University of Virginia Library

3. PART THE THIRD.

THE TRAITORS.
The Palace in London.
Queen Emma and Edric.
EMMA.
Rise, my lord, rise—nay, Edric.

EDRIC.
To the earth
My knees shall grow, unless those angel lips
Shall tell me that my daring suit is pardon'd.

EMMA.
Women are used to pardon such.

EDRIC.
And that
My love in that soft bosom breeds no hate—

EMMA.
We do not hate because we are loved.

EDRIC.
Say, further,
(Thou queen, whose empire is the boundless heart
Of universal man, whose unbought homage
Clings aye to the triumphant shrine of beauty)
Should not love's service have reward? I seek
In your eyes, only, a reply—one look—
One only look—I ask no more—but such
As on her love the well—woo'd Helen cast
When Venus led her to his pillow—such
As stung boy Gyges, when the Asian queen
Clung to his heart, in vengeance that her lord
Had, in his doting vanity, unveil'd
To eyes profane all her mysterious beauties—
Beauties, that vainly the fond bath clung round
With its enamour'd waters, as she cower'd
Beneath its lucid veil, a snowy pearl,
Set in a sparkling zone of chrysolite—
Look thus!—look thus!

EMMA.
Thou dangerous tempter! leave me.
I dare not look.

EDRIC.
I thank thee for that “dare not.”
Thus let me plead—

EMMA.
Stand off, my lord; the king
Yet breathes: my faith is his: respect his death-bed.

EDRIC.
But, when that obstacle no more shall bar us,
Wilt thou?—No answer!

EMMA.
Feel how I tremble.

EDRIC.
Thus,
Upon thy hand, I seal a lover's thanks.

EMMA.
Another time. Let me withdraw: anon
We'll talk of this—

EDRIC.
And, by my hopes, in love!
Which do so far outweigh all wordly wishes,
That all thy feet, glorying, I lay them down,
(Without one pledge from thee, save buoyant hope).
Here I abjure all thoughts that chime not with
The concord of your thoughts, all interests
Save those you point me to—so help me Heaven!

EMMA.
The only gift I now may yield is hope.
With that I thank you: nay, nay, look not so,
Or you will frighten me again. Remember,
(If that, indeed, may be a prize worth noting)
He wins not Emma's hand who sets no crown
On her son's brow.

EDRIC.
These words have slain two princes!
Adieu! my beautiful—oh! might I add
A fonder name—my own!
[Exit Edric.

EMMA.
He's gone.—My beating heart!—I've dared too much.
I do not know myself.—How hot my cheek is!
I may not trust myself again, alone,
With this most guilty, most persuasive Edric.—
—Freely I breathe again.—What have I said?
Enough—haply, too much:—no; let him hope—
For hope may be a virtue, or a vice—
A bane, or cordial, as we tend its growth:
Nor am I bound to play the monitor.
—I have not known—I must not trust—myself.
Shall I, then, pause?—I will not; for the stake
At which I throw is empire for my child.
This duke must be restrain'd; yet, in such wise,
That, pledging him, I may not stand committed,
In heart, in act, in fame: so may I win
His services unharm'd, and meet, unblemish'd,
The proud eye of Canute.—Why does my mind
Dwell on Canute for ever? May it not be,
That a shrewd eye shall, at a glance, pierce through
The kindred thoughts of kindred policy;
And mutual interest form a silent tie
Valid as love, attractive as desire?
Oh, I have dared too much this day. T' accomplish
My aim, I must be cautious; nor expose
A human heart to superhuman trial.

[Exit.
The Field of Ashdown.
Enter Edmund, Bulloign, and Officers, armed.
EDMUND.
The loitering sun is up at last; and all
The dew-bred vapours, that now shroud fair earth,
With their wreath'd masses, soon will underarch
The azure cope of heaven. 'Tis well, methinks:
Our toil will be the lighter in the shade.
Bulloign! brave comrades all! are our stout ranks
Marshall'd as we concerted?

BULLOIGN.
All, my lord.

EDMUND.
Right.—And we now may recapitulate
The scheme of this day's charge.
[He unfolds a scroll.
Enter Edwy.
Ha!—brother Edwy?
It warms my heart to see thee. Why, this argues
A gallant soul, to leave thy bed of sickness
For the rough usage of the field.

EDWY.
I beg
A boon.

EDMUND.
It shall be granted.

EDWY.
I demand
To lead the vanguard of the field.

EDMUND.
Dear brother,
It may not be: yet, 'tis not that I doubt
Thy courage, or thy skill. Northumberland
Already is possess'd of our designs,
Which time permits not I again develope.
—Yet now, methinks, I have a post will suit you.
[To Bulloign.
My lord of Bulloign, for short space I must
Absolve your shoulders from a load, that now
This panting gallant shall take up.—Fair brother,
[To Edwy.
Wilt thou, in this day's fight, command the escort
That guards our person? Be assured 't will be
(We'll make it so) the post of danger.

EDWY.
Sir,
Albeit unworthy of my rank, I take it:
Here, I presume, my duty is—obedience.

BULLOIGN.
Then step aside with me, my lord, one moment,
Till I instruct you in the dangerous duties
Of your most precious charge.

[Bulloign and Edwy walk apart.
Enter an Officer, in haste.
EDMUND.
What means this breathless haste?—your news?

OFFICER.
My lord,
The enemy's on horse, already pushing
His heavy march through the hedged valleys, threatening
Our right battalion's flank.

EDMUND.
Treason!—my lords!
The foe anticipates us. Ho! with speed,
Ride some one to my lord of Cornwall; charge him
Not to abate his vantage-ground one inch,
'Till we support him with fresh troops.
Enter Morcar.
Good Morcar,
Thou 'rt from the right;—what hast thou seen? Is't true
The foe so stoutly dares us?

MORCAR.
Ay, my lord!
By heaven, I think they sweep in their array
Like an arm'd tempest. I beheld their bands
Bristling the horizon of that ample plain,
With all their spear-shafts glittering in the sun,
Even as a gloomy thunder-cloud that hurtles
His arrowy shower athwart a summer sky,
Slanting before the golden setting sun.

EDMUND.
My blood 's on fire! To horse! Morcar, with speed
Betake thee to our left, and, if Northumberland
Be not return'd, direct who next commands
To wheel his force, as arrows from the bow,
And charge whate'er he meets. By Egbert's heart!
We'll burst upon the traitors in their march.

[Exit Morcar.
Enter Northumberland.
EDMUND.
How now, Earl Uthred?—why not at your post?
What of my father—is his grace well?

NORTHUMBERLAND
(kneeling).
My liege!
First, as thy faithful subject, let me kneel,
And cry—Long live King Edmund!

EDMUND.
What, sir?—Alas!
My father! my poor father! Oh! had he none
To close, with filial love, his dying eyes!
Named he his son, good Uthred? sped he one blessing
Towards him, not combating for life alone,
But for his country's fame and freedom

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yes,
He loved you to the last, and call'd you oft
The prop of his decaying hours, the shield
Of our degraded country. Oh, my liege,
Before the breath quite left him, your sad father
Muster'd his dying thoughts, and, being revived
Some moments by kind cordials, faintly look'd
Round, and so piteously assail'd our hearts,
With sighs, and tears, and self-accusing words,
That we, who watch'd by him that fatal hour,
Could scarce contain ourselves for grief.

EDMUND.
Oh, sir,
Repeat the precious words he utter'd. Why,
Why was I absent!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
'Twas of poor England, chiefly,
He spoke; the prize, the prey, of ev'ry foe;
Rent by the earthquakes of domestic wars;
Uprooted by false traitors; by weak friends
Abandon'd, and himself the weakest. Then
He wept afresh, and chid himself. “I see
“That God,” he cried, “hath turn'd from us: our battle
“Is weaken'd by revolt! our trusted friends
“Betray our counsel, or stand out for terms
“Of most dishonourable peace. For me, sirs—
“Poor Ethelred, the Unready—here behold me,
“Only prepared, at last, to die—to die
“Oh, days of England's mourning! struck to earth
“Alike by friends or foes—crush'd like the grain
“Betwixt two mighty millstones. Land of sorrow!
“Your date is past—your great renown extinct—
“Your sceptre in the grasp of foreign hands—
“Your throat laid bare unto a foreign sword!”
He spoke but little after, and then swoon'd—
Reviv'd—then dozed—and waken'd once again,
To sink into the last deep sleep of death.

Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
The Earl of Cornwall is in full retreat.

EDMUND.
Fly, Bulloign!—take the traitor's post, and speed
His soul to hell! Northumberland!—away!
And govern thee, as if all England's realm
Weigh'd on our brain, and press'd us to the death!
Osmer, fly thou unto the Duke of Mercia,
And charge him so to expedite his march
That, ere the sun hath reach'd the height of heaven,
He stand on th' adverse bank of yon good ford;
Holding the desperate pass, as one who strains,
With clench'd teeth, bursting eyeballs, blanched lips,
For mastery—for life!—Edwy, unsheath
Thy sword in thy first field; and wield it so,
As if for vengeance, knowing it thy last!

[Exeunt severally.
Another part of the Field of Ashdown.
Alarums.
Enter Canute, Anlaffe, attended.
ANLAFFE.
Your grace, in this day's famous charge, hath so
Acquitted your high valour, and sustain'd
Your wonted captainship, that now your subjects
Crave, as a boon, that you no more expose
Your precious life to needless danger.

CANUTE.
Ha!
Well charged, brave Turkill!—see, how Gothmund wheels
Upon their staggering flank!—Here will I rest
Awhile.—Why, ay, this Ashdown in our story
Shall have a brave remembrance. Gallant Anlaffe,
Well hast thou borne thee in this trial—kneel;
And, though dark Mercia chafe, and gnaw the bit,
Rise, Earl of Northumberland! Where are
The spoils of the old Saxon lord?

ANLAFFE.
Behold
His sword, (a broken one) and spurs, and belt.

CANUTE.
A braver knight, a worthier, or a wiser,
Sat not on horse, or sway'd in council.

ANLAFFE.
He
Comported him with death, as one who looks
With scorn on that which he despises: striving
To struggle on one knee, and feebly shaking
His weaponless hand in air, he shouted—“Edmund!—
‘England!”—then fell prone, like an oak, and died.

Enter an Officer.
CANUTE.
Thy message?—say?

OFFICER.
King Edmund still, though wounded,
Fights like a stag at bay. Cornwall hath 'scaped,
And pledges that the Duke of Mercia stirs not
One soldier to the rescue.

CANUTE.
Bid him spur
Unto the duke, and say, that, having won
The ford, we strike at London. Unto him
I do commend (should he indeed survive)
The master, whom this bright day hath discrown'd.
What says brave Anlaffe?

ANLAFFE.
Oh, my lord, to horse!
By Odin! England's banner is afloat
Once more, on yon hill's crest! No meaner arm
May stem King Edmund's charge!

CANUTE.
Upon them, then!
And be our cry—“Saint Brice!”—“Gunilda's wrongs!”

[Exeunt.
Another part of the Field of Ashdown.
Enter Edric, attended: the Earl of Cornwall.
CORNWALL.
With bended knee, I here salute your grace
As Mercia's king, Duke of Northumbria,
And guardian of fair England's realm.

EDRIC.
Indeed!
Is Edmund slain?—how say'st thou?—quick!

CORNWALL.
I know not;
But do believe it well. Of this be sure;
If breathing, he has not a subject now
Will cry, “God save him!”—Edwy is fall'n.

EDRIC.
How died he?

CORNWALL.
Charging with Turkill, in the foremost rank,
We singled out King Edmund, who still fought,
Back'd by some friends, around his household banner;
Enacting deeds that well became his birth.
In gloomy mood, some score yards in the rear,
Prince Edwy rein'd his horse in, nor would move
One man to the rescue. I could see his face
Convulsed with varying passions, pale and ghastly,
While his fierce troop, indignant, chafed around him;
Who, when they saw the royal banner stoop,
No longer might be stay'd, but onward sprung;
Too late, (so well their leader's treason wrought)
To snatch the doubtful wreath of victory,
But timely to preserve King Edmund's life.
The Churl charged with them—whether by sense of shame
Stung, or remorse, instinct of courage, love
Of kindred, lingering still at heart, I know not;
But, in the midst, struggling with Turkill, wrenching,
With knit teeth, for the standard, I observed,
And, from behind, charging at gallop, smote him—

EDRIC.
What, dead?—

CORNWALL
(displaying his sword).
Behold heart's blood was never blacker!

EDRIC.
I—I—'tis well!

CORNWALL.
I had his head struck off,
And, in its warm blood reeking, on a pole,
Shouting, we bore it through the Saxon ranks,
And cried, “Behold your King!” sudden, deceived
By the resemblance of the brothers, fear
Dispersed their bravest—But, behold!—whom fate
Yields to your hand—the royal fugitive!

Enter Edmund, wounded and fatigued.
EDMUND.
All lost—all lost!—thou damned Mercia!
Here, consummate thy treason!—here, in my heart!
[Uncovering his bosom.
Oh England! my poor country!
Ha! Cornwall—traitor!—art thou there? Thank Heaven,
I yet have strength!

[He rushes at, and slightly wounds, Cornwall.
CORNWALL.
Have at thee, crownless king!

EDRIC
(interposing).
Hold!—Thus I strike your sword down. Ethelmar,
Abate your prurient zeal. Put up, my lord,
Your sword—must I repeat? Edmund, I am not
The bloodhound that thou deem'st me. Question not
Why I am—what I am? There lies a path
Of safety, leading to the forest.

EDMUND.
Almost
I hate a life, due at thy hand.

[A salute of trumpets.
EDRIC.
Canute
Comes on the instant: fly!

EDMUND
(as he goes out).
Cornwall, remember!

Enter Canute, Turkill, Anlaffe, Gothmund, attended.
CANUTE.
My lord of Mercia, a good day! and thanks.
You have perform'd fair service; for the which
We shall be grateful.

EDRIC.
Sir, it moves me much
That, with this manifest slight, you trespass on
Our compact's true intent. You march to London?

CANUTE.
Such is our will.

EDRIC.
Whilst I, this kingdom's regent,
Possess its keys—in arms?

CANUTE.
Even so. But come;
We shall but waste our new-born love in jars,
Which only make the vulgar speculate.
We do not doubt we can expound some reasons
Upon our way, shall satisfy your grace.

[Exeunt.
Court of the Palace in London.
Enter Edric and Cornwall.
CORNWALL.
The Danes do lord it strangely here! I pray
To be released from my most irksome charge
Of joint command. The meanest citizen
Cannot protect his house, his wife, his substance,
From Turkill and these ruffian officers;
Who laugh when, with remonstrance, I but name
Your grace, or cite their king's commands.

EDRIC.
May all
Scorch in eternal flames! Why com'st to me?
As if I were the cause—and so from me
The remedy might spring. Thou sting'st me, serpent!

CORNWALL.
This tone, my lord!—to me—

EDRIC.
Nay, gentle Cornwall!
Mine own most trusty (and most trusted) friend,
Excuse these sallies. I am wrought upon,
Thou know'st I am, too hardly for my temper.
I would have rest—a little solitude—
And yet—no—stay, one moment. Presently
I shall be calm.

CORNWALL.
It was well done to spare
King Edmund's life. He may (if, as I think,
The Danes shall play us foul) be useful yet.
I worship thee for that good policy.

EDRIC.
What! wilt not give me credit for one deed
Of lingering pity?—ay, sir, fortify
The arm and head by beggaring the heart.
Onward, still onward, must I rush!

CORNWALL.
Too deeply
You ponder on this matter. 'Tis not well
To predicate great evils from slight cause:
We shall but laugh hereafter at our fears.

EDRIC.
Your mind has not been task'd as mine has been.
I have look'd down into the deep of time,
And sounded with true plummet its abysses;
And, hov'ring o'er its summer smoothness, well
Can augur all its wintry wrath, and point
Where shoals lie hid, rocks threaten, whirlpools menace;
And trace past wrecks upon the horrid shores,
Or 'neath the gloomy billows mouldering.
Therefore it is that, with a boding eye,
I watch the stormy symptoms of the times.

CORNWALL.
You know not yet Canute.

EDRIC.
Know him? Too well,
And yet too little. It is hard to reach
Unto the height of his proud mind; still harder
Its range and dark recesses to explore.

CORNWALL.
True foxes' dens! strongholds of kindred craft!

EDRIC.
He is a man most crafty, though most brave:
And, yet, being brave, not treach'rous, e'en to foes,
Except so far as war's rough game allows—

CORNWALL.
To cheat ye with permitted stratagems.

EDRIC.
True: he will sluice men's blood in lawful quarrel
As if 'twere water in a worthless pitcher.
A mighty hunter, he will sweep on, on,
Cheering his toothed hounds upon the prey,
As if the chase of man were but a sport.
And, yet, in peace he will be mild as maids are,
And affable as any prosperous suitor;
Though sworn to justice, leaning still to mercy;
A keen inquisitor, yet most indulgent
Where human hearts need kind interpreters.
Withal—he will not compass his desires
By means that are not worthy of a king.

CORNWALL.
Ay, thus it is—

EDRIC.
Thus?—yet I know him not;
And no man knows him: and for this I hate him!
So blended, and so opposite, his qualities:
I cannot please, know not if I offend,
Fear to oppose, and dare not tempt him. Come, come—
I will endure these torturing doubts no longer—
This morning I will know my fate, and act
As best becomes the crisis. Emma, too,
Hath summon'd me to conference: too long
Deferr'd:—I like not that. Lord Ethelmar,
I will be satisfied!

CORNWALL.
You ought—you shall!

[Exeunt.
The Palace in London.
Enter Canute and Emma.
CANUTE.
Fair queen, I will not now profess to thee
That which would scarce become thy sober weeds,
And would comport ill with my inward heart.
I will not deal with thee as flatterers do
With shallow girls, but speak as to a woman,
Whose eye dwells less upon the flowers of life
Than on its uses and realities.
I do not offer you a youthful heart,
(Though mine by age is such,) that, in its glee,
Sports like the roebuck with the wind, but one
Whose current has been chill'd by timeless frosts.
If then thou may'st accept a soul, whose vigour
Is but a bent bow in the public hand?
If thou'lt wed beauty, delicate as thine,
To a rough soldier's frame? lowly I proffer
What a fastidious eye may pass unnoticed,
But a wise heart will prize.

EMMA.
With joyful omen
I take a pledge graced with sincerity;
And with like plainness shall reply to you.
I give you here a widow'd hand, but, with it,
No widow'd heart; for mine hath never loved:
In you, sir, I accept (and love from duty
Gently will spring) a father for my children,
And a protector of their mother's rights;
Which thus, with perfect confidence, she yields
Into your firmer grasp.

CANUTE.
As I acquit
The trust, so prosper me kind Heaven!

[They walk apart.
Enter Edric.
EDRIC
(aside).
How's this?—
I dream—I dream!—'Sdeath, why am I disturb'd
At every idle chance? 'Tis natural
Man should bow down upon the hand of beauty,
And murmur well-conceiv'd adieus at parting.
He whispers—see! she smiles—betraying devil!
He puts his hot lip to her palm—fie, fie!

CANUTE
(on perceiving EDRIC).
Mercia, Queen Emma hath deputed me—

EDRIC.
Dane!—from her own lips I must learn her will.
I thank thee—for thy—kind interposition!

[Attempting to pass.
CANUTE.
Hold back, my lord!—How? you presume—Retire!
Curb this intemperance.

EDRIC.
Proud heart, be still!
I should be—I—I am calm. Feel my hand.
'Tis cold, but trembles not. Nay, let me pass!
In very humbleness I would beseech you.
My heart is heavy with too many pangs—
Even certainty of wrong would bring relief.

CANUTE.
Sir, in pronouncing no, I mean you well:
Attend to me: 'twere wise.

EDRIC.
My lord, I must pass.
My brain is somewhat wild—obstruct me not.
Queen Emma! hear!

CANUTE.
Not till you regulate
Your mien with more discretion.

EDRIC.
Ha! ha!—what,
The tyrant winces?

CANUTE.
Were I such, methinks
A daring front might be abased.

EDRIC.
Damnation!
Where, what am I, that hear and suffer this?—
Art thou a fiend commission'd to torment me?
Strike, with thy dagger! I could better bear it
Than these cool taunts, and that sarcastic eye,
Which sting me to my ruin. Speak! resolve me—
I can surmise, but would have certainty.
Emma! I supplicate—I shall be brief,—
And, my lord, temperate.

CANUTE.
To me your bearing
Is of slight import. Is your grace disposed
[To Emma.
To the duke's prayer? Decision rests with you.

EMMA.
It is most painful; but I yield: you sanction,
And I may not refuse.

EDRIC
(kneeling).
My queen!—my Emma!

EMMA
(to CANUTE, hastily).
My lord, perhaps this scene would pain me less,
Unwitness'd—yet be near me. Sir, I attend.

[To Edric.
EDRIC.
With a torn heart, and sorrow-choking tongue,
I kneel, I cling to thee, to ask my fate.
Yet, ere you shape an answer to my fears,
Pause—and look back. Recall the love I bore you;
Remember all the zeal wherewith I served you;
Review the pledges that have pass'd between us,
The vows I paid, the hopes wherewith you bless'd me,
The smiles you lavish'd when I knelt and sued,
And all I staked my life, my soul, upon,
Which you, with blushing silence, ratified.
Oh, can you think on these, and spurn me thus?
What! silent?—what—must all things be forgotten?
And will you thus consign me to despair?
Cruel, forsworn woman!

EMMA.
Not so, my lord:
Here the deception has been yours, not mine.

EDRIC.
Mine the deception!—do I hear aright?

EMMA.
Your own o'ervaulting passions, and blind treasons,
Have been conspirators against yourself,
And fill'd your mind with idle dreams. Begone!

EDRIC.
How's this—am I awake? Art thou that Emma
Who parley'd once with Mercia's daring suit?
And I that Mercia, who, for Emma's love,
Barter'd his peace—his faith? Oh false as beautiful!

EMMA.
Dare not to sully my fair fame with falsehoods,
Monstrous, and hateful to me, as—thyself!
Begone! thy suit is odious to my ears.
When Emma listens, 'tis to worthier lips.

EDRIC.
This, in my rival's presence! this, to me!
False one, thou stabb'st me with a double weapon.
Yet hear me once.

EMMA.
No, Duke of Mercia, no!
I have not sought this conference, which now
Has grown too painful. What I had to speak
His highness will declare. My lord, farewell!

[Exit.
EDRIC.
Now am I reckless of the world! Speak on—
[To Canute.
Speak to your errand, king! since such, indeed,
Can lacquey for a woman.

CANUTE.
Duke of Mercia,
I shall be brief—

EDRIC
(interrupting).
Oh ay; I comprehend.
Brief! When a suitor has a point to win,
With what a florid eloquence he swells
His periods; how the liberal words flow forth!
How full of promise then! but the suit gain'd,
Heaven! what a change! And what a fool were he,
Whose forward zeal had back'd him at his need,
To urge, “My succour here was prompt and timely,
“My advocacy there avail'd you much;
“While still your fortune hung upon the beam,
“My hand was ready, and my counsel free;
“And now I ask the promised recompense.”
Reply, methinks, might be (as you now purpose)
Brief.—Sir, proceed.

CANUTE
(aside).
I pray for patience, Heaven!
The show, at least, of equanimity:
Rebellious heart, be calm!— [Aloud].
—The queen, in memory
Of your profess'd attachment, will not leave
To common fame the story of her fate.
As Mercia counsell'd once, she purposes
To knit her feebler fortunes to a hand
That may uphold them.

EDRIC.
Traitress!—Name the man.

CANUTE.
Oh, not the Duke of Mercia.

EDRIC.
Canute—I know thee
Subtle; and have believed thee wise.

CANUTE.
I hear
The text, and wait the exposition.

EDRIC.
I
Trifle no more. King! I demand my right:
Investiture of the Northumbrian lands
I claim'd.

CANUTE.
And I pledged not. They are the guerdon
Of a most stainless knight—Anlaffe of Jutland.

EDRIC.
Hear me! thou paltering fiend!—thou king!—thou Dane!
(For, in that word, I would concentrate all
That hatred can conceive—scorn utter)—dream'st thou
That I—that I—with power in my strong arm,
And intellect that will not bend to thine;
That I, from thee, will tamely, unavenged,
Bear this light speech, these heavy, grinding wrongs?

CANUTE.
Why ay; such language well becomes such thoughts,
And suits the hardy, cool, gigantic villain,
Who, like some towering dæmon, stands before me.
I can endure that sinister, dark eye,
Shooting from 'neath the lowering brow askance
Its levell'd ray: that fierce, malignant smile
That curls the lip to an atrocious sneer,
As thou regard'st me o'er thy shoulder.

EDRIC.
Dar'st thou?

CANUTE.
The mighty sea-snake so lifts up his neck
Amid the storm; and scowls along the waters,
Frighting the hearts of wave-worn mariners.
But, serpent as thou art, thou know'st that I
Am master of the elements, and rule thee,
(Even as the wizard sways the fiends of hell)
Weighing thy strength and weakness, fashioning
To mine own ends thy passions and thy powers.
—Away!—

EDRIC.
I go: but, first, hell hear me curse
This Dane!—this meddling, lying, cozening Dane!
—Ay,—thou shalt hear me, wert thou thrice as great,
And I as helplessly within thy grasp.—
May she, for whom thou thus art false, prove false
To thee—as (mark me well) I know she has
The aptitude: may she invade thy heart
With cankering jealousy—and may her offspring
Draw venom from her breast, and be to thee
As vipers, stinging thee with doubt—until
At length thy hope shall be they are not thine!

CANUTE.
I've borne this insolence too long.

EDRIC.
Ay, prince!
Tap thy sword's hilt, as maidens try a lute:
'Twill fence thee in default of argument.

CANUTE.
Wretch! thus I stoop me to thy infamy.
Draw, villain!

EDRIC.
Joyfully—with all my soul!
[After a pause.
I will not fight thee now.

[He sheaths his sword.
CANUTE.
Defend thyself!

EDRIC.
What—here?—here, in thy very palace chamber?
You 've a frank weapon, back'd thus with the odds.
What, if thou fall'st?—thy officers, methinks,
Might not be gentle judges of the fact.
The glory of tyrannicides is gone—
Brutus is honour'd less than Cæsar now.

CANUTE.
Begone! in safety: take twelve hours for flight—
Then, by the sacred household blood thou 'st shed!
I will have vengeance—deep, inexorable.
[Exit Canute.

EDRIC.
I go—but shall return!—
With what a look
Of measured scorn he leaves me!—Out upon 't!
I have borne this shame too far. Here do I kneel,
Avenging Heaven! and supplicate—nay, nay,
I will not damn myself with prayers like these.
—Let me be calm—oh, fool! the veriest slave,
The common bully of the camp, may now
Strut by thee with swoln lip and lifted brows,
Blaming high heaven that moulded such a man.
—My brain is stunn'd: and yet—and yet, methinks,
'Twas wise to meet, as I have met, the blow.
—Dæmon of craft! was't not thy policy
To goad me to perdition? But I am proof
'Gainst all. With half the kingdom in my grasp,
Friends at my back, and space to combat on,
Why should my spirit quail?
Canute! the banner
Of inextinguishable hate is raised
Between us—woe to him who first cries “Quarter!”

[Exit.