University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Cloisters of St. John's Church, Beverley. A Tomb and recumbent Statue seen within. Moonlight.
Ellisif pacing the Cloisters disturbedly. Bruern bearing after her a sword.
Ellisif.
Follow me still, thou spectre of this gloom!
That shrink'st from light's soft shaft as from a spear;
Follow me still with sliding echoless step
Round these dim alleys!—Demon shadow thou,
Cast by hell's flame gigantic on the wall,
O'er my dark thoughts to fling thy murkier nature
And shape me out dread doings with thy sword:
I understand thy flourishes,—too well!
The devil within us never wants a seconder
Outside, to tarre him on: follow me still!—
[Paces mutely for a time.
Yet whither and for what thus stalk we here
Over the low-roof'd chambers of the dead,
Stepping from grave to grave? Is it to gibber
And play the sad ghost?—fright fools?—and be frighted
Ourselves at cockcrow?—Why, alas! ne'er rest we
Where all are slumbering in heart-still repose?
Yea, even the o'er-watch'd lamp shuts his dim eye,
And gazes feebly on his shrine no more;
The wandering Moon herself sleeps on the battlements;
Nought save the wind is up!—Weary of spirit
And flesh, yet in our eager wills unworn,
We linger, linger still where our hearts lie
Buried with those we love!—Ay, there he moulders,
Look, if thou canst through blood-thick tears, there lies
Thy murder'd lord and mine!

Bruern.
The truth will out,
Oceans upon me could not stifle it!
'Twas Ethelstan, the tiger who now wears
This lion's ravin'd crown, 'twas Ethelstan
Robb'd him of his more precious life besides!

Ellisif.
That's well! that's well! mutter that to me still!
Breathe like an Evil Genius in mine ear
Sharp whispers of revenge!—O Edwin, Edwin,
My princely love, my kingly that shouldst be,
Stoop'st thou indeed thy blooming cheek so low
For vile worms' gluttonous kisses?—is thy beauty
Clasp'd—not in these warm, woman's arms—close!—close!—
But to Death's bosom in a winding-sheet?
O horrible image, dream of my despair,
Less horrible than the truth!—I pr'ythee, soldier,
Lend me this glaymore—

Bruern.
Madam—

Ellisif
(wresting the sword).
Fool! I mean not
That poor-soul'd piece of heroism, self-slaughter:
O no! the miserablest day we live
There's many a better thing to do than die!—
'Tis but to press an oath on it with my lips
That, as the insidious ivy of the tower,
Mantling her deed, amidst embraces brings
His proud head to the dust, I'll weave a net
Of subtleties around this Upstart's throne,
Which strength unseen shall then drag down to earth,
And bury him in the ruins!

Bruern.
Cursed fratricide
Done on the rightful heritor of Wessex,
By one but half-blood kinsman to a king!
What gave he the liege lord of all the land,
Edwin, his true-born elder?—What, forsooth?
A boat!—grown green with tufted rottenness,
(So rank that very toadstools sprouted from it!)
And then—his choice of the sea-rocks! For a crew
My single self!—Thus he, and all thy fortunes
Waiting thee as his Queen, were wreck'd and lost;
The while this wolf's whelp by a shepherd's daughter—
At best, her base-begotten by King Edward—
Jumping on our legitimate Edwin's throne,
Sits now, from Dover Cliff to Dunbar Crags,
Despot o'er Dane-lagh and all Angle-land!

Ellisif.
A potent conqueror he has been; I grant it;
The winged serpent has flown far and wide
Over our Isle,—the Dragon Flag of Wessex.

Bruern.
It was his inward serpent stung him on;
He strove to stun it in the din of arms,—
Drown it amid the bloody waves of fight,—
Outride it on the whirlwind of his rage
'Gainst Pict, Scot, Cumbrian, Welsh-kin,—oftener still,
With semblance sly of patriotism, to gull
His soft-brain'd Saxons,—'gainst our Danish Host,
Us whom they call, in hate superlative,
The ‘Loathed Ones!’—But to his heart it sticks
And will not be flung off, good serpent-leech!
That draws him pale, and for the blood pours in
As much slow poison—

Ellisif.
Psha!—Where sits he now?
I have been long a stranger to this land.

Bruern.
Two rivers' length off, at King's Town on Thames:
So prate our monks, boasting how he, great buzzard!
Airs him upon the monarch-making Rock
Of Coronation call'd, most eagle-like,
Which none, except of the right golden brood,
Should come shot-near, unslain, were I at hand!

Ellisif.
And my bird-royal stretch'd beneath yon stone!—
Come on, come on, tell me that tale again,
His death's sad story; I would have my heart
Swim ever in the gall of bitterest tears:
Come with thy drowning-voice, as when his waves
Humber roll'd o'er thee, and thy struggling throat
Disgorged the flood with deep groans, sobs, and sighs,
Faint mockery of the horrid gurgle round thee:
Again I say, murmur it to mine ear,
Ring me his watery knell!

Bruern.
Hark!—

Ellisif.
What?

Bruern.
Heard'st nothing?—

Ellisif.
Nought but the wind-swept grass upon the green
Mix its soft waves in sighs.

Bruern.
Fear hath fine ears:
I must to sanctuary!

[Exit into the church.
Ellisif.
Get thee gone.
Ha?—No!—Yea, 'tis the regal trump that sounds,
Baffling the night breeze with its stronger breath,
And now bursts clear above it.
[A clarion without.
Ethelstan!
What brings the flickering bat by night to nestle
Amidst these hooded crows of the monastery?
Near our white dove-cote too?—His Abbess-Sister!
Whom the frail bond of a common bastardy
Holds close unto his heart! Is there none else
Who draws him hither with a silkener tie,
Yet far more strong?—Yea, strong enough to shackle him,
If she can wind it round him cunningly,—
Insensibly!—for the cables he feels on him
Are cobwebs to his strength, they burst about him
As frozen spray doth off the whale aroused,
While with a lash he looses him!—Let me think:
Hum—to work safe, the how, the who, the when?—
That gaol-bird in the Choir has but one tune,
Murder, still Murder; every churl's redress
For every wrong,—plain knocking on the head,—
Last reason of your clowns as well as kings.
No! death is but fit fate for beasts and boors
Who harm us; Ethelstan despises that;
He must pay bitterer penalties,—the bitterest,
To serve the inflicter!—I'm no dagger'd ruffianess,
Blind-staring at one visionary breast,
Nor glancing at the Avenger who, as fell,
Strides after her with an axe!—He shall obtain
His death—when he hath earn'd it; then perchance
My lord's bluff vassal may strike in!—I need
Forwarders now far nobler than this man
Of but one virtue—blind fidelity!
I've sounded the smooth Prior—there's some depth;—
Thane Alger too, my father's secret friend,
Ethelstan's closer foe;—perchance young Edmund?
A good soft clay!—This king hath one besides,
Whose white arm o'er him pours his rainbow wine,
And on her harp, the golden loom of song,
Weaves him the tissewy rhyme: will she be with us?
If still herself, his Bond-Maiden scarce loves him:
No! no! there is an inner ball of fire
Gleams from the darkness of her eye, by times
When she looks on him, that has lightning in it!
Yet is she wilful, and wild temperatures
Are warm in gratitude for good bestow'd,
(He's kind to Song!) as in their ire for ill:
Let it be so—'tis somewhat at the worst:
And then the Dane beside, and wily Scot—
Ay, it will do—it must!—But here's a stumble—
No matter!—My brain too is at the loom,
And crossing webs grow ravell'd—I'll to cell,
And there dispose them right: dark thoughts are seen
Best in the dark!—Sweet Lady Moon, I pray,
Whose brightness now walks down the chapel'd aisle,
Kiss my lord's tomb for me!—Edwin, my mission!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Ante-room in St. John's Monastery. House-carls of the Bodyguard.
Enter Edgitha.
Edgitha.
Where is the king, good friend?

House-carl.
Madam, disarming.

Edgitha.
Tell him I wait.—
[Exit House-carl.
Uncall'd for am I here,
But not unwish'd for, as my own heart tells me,
Which ever beat with his when we as children
Sat breast to breast; and now must his like mine
Leap to this meeting. My dame nurse would tell
How when we lay, cherry-close, in the cradle,
Our arms around each other's neck, we smiled
Always together; and when one did cry
The other wept in ignorant sympathy,
Having no cause but its companion's pain,
Which 'twould console with all its art, by kisses,
And babyish surrender of its toys
Into the other's bosom to possess them
Until it smiled again!

House-carl
(re-entering).
Madam, this way.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to a small Cabinet.
Ethelstan in sackcloth, at an oaken table.
Enter Edgitha.
Ethelstan.
My sister! my born friend!
[Embracing her.
Why at this hour,
When none save Night's rough minions venture forth,
Was thy pale health so bold?

Edgitha.
Is there no flush
Bespreads my cheek?—that's health! new life, my brother!
Which joy to see thee brings. But out, alas!
What change in thee, what mournful change?

Ethelstan.
Years! years!

Edgitha.
Nay thou'rt, if not in bloomiest youth's springtide,
Yet in its autumn.

Ethelstan.
Autumn is ever sere!
Youth saddens near its ending, like Old Age;—
Or worse,—for this hath better life at hand.

Edgitha.
No! no! that is not it—that is not it!

Ethelstan.
And then bethink thee, Sihtric's widow-queen,
Kings wear not, like the peacocks, feather crowns;
Our goldenest have some iron in them too!

Edgitha.
Ah! wouldst thou take meek sample from so many
Of our wise Saxon kings; who gave up power
Without a sigh to those who still sigh'd for it;
And changed their glittering robes with russet weeds,
And turn'd their sceptres into crucifixes,
And bared their heads of all but tonsured crowns,
And lived out hermit lives in mossy cells,
Or died at Rome on saintly pilgrimage:
Were they not wise?

Ethelstan.
Wise for themselves they were!

Edgitha.
Then wherefore not thou for thyself as well?
Wherefore, in thy loved town of Beverley,
Under thy patron saint, canonized John,
As servant dedicate through him to heaven,
Seek not thy temporal rest and peace eterne?
Wherefore withdraw not from the thorny ways
And unreclaimable wilderness of this world,
To the smooth-marbled aisle and cloister trim
Beside us; to these gardens, paced by forms
Bland-whispering as their trees, and moving round
Each shrub they tend, softly as its own shadow?
Wherefore retire thee not, wouldst thou enjoy
Calm raptures of ecstatic contemplation,
To yon elm-pillar'd avenue, sky roof'd,
That leads from Minster Church to Monastery,
Both by thyself embeautified, as if
But for thyself? Nothing disturbeth there
Save the grand hum of the organ heard within,
Or murmuring chorus that with faint low chime
Tremble to lift their voices up o'er-high
Even in God's praises?—Here find happiness,
Here make thy quietary! as thy Sister
Once queen, hath done. Wherefore not, thou and she,
Abbot and Abbess, side by side, return
To old companionship of innocence,
Our hearts re-purified at the altar's flame;
And thus let second childhood lead us, lovingly
As did the first, adown life's gentle slope,
To our unrocking cradle—one same grave?

Ethelstan.
I could, even now, sleep to the lullaby
Sung by Death's gossip, that assiduous crone,
Who hushes all our race!—if one hope fail,
One single, life-endearing hope—

Edgitha.
Dear brother,
Take hope from my content!—though pale this brow,
'Tis calm as if she smiled on it, yon Prioress
Of Heaven's pure Nunnery, whose placid cheer
O'erlooks the world beneath her; this wren's voice
Though weak, preserveth lightsome tone and tenor,
Ne'er sick with joy like the still-hiccuping swallow's,
Ne'er like the nightingale's with grief. Believe me
Seclusion is the blessedest estate
Life owns; wouldst be among the blest on earth,
Hie thither!

Ethelstan.
Ay—and what are my poor Saxons
To do without their king?—

Edgitha.
Have they not thanes
And chiefs?—

Ethelstan.
Without their father? their defender?
Now specially when rumours of the Dane
Borne hither by each chill Norwegian wind,
Like evening thunder creeps along the ocean
With many a mutter'd threat of morrow dire?
No! no! I must not now desert my Saxons,
Who ne'er deserted me!

Edgitha.
Is there none else
To king it?

Ethelstan.
None save the Etheling should; he cannot:
Childe Edmund is o'er-green in wit; though premature
In that too for his years, and grown by exercise
Of arms, and practice of all manlike feats,—
Which his bent towards them makes continual,
As young hawks love to use their beaks and wings
In coursing sparrows ere let loose at herons,—
Grown his full pitch of stature. Ah! dear Sister,
Thy choice and lot with thy life's duties chime,
All cast for privacy. So best!—our world
Hath need of such as thee and thy fair nuns,
And these good fathers of the monastery,
To teach youth, tend the poor, the sick, the sad,
Relume the extinguish'd lights of ancient lore,
Making each little cell a glorious lantern
To beam forth truth o'er our benighted age,—
With other functions high, howe'er so humble,
Which I disparage not! But, dearest Sister,
Even the care of our own soul becomes
A sin—base selfishness—when we neglect
All care for others; and self-love too oft
Is the dark shape in which the Devil haunts
Nunneries, monkeries, and most privacies,
Where your devout recluse, devoted less
To God than self, works for his single weal;
When like that God he should, true Catholic,
Advance the universal where he may.

Edgitha.
Did Satan then haunt holy hermit Paul?

Ethelstan.
He haunted the Most Holy in the Wilderness!
But what did this meek sample for all men?
The good King-Shepherd? Did he tend himself,
Alone, I pray? or did he tend his sheep?
O Sister, my great duty to my God
Involves my duty to my neighbour-men,
And that is, to be his vicegerent o'er them,
Protector, saviour—no angelic Guardian,
But yet a guardian still!

Edgitha.
Wisest and best
Of secular men, I own thee!

Ethelstan.
Weakest and worst!
A fool of traitorous spies and tales of treason!
My brother's murderer! an unbranded Cain,
Who hears the ground, where'er he walks, cry out
Vengeance!—You see this penitential garb,
Yet call me best of men?

Edgitha.
It has been worn
Long, long enow! 'Tis time it were put off.

Ethelstan.
How soon will he put off his wretched shroud?
O Edgitha!

Edgitha.
Pour all into my breast!
Thine is o'erflowing!

Ethelstan.
No!—Unbosom'd pain
Is half dismiss'd. I'll keep my punisher with me.—
Press me not!—there's a way to crush the heart
And still its aching, as you bind the head
When it throbs feverish.

Edgitha.
Have care of that!
There is a way to secret suicide,
By crushing the swoln heart until you kill.
Beware!—self-death is no less sinful, given
By sorrow's point conceal'd than by the sword.

Ethelstan.
Nay, I am jocund—let's to supper!—There!
A king shall be his own house-knight, and serve.
See what a feast! we Saxons love good cheer!—

[He takes from a cupboard pulse, bread, and water.
Edgitha.
Ah! when he will but smile, how he can smile!
'Tis feigning all! this death sits on his bosom
Heavily as Night-Mara's hornèd steed:
His cares for the whole realm oppress him too:
And our book-learned Prior oft draws up
From some deep fountain a clear drop of truth,—
Great Natures are much given to melancholy.—
Thanks, hospitable brother!—fare superfluous
To me who have supp'd, but somewhat scant for thee.
Come! here's your oaken throne.
[She places a joint stool, and he sits.
I thank thee more
That thou hast, for my sake, preserved at least
These gold-bright locks, which crest them on thy brow
Most crown-like, and abroad thy shoulders flow
As rich waves spread beneath the yellowing sun.—

Ethelstan.
Yes! yes! it was for thee—I had an inkling,
Albeit recluse, thou wert right woman still,
And lov'dst a gaud or two—

Edgitha
(smoothing his hair).
Which I was wont,
When we were boy and girl, to tress and twine
With amber threads, in our old Saxon wise,
And sleek as I do now, till 'neath my hand
Bright and more bright they shone as they would burn—

Ethelstan.
Sit down! sit down! and meddle with thy meal,
Trifler!—This moment thou wouldst have me shorn
To a bare monk, and now—Come, banquet! banquet!

Edgitha.
Wilt thou eat none?

Ethelstan.
I am athirst—nought else.

Edgitha.
After thy long, long route?

Ethelstan.
I am athirst!
And have a kind of creeping fever on me,
My throat feels close and dry—thirst, only thirst.

Scene closes.

SCENE III.

Outside St. John's Church. Ellisif alone, listening at a portal.
Ellisif.
What stays him?—how he crawls, two-footed reptile!—
A step?—hark!—no!—on the blank floor a water-drop
Loud echoes as a footfall:—Hist!—Come!—Come!—

Prior
(entering from the portal).
Here is the key—you know our secret way—

Ellisif.
Ay, all your secret ways!—

Prior.
Slip through the undercroft,—
Down the blind passage,—move the hinge-hung stone—

Ellisif.
Enough!—Is he gone yet?

Prior.
And wish'd me rest
This moment, crossing by me.

Ellisif.
Let him wish
Rest to himself!—Better than his to-night
I wish thee, Prior!—No more whispering—go!—

Prior.
Faith, this shrill wind and we make such a whispering
In these drear nooks, as lion's flesh would crimple at!
I shiver,—so will safe to bed and warm me!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

Nave of St. John's Church, and Prince Edwin's Tomb. Night-time. Bruern in the distance, behind a column.
Enter Ethelstan from a wicket.
Ethelstan.
Look up, faint king!—tho' like the shuddering wretch
That glares upon the corse of him he slew!—
I must go on—yea, did these hollow vaults
Groan sensitive at each step, as if I trod
Over the bosoms of expiring men
Who cursed me and so died!—Where is his tomb?
Mine eyes seem loose, and wander, yet see nought—
Or fall—fall—still to earth! Can I remember?—
What were the marks? which is it?—Pale Fear clutches me
By each wild lock, and tears me from myself!—
Oh I am all distract!—Patience!—'Twas thus,
Was it not?—Ay!—thus said the Prior, thus—
Now comes back memory, like a scarce-wish'd friend!
‘Fast by the column, next but two the Tower,
Where at first bell the morning-moon will shine,
Prince Edwin sleeps'—Would I could sleep his sleep!—
‘Of beach-worn stone his bed, and as thou badest,
Scoop'd like a billowy sea'—Of stone? hard stone?
Thrice comfortable couch to what I, nightly,
Take my unrest on! guilt turns to a rack
My bed of smoothest rushes! gives them thorns
To pierce and harrow me as I writhe!—Well—well:
‘His pillow of marble, wrought with fringe like foam;
His eyes turn'd blindly up to heaven, as if
Closed on all hope of succour'—I sent none!
Edwin I sent thee none!—I was more deaf
Than the stunn'd sea-rock; frothier and more frenzied
Than the white rage around it; crueller still
Than ocean that in wrath precipitate, on thee
Burst—whelming thy sad cries with careless roar!—
O tyrant! tyrant king! fiend-hearted brother!—
How deep is hell? My brain whirls as I think on't;
Darkness will swallow me ever! O that it could!
But to look up thence, and behold him pleading
With angel face wash'd silver pale by tears,
Sea-worn,—his locks yet heavy from the brine,—
Pleading my pardon—Let me not look there!
Kindness cuts deeper, undeserved, than Hate
Plunge at thee as she will!—What else?—‘His eyes
Closed on all hope of succour; so he lay
When he was found dead-floating to the shore,
And so, as thou ordainedst, lies he here?’
Yon length-laid statue facing heaven so calm,
Must e'en be his. Dare I approach it nigher?
O God! how pale he looks, while on his cheek
The ghastly moonbeams glisten!—Yet he's calm;
His bosom heaves not with a sigh,—sure proof
At once of grief and life!—Here stand I, miserable!
Drench'd in the cold sweat of mine agony,
Who, but for such sad breathings-out, might seem
As much a stone as he!—Dead at the heart,
A mere, mere gloss of life upon my surface,
Where all shows smooth,—but I am dead within!
Let me rush forward, and kneel down and beg
[Approaching.
Forgiveness of him who was ever kind!
Nought stays me—
[The bell tolls one.
Ha! that dread bell sounds like thunder,
Shaking the huge tower o'er me as 'twould fall,
Did I proceed!—'Twas but that bronze recorder
Toll'd, and the vasty silence and surprise
Made it so loud. O bright, pure eye of Heaven,
Wilt thou still search me out, and blazon me
Thus, wheresoe'er in darkness I would hide?
Blest Moon, why smile upon a murderer?
He hates thy glitter on him, like a leprosy!
It mads me, wolf-like, and I feel bedropt
With a cold-scalding mildew!—Why, that's well,
Thou starest at me no more!—Alas, shine forth!
Leave me not thus to night's dark angels swaying
Their gleamless swords about me!—
(Kneels at the tomb.)
I will kneel!—
O thou whose spirit hovering o'er this tomb
Look'st down upon thy prostrate brother here,
And see'st his penitence, and his soul's pain,
Say with thy heart-heard voice, shall he for ever
Shall he be unforgiven?

Ellisif
(from behind the tomb).
Unforgiven!

Ethelstan.
Hell's scream within mine ears!—Conscience, 'tis thou
Affright'st me thus!—What fantasy is this?
Spake I so shrill, the Daughter of the Rock,
Wild Echo, should have woke with such a shriek?—
My flesh felt like a swarm of living atomies
When I did hear it!—Shall I quake at nought
More than an echo?

Ellisif.
More than an echo!

Ethelstan
(starting up).
Ay?
Then Ethelstan is more himself!—What art,
That mock'st my words?—Hell-born or human fiend,
Thou shalt speak for thyself!—Bind not, O Darkness!
A brave man's hands, that know not where to strike!

Ellisif.
Thy sword were vain on me, fell it as bright
And swift as meteor shoots. I was the breath
Of thy lorn brother while he lived,—am now
The wan, invisible warder of his tomb!

Ethelstan.
Too thin and wire-sharp voice hast thou for his.

Ellisif.
The serpents of the pit, to which thou sent'st me,
Gave me that meagre voice their wrizzled throats
Utter amid the mire!

Ethelstan.
I could not send thee
Where thy sins sank thee not.

Ellisif.
When thou didst cast
Thy brother forth to die, he was unshriven;
Unshriven, so unforgiven—as thou shalt be!

Ethelstan.
If we repent are we not all forgiven?

Ellisif.
We are forgiven as we forgive; didst thou
Forgive thy brother?

Ethelstan.
God is more merciful
Than man to man! O were we but forgiven
As we forgive, how few were e'er absolved!
My trust in Christ is firmer than in thee,
And he hath to the penitent promised pardon.

Ellisif.
Ay! fool thee with the hope thou'rt penitent,
Yet wear'st a lawless crown! that some few tears
Can wash the scarlet out of such a sin
As stains thy soul!—Didst thou not, when the sea
Was gurliest, and his green face pale with ire,
When the winds lash'd him till he roll'd in pain
His huge-ribb'd skeleton back, didst thou not choose
That merciless mood of his, to fling thy brother
Into his gulfy maw, which, at each yawn
Disclosing hell, had swirl'd down, not a boat,
But a great ark itself?—O then they howl'd
Thy damning chorus from the deep abysm—
Last-born of Cain, come hither!

Ethelstan.
Horrible! horrible!

Ellisif.
Ocean, thy complice blind, was far more penitent:
His grappling surge that gather'd his poor prey,
Too small for note, beneath his ponderous bosom,
Released it, like an infant overlain,
Next morn; and bore his innocent bedmate home
Unto its mother earth, with rude wild wail,
Raving for what his restlessness had done!

Ethelstan.
I was not less remorseful, nor did less
The little all of recompense—too late!
He heap'd thee o'er with shells, I raised this tomb
Costliest, in thy honour.

Ellisif.
Where's my throne?
Thou undermined'st that? Where's the bright form
Which clothed me like a creature of the sun?
Thou stripped'st me of that even to these bones!
Where is the breath of joyful life which Heaven
Breathed in my nostrils? Thou hast turn'd that, that,
Into the blue sulphureous flame I utter,
Condemn'd to burn in my own ire against thee!

Ethelstan.
If my rash deed have made thee thus a devil
Who wast near angel, I were rightly damn'd.

Ellisif.
Thou art! thou art!—Thy last, thy fondest hope
Of any bliss on earth, mark how I quench it:
She, whom thou lovèst so, long lost, late found,
Thy queen elect, the saint thy heart enshrines,
She whom thou dream'st will, like another self,
Double thy joys, divide thy woes,—that peerless one,
Hates thee as I do!

Ethelstan.
Ellisif?

Ellisif.
Even she!

Ethelstan.
My bleeding heart's sole balm to poison turn'd!
O she's not false!—She makes me who did cause,
Howe'er unwilling, her dear father's death,
Fast from the luxury of her sight awhile,
Till, purified in penitential tears,
Mine eyes may taste of it again:—nought else!
Thou art the false one, thou much changèd spirit,
If thou have even the substance of a shade!

Ellisif.
My speech hath touch'd thy conscience to the quick:
Take now this bloody stigma from my hand,
Proof I am no false vision!

[A flash of moonlight—Ellisif vanishes—Bruern, sheathing his sword, shrinks aside.
Ethelstan.
Thy foul purpose
Dreaded the light, which scared thee too!—Thou wert,
Sure, but my superstition's child alone?
Nor trace—nor footfall—fleeting form—nor shadow
Tells of thee!—Ha! what church-breaker art thou?
Come forth, assassinative shape!

[Seeing Bruern.
Bruern.
I cannot:
Good pilgrim, do an outlaw'd man no harm.

Ethelstan.
Forth, slave, I say!

Bruern.
Ne'er trust me! By this altar
The Chair of Safety is, to which I'm chain'd.

Ethelstan.
Chain'd?

Bruern.
Ay, by fear's strong fetters; for I bear
A wolf's head—whoso brings it in gets gold!—
Let me to sleep again.

Ethelstan.
Knave, it was thou
Held insolent parley with me here:—Confess!

Bruern.
Most like! bytimes I babble in my sleep.

Ethelstan.
That rheumy voice, like grating of a rope,
Could not have feign'd such piercing words.—Speak, felon!
Where's thy fine-spoken friend?

Bruern.
There!

Ethelstan.
Who?

Bruern.
Prince Edwin!

Ethelstan.
Why, what art thou, that let'st thy blunt words fall
Like stones in thick ooze dropp'd from some high tower,
When of such perilous moment they may sink
The stranded bark beneath, without thy caring?

Bruern.
Churl Bruern I!—the Prince's man.

Ethelstan.
Thou scape
Great Ocean's watery ordeal, and not he?
That chance was given him for sweet Mercy's sake;
If innocent, I trusted saviour wings
Would hover round his barque, and fan it o'er
To some blest island, though fleet-wrecking storms
Blew in its teeth, and undulous mountains rose
Moon-high between it and its harbourage.

Bruern.
Then innocent I, as those same wings brush'd me
Back to this island blest!

Ethelstan.
That shakes my creed:
Wherefore but thee?

Bruern.
Long time upon the gunwale
The Prince stood,—like white-eyed Despair,—then suddenly
Leapt far into the flood with a mad shriek,
And sank: but I, more harden'd in mishaps,
Clung fast to the boat's bottom as a barnacle,
While she stuck to herself; then on my shield,
Which oft a soldier makes his raft, I scull'd it
With an old stave, witch-like, across the deep;
Till Providence, who protects the innocent,
Flung me, nigh shapeless, mash'd to merman spawn,
Weltering ashore.

Ethelstan.
Why iterate to me
Thy innocence?

Bruern.
Dread, sir, I know my king.
The majesty of his sunbright locks betray'd him,
Albeit in pilgrim weed.

Ethelstan.
Say,—and be pardon'd
Thy treason here, in virtue of that death
Thou almost suffer'd for no treason done,—
Who was it now assail'd me by that tomb?

Bruern.
My liege, I know not.

Ethelstan.
Heard'st thou nought?

Bruern.
I heard
A low voice down the aisle mumbling of beads
And paternosters, till its hum beguiled me,
As doth the drowsy purr of a beldam's wheel
Her nodding self, to sleep.

Ethelstan.
Nor saw'st nought?

Bruern.
Where?

Ethelstan.
Here!

Bruern.
When, sire?

Ethelstan.
At that moonburst from the murk?

Bruern.
Thy royal self.

Ethelstan.
None else?

Bruern.
I saw a screech-owl
Whirr from yon niche into the cloister near;
None else, though so long custom'd to this gloom,
Bat-like I could chase moths, or spy out things
As dusk of coat as my half-brother mouse,
Dotting the distant floor.

Ethelstan.
Doth maddening sorrow
Conjure up semblances, yea, phantom sounds,
Beyond the dread creations of a dream?
It may be so!—'Tis held that warning voices
Do come at times from dead mouths to quick ears,
Which thrill as cold to hear them!—Sure, 'twas scarce
Bold treason, too refined for this coarse worker?
Begone! (To Bruern)
,—and clear mine eyesight of a blot!
Although, perchance, unguilty of this deed,
Thou hast been aye a dark and dangerous man,
Whose ill society suspicion cast
On all permitting it; my thoughtless brother
Kept too much commerce with thee, and thy like,
Who turn to damning though dumb witnesses
Against their friends in jeopardy.—Begone,
Lourer! as sullen-eyed as untamed steer,
And as strong-headed thy wild course to roam.
Begone! I may repent my mercy too!

[Exeunt severally.