LORDS AND LOVERS
AND
OTHER DRAMAS

BY
OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1906

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons
All rights reserved
Published, October, 1906

The Trow Press, New York

CONTENTS

LORDS AND LOVERS

PART I

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

• HENRY III, King of England
• EARL OF ALBEMARLE
• EARL OF PEMBROKE
• RICHFORD, son to Pembroke, afterwards Earl
• ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
• BISHOP OF WINCHESTER
• CARDINAL GUALO
• HUBERT DE BURGH, afterwards Earl of Kent
• SIR ROLAND DE BORN
• STEPHEN GODFREY, a soldier
• GREGORY, a captain
• BALDUR, GODRIC, soldiers
• ORSON, a servant
• GERSA, an officer under De Burgh
• FRIAR SEBASTIAN
• LORD GOLY
• LORD DE VERE
• MARGARET, a Scottish princess
• ELEANOR, Countess of Albemarle, wife of Albemarle
• GLAIA, ward of De Burgh
• ELDRA, servant to Glaia
• Lords and ladies of the court, bishops, barons, priests, citizens, soldiers, &c.
• Time: 13th Century
• Scene: England

ACT I

Scene 1. Room in the earl of Pembroke's castle. Pembroke in bed. Richford and Albemarle attending.

Pem. The king has come?

Alb. He waits upon your grace

As a good servant; with demeanor speaks

True sorrow you are brought so low.

Pem. [Stoutly] Ha! Low?

Alb. Sir, but in body. Pembroke's mounting mind

Can never be struck down.

Pem. He's sad, you say?

Alb. In tears, your grace. He weeps more like a son

Than sovereign.

Pem. A son! Where is the son

Would weep for Pembroke?

Rich. Here, my dearest father!

Here are the tears would water thy affliction

Till it be washed from thy endangered body.

Here is the heart would give its younger blood

To make thine leap with health. Without you, sir,

I am no more than is the gaudy bloom

Of some stout tree the axe has brought to ground.

O, wilt forgive the many pains I've cost thee?

Pem. First touch my hand and swear by highest God

That you will serve the king.

Rich. O, slight condition!

I take this noble hand that ne'er was raised

'Gainst country, throne or God, and by that God,

I vow to serve the king.

Pem. For the last time

I'll trust and pardon you. If you make black

Your soul with violation of this oath,

I, safe beyond the stars, shall know it not,

Nor die again to think on 't. Men, weep not

That ye lack sons, but weep when your wives bear them!

Alb. I'll vouch for him, your grace.

Pem. Thanks, Albemarle.

Rich. Will you, my kindest father, say a word

To bring me to the graces of the king?

Pem. Ay, son.

Rich. Now, sir?

Pem. Nay, I'm not dying yet,

And wish to keep my last words for his ears.

There's holy magic in the passing tongue

That stamps its truth unrasurable. So

Would I grave Henry's heart.

Rich. But, sir——

Pem. I'll wait

My hour. Who comes with him?

Alb. The legate, Gualo,

To-day arrived from Rome.

Pem. And I not told?

Already I am dead. These ears, that kings

Engaged, are now contracted to the worm

Permits no forfeiture. Well, well, his message?

Alb. The cardinal assures us that the pope

Will cast his power with Henry. Though he loves

This praying Louis, well he knows our right.

Pem. The pope our friend? I thank thee, Heaven!

England, take up thy heart! Thou yet mayst hope!

[Enter bishop of Winchester]

Win. God save great Pembroke!

Pem. He alone can do it.

Lord Albemarle, and my new-graced son,

Will 't please you walk within?

Alb. We are your servants.

[Exeunt Richford and Albemarle, left]

Pem. Now, Winchester?

Win. You sent for me, your grace.

I have made haste.

Pem. Ay, you'd trot fast enough

To see me die.

Win. Nay, sir, I hope you've called

Me to your service.

Pem. So I have, my lord.

A task unfinished I must leave to you.

Here is the key to yonder cabinet.

Pray you unlock it ... and take out the packet

Your eye's now on.

Win. This, sir?

Pem. Ay, that is it.

'Twas Henry Second, grandsire of this Henry,

Gave me that packet. Sir, you know the tale

Of princess Adelais who journeyed here

As the betrothed of Richard, Henry's son.

Alack, she never was his bride. Some say

That Henry loved her ... I know not ... but she

Returned to France, her reason wandering.

"If she recover," said the king to me,

"Give her this packet; should she die, break seal

And learn what you shall do." She did not die,

Nor can I say she lives, so sad her state.

Her age was bare fifteen when she left England,

Her face a lily and her eyes a flood;

She now must be midway her fifth decade,

A time, I've heard, when subtle changes work

Within the mind. A beauteous soul! O God,

Restore her now, or lift her e'en to thee!

... Take you the packet, and the king's command.

But first your oath. Deceit has sapped my faith

So oft I could believe the devil himself

Wears gown and mitre. Peter des Roches, will you

Be true?

Win. I swear by Heaven.

Pem. That is done,

As well as't can be done. Call in my son

And Albemarle.

Win. My lords!

[Re-enter Richford and Albemarle]

Pem. Now let us talk

Of England. O, this fleet, this fleet, rigged out

By warlike Constance in monk Louis' name!

I see it nearing now, leaping the waves,

On, on, and none to meet it! Cowards all.

What do ye here, ye three, loitering about

A sick man's bed? A man almost a corpse.

I would not have a servant waste himself

To give me drink while England needs his sword.

Rich. My father lord, we have our men abroad

Rousing the country for a stout defence.

To meet the French with our poor ships were madness;

But let them land we'll give them such a rap——

Pem. What? Land your enemy? O, fools and cowards!

... I've given my life for England. Now you'll cast

My heart-dear bargain into Louis' hand

As 'twere a snood slipped from an easy maid.

Fool man! to puff his days out jousting Fate,

Who waits but his bare death to start her mock

Of horrid pleasantries. Then does she make

Dice of the miser's bones, carousal cups

Of the ascetic's skull, a hangman's scoff

Of clerics' prayer-fed sons; and proudest sires,

Who sentried their blue blood, peer back through dust

To see all Babylon pour to their line.

And now she'll bid my war-ghost eyes behold

The land held with my life become a field

For foes at holiday!

Win. Compose yourself, your grace.

Pem. Gualo has come, but where is he will set

This power its task, and play it for this isle?

I can not say that wisdom dies with me,

But I could wish more proof of sager mind

Than e'er I've had from this small audience.

Lord Bishop, you are left custodian

Of Henry's ripening youth.

Win. Nor shall I fail

To be your worthy heir in this high duty,

For still I shall consult with your great spirit,

Praying your ghost be mover of my deeds.

Pem. I've spoken to the king. He'll give you love

For love. But who shall be lord chancellor?

There's little choice. And yet there's one, De Burgh,

If camp and field could spare him——

Alb. Sir, a man

No older than our sons?

Pem. By your good leave,

Age is no patent to respect and place

If virtue go not with it. Whitened hairs

Make honor radiant, but vice thereby

Is viler still. Ay, there are some——

Rich. Peace, father,

And save thy strength for us.

Pem. Ah, son, I've been

A careless holder all my life, and still

With my last hour play spendthrift. Well, here be

Three friends of England—Gualo makes a fourth—

And trusting you I ease my bones to death.

[Enter attendant with a letter, which he gives to Pembroke]

Pem. [After reading] De Burgh! O gallant soul!

Now am I young!

With forty ships he'll meet the fleet of France!

I live again, for courage is not dead!

[Sinking] Nay—help—ah, I am gone. I'll hasten on

And plead in Heaven for his victory.

[Seems to die]

Alb. Ah ... dead?

Rich. In truth.

Win. I'll go and tell the king.

[Aside, going] My joyful tears he will translate to grief,

And think I weep a friend's death, not a foe's

Whose only act of friendship was to die. [Exit]

Alb. How now, my lord? Does your good purpose hold?

Rich. It has the falling sickness, Albemarle,

And now lies low as earth.

Alb. Then set thy foot

Upon it that it rise no more.

Rich. 'Tis done.

Alb. What fools are they who think that dying men

Speak oracles to pivot action on,

When death's decay so blurs each fading sense

They know but darkly of the world about,

And of realities all plain to us

Build visions substanceless to gull our faith.

Grant that they do take note of things unseen,

'Tis with their faces to another world,

And what they speak is strange and ill advice

To us whose work is still 'mong men of earth.

Rich. You need not clear your way to me. I've not

A scruple in my soul would trip a gnat.

Speak out your heart.

Alb. You are great Pembroke now.

But Richford took an oath to serve the king.

Rich. And he—is Louis.

Alb. Till we find hour fit

To cast his yoke and take a sovereign

Of our election.

Rich. Royal Albemarle!

Alb. Here stand we then. De Burgh we count as dead.

Le Moine has orders to strike off his head

Soon as he's taken. Now we get the king

To Dover fort, on pretence to defend it.

There the besieging French will take him prisoner,

And ship him straight to Calais—or to Heaven.

Pem. [Half rising] Devils! dogs! beasts!

Now these devoted bones

Will never lie at peace in English earth.

My country! Must the foreign foot be set

Once more upon thy neck, and thine own sons

Pour sulphur to thy wounds? The king! the king!

What, vipers, do you hear? Call in the king!

Alb. We must not, sir.

Pem. Ho, here! The king!

[Rises from bed, starts forward and falls back speechless. Enter Henry, Gualo, Winchester, and attendants. Albemarle and Richford stand together. Pembroke dies pointing to them and gazing at the king.]

Hen. My lords, what does this mean?

Alb. This noble man

Wished much to say a word of grace for me

And his forgiven son. Alas, black death

Has stolen the balm that might have eased our way

Into your heart.

Hen. Fear not, my lords. I'll trust you,

Even as he wished. [Kneels by bed]

O, Pembroke, couldst thou leave me?

[Curtain]

Scene 2. Before Dover castle. Night. Hubert de Burgh walking and listening.

Hub. But forty ships! But forty slit-sailed drabs

Of storm and watery danger to meet all France

Fresh-winged upon the sea! And yet no word

Nor stir of help. Methinks were I the king,

Or Pembroke with his power in my mouth,

Each English road should be ablaze to-night

With swift flint-striking hoofs. Now to our shore

Puffs up the wave may prove oblivion's maw,

And drink these Dover cliffs as they were sands,

Yet England sleeps, with one lone heart at watch.

[Sound of horse approaching] Nay, two, for Roland comes.

[Enter Roland de Born, dismounted]

Rol. You, Hubert?

Hub. Ay.

You bring no aid?

Rol. The king is powerless.

Pembroke is dead. The barons to covert slink,

Saying their loyalty binds them to fight

No farther than the shore. The bishops smirk

Beneath their mitres, roll their eyes and cry

"God and great Rome, deliver us!" which means

Deliver us to Louis, king of monks

And darling of the pope.

Hub. And Albemarle?

Rol. Stands by the king, and ready with his men

To meet the foe on land, but not a soul

Will send to sea.

Hub. Dissembler! Well he knows

A victory on the sea means England lost,

So many traitor hearts will league with France

And sell their country for one castle more.

Rol. What now? We've little time. 'Tis almost day.

The moon is down, and the raw, rising air

Sucks in approaching light. What must be done?

Hub. The Cinque Ports yield me forty ships.

With these

I'll meet Le Moine.

Rol. O, Hubert, Hubert!

Hub. Ay,

My men are all aboard and waiting me.

The garrison I leave to you. Hold it

For honor and the king, nor yield to save

So poor a thing as my unlucky head

Should I go foul at sea. You'll be the first

The victors will besiege.

Rol. My friend!

Hub. Tut, man,

The sea's a good safe bed. Come in. Some wine

Will take the night-chill from your blood. In, in!

[Exeunt. Curtain]

Scene 3. Within the castle. Stephen, Baldur, Godric, and other soldiers talking and drinking.

Ste. [Draining his glass] As good liquor as ever wet an oath since Noah was a vintner.

Bal. Vintner? An you put him in the trade the bishop will have you up for it.

Ste. A groat for your bishop, and that off your grandam's eyes! I'm no little king Henry pulled to mincemeat by his bishops and barons. "I'll take off your mitre," roars he to his bishop. "An you take off my mitre, I'll clap on a helmet, by the lord," says my bishop. "I'll have your castle!" shouts he to his baron. "An you take my castle, I'll give you London tower," says master baron. Ay, and he would, with the keeper thrown in.

Bal. And you too, if you bite not a bit from your tongue.

Ste. By the mass, I'll drink the king's ale, and I'll take the king's money, but I'll fight for none but Hubert de Burgh!

God. And he for the king—so you.

Ste. I care not how you make it. De Burgh is my master. I'll fight for him and with him and after him, but I'll wear a red sword for no bishop or baron or little king Harry in Christendom!

Bal. That may be so with more of us than you, but stop your mouth with good ale and let words alone.

Ste. And I'll go with him to the French court and pull Louis off the king's stool!

[Sings]

Hear, boys, hear! O, hear our captain call!

We'll away, boys, away!

For the love o' the sword and the love o' the money,

We'll on to the wars, my brave fellows all,

An they take our Jack they will leave our Johnny.

Away, boys, away!

[Enter Hubert and Roland]

Hub. What cheer, my men? A fair morning for brave hearts. Can you keep this castle for me till I've had a bout at sea?

A soldier. That we can, sir!

Ste. I'll go with you, sir, by your leave. The castle will wait for us, I give you my word, sir.

Hub. You have seen the bottom of your glass too often to-night, Stephen.

Ste. God bless you, sir, there's where a soldier keeps his oath to serve God and his country, and he can't look it over too often. Take me wi' you, sir, and I'll prove you who lifts his glass the highest will wave his sword the longest. [Kneels] I was your father's soldier, sir, and hope to die yours.

Hub. Nay, I must leave trusty souls behind me. Let those who love me least fight under my eye, but I'll trust nay good Stephen around the world.

Ste. [Rising] Ay, sir! Rain arrows, hail bullets, we'll keep the castle against all weather!

Hub. [Presenting Roland] Then here's your brave captain. Follow him now, and farewell, good fellows—farewell, all!

[Soldiers start out slowly, following Roland]

An old soldier. [Turning] But you'll come again, sir?

Another. Ay, we'll see you back?

Another. An you come or come not, I kiss my sword to you, Hubert de Burgh, the bravest knight in all England!

Hub. Why, my hearts, would you start the liquor in my eyes? I go where there's brine enough. Twelve hours' sail with fortune will bring me back—but if I come not, remember your king!

[Exeunt soldiers]

They know 'tis death—they know 'tis death.

And what

Is that? We are all guests in God's great house,

The Universe, and Death is but his page

To show us to the chamber where we sleep.

What though the bed be dust, to wake is sure;

Not birds but angels flutter at the eaves

And call us, singing.

[Enter Gersa]

Gersa, what success?

Ger. The bags are all aboard, sir.

Hub. And portioned to every vessel?

Ger. Ay, sir.

Hub. Well despatched?

Ger. The men heaved as though the sacks held all the pope's treasury and they were to take their pay out of it.

Hub. Yet they found the contents not so heavy as gold, I hope.

Ger. Nor so light as feathers, sir.

Hub. But I pray they'll fly as well, and more to the purpose. Aboard with you now. I'll not be long behind you.

[Exit Gersa]

If this, my careful stratagem, should fail,

God help the friendless boy on England's throne!

Now Pembroke's noble strength must e'en to coffin;

And Isabel across the sea cares not,

But happier in a gentler husband's love

Takes little thought of John of England's heir,

Who has his father's beauty, not his heart,—

Just so much of that proud and guilty blood

As makes him kingly nor corrupts his own.

... But, come, my soul! Prepare thee for a world

Of rarer breath, lest thou too rudely go

To th' high conclave of spirits. Father?

[Enter friar Sebastian]

Fr. Seb. Son,

Art ready for the sacrament?

Hub. I lack

A prayer of thine to make me so. Give me

Such blessing as you'd lay upon me were

Death couchant for my heart, and on my brow

Drop thou the holy unguent that doth fit

The body for the last touch of the soul.

Fr. Seb. My love is to thy mortal frailty bound,

And first I'll bless thee as an earthly father,

Praying that thou mayst smite thine enemies.

[Re-enter Roland]

Rol Your pardon, Hubert. Lady Albemarle

Is here, and begs for instant sight of you.

Hub. My sister? I will see her.

[Exit Roland] Wait you, father.

The world must still intrude on Heaven's affairs.

[Exit friar through large folding doors rear as lady Albemarle enters left]

La. Alb. Brother! Is Glaia here?

Hub. She is. But why

This eagerness?

La. Alb. My lord says that you go

To meet the French. Is 't true?

Hub. In one hour's time

I count myself at sea.

La. Alb. Then what—O, where

Shall I hide Glaia?

Hub. Hide? Is 't evermore hide

That spotless maid, born but to be a star

To human eyes?

La. Alb. Nay, born to be my shame,

And constant, killing fear!

Hub. She will be safe.

Roland de Born, who now will guard this castle,

Holds Glaia as the heart in his own body.

Ay, she is safe,—but if the danger nears,

She'll be conducted back to Greenot woods——

La. Alb. Roland de Born? What knows he?

Hub. Only this,

That Glaia, weary of skies, rests foot on earth.

La. Alb. He does not love her, Hubert? Say not that!

Hub. Thy daughter is so honored.

La. Alb. No!

Hub. She has

His noble love, and he my happy wish

That he may make her wife.

La. Alb. Then thou art false,

And I look on my grave.

Hub. What, Eleanor?

La. Alb. You know my place, and how I queen the court,

A virtuous mark that lords point out to wives,

Bidding them walk as Albemarle's good dame.

Now let me take my seat on the lowest step,

And none too humble to mock me going up.

Hub. What's this to do with Roland's love for Glaia?

La. Alb. O, let them scorn! Tis nothing! But my husband—

Brother, I never dreamed thy cruelty

Would give me to his vengeance.

Hub. Cruelty?

La. Alb. O, see me at his feet—bleeding and broken——

Hub. Not while I wear a sword! But how have I

Disturbed thee? What have said? I've threshed my words,

But find no devil in them.

La. Alb. O, this Roland,

If he wive Glaia must ferret out my shame—

Pry her life ope—who is she?—whence she came?—

Till all my secret blushes 'fore his eye.

Hub. Though he learn all, thy honor in his breast

Is safe as gem that at earth's centre burns.

La. Alb. Nay, I'll not live! You know not Albemarle!

He'll scourge me through the court in rags to match

My tattered virtue,—then the rack—fire—screws—

The Scotch boot—O, the world's not dear enough

To purchase so. I will not live!

Hub. I swear

That Roland cares so much for Glaia's birth

As to be glad she's born. And at my word

He will receive her questionless and dumb,

Nor ever doubt, or weigh his promised faith.

La. Alb. Why, is there such a man in all the world?

Hub. He sees her as one looks upon a rose,

And thinks not of the mould that bore it, or what

The tale that dews and winds could tell.

La. Alb. 'Tis strange.

Hub. As strange as truth.

La. Alb. I must—I do believe you.

Hub. And bless his suit?

La. Alb. Ay, let him wed her straight.

What waits he for? Let her be lost in him,

This rare, this unmatched wonder of a man,

And I will cast this shadow from my life,

Heave off the weight that seventeen years I've borne,

And walk the lighter, for I've known what 'tis

To step high 'neath a load. O, let them wed

As soon as may be, Hubert. Why not now?

Hub. He waits to win her heart.

La. Alb. Cares he for that?

You can command her, Hubert.

Hub. But will not.

She is a plant of Nature's tenderest love,

And must be won to bloom by softest airs,

Else shall we risk the gentle life and see

No buds unfold.

La. Alb. I understand her not,

Nor try. She is a part of strangest days,

That like to burning dreams bewilder as

They scar the recollection. She's more kin

To those strange creatures of the wood that peeped

About my shelter when she lay a babe

Than to my blood. Yet she is mine—my daughter.

Hub. Wilt you not see her?

La. Alb. No.

Hub. You will find her up.

La. Alb. Why should I see her? Give a stranger's kiss,

And hear her stiffly say "Your ladyship"?

If she would love me!

Hub. Do not weep.

La. Alb. You think

I do not suffer.

Hub. I've no wish to think so.

La. Alb. I'm nearly mad at times! But I must go.

Hub. [Hesitating] How is—the princess?

La. Alb. Margaret? O, well,

But every day more full of starts and whims.

Last night the king was with us——

Hub. Ah, the king?

La. Alb. She gave him stinted welcome. Then my lord

Came in with news of the advancing fleet,

And danger to the throne, concluding with

Your aim to put to sea, and at that point

She swooned quite prettily and pleased the king.

Hub. She swooned?

La. Alb. Most properly, the king being by

To know it was for him.

Hub. O—ay, for him!

La. Alb. Who else? I hope they'll soon be wed.

Hub. Be wed?

Henry is young.

La. Alb. But old enough being king.

And Albemarle is pressing for the marriage.

'Tis now ten years since Margaret came from Scotland

To be his charge. A pretty child—do you

Remember? But now grown from beauty, pale

And fanciful. You've seen the change?

Hub. To me

She never changes but to show herself

More beautiful.

La. Alb. You have not seen it? Pah!

Now I must go. Good brother, fare you well.

You've given me comfort. [Kisses him]

Hub. Farewell, Eleanor.

[Exit lady Albemarle]

Art gone, my sister, and no word of love

For one who looks on death? It is the fear

That keeps so constant with her makes her hard

And unlike woman—unlike Margaret.

... Last night the king was with her—and she swooned.

But not for him. By Heaven, 'twas not for him!

[Sits by table, bowing his head upon it]

O Margaret! Not one dear word? Not one?

[Enter Margaret, veiled]

Mar. Ah! [Steps toward him, throwing off her veil] Hubert?

Hub. [Starting up] Princess! Here? You here?

Mar. Couldst think I'd let thee go till I had said

"God save thee" to thy face?

Hub. You risk too much!

Mar. Risk, Hubert?

Hub. O, what have you done?

Mar. What done?

Hub. The king will think——

Mar. The king will think as I do,

That 'tis most natural to pay adieu

To friends.

Hub. But Albemarle——

Mar. Approves our friendship.

I do not understand.

Hub. Yet you came veiled.

Mar. 'Twas early—and the air was pricking chill.

I—thought—do you go soon?

Hub. That you should come!

Mar. Soon, Hubert?

Hub. Ay, at once.

Mar. At once. Why then,

Farewell.

Hub. Stay! Ah—I mean—why did you come?

Mar. My soul! I think I came that you might wish

Me back again. Was it so wrong of me?

Are we not friends? And if I came in hope

To ease adieu with unction of a tear

I know none else would shed——

Hub. O, Margaret!

Pray God that I deserve this! Now I go

So light I'll hardly need my ship's good wings

To bear me.

Mar. The earl doubts not your victory.

How many ships go with you?

Hub. All we have.

The ports hold not a single vessel from me.

Mar. And the enemy's? I hope they are enough

To make your victory noble.

Hub. I've no doubt

They count up bravely.

Mar. Not too many, sir!

Hub. The battle will not shame me.

Mar. But how many?

Hub. As yet we have no word but rumor's.

Mar. Ah!

Tell me you'll win.

Hub. Then help me by not doubting.

Mar. I must not doubt—for if—I did——

Hub. What then?

Mar. Nay, I'll not stay to tell you. I must go.

I keep you from the battle and your fame.

You have forgiven me my morning ride?

Faith, but you frowned!

Hub. I thought how many eyes

Were on the king's betrothed.

Mar. Choose better words,

My friend. I am not yet the king's betrothed,

And I—had you the time——

Hub. Nay, all my life

Is yours.

Mar. Hear then. I will not wed the king.

Hub. A princess can not choose.

Mar. Then I'll not be

A princess!

Hub. Margaret!

Mar. A princess? Nay,

I'll be no more a woman, if that means

To cage my soul in circle of a court

And fawn on turnkey humor for my life!

Scotland is lost to me. I'll not go there

To meet my dangerous brother's wrath. No, no!

But there are forests—I can fly to them,

And dig my food from Nature's generous earth,

Thrive on her berries, drink from her clear streams,

Sleep 'neath the royal coverlet of her leaves,

And make some honest friends 'mong her kind creatures

That we call dumb because, forsooth, they speak

By eye and touch and gibber not as we!

... So silent, sir? Come, will you not advise me?...

There was a day before the day of kings

When maidens looked where'er their hearts had sped

And found them mates who had no need of crowns

To make them royal, and such a day the world

May see again, but I, alack, must breathe

The present time, and crave the help of state

And craft and gold to get me married! O,

The judgment angel gathering up our clay

Will know this period by its broken hearts!

... Hast not a word? Now should I wed the king?

Hub. He is a gentle youth, and in your care

Would blossom brave in virtues.

Mar. Nay——

Hub. All hope

For this poor land lies in your grace.

Mar. Ah, Hubert,

Where is there woman strong enough to save

Fair Henry from his flatterers? Not here.

Wouldst cast me to the pool where he must drown?

Hub. Where canst thou hide thy beauty, Margaret?

This is wild talk of forests. Where couldst flee?

What land would shelter thee from England's love

And Scotland's rage? My own—my Margaret—

Where could we go?

Mar. O, Hubert, we?

Hub. I'm mad.

Peace to thee, maiden. I go to my ships.

Mar. Forgive me! I'll be gone.

[Re-enter Gersa]

Hub. What! Not aboard?

Ger. Your pardon, sir. We have confirmed reports

The French outnumber us by triple count.

Eighty large ships, the double of our own,

Besides two score of galleons and small vessels

That in themselves would match us. And 'tis sure

Le Moine, the pirate, leads the fleet.

Hub. Are all

Now ready?

Ger. Ay, we wait for you.

Hub. Grant me

A bare half hour—no—not so much. I shall

O'ertake you ere you reach your ship.

[Exit Gersa. Hubert turns to Margaret and finds that she has fainted]

My lady!

Is this, too, for the king?

Mar. [Reviving] You shall not go!

Hub. I must—and now. Let me but press your hand——

Mar. No, no, my lips! Hubert, let us be true.

Death watches now and will report all lies

To Heaven. Now I must see you go from me,

Out of my eyes as stars go from the sky,

And never, never see you come again,

Let me once hear you say you love me, Hubert,

And all the years that I must weep for thee

I'll keep the words as a sweet golden bell

To sound whene'er my ears want music.

Hub. Thou art the king's.

Mar. Nay, I will lay my head

Upon the block, ere pillow it by his.

Hub. Then we'll be mad together, Margaret.

To go one step in this is to go farthest.

Ah, yesterday I saw a knight I loved

Sink in his blood; but when he called the name

Of his dear bride, and died as it made sweet

His lips, I thought of you and envied him.

And now, so soon, his fortune is my own.

[Calls] Come, father! [To Margaret] Art afraid?

Mar. Ah, yes, afraid

That I may lose thee!

Hub. Is it hell, or Heaven?

[Re-enter friar Sebastian]

Good father, when two souls have kissed so close

They in each other lose the form of self,

And neither body knows its own again,

Wouldst join them mortally, that being one

They can not go amiss?

Fr. Seb. If they be free,

My son, to take the vows.

Hub. Thou knowest us.

Fr. Seb. I've blessed ye both as children.

Mar. I am free

By my soul's right, and though a princess born,

Here choose my lord.

Fr. Seb. My daughter, thou art noble,

And must be written fair though envy keep

The beadroll of thy faults, but 'tis poor rank

Not thee stoops to this choice.

Mar. I know it, father.

Though it should cost my fortune, name and place,

I'd give them all to be his wife one hour.

Fr. Seb. Then, by my sacred vows, as I believe

Love is from Heaven, and 'tis God himself

Who fosters its sweet growth through all the blood

Till action, thought, yea, life, do hang upon it,

I'll bind ye in the dear eternal bonds,

And bless your union with the holy feast.

Come in with me. [Exit, rear]

Hub. [Embracing her] 'Tis Heaven, Margaret!

[Curtain]

ACT II
Scene 1. Within Dover castle. Same room as in act first. Enter Glaia followed by Eldra.

Eld. O, my lady, up all night, and now 'tis barely day you must be going!

Gla. My good Eldra, you would teach my shadow constancy, for you follow me without let or leave from the sun.

Eld. I follow not you but my orders, mistress. Sir Roland says that I must not leave you.

Gla. The gates are all locked. Does he think me a bird to fly over the walls?

Eld. That he does! The bonniest bird that ever sang in Greenot woods. Isn't Sir Roland a man, my lady?

Gla. By his cap and feather, I should not doubt it.

Eld. But a man you may look at, my lady!

Gla. Pray God I may, madam, for 'tis sad to be young and blind.

Eld. Ay, but when I look at Sir Roland I could sing again the song that got me a husband.

Gla. What song? I think you got him with your fair face and honest mind, and he took the song by way of grace with meat.

Eld. True, mistress, I was a fair, canny lass over the border.

Gla. And a fair, canny dame you are now, Eldra. But what was the song?

Eld. It was back summat ten jaunts o' the sun from Lammas to Lammas. I was standing on the rock hills over Logan frith wi' the green woods behind me an' lookin' out to sea. The waves were runnin' high, and the brine in my face gave me such a spirit that in a minute my bonnet was off and I was singing at the top of my voice—

O braw, braw knight, come down the glen

And awa' to kirk wi' me!

And Heaven send us seven stout sons

To fight for our king on the sea!

It's a long ballad, but it's out o' my mind now, and who should come up behind me but my man that was to be, and 'twas set then and there we must go to the kirk come Sunday. Ay, it got me a husband, but never a son, for only six months away he was drowned at sea—the very sea that I'd sung so brave t-to——

Gla. Don't cry. He will come sailing back some day with a fortune in his pocket. I don't believe he was drowned.

Eld. I care not what's in his pocket, ma'am, if he bring me love in his heart.

Gla. That he will, I am sure. Where is Orson?

Eld. Bathing his knees in gooseoil, my lady. You kept him at prayers all night for Sir Hubert.

Gla. Why, did we not share his watch?

Eld. Yes, mistress, but when you fell asleep we had not the heart to wake you.

Gla. O, ho! I fell asleep, did I?

Eld. I should hope you did, my lady. For my part I winked but once, and when I woke up you were——

Gla. Asleep?

Eld. No, but you were praying so chipper that I knew you were just at it.

Gla. O, false woman! Do you think I could sleep when Hubert is on the sea? Call Orson to me.

Eld. Orson! Orson!

[Enter Orson, walking stiffly]

Gla. Why, Orson, you carry as much dignity as a watchman that has just let in a duke.

Ors. Mock not affliction got in your service, my lady.

Gla. My service? When did I tell you to sleep all night on your knees?

Ors. Sleep? Sleep, lady?

Gla. Ay, sleep. You are a knave. Bring me my lute.

Ors. Muttering] Sleep! There's thanks for you! [Exit]

Eld. Mistress, you must not play your lute here. The king's men are not like Sir Hubert's, and your voice will quick tell 'em there's a bird in the bower.

Gla. I am not afraid. What are men but creatures like ourselves?

Eld. Like ourselves? La, my lady!

Gla. There's no harm in them. You are a foolish dame.

[Re-enter Orson]

[Taking lute] Good Orson, I am sorry if your knees are stiff. You may have the unguent that Sir Roland brought me from Palestine. Go, Eldra, and get it for him.

Eld. [Aside] An I give him not gooseoil with a dash of cinnamon, I'm no good servant to my mistress. [Exeunt Eldra and Orson]

Gla. I do not like this castle with Hubert away. Sir Roland makes it a prison. If I could get out I should try to find my way to Greenot woods. The doves are nesting now, and the little brown fawns are specked with snow. [Plays lute and sings]

O, lady, let the roses blow

In thy pale cheeks for this—

That I may to that garden go

And pluck them with a kiss.

My roses are all plucked, she said,

No more shall ever grow,

For cold is he and low his head

Whose dear love made them blow.

Then lay she down where slept her lord

Upon the silver heather;

Then sighed the knight, nor said he word,

But left the twa together.

[Enter the king, dressed in black. He gazes at Glaia]

Gla. What is your name, boy?

Hen. Henry.

Gla. Henry? That is the king's name. Are you his soldier?

Hen. I fight for him.

Gla. Ah, me!

Hen. Is it not brave to fight?

Gla. But kings are wicked

To buy their kingdoms with their subjects' lives.

Two days ago they brought a noble knight

Into the castle, bloody and quite dead,

And when I cried, my Hubert whispered "Hush,

'Tis for the king." Hubert is now at sea—

Mayhap this moment dies—and for the king.

And 'twas last night I heard Sir Roland say

"We'll hold the castle till each man is down,"

All for the king. And now you fight for him.

I hate the king!

Hen. O, do not say that.

Gla. Why?

Hen. Because he loves you.

Gla. He has never seen me.

You're merry, boy.

Hen. But good kings love their subjects

Before they know them.

Gla. O! Is Henry good?

Hen. He prays to be so.

Gla. Let him pray, lest he

Grow old in evil like his father, John.

Who is your father, Henry?

Hen. He is dead.

Gla. Ah! But you have a mother.

Hen. Far away,

And one who loves me little.

Gla. Now I'll sigh

No more for parents, since I know that they

May die, or prove unkind. I have no kin.

But Hubert loves me.

Hen. Lady——

Gla. I am Glaia.

That is all I know, but Hubert says

Some day he'll tell me more. I do not care.

I love to be a mystery to myself.

Hen. [Aside] She's nobly born, and kept from her estate;

But how should she be honest Hubert's charge?

Gla. What say you, Henry?

Hen. 'Tis so strange to find

An angel housing in this black-browed castle,

Converting war's grim seat to paradise.

Hast always lived here?

Gla. O, behind these walls?

No, I've a home deep in the happy forest.

I do not like this place—these huge black rocks

Piled up so high, with caves i' the ground, and holes

To shoot out arrows. I walk on tiptoe here,

Afraid I'll wake the ghosts that sleep i' the corners.

But in the forest I can shout and run,

And everything I wake will laugh and sing.

Hen. Where is this happy place?

Gla. I can not tell.

'Twas night when we came here, and Hubert says

That none must know the way. I wonder why.

Do you live in a castle?

Hen. When I'm not

At wars.

Gla. O me, I would not live in one

To please——

Hen. The king?

Gla. No, not to please the king.

Hen. If he were lonely, Glaia?

Gla. Lonely? O,

He is to wed the princess Margaret.

Are you not glad? He'll not be lonely then.

She's fair and good, they say.

Hen. But not as you.

Her princess feet like well the solid earth.

She is a flower that sips of sun and dew.

But feedeth most from root-cups firm in ground;

While you are made of music, love, and air,—

A being of the sky—a lover's star,

Although he be a king. The grace of heaven

About your beauty plays, and drops as soft

Upon my eyes as light from the lark's wing.

But I must leave you now. Sweet, take this gift.

[Gives her his jewelled belt]

And know my name and place are worthy yours,

Though you should be a princess, as I think.

See, here's a jewel in this belt. I dare

To part with it, though wise men say my life

Is safe but when I wear it. 'Tis the stone

Of Wales, and blessed by magic of the seers

That in that country dwell.

Gla. Then keep it. Ay,

You must.

Hen. No, no! I have a fear some harm

Will touch you, me away. Keep you the charm,

And I will take your lute. In lonely hours

I'll touch the chords and think thou'rt listening. [Exit]

Gla. A lovely boy! O me, these dreadful wars!

Eldra's a goose to call the king's men rude.

I wish he had not gone. I'll play again

And see who'll come. Ah, now I have no lute.

No matter, I will sing.

[Sings]

O, sweet the day and fair the May,

But Love he laid him down to weep——

[Enter Gregory]

Greg. A pixy sure!

Sweet apparition, wilt fly if I approach?

Then here I'll stand, and from this point remote

As frosty Hebrid from the golden East,

Adore thy seeming substance! Ah, no answer?

Advance then, valiant Gregory, and explore.

Flesh? 'S light, 'tis flesh! A very woman, too.

A silent woman. Heavenly miracle!

With lips like twin strawberries 'neath one leaf.

The very manner of them begs a kiss.

I' faith, they shall not beg.

Gla. You would not kiss me!

Greg. You wrong me, duck. Why, I'm a man of mirth

A soldier, sweet. And would not kiss? Now, now!

You take me for a ghost—or starve-bone saint.

I am not padded—I fill out my coat

And owe but for the cloth. A man, my chick!

Shalt have a kiss.

Gla. O, help me, Eldra! Help!

[Stephen runs in, seizes Gregory and shakes him about]

Ste. [Pricking him with his sword] Shalt have a kiss, he shall! A man, my chick!

I fill my coat, I do.'

Greg. Hold, sir! I am

An officer of the king!

Ste. Why then, shalt have

More kisses! 'S blood! I thought thee but a scrub.

A king's man, sir, shall have more ceremony.

[Pricks him around the room. Enter Roland]

Rol. Stephen! Brawling here? You know the orders.

Ste. Orders, I take it, sir, don't count in such a case extraordinary.

Rol. Your extraordinary cases have become quite usual, Stephen.

Ste. Be you the judge, sir. This gay blood here was troubling the lady——

Rol. Glaia! Then he dies! [Drawing his sword]

Ste. Orders, orders, sir!

Gla. He did not touch me, Roland.

Rol. Touch thee? If he

No more than looked at thee death is enough.

But had he touched thee——

Gla. Art thou cruel, Roland?

I thought thee gentle. Wouldst thou make me hate thee?

Rol. You shall not hate me, Glaia. [Sheathes his sword] Let him live.

But take him from my sight. [Exeunt Stephen and Gregory]

Gla. O, Roland, now

I love thee!

Rol. Love me, Glaia?

Gla. Next to Hubert.

Rol. O, next to Hubert.

Gla. And the boy.

Rol. The boy?

Gla. Henry his name is. Such a pretty youth!

He gave me this,—and see, this jewel here

Is all so precious that it guards the life

Of whoso wears it. He must like me well

To give it me. Dost think he likes me, Roland?

Rol. [Aside] O God, the king! ... Give me the baldric, Glaia.

I will return it, for I know the youth.

In truth, I've seen him wear this very belt.

'Twas wrong to take it, Glaia. He belongs

So wholly to the king that you can have

No portion of his love, lest he betray

Himself and thee. Go, get you ready, child,

To leave this place. For you 'tis full of dangers.

Gla. Back to the woods? O happiness! But I—

Ah, must we go so soon?

Rol. It was your prayer.

Gla. But then—I had not—strange! Why is it, Roland,

'Tis not so merry going as I thought?

Is't not a little lonely in the woods?

And yet it never seemed so. Will you come

To see me, Roland?

Rol. Do you want me, Glaia?

Gla. O, yes, dear Roland! And you'll bring the boy?

I want to ask if he will be my brother.

Rol. You must not see him. Go and get you ready.

[Exit Glaia]

O, wretched me, to love so frail a thing!

Fragile and pure, thou art not for this world,

Where the same winds that bring thee breath must blow

Thy gentle life out.

[Re-enter the king]

Sovereign liege,

Count it not boldness if I dare to guess

Your presence here. You come, my lord, to find

This precious property. [Gives him the belt]

I know 'tis prized,

And hold me happy that it met my eye

Before another's.

Hen. Gentle Roland, thanks.

I need not ask if you found aught with this

More precious still.

Rol. Nothing that majesty

Might without blushing claim.

Hen. Thank you again.

[Aside] I've found the lover! ... Is there news from sea?

Rol. Uncertain news, that I was on my way

To give to you. Report cries victory

For Hubert, but 'tis chance improbable

That he should win, so take a breath, your highness,

Ere you believe.

Hen. The lords must know of this!

Rol. Your majesty, I have a suit to thee.

Hen. A victory!

Rol. If you do hold him dear

Who, by report, has won this doubtful battle,

That saves your kingdom and sets fast your crown,

I beg you hear me!

Hen. Speak, but be not slow,

Good Roland.

Rol. Sire, De Burgh has enemies

Who seek his downfall, for his honesty

Stands rock-like 'tween the throne and treachery.

'Twas they who wrought to send him feebly forth

'Gainst odds so great they left no chance of life

Save by God's love and favor. If he wins,

The victor's garland and his king's reward

Will further urge their hate to villainy.