University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Hall in the Palace of the Archbishop of Sens.
The Provost of Paris and Robert the Hermit.
Provost.
His Grace has not yet risen; his health is weak;
But from his chaplain we shall hear anon
Whether it please him, when the Council meets,
To call you in. I doubt not that he will.

Robert.
My call is from a greater than his Grace,
Whom both obey.

Provost.
Meantime 'tis fit you know
What face we wear at Paris.

Robert.
France elsewhere
Bleeds from a thousand wounds. Each step I took
In my long journey hither, brought in sight
Old scars and new. What face the town puts on
Thou shalt instruct me; for God gives me leave
To learn from pious men.

Provost.
Slowly the King
Picks up the fragments of his shatter'd mind,
And as the daylight on his reason dawns
Beholds his kingdom a bewilder'd wreck
Tost to and fro by factions, rent and riven
By these two rival Dukes; his brother first,
And next his cousin, seizing sovran sway,
And each so using it as makes good men
Hope something from a change. When Orleans rules
With dance and song a light and dissolute grace
Doth something gild misgovernment; whilst they
Who hear him, 'twixt a revel and a masque,
Give audience to some Doctor of the Church,
Grave as the Doctor's self and gracious more,
Cannot but marvel that a man so sage,
And for his years so learned, should misuse
The gifts of God and be his country's curse.
Then comes that other Duke, revengeful, rough,
Imperious and cruel; and they who winced
Beneath his cousin's handling, wonder now
That they were not content. You'll see them both;
For when the King's physicians gave him leave
To sit in council, he bade both attend,
Thinking to put their discords into tune;
Wherein when Jove and Saturn meet and kiss
There's hope he may prevail.

Robert.
On either head
A vial will I empty.

Provost.
Well—so—well—
But if I err not, the Archbishop's Grace
Would gladly know the purport and the drift
Of that you shall discourse.

Robert.
It may not be.
Say to his Grace I know it not myself.
Whate'er God puts it in my heart to say
That will I speak; but counsel will I none
With mortal man.

Provost.
The courage of the tongue
Is truly, like the courage of the hand,
Discreetly used, a prizeable possession;
But what befits the presence of a King
Is boldness temper'd with some touch of fear.

Robert.
There where I stand in presence of my King,
There stand I, too, in presence of my God.
Fearing my God I come before my King
With reverence, as is meet, but not with fear.

Provost.
Well, for the King, poor gentleman, no speech
How bold soe'er and telling bitter truth
Would meet a frown from him. His brother shares
The sweetness of his nature. Other clay,
Dug from some miry slough or sulphurous bog,
With many a vein of mineral poison mix'd,
Went to the making of Duke Jean-Sans-Peur.
This knew the crafty Amorabaquin.
When captives by the hundred were hewn down
'Twas not rich ransom only spared the Duke.
'Twas that a dying Dervish prophesied
More Christian blood should by his mean be shed
Than e'er by Bajazet with all his hosts.
Therefore it was to France he sent him back
With gifts,—and what were they? 'twas bowstrings made
Of human entrails.

Robert.
Choice the offering! Yea,
Fit bounty of fit patron to fit friend.

Provost.
Good Robert, neither thine nor yet that voice,
Were it again on earth, which sober'd Saul,
Can mitigate Duke John, or heal the strife
Which from these quarrelsome cousins breathes abroad
War, pestilence and famine. Hope it not.
Once by his Grace of Bourbon's intercession
Peace was patch'd up and injuries forgiven.
Well, some three months was wonderful accord;
Then came black looks, and then “To arms, to arms!”
The sole sick hope of France is in the King.
Awhile his malady remits, and joy
Lights up the land; then darkness re-descends.
Give but to him stability of health
And all were well. Alas! it will not be.

Robert.
Whence came the chastisement the mercy may.

Provost.
Whence came the chastisement we know; but how
And wherefore, was a mystery for long years
And diversely discoursed. Urban of Rome
Did nothing doubt 'twas that the King had own'd
Clement of Avignon; whilst Clement knew
'Twas that he fought not to the death 'gainst Urban;
His doctors said 'twas that he ceased their drugs;
All doctors else, that he had sometime ta'en them;
The people deem'd it in its first assault
A judgment for the imposts and the aids,
But seeing these have doubled since, they fell
From this belief, and as he was a boy
When first afflicted, were it this, they said,
His Council should go mad and not himself.
Thus error is but transient, truth prevails
Sure as day follows night, and now none doubts,
What to wise men was patent from the first,
That 'tis the work of sorcerers, men accursed
And slaves of Satan, and by him suborn'd
Upon this Christian Kingdom to bring down
Disaster and dismay, and snare the souls
Of thousands daily shedding brothers' blood.
But who they be, these sorcerers, there's the doubt;
Not few have been impeach'd and hang'd or burnt;
But no success ensuing, the charge, 'tis deem'd,
Was fashion'd in excess of godly zeal
Which Satan misdirected; thus the quest
Is daily keener lest the King relapse;
And there be now arrived two monks from Eu
Who know to search out sorceries. Much hope
Is squander'd on these monks, but for myself
I like them not; they ride in coats of mail
And waste the night in riot and debauch.
Still if they know their art, far be it from me
To question of their lives.

Robert.
If these be evil
Their art is not of God, nor aught avails
For counterworking Satan. Let them troop.
I will not suffer them.

Provost.
Nay, but we must.
'Tis partly herein to advise the King
The Council meets to-day.
Enter the Archbishop's Chaplain.
Well, worthy friend,
What saith his Grace?

Chaplain.
Good Hermit, come this way.
His Grace hath wrapp'd him hastily in his gown
And said his hours and waits you in his closet.
He's favourably minded, and he says
He knows not if your mission be divine,
But were it human only, he were loth
To let good words be lost. Please you, this way.

Scene II.

—A Street.—A Religious Procession crosses the Stage, chanting a “Gratias agimus” and carrying a Shrine with the true and entire head of St. Denys, accompanied by a throng of citizens.
1st Citizen.
Well, for this mercy of mercies God be praised!
And if his gracious Highness would but please
To walk abroad, should not his eyes behold
The loving'st truly and the joyfullest city
That earth can show.

2nd Citizen.
I never saw the like;
'Tis as a town for many a month besieged
When now the siege is raised and food and wine
Come in by cart-loads. Seem'd we not before
Half starved, and now half tipsy?

3rd Citizen.
Starved we were
And starved we are; but foul befall the wretch,
If such there be, who would not feed for life
On husks and draff if so it might please God
To keep the King in health.

Woman.
Bless him for ever
When he was well, not one so mean among us
But he could spare a smile to make her happy.
Bless his sweet gracious kingly face! I saw him
Kneeling at mass so comely and so holy!
But Lord, Sirs, he was ghostly pale.

Priest.
Poor soul!
What hath he suffer'd! Never king but David
Was so tormented; yea, the sorrows of Hell
Gat hold of him.

2nd Citizen.
Alas, and may again!

3rd Citizen.
Mercy forbid!

Priest.

3rd Citizen.
Yes, father, yes;
And ever 'tis my prayer that God would please
To point a finger at those sorcerers
That work the King this ill. Give us to know
What men they be, we'd slice them into gobbets
And fling their flesh to the dogs.

2nd Citizen.
Look, who comes here;
Surely the wise and worthy monks from Eu
Who come to search it out, and with them one
That's sore suspected, Passac, the King's barber.

Enter from the side at which the procession had passed out Father Buvulan and Father Betizac, followed by two Marshalsmen with Passac in custody and a throng of Citizens shouting.
Passac.
Oh hear me! Sirs, alas, ye will not hear me!

Citizens.
Where is the cart? the cart has fallen behind:
Stop for the cart; no faggots here, no pitch!

Passac.
Oh hear me, Sirs: I ever loved the King,
Yea, was his very worshipper; I hurt him!
I that would die to give his gracious soul
One moment's peace.

Father Buvulan.
My friends, ye are not fools,
Ye are not senseless blocks; ye have your wits;
Ye can discern the truth. Behold this barber;
Look at this bag and ring. What shall be said?
Here's one that, being barber to the King,
Puts me this ring into a corpse's mouth,
(A Jew's that had been hung was Tuesday week
For strangling Chrisom babies ere the Priest
Sweating with haste could reach to christen them),
Sticks me this ring into this corpse's mouth,
Leaves it three days, then puts it in this bag
Sewn with the dead man's skin and fill'd to the neck
With his accursed ashes, and the bag
Wears next his heart. What shall be said, I ask?

Citizens.
Away to the stake—hale him along—away!
And prod him with your lances as ye go.

Passac.
Oh, Sirs, 'tis false; I never did such things.
Kind, noble Sirs, believe me, for the ring
I had it of my wife when I was courting;
The bag, Sirs, holds the ashes of St. Maud;
'Twas given me by the Abbot of Beaumanoir
By reason I had shaven him fifteen years,
When, times being hard, he could not pay in cash
And gave me this.

Father Betizac.
Truly the Father of Lies
Sits like a weaver at his loom and weaves.
You'll find him, Sirs, as hardy to deny
The Eve of Pentecost, when he was seen
At midnight in the Rue des Ursulines
Ranging and whirling round and round the gibbet,
Whiles the dead bodies, swinging in the wind,
Sang “Ave Sathanas!” That too he'll deny.

Passac.
As I'm a Christian man, Sirs, it is false.

Father Betizac.
I told you so; I knew he would deny it.

Passac.
At midnight on the Eve of Pentecost
I was at nocturns in the Chapel Royal.

2nd Citizen.
Oh monstrous liar! I saw thee with mine eyes
Ranging and scouring round and about the gibbet
At midnight chimes; yea, with mine eyes I saw thee;
Thou hadst put on the body of a cur,
A cock-tail'd cur.

Father Betizac.
And did ye mark, my friends,
Now as we pass'd the true head of St. Denys,
And playing on our easy credulous minds
He knelt and cross'd himself,—mark'd ye, I say,
How the head frown'd?

3rd Citizen.
It did; I saw it frown;
An angry frown; I trembled like a leaf.

Passac.
'Twas at these monks it frown'd and not at me.
'Tis they that are magicians, as I can prove;
'Tis they.

Father Buvulan.
Oh mercy on my sinful soul!
I ne'er knew Satan so enraged before.
Here comes the cart; bring him along, false hound!
Mark when he burns if the flames be not blue.

Citizens.
Bring him along—a faggot each—come on.

Passac.
Dolts! Idiots! Will ye have my life? Then take it;
And may the curse of God and all good men
And all the blessed Company of Heaven
Swallow you quick, ye blood-bespatter'd knaves,
And send you seething to the bottomless pit?

Father Betizac.
Hoo! grace defend us! What! blue flames already!
Look to him, serjeants, he is dangerous;
So—knot his hands behind him. Up with a psalm:
Sing as ye go the “Deus ultionum.”

[Exeunt—the Monks last. Then enter the Bastard of Montargis and Raiz de Vezelay.
Montargis.
Ay, a good wench I grant you, free and merry
Before the wind; but luff her up and lo!
Crack goes the topmast, rudder fells the pilot,
Split flies the foresail.... Ha! is yonder monk ....
Yes, by St. George it is.... Ho, Betizac!
I think he hears me.... Yes, a lively wench,
And, as they all are, winning—till she's won;
Then comes a change.

De Vezelay.
What! is it even so!
Has Flos then fallen from her high estate
To pass for flat?

Montargis.
Save when she's furious. Ha!
Re-enter Father Betizac.
The man I sought—a serviceable man;
Wilt do me a good turn?

Father Betizac.
Your worship's slave,
Obedient ever. In my way, my Lord?
Aught in my way?

Montargis.
In one, friend, of thy ways;
For thou hast two; with roses strewn is this;
That in like manner red—but not with roses.
'Tis in the first I need thee; thou hast spells,
Potions and powders, shells and herbs and seeds
Gather'd or mixed when Dian in eclipse
Made Venus doubly bright.

Father Betizac.
My Lord, I have;
How come by 'twere not good for me to say
Nor you to hear. But thus much I may tell;
When Ashtaroth and Asmodai were flung
From heaven to earth, they harbour'd in a cave
In Normandy, when spitting on the ground,
There where they spat upgrew a wondrous plant,
Whereof the leaves, powder'd and mixed in wine,
Are of that virtue they shall change the hearts
Of twice-vow'd Vestals.

Montargis.
Such a one is she
Whom I would subjugate; the Northern Lights
Shine with no softer radiance, nor frequent
A frostier region. Lo! a mineral spell,
Less named than known in necromantic lore,
I give thee in acquittance.
[Gives him a gold piece.
Send that drug.

Betizac.
'Tis yours, my Lord.

Montargis.
Ere night?

Betizac.
My Lord, ere night
I'll send it you.

Montargis.
A Cupid of mine own
I'll send to fetch it, rather. Fare thee well.

[Exit Betizac.
De Vezelay.
How's this, Montargis? Flos then fell not flat
Till rose another o'er her?

Montargis.
Well, 'tis true.

De Vezelay.
Why, here's a change! like Carnival to Lent,
Done in a day.

Montargis.
Truly a Lenten change
Fits not my festive spirit; nor do I look
For forty days to fast, or four or one.
If not befriended by the friar's philter,
I know by what; for I am of the mind
Of Jean de Malestroit, that scrupulous Count
Who beat his chaplain till the good man bent
To grant him dispensation.

De Vezelay.
Ay, but Flos;
Is she to dance along the slippery path
She thinks shall bring her to the house of joy
And find herself confronted by contempt
Even at the gates? for was it not this night
You were to fly together?

Montargis.
'Twas to-night.
There is a midnight service in the chapel.
Flos and her fast friend Iolande St. Remy
Attend it. So do I. The Rue St. Mark
Is twenty paces distant. There should wait
Two saddles empty and some five well fill'd.
Pity it were such goodly preparation
Should run to waste. Now Iolande St. Remy
Sits on the throne of this unvalued Flos
And so shall fill her saddle.

De Vezelay.
By consent?

Montargis.
The horse consents and that's enough. Ere dawn
We shall have reach'd Montlhery. On the road
Her strength shall fail and she shall lack support;
Then comes the cunning Friar's well-mixed wine
And all is as it should be.

De Vezelay.
For myself,
I hold it less than loyal by a spell
To work upon a woman.

Montargis.
Tut! Reprisals.
She cannot by what conjuring you will
Be more bewizarded than I'm bewitched.
But hark you! we must take some thought for Flos;
No midnight freaks for her. My Lady Abbess
Must learn that she is mischievously minded
And lock her up. Raiz, look to this for me
And I will hold thee my true friend for life.
I needs must to the council; for at three
They meet to wrangle of the King's disease,
And cloudy John expects me.

De Vezelay.
Be content;
Flos shall be cared for—you shall know to-night
With what success.

Montargis.
Be diligent. Adieu.

[Exit.
De Vezelay.
Here is a zigzag! I am wicked too
In some sort, and with women; but thus to woo
And thus to win and thus to strike and stab,
Exceeds my tether. Poor forsaken Flos!
Not all her brightness, sportfulness, and bloom,
Her sweetness and her wildness and her wit,
Could save her from desertion. No, their loves
Were off the poise. Her boundless flood of love
Swept out his petty rill. Love competent
Makes better bargains than love affluent;
He needs had loved her had she less loved him,
And had I less loved her—she might—in time—
But no, she never could have stoop'd to me.
I'll do his errand—not for his sake, but hers.
No better can befall her than this night
To ponder in retreat. Some doubtful tale
I'll tell to waken up my Lady Abbess,
Which, its end answer'd, shall belie itself
And leave the damsel stainless. For her friend,
Poor Iolande, if I can save her, so;
Not through the Abbess—he would smell me there—
Some other way—and now that I bethink me,
I know the stroke shall strike his lance askew.
My Lord of Orleans is no friend to him
And loves a chance adventure. He shall hear,
And if Sir Bastard come not by a check
I'll yield some credit to his conjurors.
He's cruel over much. I've heard it said,
When Blanche de Honcourt lost her hold, ere long
A body in a sack was seen afloat
Betwixt the bridges. Such things should not be.

Scene III.

—The Council Chamber in the King's Palace.— The King, the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy, the Archbishop of Sens, and other Councillors. Officers of State in attendance, amongst whom are the Bastard of Montargis and the Provost of Paris.
The King.
My Brother, Cousin John, and my good Lords,
Much have I long'd once more to meet you here,
And much it sometimes seem'd I had to say;
But, Sirs, my voice is weak, more weak my wits,
Being, as I am, new risen from the grave,—
The grave, I say, wherein my mind was buried,—
And you shall pardon me if tongue or thought
Should falter, one or both. We meet to-day
To reason of my illness; whence it comes
And how to hold it off. But, Sirs, much more
I would that ye should reason of the realm,
Discern what ails it and divine what balm
Shall heal its ghastly wounds. Oh, my good Lords,
It breaks my very heart of heart in pieces,
So often as I wake from these bad dreams,
To find what's real worse. Apply your hearts,
I pray you, to restore my Kingdom's health,
And then take thought for mine.

Archbishop.
So please your Grace,
Under God's providence, the Kingdom's health
Attends upon the King's, whose health and weal
Are as the fountain-head whence all the land
Is water'd; 'tis in you your Kingdom finds
All aid and increase, even as the Psalmist saith,
“All my fresh springs in thee.”

Burgundy.
And therefore first
Behoves us reason of the first, and ask
Who and what are they that with devilish art
Poison the wells and fountain-head of France;
And there be now arrived from Normandy
Two wise and worthy monks, vouch'd by Sanxerre,
Your Highness's true liege and faithful friend,
For men of marvellous aptness to rip up
The works of witchcraft. He avers, my Lords,
The Province hath been purged the last ten years
Of wizards to the number of threescore
And twice so many witches, which is due
Most chiefly to their skill and diligence.
I hold it were no wisdom to forego
Such aid as theirs.

Orleans.
One word, my Lords, to that.
What know we of these monks or of their art?
Save only that Sanxerre (whom God forbid
That I should blame, for he is wise and true)
Gives credence to their skill. But wisdom errs
In nought more oft than putting easy trust
In tales when things are dark. For man is loth,
In argument where grounded thought is none
And yet the theme solicitous, to fold
The wings of thought and drop its lids and own
That in a night of knowledge to roost and sleep
Is judgment's sole sagacity. Thus he
That justly should have balanced 'twixt two weights
Substantial both though diverse in degree
Of credibility, shall lose himself,
Intent on vacancy, in snatching shadows
And pondering of imponderable motes.
I say, Sirs, we know nothing of these monks
Nor of their art.

Burgundy.
Good cousin, by St. George
Rumour hath wrong'd thee much if of some arts
Thou know'st not more than most. What's that I see
Circling thy left forefinger? Jean de Bar,
Were he alive, could tell us of a work
Wrought on a golden ring which bore enchased
The royal arms of France.

Orleans.
And though he's dead,
Mayhap, fair cousin, you shall see him somewhere;
And that ere long, seeing the merry pace
You travel on that broad and trodden way
That leads to his abode. Sirs, Jean de Bar,
Who, as ye know, made traffic of my youth
And coin'd my ignorance, a just death died.
I wish his peers no other. By his aid
(Not gifted with that affable accost
And personal grace which bids my cousin trust
In his own prowess—conquering and to conquer)
I hoped to triumph in affairs of love.
He promised too to call me up the Devil,
Whom (not content with some I daily met
Of aspect diabolic) I craved to see.
These follies of my green unguided youth
Were render'd to the flames with Jean de Bar.
Still of the art itself I spare to speak,
Dilating but, in quality of witness,
The art's practitioners as I have known them:
For whatsoe'er they feign'd, I plainly saw
The Devil had power on them, not they on him.
But whether a veritable power there be
By cryptic art and more than natural mean
To exorcise, or if not exorcise,
Divine whence comes possession, not to me
Pertaineth to pronounce, but more to him
Who sits amongst us spiritually raised
To speak of spirits with authentic voice.
What saith my Lord Archbishop?

Archbishop.
Sirs, 'tis true,
As by his Grace of Orleans is averr'd
Most wisely, that that function of the Church
Which deals with evil spirits is usurp'd,
And specially since of late the sword of schism
Hath pierced her very vitals (God forgive
The unspeakably abominable thieves
That thus have rent Christ's garment for a spoil)—
Since then, I say, this function is usurp'd
By some of ill repute; such we disown;
But to deny that incantation used
In sacred sort, with ardours apostolic,
Can cast out Devils, ay and the Prince of Devils,
Were to gainsay what Holy Scripture proves
Not less than daily fact. Sirs, for these monks,
They should be holy men, but that they are
I may not certify; for from their Abbot's
Nor other hand ecclesiastical
Have they credentials.

Orleans.
They have none from Nature;
Ne'er did I see in church or camp or court—
I will not say men like them (for in my time
I have seen visages as villainous
As any Normandy can send to scare us)—
But men of visage more detestable
I ne'er saw yet—more cruel-eyed, or men
Whose outside of their inside told a tale
More foul and loathsome. On the brow of each,
Writ by kind Providence that watcheth o'er us,
I read the word “Beware!”

Burgundy.
Twere well, fair cousin,
Read where you may that word in books or men,
'Twere read to better purpose.

Archbishop.
My Lords, these monks
I cannot to your confidence commend.
But there is one without attends your pleasure,
A man of life religious and severe,
Both gently born and well and widely known,
Who, might it please your Highness, hath been charged,
So he avers, divinely in a vision
With what he deems a message from on high
To be deliver'd in your royal presence
Nor otherwise divulged. With your kind leave
The Provost shall conduct him in.

The King.
At once.
To pious men our ears are open ever.
We'll hear this message. What may be his name?

[Exit the Provost.
Archbishop.
'Tis Menuot, but in the popular mouth,
Robert the Hermit. He is strangely clad
For such a presence, but his vows forbid
A garb more seemly.

Orleans.
Let his vow be kept.
What is it that he wears? A wildcat's skin
To signify he dreams by day?
Re-enter the Provost with Robert the Hermit.
God's love!
Was wildcat e'er so wild?

The King.
Good Sir, his Grace,
My Lord Archbishop, tells us thou art charged
Some message to make known. Rise then and speak.

Robert.
King and my gracious Sovereign, unto whom
I bend the knee as one ordain'd of God,
A message hath been given me, and I am bid
To tell thee in what sort. St. Jerome's Day,
My vows perform'd, I sail'd from Palestine,
With favouring winds at first; but the tenth night
A storm arose and darkness was around
And fear and trembling and the face of death.
Six hours I knelt in prayer, and with the seventh
A light was flash'd upon the raging sea,
And in the raging sea a space appear'd
Flat as a lake, where lay outstretch'd and white
A woman's body; thereupon were perch'd
Two birds, a falcon and a kite, whose heads
Bare each a crown, and each had bloody beaks,
And blood was on the claws of each, which clasp'd
This the right breast and that the left, and each
Fought with the other, nor for that they ceased
To tear the body. Then there came a cry
Piercing the storm—“Woe, woe for France, woe, woe!
Thy mother France, how excellently fair
And in how foul a clutch!” Then silence; then,
“Robert of Menuot, thou shalt surely live,
For God hath work to give thee; be of good cheer;
Nail thou two planks in figure of a cross,
And lash thee to that cross and leap, and lo!
Thou shalt be cast upon the coast of France;
Then take thy way to Paris; on the road,
See, hear, and when thou com'st to Paris, speak.”
“To whom?” quoth I. Was answer made, “The King.”
I question'd, “What?” “That thou shalt see, declare,
And what God puts it in thy heart to speak
That at the peril of thy soul deliver.”
Then leap'd I in the sea lash'd to a cross,
And drifting half a day I came to shore
At Sigean on the coast of Languedoc,
And parting thence barefooted journey'd hither
For forty days save one, and on the road
I saw and heard, and I am here to speak.

The King.
Good hermit, by God's mercy we are spared
To hear thee, and not only with our ears
But with our mind.

Burgundy.
If there be no offence,
But take thou heed to that.

Robert.
What God commands,
How smacks it of offence? But dire offence
There were if fear of Man should choke God's word.
I heard and saw, and I am here to speak.
Nigh forty days I sped from town to town,
Hamlet to hamlet, and from grange to grange,
And wheresoe'er I set my foot, behold!
The foot of war had been before, and there
Did nothing grow, and in the fruitless fields
Whence ruffian hands had snatch'd the beasts of draft
Women and children to the plough were yoked;
The very sheep had learnt the ways of war
And soon as from the citadel rang out
The larum-peal, flock'd to the city gates;
And tilth was none by day, for none durst forth,
But wronging the night season which God gave
To minister sweet forgetfulness and rest,
Was labour and a spur. I journey'd on,
And near a burning village in a wood
Were huddled 'neath a drift of bloodstain'd snow
The houseless villagers: I journey'd on,
And as I pass'd a convent, at the gate
Were famish'd peasants, hustling each the other,
Half fed by famish'd nuns: I journey'd on,
And 'twixt a hamlet and a church the road
Was black with biers, for famine-fever raged:
I journey'd on—a trumpet's brazen clang
Died in the distance; at my side I heard
A child's weak wail that on its mother's breast
Droop'd its thin face and died; then peal'd to Heaven
The mother's funeral cry, “My child is dead
For lack of food; he hunger'd unto death;
A soldier ate his food and what was left
He trampled in the mire; my child is dead!
Hear me, O God! a soldier kill'd my child!
See to that soldier's quittance—blood for blood!
Visit him, God, with Thy divine revenge!”
The woman ceased; but voices in the air,
Yea and in me a thousand voices cried,
“Visit him, God, with Thy divine revenge!”
Then they too ceased, and sterner still the Voice
Slow and sepulchral that took up the word—
“Him, God, but not him only nor him most;
Look Thou to them that breed the men of blood,
That breed and feed the murderers of the realm.
Look thou to them that, hither and thither tost
Betwixt their quarrels and their pleasures, laugh
At torments that they taste not; bid them learn
That there be torments terribler than these
Whereof it is Thy will that they shall taste,
So they repent not, in the belly of Hell.”
So spake the Voice, then thunder shook the wood,
And lightning smote and splinter'd two tall trees
That tower'd above the rest, the one a pine,
An ash the other. Then I knew the doom
Of those accursed men who sport with war
And tear the body of their mother, France.
Trembling though guiltless did I hear that doom,
Trembling though guiltless I; for them I quaked
Of whom it spoke; Oh, Princes, tremble ye,
For ye are they! Oh, hearken to that Voice!
Oh cruel, cruel, cruel Princes, hear!
For ye are they that tear your mother's flesh;
Oh, flee the wrath to come! Repent and live!
Else know your doom, which God declares through me,
Perdition and the pit hereafter; here
Short life and shameful death.

[Exit.
Burgundy.
Ho, ho! My Lords,
What say ye to my Lord Archbishop's friend?
A prophet or a railer? Nay, Sirs, speak;
Or have dumb Devils enter'd you?

Orleans.
My Lords,
I with his Grace of Burgundy my cousin
Stand equally denounced; yet deem I not
That holy man a railer. To my ears
He spake disastrous truth, and from my soul,
Sore wearied with the burthen of its sins,
I grieve for what is past, and pray that God,
Whose goodness and whose multitude of mercies
I rankly have abused, will give me strength
By works of penitence to rescue France,
War-wasted France my mother, and as a brand
Pluck'd from the burning, her unworthiest son.
And cousin of Burgundy, for all words and deeds
Of this and other days that did thee wrong
I humbly crave forgiveness, first of God
And next of thee; and in the Celestines
In token of contrition will I found
Two daily masses for thy father's soul.

Burgundy.
Gramercy, my good cousin, by St. George
I bear no malice, I, nor ever did.
Here is my hand; I swear from this time forth
I'll love thee as myself, yea heartily;
And to thine enemies I hold my sword
As counter as to mine. And now, my Lords,
To business. For these Augustinian Monks,
Are they at hand?

Montargis.
My Lord, they were not summon'd.

Burgundy.
Not summon'd?

Provost.
But they are not far to seek;
For in the Rue des Ursulines but now
I met them, with a rabble that rear'd a stake,
And in their hands one Passac at his prayers
Waiting to be confess'd.

Orleans.
What! Passac? No!
My good friend Passac! He to burn! God's death!
Attendance there! I'll see to that myself.

[Exit.
Burgundy.
Send for these Monks.

The King.
Good cousin, no, not now.
My head is weak; I may not tax it more.
My Lords, pray pardon me; another day
I'll ask your further aid. The Monks can then
Be brought before you. This day's conference
May well content us, since it heals the strife
Betwixt our two chief councillors and friends;
And more to their accord I bid you look
Than the frail hope of strength renew'd in me
To give the kingdom peace. Sirs, fare ye well.