings they fly away
Yet perish not nor lose themselves in space,
But bend their course towards eternity,
And roost beneath the judgment-seat of God.
What may yon shape be, hewn upon the tomb?

Guide.
A cherub 'tis, my Lord.

Comnenus.
What, with that damnable visage?

Guide.
It is thus, my Lord, they carve them.

Comnenus.
'Tis wondrous hideous. When I die, Alexius,
I'll have an image of another mould
Shall smile a cherub's blessing o'er my dust.
What, ha! again—that rogue,
The bungling sexton, overplied his task
And buried us the epitaph; this stone
Hath but one knob above ground, which obtrudes
“Siste Viator” to who journey darkling.
Well, there's a lesson when the tablet's buried
More than its scroll could read us. Sit we here.
This stone is new: there's but one name inscribed,
And a long blank for chronicling the friends
Whose hour comes after. Why not write their names?
Then were the date but wanting. Look again—
“Here lieth” (say rather “here once lay”)
“The body of Peter Andros, a true spouse
“And tender father—may the dust lie light . . .”
Why, look you there! the relict of this Peter
(Whom I once knew) and his all-duteous sons
Drave Peter hitherward ere they bore him here;
And here they stood around the low-laid sire,
Echoing the hollow rattle of the mould
Upon his coffin-lid with hollow groans;
And then they wrote his epitaph,—a true one,
Which yet they lied in writing. Could we call up
The rings of mourners that have girt these mounds
And bid them show their faces, 'twere a sight
That to behold the Devil should jump for joy.
But they have followed.—What may be the name
Of yonder church?

Guide.
It bears its founder's name,
St. Nicolaus Pontifex, my Lord.

Comnenus.
Ay, is it so? Alexius, this place
I should have known, but that the dusk deceived me.
Once in this ground I saw a friend interred,
And I would fain revisit now the spot.
From hence I know my road. I'll follow you.
[Exeunt Alexius and Guide.
This is the very earth that covers her,
And, lo! we trample it like common clay!
Chance shall I call it merely—but blind chance,
That at this fateful, questionable hour,
Brings me to blunder thus upon the spot
That I have shunned for years as haunted ground!
Is it not haunted? When I last stood here
Disguised to see a lowly girl laid down
Into her early grave, there was such light
As now half shows it, but a bleaker air,
For it was in December. 'Tis most strange;
I can remember now each circumstance
Which then I scarce was conscious of; like words
That leave upon the still susceptive sense
A message undelivered till the mind
Awakes to apprehensiveness and takes it.
'Twas o'er—the muttered unattended rite,
And the few friends she had beside myself
Had risen and gone; I had not knelt, but stood
With a dull gaze of stupor as the mould
Was shovelled over and the broken sods
Fitted together; whilst some idle boys
Who had assisted at the covering in,
Ran off in sport, and trailed the shovels with them,
Rattling upon the gravel; the sexton then
Flattened the last sods down, and knocked his spade
Against a neighbouring tomb-stone to shake off
The clinging soil,—with a contented mien,
Even as a ditcher who has done his work.
I, at that sound, had started from my trance,
Conscious of its completion, but the keen frost
Had ta'en the power of motion from my limbs.
How I came thence I know not, nor dared ask.
But now I dare recall these things. Oh, Christ!
How that which was the life's life of our being
Can pass away and we recall it thus!
Irene! if there's aught of thee that lives,
Thou hast beholden me a suffering man;
Hast seen the mind—its native strength how racked,
Hast seen the bodily frame how sorely shaken,
And thou wilt judge me, not as they do who live,
But gently as thou didst judge all the world
When it was thy world.—
On many a battle's eve, in many climes,
By the ice-caverned course of black Araxes,
By Ister's stream and Halys and Euphrates,
By Antioch's walls and Palestine's sea-shore,
I have addressed wild prayers unto thy spirit
And with a mind against its natural bent
Tortured to strong devotion, have besought
That thou wouldst meet me then, or that denied,
That I might seek thy world upon the morrow.
And then it would have seemed a thing most sweet,
Though awful, to behold thy bodiless spirit.
But now—and whether from the body's toil
I know not if it be, or fevered blood,
Or wakefulness, or from the mind's worn weakness—
It were a very terror to the flesh
To look on such a phantom:—it is strange
That what we have loved and lost we fear to find
In any shape,—strange that the form so sweet,
So gentle and beloved, I saw laid here,
Now new-arisen would make my blood run cold!
Up, Moon! for I am fearful of the darkness,
And I have heard a voice that cries aloud—
Home, home, Comnenus!
[A voice at a distance, calling Comnenus.
Where hath he a home?
His home is with the dead—his home is here—
Father of mercies, take him to his home!

Enter Alexius.
Alexius.
Isaac, you stay too long.

Comnenus.
Ha! What?—too long!

Alexius.
What ails you? are you present to yourself?
I left you but just now.

Comnenus.
True, 'twas just now.

Alexius.
And now you look so ghastly! Why is this?

Comnenus.
Ay, it was something that I saw just now.

Alexius.
You speak without the concert of your mind;
Collect your senses; whence this sudden change?

Comnenus.
Be not alarmed; 'twas but some idle thought;
Nought else,—a bodiless creature of the brain;
Think it no more. Alexius, as you said
I am a much changed man, and phantoms come
Before my sight most palpably like truths,
But going thus show clearly what they are.
We should survey yon villa on the left;
Some fifty men might hold it for an hour
And cover our advance till Cos be won.
Come, let us onward. Why, you stand amazed.

Alexius.
Go on; I will not quit you.

Comnenus.
Time runs out;
'Tis dawn by three o'clock; and ere that hour
Macrinus will be up with half his force
As far as Ithé. I'll send word—but come—
The Moon looms large and shows our footing well.

Scene IV.

—The Gardens of the Convent of St. Conon.— The Monk Balbinus and an Acolyte.
Balbinus.
The hour is nigh; anon the Count shall come,
And if, as I am bid believe, alone,
He shall return no more. Take thou this scroll;
'Tis for the Captain of the Fort; stand close
Behind yon statue of St. Isidore;
Observe us well, and should I cross myself
Fly with it to the Fort; but should I bend
And clasp my hands, slink through the thicket hence
And meet me at the sacristy. Stop, stay;
Not that way or you meet him. This way; see.

[Exeunt.
Enter Comnenus.
Comnenus.
Midnight is past; yon western rim of light
Is sunken and obscured: not gone though yet:
The brow of night is pale—pale, but how lovely!
Quieter far than life, than death less dark;
A voiceless revelation of the things
Which lost their names when Eden was no more.

Balbinus.
(behind).
Cherub and Seraph be your blessing here!

Comnenus.
But lo! the names are left; oblivion gulfed
The nature, essence, notion—not the name;
So honoured be the all that earth lost not.
I, willing that all words should have their use,
Accepted these for watchwords.—Peace, come forth.

Balbinus.
Cherub and Seraph—

Comnenus.
Bring thy body forth,
So I may deem that heavenly voice incarnate;
Come, come, thou know'st me.

Enter Balbinus.
Balbinus.
Holy Mary Mother!
My Lord, you're louder than the bell for matins!
You'll rouse the brotherhood.

Comnenus.
Which it did never.

Balbinus.
To come amongst your enemies alone!
It is mere madness, so I bade him say;
Perilling alike yourself and me that screen you.

Comnenus.
Thy counsel whether I should come or not,
Was never asked; I sent to bid thee hither
And finding thee am satisfied. Alone
I have not come, save for the last half mile;
Seest thou yon upland; in the dell beyond
A hundred horse are browsing.

Balbinus.
Gracious Powers!
You do not purpose an attack?

Comnenus.
Not yet;
Unless perchance my person were betrayed.

Balbinus.
Surely, my Lord, you question not my faith.

Comnenus.
I cannot doubt that it behoves thee keep it.

Balbinus.
Pardon me there! though plighted faith still binds,
The rashness of a chief might cast in doubt
Which side is safest.

Comnenus.
Not a whit, Sir, no;
By whichsoever is espoused, by that
'Tis safest to abide. Be thou aware
It were a fatal error shouldst thou dream
That thou couldst secretly espouse my cause
And change thy mind at will as things fall out.
Thou stand'st committed to the issue; yea
My good or evil fortunes thou shalt share.

Monk.
My Lord, have I desired or more or less?

Comnenus.
And if, the while, cross tides shall run me hard,
And then some subtle spirit in thine ear
Whisper “Change sides,” with this thou shalt make head
Against that subtle spirit,—thou shalt say,—
“Count Isaac, in his cunning malice, bent
That none be left unscathed if he be smitten,
May have bethought him to leave proof behind
Of all our dealings—proof whereof the tithe
Were all-sufficient in the Patriarch's hands
To doom me to that peace his Church accords
To her false brethren.”—In the hour of trial
Thus shalt thou fortify thy better mind.

Monk.
My Lord, a cruel stratagem is yours,
If I must needs believe this done, to fix
Your follower's faith; but I am yours till death,
Though sorely wronged.

[Bending low and clasping his hands.
Comnenus.
Invidious it were
To justify to thee the cutting off
Of that safe second turn which should insure,
Lose they that might, a winning game to thee.
To justify is not my present need;
To have explained suffices.—By the night,
The compline has been done this hour, and now
My cousin might come forth.

Monk.
Not here, my Lord;
The trees are ranker to the left, where now
She doubtless waits you: in the cloister near
Your sister will keep watch; on this side I.
The path is at your hand.

Scene V.

—Another part of the same Garden.—Anna Comnena, alone.
Anna.
Whate'er the cause I'm glad we meet again;
For our last parting was not to my mind—
A turning off as who should meet by chance
And bid good-morrow—nay, not even that;
He did not say farewell, a word though sad
One would not leave unspoken—still a sweet sound,
Though, it may be, a sound that parts for ever,
The dying cadence of a broken chord.
He did not say farewell, nor did he look it,
Nor kiss it, as he once, though not of late,
Was wont to do. I have outgrown the time
When all was unsuspected, unsuspicious:
And yet I would not be a child again.
How quiet is the night—no breath afloat—
I hear the kine upon the far hill-side
Tear up the long dank grass. And such a morn
Will break the rest of this so peaceful night!
Hark! what is that?

Comnenus
(entering).
Curse on these birchen boughs;
They waked a grey he-owl, who stared amain
To see one here that was not of his order.
Well met, fair cousin! Short our time is here.
Wert thou afraid to come?

Anna.
Afraid? oh no;
I nowhere feel so safe as where you are.

Comnenus.
Yet few men of a peaceful mind like mine
Have brought such dangers both on friends and foes;
Not wilfully—in no case wilfully;
And now the end is near.

Anna.
A happy end,
Oh yes, a happy, blessed end I trust;
And thenceforth and for ever we live in peace.

Comnenus.
Under his fig-tree each: so be it! Yet
At this and all times it befits the brave
To look each issue fairly in the face.
The courage of the commonalty sinks
Unless their hearts be sanguine; victory thus
Is in each general's mouth; none cries,
Courage, my friends, for wretched is your plight!
The chances are against us, Death and Defeat!
But by the common cry the common mind
Is buoyed aloft: be it not so with us:
Whatsoe'er possible evils lie before
Let us sincerely own them to ourselves,
With all unstinting, unevasive hearts,
Reposing in the consciousness of strength
Or fervent hope to be endowed with strength
Of all-enduring temper,—daring all truth.

Anna.
I am courageous when you bid me be;
But were I left without a friendly voice
To strengthen and exhort me,—left alone
In some disastrous sequel of this strife,
I fear, I fear that I should falter.

Comnenus.
Nay,
The fear of fear redoubles fear of fact,
And ofttimes fact is better borne than fear.
The worst assemblage of the worst events
When actual is not so intolerable
As when remote it seems: fancy o'ersteps
The bounds of nature, and miscounts the force
Of cumulative griefs: a first mishap
Has a fair field; the rest are but late comers;
The human mind's capacity of pain
Is no illimitable attribute.
What is it you most dread?

Anna.
Oh! when I think
How many a bold adventurer rose in arms
This last indiction, and what fates they met,
They who had won and reigned falling in turn,
And then behold you standing where they stood,
Upon the verge of empire or of—

Comnenus.
Death,
Not excæcation, if the thought of that
Calls up these looks of horror. Fear it not.
To no such maimed and ignominious close
Will I degrade my being. Life is now,
I think, with all its evils, eligible;
But one sense less would turn the odds against it.

Anna.
But if this dread conjuncture should arrive,
You would not with your own hand cast it off?

Comnenus.
Not so, if others can be found: my wish
Has never been unneedfully to arm
My reason or my will against my instincts;
What facile guidance nature gives I take;
In the sharp interchange of blow for blow
Our volatile life transpires at unawares
Without the thought of death, whose sting is thought;
The easiest permeation of mortality
Is this, and this, if need be, shall be mine.

Anna.
Whilst I behold you standing by my side
So full of life, my mind will scarce be brought
Fairly to apprehend the fatal change
We speak of.

Comnenus.
Death is but a name to you,
Who have but fancied hitherto, not felt
A deprivation. May it so remain!
To me, acquainted with mortality,
A foresight and forefeeling clear and strong
Present the image of the hour to come;
And come when come it may, death comes to me
As a familiar spirit—not desired,
Neither eschewed. Some three good hours ago
I passed a burial-ground, and pondering there
How much by accident it is we live
'Mid all the storms that wreck humanity,
I deemed that there was something yet to do
To clear the coming hours of anxious thoughts;
One possible issue unprovided for.

Anna.
I can but look to two events; but two:
Your victory, which quits us of all cares;
Or else your fall; and having proved the worst
There's nothing left to fear; Fear yields to Fate.

Comnenus.
Though I should fall, defeat might not ensue;
Alexius might win the crown and wear it.
My thoughts were on that upcast; and therewith
I called to mind how greatness shuffles off
The ties of blood, and oft-divided hearts
Break up the fortunes of a new-made house.

Anna.
'Twill not be so with ours.

Comnenus.
That it might not,
Is mainly what has brought me here to-night.
Nought could secure Alexius on his throne
More than Eudocia's counsel; which were lost
Should he receive a stranger's hand in marriage.
I know my sister's heart, and bear in mind
What comes of Aulic councils wherein strives
With an Augusta's will a Cæsarissa's.

Anna.
She must be brave who thwarts Eudocia.

Comnenus.
Nay;
The empress were high-minded who should not.
Audacious oftener than unenvious
Are women: of them all I know but one
From female jealousies by nature free
In whom Alexius, should he wear the crown,
Would find a fitting consort. You are she.

Anna.
I! never; never; oh no, never in me
A consort could he find; me most unfit
For aught but meekly to await the end
And mindful of my kindred with your house
Weep or rejoice as ill or good betides;
In me a consort can he never find.

Comnenus.
And wherefore? 'Twas in childhood you last met;
When you survey him with a woman's eyes
You shall confess no woman can resist him.
Oh, childhood's independency of heart
How art thou lost before the loser wotteth!
Why should we doubt the prompt and sure success
Of a good soldier like Alexius?

Anna.
I love Alexius as his cousin ought,
But will not wed him: and I say not this,
As many a maiden's protest has been said,
For a defiance; nor does pride prompt me,
Who ne'er was independent of affections,
To say, what said shall bind me evermore,
That come what may, to him imperial honours,
To me distress, bereavement, all that's worst,
I will not wed Alexius.

Comnenus.
How is this?
You say you love him as his cousin ought
And then forswear him and renounce his works
With like devotion as he were the Devil.
How know you till you see him grown to man
You may not worship him? Armenian girls
Call him the Mithra of the middle world
That sheds Eoan radiance on the West.

Anna.
I meaned not to disparage him; oh no,
He was a gentle boy, of a kind heart
And a quick fancy, and I loved him well.
But do not speak of him as now you did;
That makes me rancorous in my own despite.

Comnenus.
I say no more. When time is most to spare
There is a sex in reasoning with whom
I never misemploy it. True it is
That divers motives, many a cogent cause,
Affecting first the empire, next yourself,
And lastly the Comnenian race, demand
Another strain of thought. I press them not.
When these want weight, change may be better hoped
From passion's mutability.

Anna.
Oh, God!
The last words these may be we speak together,
And can you thus embitter them, and all
Only because I'm true to my own heart?

Comnenus.
Far be reproachful thoughts! my fairest cousin
Shall be as faultless in my sight as fair,
Nor would it derogate from her fair perfection
If she should hold her best affections free
To change as times change; with no wanton lightness,
Nor on vain pretexts, nor from those that are
To those that are not worthy; but with judgment,
Having regard to who are dead, who live.
This only I would ask, but will not urge.
When the hour comes I spoke of (if it come)
Alexius will better press the pleas
That I shall pass away from. Bear in mind
In after times what I have here let fall:
The seasonable hour will come, though now
My counsel seem unacceptable.

Anna.
Alas!
You speak as if you had no hope to live.

Comnenus.
My way was through a churchyard, whence, as I said,
My thoughts have brought away a taint of death.
It is my wont upon a battle's eve
To invocate a spirit for my guide
Which till to-night ne'er answered to my call.
What! is the moon so high? 'tis more than time
That I were in my camp. Farewell, my cousin.
Sinless and blameless as thy life hath been
It is not much of ill that can befall thee.
Mine has been less so.

Anna.
First and best of friends,
If virtuous, just, and honourable living
And gallant deeds could answer for man's weal,
Yours were not to be feared.

Comnenus.
Not much the doubt
Comnenus would stand well with times to come
Were thine the hand to write his threnody.
Yet is he in sad truth a faulty man.
In slavish, tyrannous, and turbulent times
He drew his lot of life, and of the times
Some deep and bloody stains have fallen upon him.
But be it said he had this honesty,
That undesirous of a false renown
He ever wished to pass for what he was:
One that swerved much and oft, but being still
Deliberately bent upon the right,
Had kept it in the main; one that much loved
Whate'er in man is worthy high respect
And did devoutly in his soul aspire
To be it all; yet felt from time to time
The littleness that clings to what is human
And suffered from the shame of having felt it.
But this is posthumous stuff; talk for the tongues
That tell their tales when mine are all told out.
My gentle cousin, hie thee to cover now.
An hour or two and yonder Euxine Sea,
That slowly indues its matutinal grey,
Shall suddenly change colour like a snake,
Enamelled with the glow of other fires
Than those of sunrise. Briefly, fare thee well!
And whatsoe'er be told of me henceforth
A most untruthful annalist were he
Who said I did not love my cousin Anna.

Anna.
Go, dearest kinsman: should we meet no more
In many an hour of all my after life
Shall this be treasured inmost in my heart
As kindness for a last memorial left.
Go, and good Angels guard you is my prayer.

Comnenus.
Good soldiers, Anna. In the arm of flesh
Are we to trust. The Mother of the Gods,
Prolific Mother, holiest Mother Church
Hath banded Heaven upon the side opposed.
No matter: when such supplicants as thou
Pray for us, other Angels need we none.
Now must my horse know nothing of the reins
Until the warder's challenge sound a halt.