POETICAL
TRAGEDIES

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MORDRED.

————

ACT I. Scene 1.

Place—A hermitage in the woods.

Enter Arthur, Launcelot and other Knights.

Laun. Here is a place of prayer; we will alight,

And rest a space and think us of our sins.

Ar. Launcelot, and were I shrived and clean,

Half hell itself were loosened of its pains.

Laun. Arthur, friend and lover of my youth,

Couldst thou but throw this black mood from thee now,

And get a sweeter hope into thy soul,

Drive out the horrid phantoms of the past,

And it were hope for Britain. Well thou knowest

Men look to thee to succor this poor land

Enrent by inward brawls and foreign hordes,

Whose fields untilled, and vanished the smoke of homes.

It hath been said that thou wouldst raise once more

Out of these ruins a kingdom whose great fame

Would ring for ages down the days of earth,

And be a glory in men’s hearts forever.

[Passes to the left.

Ar. Launcelot, I know thy love for Arthur.

’Tis thy sweet, manly kinship of the heart,

Opening thy spirit’s windows toward the sun,

Hath made my dark days lighter. Would that I

Had kept me holy, innocent as thee.

I might in kinder fate have made this land

A place where holiness and peace might dwell,

And such a white and lofty honor held

Before men’s eyes, that all the world would come

And worship freedom’s beauty freed from sin.

Such dreams have haunted me from my first youth,

In fitful slumbers or long marching hours.

These lonesome, lofty vigils of the heart

Have made men deem me colder. ’Tis my sin!

O Launcelot, I am blacker than thou knowest!

[Exit Launcelot.

Enter Hermit.

Her. And comest thou, my son, for Church’s grace?

Ar. I come here, Father, for to have me shrived.

[Kneels.

Her. Then thou art shriven; such a noble face

Could never harbor evil in its grace.

[Lifts his hands in blessing.

Ar. Stay, holy Hermit, fair trees rot at heart,

And I am evil if this world holds ill.

I would lay bare my soul of its foul sin,

And if there be white shrift for such as me

In Heaven’s mercy, I would crave it now;

Though little of hope have I, if thou dost hear.

Her. Wouldst thou confess, my son? The Church

      hath power

To white the blackest sinner crawling foul

From earth’s most sensuous cesspool, doth he but

Come in the earnest sorrow of his heart

And lay his sins within her holy keeping.

But well I know that thou art that great Arthur,

The hope of all for succor to this realm:—

For other man hath never worn such grace

And nobleness of bearing as thou wearest.

Fear not, my son; whatever be the sin

Of thy hot youth, the past will be forgiven,

And holy Church will freely pardon one

And all the evil deeds that thou hast done.

Ar. Father, my life is haunted with one thought

That comes between me and my sweetest hopes.

In battle’s clamor only will it pass,

But in my lonelier moments it comes in,—

The awful memory of one heinous sin.

Her. Of truth thou hast suffered overmuch, my son.

What is thy sin?

Ar. One deed beyond all others of my youth,

Mad, passionate and wild to savagery:

I violated a maid’s sanctuary,

And afterwards I found—O Christ, forgive me!

Her. Say on!

Ar. She was my sister!

Her. Sancta Maria—Ora pro nobis!

Ar. It will not out. The evil of that night

When I, unknowing, did that awful deed,

Hath blackened all my future like a web.

And when men look up to me as their sun,

It makes my life seem like some whited tower

Where all is foul and hideous within.

Her. Thou sayest truth, my son, thy sin be heavy.

[Crossing himself.

Ar. O swart, incestuous night, whose bat-like wings

O’erspread my life like thunder-gathering cloud,

When will thy dawn break glimmering on my soul?

Or wilt thou drag thy weary length along

And spell thy moments out in hopeless years

Until thy black o’erlaps the black of death

In that dread journeying where all men go,

When all my dreams are spent and smouldered down

Like some far ruined sunset at life’s edge,

And hope deferred fades out in endless sleep?

O holy man, forgive mine impious presence,

Thy blessed office naught availeth me.

Her. Nay, son, grieve not as one who hath no hope.

Though awesome be this youthful sin of thine,

Whose memory blurs thy loftier, holier dreams,

Let not this one sin lead thee to blaspheme

Thus ignorantly holy Church’s power.

Thy very sorrow half absolveth thee.

In name of Him who blessed the dying thief,

I bid thee look no longer at thy past,

Which eateth like some canker at thy heart;

Redeem thy past in deeds of future good.

Deem’st thy high dreams were given thee for nought?

There is a noble doom about thy face,

A writing writ of God, that telleth me

That thou art not a common ordered man,

But one ordained as lofty ones of old

For some great, lofty cause. Lift up thy heart;

Earth hath a need of thee, thy people call,

Wrongs long unrighted, evils long unplucked,

All cry to thee for judgment. Palsy not

The strength of thy great future brooding on

An indiscretion of thy savage past.

Ar. And is it of God, O Father, thinkest thou?

Her. Yea, my son;

As are all hope and sunshine. What is life—

But spring unmindful of bleak winter-time,

Joying in living, mindless of old death;

Youth dead to sorrow, age to coming night.

Look up, forget thine evil, drink new faith

From this glad parable of the wakening year.

The Church’s arms are round thee; build new hope

In this poor Kingdom as the quickening year

Hath made this wrinkled earth forget old sorrows;

Be this but thine to do, and thou art pardoned.

Ar. Oh, blessed be thy counsel! Even now

I feel new joys run riot in my heart.

Old hopes long faded built on my high dreams!

The old dread sorrow lightens, it is gone,

And I go forth a shrived soul even now.

Yea, hear me, Father, now I consecrate

This my poor life to this great kingdom’s weal,

And be my God but with me, I will raise

This head of sorrows out of clouds of ill,

And build a splendor of my chastened will.

Thy blessing, Father!

Her. (raises his hand in blessing) Go forth from

      hence,

Great Arthur, keeper of thy people’s peace.

Go forth to right all wrong and guard all right,

In home and mart, in castle and in cot,

Meting the same to high and lowly lot.

Go forth in name of God to build a realm

Built up on chastity and noble deeds,

Where womanhood is gentle and austere,

And manhood strong in its great innocence.

Go, blessed of God and all thy fellow-men,

Go in the strength of thy most high resolve,

Thou wondrous soul, unto thy wondrous work,

The glory of all the after days to be.

Ar. Amen! Amen!!

Curtain.

————

ACT I. Scene 2.

Place—Camelot. (Arthur crowned King.)

Enter Merlin and Mordred, a hunchback, the King’s illegitimate son. Outside a great clamor of voices is heard of “Arthur! Long live King Arthur!”

Mer. Now tarry here aside while I prepare

The King for this thy filial audience.

Mor. O mighty Merlin, I fear me all thine arts

That compass ocean, air and deepest mine,

And have command of subtlest sciences,

Have never found the power to brew a charm,

A sovereign draught of distillation rare,

To warm a father’s heart toward such as me.

Mer. Thou much mistakest, Mordred, he is noble.

This too-long thought on thine infirmity

Hath made thy mind, which is as clear as glass,

Ensickly all things that it looks upon.

When Arthur, thy great father, knows his son,

His nobleness of heart will plead with him;

And when he sees what I have seen in thee,

A subtle greatness of the inner spirit,

Greater than even I, wise Merlin, have,

That prophesies a power for good or ill

Such as is rare ’mid men in this our age,

He will forget that outward lack of mould

In the strong, god-like nobleness within.

Mor. Ah, Merlin, would my spirit thou wert right,

And I would show him such a son’s true love,

And consecrate this subtlety within me,

To build a fence of safety round his glory.

But something tells me, some weird, evil doom,

That sits about my heart by day and night,

An awful presence that will never flit,

That he will never love me; yea, that more,

Of all things hateful to him on this earth,

My presence the most hateful. O great Mage,

I know that thou art skilful in thine age,

And subtle in all knowledges of lore,

But there lies in recesses of the heart,

That hath known bitter sorrow such as mine,

A deeper wisdom intuition breeds,

That thou hast never sounded in thy lore.

Mer. Hast seen this presence whereof thou dost

      speak?

Mor. Yea, only as a look that haunteth faces.

Mer. Faces?

Mor. I never saw it in my poor dog’s face,

When he hath climbed my knees to lick my hand.

I never saw it in the mirrored peace

That brims the beauty of a forest pool,

Nor in the wise regard of mighty nature.

But in the face of man I oft have seen it.

Mer. What hast thou seen? This wisdom would I

      know.

Mor. I never saw it in thy look, O Mage,

But something sweeter, much akin, called pity,

But once I woke a flower-eyed little maid,

Who slumbered ’mid the daisies by a stream;

She seemed the summer day incarnate there

With her sweet, innocent, unconscious face,

So like a flower herself amid the flowers;

And I so lonely there in all that vast,

And thinking (’twas only but a boy’s light thought,

With some deep other thought beyond mine age)

To wake this human summer-morn to life,

And know this June-day conscious of its joy;

But when I bent and touched her on the arm,

I only woke a living terror there

Of eyes and limbs that fled from my amaze.

I saw it once within the priestman’s face

The only and the last time I was shriven.

I have no need for shriving priestmen since.

My spirit tells me if they hold no power

To conjure out that devil in themselves,

That darting horror that offends mine eyes,

They ne’er can cast the devils from this life,

And all their vaunts but jugglers’ juggling lies.

Mer. O sad, warped youth, aged before thy time,

With that worst, saddest of wisdoms on this earth,

The knowledge of thine own deformity!

[Trumpets without.

Back, Mordred, back! here cometh our lord, the King!

Enter Arthur in his state robes.

Ar. And now, wise Merlin, wisest of this earth,

Here cometh thine Arthur, decked in his first glory.

So great hath been the splendor of this day

That all my heart brims with the wine of it.

Mer. Yea, King, thy horn of glory doth enlarge,

Thy sun of splendor toppeth the future’s marge,

May all bright auspices attend its setting.

Ar. And now, wise Mage, what hath thy will with me?

I am thine Arthur even being King,

For thou hast made me, next to that weird fate

That sat about the mystery of my getting,

And the sweet fostership of Holy Church,

Which hath forgiven my great youthful sin

And set her seal of favor on my deeds.

All present splendors thou hast prophesied,

And made the people take me for their King,

Hast pointed out my fitness for this office,

And lifted Arthur from a cloud of sorrows

Unto the golden glories of a throne.

To-day the fealty of an hundred Earls

Which thou hast garnered to my new-made kingdom

Hath honored me and made me thrice a King.

Yea, well say, Merlin, that my horn is full

To plenty with the blessed hopes of earth,

And all of this I owe unto thy favor.

My thunder-clouds are past, my future clear

As yon blue summer sky. No evil lurks

In secret now to strike at this my glory,

Unless a bolt fell from yon dazzling blue!

[Thunder heard in the distance. Arthur staggers back.

A portent! A portent!

Mer. ’Tis nought, O King, but gathering

      thunder-heads

About the thick, close heatings of the west,

The muttered portent of a summer shower.

’Tis but a blackness that will quickly pass

And leave a blessing on the fields and woods.

Fear not such signs as nature’s seeming anger.

I come to thee upon a graver matter.

Ar. Yea, Merlin! speak on.

Mer. Arthur, I speak now to no puling youth,

No mere sin-pricked conscience in a human form,

But bring a kingly matter to a king,

Whereof that he may do the kingliest deed

That he may hap on in the unknown lease

Of all his kingship. I have kept this matter,

The deepest and the dreadest concerning thee

And all the workings of thy coming fate,

Until the hour when thou didst feel thee King

In more than seeming outward human choice,

And thou wert at thy greatest, even that I,

In all his power, might see the King I made,

Not in all the glory of his court,

His people’s laudings sounding in his ears,

Not in all the shout of battle victory;

But in that dread and secret solemn hour,

When some strange doom uplifts its sombre face

And man must show his kingship of himself.

Ar. Yea, Merlin! Say on, Merlin, say on!

Mer. For this same reason I have hid till now

The secret from thee that thou hast a son.

Ar. A son!

Mer. Yea, a son!

Ar. Oh cruel! Oh cruel! Oh cruel!

Mer. Yea, more, for knowing all the warm desire

That thou hast unto things of beauteous shape,

And lovest chiefly what is glad and fair

To look upon in nature or human form,

Which showeth in thy love for Launcelot—

Ar. Yea, Launcelot! Would a Launcelot were my son!

Mor. (aside) Ah, me!

Mer. But knowing further that a deeper feeling,

Which holdeth rule in every human heart

That knoweth greatness, would uppermost in thee,

At knowledge of the fate of thy poor son,

Who madeth not himself, but bore thy sin

In outward simile in his whole life’s being,

As Christ did bear men’s sins upon the tree;

Who, knowing all the ill that thou hadst done him,

Still had sufficient sense of inward greatness

To love the father who begat him thus;

I feel, if thou art that great Arthur dreamed

Of me these many years of toil and care

That I have worked to make thee what thou art,

That knowing this son of thine, distorted, wry,

Diminutive in outward human shape,

And void of all those graces thou hast loved

To group about thy visions of thy court,

Hath such a soul within him, like a jewel

In some enchanted casket, that were rare

In all the lore and wisdom of this age,

That thou wouldst love him only all the more

For that poor, wry, misshapen shell of his.

Ar. Oh cruel! cruel! cruel!

Mer. Mordred, come forth!

Enter Mordred, who kneels and tries to cover himself with his cloak.

Ar. (starts) What be this?

Mer. Mordred, thy son, the heir to thy great realm!

Ar. O black-angered Heaven!

[Falls heavily to the ground.

Mor. Father! my father! Merlin, thou hast killed him!

O Merlin, Merlin, thou wert over-cruel!

Mer. Better that he were dead a thousand deaths

Than this had happened. He is not a king

In more than vulgar fancy. In mine eyes

With all thy wry, distorted body there,

Thou art a thousand times more kingly now

Than he or any like him in this realm.

And thou wilt be a king yet ere thou diest.

O Arthur, thou great Arthur of my dreams,

Why didst thou thus unthrone thee, showing bare

A thing of clay, where all seemed whitest marble?

Mor. Ha! now he revives. Father!

Ar. (rises and staggers) Ha! yea, that cloud, that

      cloud about mine eyes!

My crown! my crown! Methought I had a crown!

Mer. Yea, of a truth thou hadst one.

Ar. And where be it, good father?

Mer. Stumbling on sudden to the precipice of a golden

      opportunity,

Thou loosedst thy kingship and straightway it toppled over.

Ar. And might we not make search, father?

Might we not take lights, lights, and go find it?

Mer. Not all the lights that light this glowing world

Might light thee to it.

Ar. And who art thou that mocketh at me thus?

Mer. A shadow.

Ar. And what be I?

Mer. In truth a shadow.

Ar. And that—that blackness? [Pointing at Mordred.

Mer. A shadow, also; yea, we all be shadows.

Ar. And is there nothing real, nothing tangible in all

      this mist?

Mer. Nay, nothing, save the visions we have lost,

The autumn mornings with their frosty prime,

The dreams of youth like bells at eventime

Ringing their golden longings down the mist.

Ar. And be we dead, father?

Mer. Yea, I am dead to one great hope I had,

And thou art dead to what thou mightst have been,

And he is dead to what is best of all,

The holiest blossom on life’s golden tree.

Ar. And what be that, father?

Mer. Love! Love!

Ar. Then he be greatest?

Mer. Yea, greater far, though we completed greatness,

Than either thou or I could ever be.

Ar. Then what be he?

Mer. He is that rare, great blossom of this life

Which mortals call a man.

Ar. A man!

Mer. Yea, a man.

Ar. Why, he is wry, distorted, short of shape,

Like some poor twisted root in human form.

And I am tall and fair, placed like a king,

And yet you make him greater, how be that?

Mer. Didst thou but own Goliath’s mighty shape,

And wert a Balder in thy face and form,

With all of heaven’s lightnings in thy gaze,

Still would his greatness dwarf thee.

Ar. Then what be I?

Mer. The wreck of my poor hopes.

Ar. The what?

Mer. The shadow of a king.

Ar. And where may be the king, if I be but the shadow?

Mer. Gone! Gone!

He went out in his glory one bright morn,

In all the summer splendors long ago,

And there, by well-heads of my youth’s bright dreams,

Be-like he’s walking yet.

Mor. O Merlin, wake him! Thou art over-cruel

To play thus on his fancy with thine arts.

Mer. And dost thou love him still?

Mor. Yea, love is not a thing so lightly placed

That it may perish easy. Thou mayst kill

The king in him, thou canst not kill the father.

Though thou mightst make me bitter to conspire

And topple his great kingdom round his head,

Yet I would ever love him ’neath it all.

The Arthur of thine ambitions may be dead,

But not the Arthur of my childhood’s longing,

Though this poor King who hunteth his lost crown

Be but the walking shape of all those dreams.

And temptest thou me, Merlin, thus to hate?

Mer. Yea, Mordred, I am cruel, I am fate.

I tempt thee but to live, and dost thou live,

Enalienate from all this love of earth,

And they but crumble this phantom round their heads.

Thou art the key by which I may unlock

The lock that I have made with mine own hands.

And if thou ever want’st an instrument,

A dagger wherewith to stab this paltry realm,

Use Vivien.

Mor. Vivien!

Mer. Yea, Vivien. There is naught on earth

That cuts so sharp the thews of love and hate

And those poor brittle thongs that bind men up

In that strange bundle called society,

Like the sharp acids nature hath distilled

From out the foiled hates of an evil woman.

(to the King) Ho! ho! Arthur! Great King

Arthur! Knowest thou me, Merlin?

Ar. Yea, Merlin, it is thou, and I the King,

Waking, it seemeth, from an evil dream.

Mer. Yea, King, we have all awakened.

Ar. Ha! where is my crown?

Mor. You dropped it when you fainted, sire.

[Kneels and presents it.

Here is thy crown, father.

Ar. Father! I know all now. It cometh back.

And this my son? O Merlin, had I known

That thou didst hate me and would use me thus!

Mer. I hate thee not, O King, nor do I love.

I loved an Arthur once, a phantom king,

Whom I did build on pinnacles of glory.

But he hath now long vanished, and I go,

Like many another who hath wrecked his hopes

On some false shore of human delusiveness,

To bury my pinchbeck jewels in that pit

That men call black oblivion. No, proud Arthur,

I am much over-old for loves or hates,

My days are past, my mission done on earth;

I leave thee one here, though, whose love or hate

Is more to thee than mine could ever be.

’Twixt thee and him there are such subtle webs

Of destiny, it needeth no magician

To prophesy the running of those threads

That weave the warp of your two destinies.

Farewell, Arthur! Mordred, fare thee well!

Ar. Stay, stay, Merlin! I have need of thee.

[Exit Merlin.

Curtain.

————

ACT I. Scene 3.

Place—A room in the castle at Camelot.

Enter Dagonet, the King’s fool.

Dag. Meseems this King is like an April week.

But yestermorn he was all smiles and sun,

And now he skulks and prowls and scowls and mopes,

As though existence were a draggled pond

In dirty weather.

Enter Vivien.

Viv. And thou, fool, but a wry toad on its edge.

Dag. And thou the snake’s head lifted in the sedge,

Aye, sweet Vivien.

Viv. Why snakest thou me, fool? Methought that

      thou favoredst me?

Dag. Aye, so I do. Thou coilest round my heart,

The sweetest, wisest serpent in this world.

Thou charmest me with those dazzling eyes o’ thine.

And though the blessed bread were yet in mouth,

I’d go to Hell to do a deed for thee.

And yet thou art a snake, as well thou knowest.

Is it not so, sweet Vivien?

Viv. Canst thou be wise for once, my Dagonet?

Yea, let me teach thee.

Dag. What is it to be wise?

Viv. To leave aside that mummer’s lightsome talk,

And show a front of silent dignity.

Dag. Like the King?

Viv. Aye, like the King.

Dag. Then to be wise is to be like the King,

To be a cup of summer wine to-day,

Anon a dish of lonesome woe to-morrow.

I love not much this wisdom thou dost teach,

These high come-ups and downs they like me not.

I am too much a fool to learn thy lesson.

[Sings.

Viv. Aye, Dagonet, thou art indeed a happy fool.

Wilt thou show me how to make love?

Dag. (kneels in mock humility) Sweet Vivien, I am

      thy knight.

Viv. It is all thou canst say?

Dag. What wouldst thou have more?

Viv. Oh, lovers’ talk.

Dag. Thou meanest as lovers speak?

Viv. Yea.

Dag. After wedding or afore, sweet Vivien?

Viv. Afore, of course, stupid fool.

Dag. (folds his hands and recites solemnly)

Viv. And now thou art the fool in earnest.

Dag. Yea, and the better lover.

Viv. And what after the wedding, thou wise fool?

Dag. What saith the pot to the egg that is boiled

      therein,

The floor to the mop that hath scrubbed it,

The rain to the moist earth,

And the bird’s nest to the empty shell?

Learn, and thou shalt find it.

Viv. And hadst thou never a lover’s longing, fool?

Dag. Yea, but I cured me.

Viv. Wilt thou give me that receipt, Dagonet?

Dag. I filled my mouth wi’ honey, and my couch wi’

      prickles,

And went asleep on’t.

[Vivien laughs and retires behind the curtain.

Dag. Yea, woe is me, is me, poor Dagonet!

I hate myself and yet I fain must smile

And, play the thistle-down and dandy-puff,

The foolish froth at edge of flagonets;

And all the while see me a tortured torrent

Winding down in darks of its own sorrow.

Yea, Dagonet, thou art too much the fool,

Like the great King and all the other fools,

To be the thistle-down thou fain wouldst seem,

For thou art also anchored by the heels

To some sore, eating iron of thy desire.

Enter King Arthur.

Ar. Well, fool, what mummeries now?

Dag. I be holding a black Friday service, Sir King.

Ar. And what sayest thou in thy supplications?

Dag. I think on thee, Sir King, and I think on poor

      Dagonet,

And I say, Lord have mercy upon us!

Ar. A pious wish, Sir Fool, but why pitiest thou me?

Dag. For thy poverty, sire.

Ar. Why poverty, fool?

Dag. Yea, King, thou hast a crown, thou hast wealth,

And power and lands, and yet thou lackest

The cheapest commodity i’ the whole world.

Ar. And what be that, fool?

Dag. (going out) Sunshine, Sir King, that be the

      cheapest commodity.

Enter Launcelot.

Laun. Sire!

Ar. Launcelot, sit here and let’s forget

That I am king and thou the greatest knight

In this most mighty realm. Let us deem

Me but the Arthur of old days, and thou

The sunny Launcelot who was fain to shrive

His sorrowful Arthur from his darker moods,

And make a glow about the future’s countenance.

Laun. Yea, King, but methought thou sentest for me

      with most urgent commands.

Ar. Yea, most urgent.

Laun. The knights and men-at-arms await below,

And all the splendid cortège thou hast ordered,

With retinue befitting thy commands.

God’s benison go with thee, great Arthur,

This most auspicious day thou goest forth

To meet the high and beauteous Guinevere,

Thy chosen mate and queen of this fair realm.

Ar. I go not forth!

Laun. Thou goest not, and why?

Ar. Deem it not strange, my Launcelot, that I sit

Here thus disconsolate my betrothal morn,

Nor over-eager for to play the lover

And, decked in splendor, go to meet the queen.

Launcelot, thine Arthur hath a sorrow.

Hast seen my son Mordred?

Laun. Yea, Arthur, I have seen this Mordred.

Yea, my King, thou hast indeed a sorrow,

And could thy Launcelot but help thee bear it!

Ar. What thinkest thou of this Mordred? Likest him

      not?

Laun. He is so strange, so small, so queer of limb,

At first I marvelled, then I pitied, then—

Ar. Yea, and what?

Laun. I met his eyes, and straightway I forgot

The manner of man he was, save that a soul

Of wondrous scorn and mystery met mine;

That froze the present, made the future dread,

With strange forebodings. While I mused he passed,

But left that chill behind him in my blood.

And yet he seemeth, sire, one to be pitied.

Ar. Yea, all but pity Arthur’s son should claim.

Laun. ’Tis thy cross, Arthur, as a king thou’lt bear it.

And we all seeing shall say our King, like Christ,

Beareth his cross i’ the sunlight, i’ the shadow,

And take pattern from thy greatness.

Ar. I bear it not, Launcelot, it beareth me

Down into blacker depths, aye, and blacker.

He cometh betwixt my spirit and the sun.

Canst thou not help thy King? I seem like one

Who walketh in dread dreams where all are shadows.

Laun. Take courage to thee, Arthur, it will off.

Go in thy kingship’s strength and meet thy queen.

Her beauty and her kindliness will cure

This thy distemper.

Ar. Nay, Launcelot, this is the very matter,

As thou well knowest, she hath never seen me;

And for the very reverence I bear her,

A maiden princess, I would hold as snow

In each thing that regardeth purity;

By all the love that I would bear to her,

I would not have her meet me in this mood,

But I would have her meet her Arthur when

In kingly grace he is himself a king.

Yea, Launcelot, for this I sent for thee.

’Tis mine intent that I should tarry here

And in the joustings cure me of this fit,

While thou dost go forth in my place to bring

The Princess Guinevere to Camelot.

Laun. Nay, sire, not I! Not Launcelot!

Ar. By thy love for Arthur, thou shalt do it,

Whom else in all this kingdom wide but thee

Could I send on a mission such as this?

I honor all thy love in sending thee,

The one true knight, the glory of my realm.

In this, O Launcelot, thou canst help thy King,

And show abroad the love that ’twixt us lies,

Till men will say: “So much of love there lies

Betwixt King Arthur and great Launcelot,

That when the King stayed ill at Camelot

He sent forth Launcelot to fetch the Queen.”

And what more fitting messenger to send

Than thee in all thy strong and splendid youth,

The flower and sun of all my chivalry,

Launcelot, the young and pure-in-heart.

Thou wilt do this and crown thy love for me.

Laun. Nay, mine own Arthur, men will rather say:

“Why stayed the King, unkingly, thus at home?

And sent forth Launcelot to meet his bride?”

O Arthur, by my love, go forth thyself.

Rather thou sentest me sack a hundred cities

Than do this deed that will un-king thee so.

Ar. Launcelot, I would rather die than go.

Laun. Yea, Arthur, I would rather die than go.

Ar. Launcelot, lovest thou thine Arthur?

Laun. Yea, Arthur, well thou knowest.

Ar. Wilt thou honor me as king?

Laun. Yea, to the death.

Ar. Then the King commands that thou goest for the

      love thou bearest Arthur.

Laun. Yea, sire, I will. (aside) But all fears go

      with me.

Curtain.

————

ACT I. Scene 4.

Place—Leodegrance’s castle at Camelard.

Enter Leodegrance and Pages.

Leo. Now is the day auspicious to my house

When Guinevere will wed with mighty Arthur.

Golden the mornings, happy haste the nights,

With constellations soft and wooing hours

That speed the bride and bridegroom to their bowers.

Splendid be my prime and soft mine age,

Who am a father to this mighty realm.

Ho there, without!

[Trumpets heard. Enter Pages.

Page.  Mighty sire, with trumpet and with drum,

The lofty Arthur with his host hath come.

A world of spears and pennons fills the town,

And all the burghers feast their eyes with seeing.

[A clatter of arms without.

Enter Launcelot, who kneels.

Laun. Sir King!

Leo. Where tarries the great Prince Arthur?

Laun. He cometh not, my lord.

Leo. And why?

Laun. The King, on sudden sick at Camelot,

Hath sent me with his heart to Camelard

To plead his absence with thee and the Princess,

And guard her glad way forth to Camelot.

I am that Launcelot, that knight-at-arms,

Who loveth Arthur more than maid or king.

Perchance if thou wilt trust her to my care,—

Here is great Arthur’s order.

[Presents a ring.

Leo. Welcome to Camelard, most noble knight;

Well ken we of thy name and nobleness.

It grieves us much great Arthur could not come

And, guest of our poor hospitality,

Receive our noble daughter at our hearth

And lead her home from out our very doors.

This much perforce had willed a father’s pride,

This much had satisfied a father’s love.

But seeing Chance hath given us none of it,

We must be gracious to her messenger

And thank her for the safety she hath sent.

To-morrow’s dawn we give into thy hands

The maiden daughter of our kingly love,

To guard in safety to great Arthur’s court,

There to be wedded as his faithful queen.

Meanwhile receive our hospitality.

This castle and this town are thine to-night

In honor of the Princess and the King.

Laun. We thank thee, sire, for this thy hospitality.

Leo. Yea, one thing further; knowing our daughter’s

      nature,

And fearing a maiden’s pride might feel a hurt,

At the King’s absence, we would now advise

That this be kept a secret till to-morrow,

When we will break it softly to Her Highness;

Though she hath never seen him, as thou knowest,

She now half loves him for his kingly fame,

And being her father’s daughter thinks it well

To act a daughter’s just obedience.

She hath a wayward nature, ’tis a pride

We have in common, therefore we defer

This matter till to-morrow. ’Twould not do

To let her sleep on such sharp disappointment.

Laun. As you will, noble lord.

Curtain.

————

ACT I. Scene 5.

Place—The apartment of Guinevere.

Guinevere and a lady attendant.

Guin. Now, Unid, I have seen this noble Arthur.

I spied him from my turret as he rode,

And all my heart went out in love to him,

The knight incarnate of my girlhood’s dreams.

Didst notice his bearing, Unid?

Unid. Yea, lady; fairer man and nobler knight

Eye hath not seen.

Guin. His face was like the gardens when the sun

Lifts up his crimson splendor after dawn;

His bearing as the bearing of a god,

And yet as one who would be kind and loving.

Unid. Yea, my lady, he seemed glad and fair,

And fit to be the lord to thee, my Princess.

Guin. Come, Unid, take my hand, and we will sit

And speak of this great Arthur. Well thou knowest

My maiden fears regarding this same marriage.

I honor this Arthur as a noble king,

The mighty monarch and the splendid warrior,

And yet I fear him for reputed coldness.

Thou knowest me a princess warm in blood,

Brim with fire and sweetness of this life,

Not fitted to be wedded to a statue,

A marble, though that marble be a king.

For something stirred my life-springs long ago,

And whispered, Guinevere was made for love,

And love alone would rule her destiny.

And when I looked and saw him enter there,

And knew my lord, and felt him gaze my way,

Knowing his errand to my father’s hall,

I blushed me till mine inmost being burned.

And all the roses whispered, Arthur! Arthur!

And “Arthur! Arthur!” rang through all the halls.

I wonder much if he will love me, Unid.

Unid. In sooth he must, my lady, be he noble.

Though he never saw thee, who but heard

Of all thy charms, my Princess Guinevere,

Could help but love thee when he seeth thy face?

Guin. ’Tis in my mind to sound his manner, Unid.

To take him treacherous and unawares.

I like not much this way of wedding maids,

In cruel blindness of their coming fate.

This marriage savoreth much of state affairs,

Even o’er-much to please my noble fancy.

I would me much to see this royal lover,

And know with mine own senses if he loves

With that intense delight and warmth of feeling

With which poor Darby freely weddeth Joan.

Though I be all a queen I be a woman,

With all the thoughts and instincts of a woman.

Unid. What wouldst thou do, my lady?

Guin. That I this even meet him in the garden.

Unid. On what pretence, my lady? ’Twere a risky

      business.

Guin. Thou wilt be veiled and take this golden ring;

Cozen his squire, and say, this for the knight

Who rode within the castle walls to-day.

Leave thou him word, a lady in distress,

Who needeth a knight to aid her in her sorrow,

Would meet him in the garden walls at sunset.

Unid. I will, my lady; but what if he come not?

Guin. No danger of his not coming if he be

The man I worshipped from my tower this morning.

He’d come were yon rose-plot enchanted ground

And gated by a thousand belching fiends.

He’d come, my king! O Unid, how I love him!

Curtain.

————

ACT I. Scene 6.

Place—A rose garden adjoining the castle.

Enter Launcelot.

Laun. This is a sunset bower for lovers made.

The air seems faint with pale and ruddy bloom,

The red for rosy dreams, the white for pure

And holy maiden thoughts all unexpressed.

There hangs fatality upon this place;

I cannot shake its ague from my heart.

I would I were safe back in Camelot,

With this fair Guinevere, great Arthur’s glory.

I’d rather meet the mad kerns of the Isles,

Than come again on such a quest as this.

This Guinevere, they say, is proud and cold,

Not such a woman as Launcelot would love.

Yea, love, what doth it mean? and this strange maid,

What can she want of me? Aye, here she comes.

Enter Guinevere, veiled.

Guin. My lord, forgive this meeting in this place.

(aside) Oh, if he like it not!

Laun. Wouldst ask mine aid?

Guin. Yea; wouldst thou aid a maiden in distress?

Laun. Lady, all maidens command a true knight’s help.

Guin. My lord, hast thou ever loved?

Laun. Fair women have I seen, but none to love as

      thou meanest.

Why askest this?

Guin. Wouldst fight for one like me?

[Throwing aside her cloak.

Laun. (starts and stands as one in a dream) Fair

      lady!

(aside) Wondrous Heaven, what be this?

In all my dreams I never saw such beauty

Of woman’s face or of a woman’s form.

She fills my heart like combs of golden honey!

Guin. My lord, hast lost thy tongue?

(aside) I had not dreamed this.

Laun. Fair lady, forgive my sudden lack of speech,

But never in my existence have I seen

Such loveliness and maiden grace as thine.

Yea, I would call it benison, could I stand

And gaze upon thee as thou art, forever.

There’s some fatality that draws me to thee,

Like I had known thee somewhere long ago.

Guin. My lord!

Laun. Thou art all glory, all that this life is.

And all before but one poor, pallid dream

Of this real living. Now I see thy face,

I know what Heaven is and all delights

That erring mortals lost in Paradise.

Guin. My lord! (aside) Sweet Heaven, this be too

      blessed!

Laun. Fair maiden, princess, lady, what thou art

Is what I’d die for. In mine inmost heart

Thou art enshrined. It seems some blessed dream.

Thou art too beautiful for mortal maid,

And yet I feel thou art not all unkind,

Might I dare read love’s missal in thine eyes.

Guin. Most noble lord, I came here for this purpose,

To render my heart’s being up to thee.

Deem not this act unmaidenly in one

Whose whole life’s currents to thy being run.

My lord!

Laun. It seems that we were never strangers.

[Folds her in his arms and kisses her.

Guin. All life hath been but shaping up to this.

Laun. Oh, could this sunset be but gold forever!

Guin. My lord Arthur!

Laun. (starts back) Great God!

Guin. Kiss me. Why Great God?

Thou are my God when thy lips are so sweet.

Laun. Why calledst thou me Arthur?

Guin. And art thou not?

Laun. Oh, who art thou that callest Arthur lord?

Guin. As thou art Arthur, I am Guinevere.

[Launcelot starts back in horror.

Laun. Guinevere! Make thick your murky curtains!

Day, wake no more! Stars, shrink your eye-hole lights,

And let this damned earth shrivel!

Guin. (clutching his arm) And art thou not great

      Arthur?

Who art thou? O God! who art thou?

Laun. Not Arthur, no! but that foul Launcelot,

Who ’twixt his hell and Arthur’s Heaven hath got.

Guin. Then am I a doomed maid!

[Swoons.

Laun. Black, murky fiend of hell! come in thy form

Most monstrous, give me age on ages here,

And I will clang with thee and all thine imps.

Bind me in blackness under Hell’s foul night,

And it were nothing, after dream like this.

Guin. (rising up) Oh, mercy! damned or not, I love

      thee still!

Laun. Why doth not nature crack and groan?

Guin. (crawls to his feet) Oh, be thou fiend or imp

      or Launcelot,

Thy kisses burn me even through this mist.

Laun. Yea, thou dost move me as never woman hath

      moved.

Oh, would to God that we had never loved!

Then thou wouldst have been Guinevere and I Launcelot.

Guin. What be we now?

Laun. Damned souls.

Guin. Then sweet, my love, it were thus to be damned.

Laun. Oh, thou must go, proud Guinevere, to-morrow

Unto great Arthur’s court and be his bride,

And I will be that olden Launcelot

In shape and seeming, though I hold a devil.

Oh, never more, mine Arthur, will I look

With peace and frankness on thy noble face.

’Twixt thee and me a wall is builded up

Of hideous evil. Guinevere, my love,

We were doomed long ago, and this be hell.

Guin. Oh, most unfortunate me, thou art not Arthur,

And I am Guinevere and I have loved.

Though I go morrow morn to Camelot

And place my hand in his and pledge him mine,

Not all the clamor of glad abbey-bells,

Or heavenward incense, may kill out the fever

Of thy hot kisses on my burning lips.

I am not Arthur’s. He is but a name,

A ringing doom that haunts me round the world.

Launcelot, we were wedded long ago,

Before this life, in some old Venus garden,

And this brief meeting but re-memory

Awakening from some cursed doze of life

Unto this present glory of our love.

Thou wilt not leave me, Launcelot, loveless, lorn?

Laun. Aye, this be hell!

Guin. Aye, hell to me to be divorced from thee.

Laun. Thou art betrothed to our great lord, high

      Arthur,

And I that Arthur’s trusted bosom friend,

And yet I’d kiss again thy honied lips,

Though Arthur’s shadow flaming stood between.

I’m not an Adam to be driven out

With flaming brand from thy sweet paradise.

I’d hold thee, Guinevere, in these mine arms,

Though on each side, asquare, a “shalt not” stood.

I’d fight ’gainst all, aye, Arthur, mine old self.

O Guinevere, this love hath made me mad.

Oh, were’t that all were changed in nature’s course,

That I were not myself, but some rude shape;

That thou wert not so sweet to look upon,

But sour and crabbed and old, for Arthur’s sake,

So that all might have gone the olden way.

Guin. Oh, that this night might never pass away,

We and this garden here forever stay,

Yon setting moon forever hold her crest

Above the fringèd peace of yonder West,

These roses ever perfumed petals cast,

So that our love in its glad youth might last;

No bleak to-morrows with their Arthurs come,

With evil waking to a sombre doom;

No age, like autumn, wrinkling to decays,

Filled with sad hauntings of gone yesterdays.

Curtain.

---

ACT II. Scene 1.

Place—The forest of Bracliande.

Enter Merlin and Vivien.

Mer. Tarry we here, for I am fain for rest.

[Sinks down.

O mighty Slumber, sweet Oblivion!

Make this day night and seal my sleep-ward eyes;

And bear me in thy light and feathery bark,

For I am over-weary of this world.

Viv. Give me the book of charms wherein is written

The power whereof that I may guard thy rest.

[Merlin gives her the book.

Mer. Thou hast poor Merlin on the weaker side.

[He sleeps. Vivien mutters the charm.

Viv. Sleep! Sleep!

[Merlin tries to awaken.

Mer. Ho! ho! a mountain lieth on me. Take off this

      mountain!

Ha! ha! mine olden power, and thou art gone at last!

[Tries to rise.

Viv. (mutters charm) Sleep! sleep!

Mer. Methought it thundered, and a drop of rain

Fell on my forehead.

Viv. Sleep! sleep!

Spirit of slumber, rise from thy dark caves!

[The spirit of sleep rises up as a grey mist and looms about.

Wrap him in thy shadowy embrace

And bind him in thy filmy, silken bonds

A thousand ages.

Mer. O light, thou goest out!

[Sinks again.

Viv. Come, black Oblivion, from thy shadowy tomb!

[The spirit of oblivion rises as a black smoke.

Shroud him in thy swart and deep embrace

A thousand ages. Bind his senses fast.

Make him all droppings of a foul decay.

[Merlin moans and sinks in sleep. Vivien weaves paces about him. Spirits rise and wind him in a grey and black smoke.

Sleep like any rock or clod of earth,

Thou coffin that enclosed a human soul.

The blind dull years take never note of thee,

For thou art part and parcel of the past.

Now, Arthur, that thy great right hand is gone,

Vivien, the devil, backs to Camelot;

Vivien, the scorned, the dust betwixt thy feet,

Doth back to Camelot, where vengeance waits.

I am resolved to be the villain dire,

And cunning plotter of this present play.

Then hence to Camelot to achieve mine end.

I’ll shadow Mordred, work upon his ill,

And mould him creature to my spirit’s will.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 2.

Place—Castle at Camelot.

Enter Mordred.

Mor. Two roads there are for me in this dark world,

Both shadowed by the gloom of haunted groves.

One leads to quiet and kind nature’s peace.

I’m part inclined to join a brotherhood,

Composed of nature and mine inward thoughts.

The other road leads to no happiness;

But dark ambition—it lowers about my brain,

And hatred at the scorn of human eyes.

Yea, I am half resolved to be a man,

And take a part in this poor, shifty world,

Where so much ill begins to lift its head.

And help to pull the ropes behind the scenes

That aid the puppets to their forcèd parts.

Yea, sooth, indeed, that Vivien hath a devil,

But it is such a sweet and clever devil,

I cannot help but take it to mine arms.

She hath a counsel toward the stormier part.

She puts her little foot on fate’s grim head,

And harks it hiss. I am persuaded much

To make a stir to remedy my wrongs,

And yet my loftier nature cries me no.

O Mordred, what art thou, misshapen monster?

Thou wilt be sweet as Launcelot in the grave,

Though thou canst never smile on Guinevere,

Or other star of brightness, stand by Arthur

Like lofty pine that girds the hills of snow.

Yea, I am half constrained to be a fiend,

And take this mighty kingdom by the walls,

And shake it till its deep foundations thunder.

There is no love for Mordred in these precincts;

Took he the lonely road to-morrow morn,

They’d cover his face and laugh the world along,

Unmindful of his setting.

Enter Vivien.

Viv. Nay, not so, there are two would grieve for thee.

Mor. Aye, two?

Viv. Yea, two: I and thy dog.

Mor. Yea, sooth would grieve my poor four-footed

      friend.

Better that Mordred had been got a dog,

With four good legs and strength of limbs and back,

A pattern to his species, than be thus

A blot on all the beauty of his kind.

Vivien, would that I were shelved in earth!

Viv. Doubtest thou my love?

Mor. Thou art a strange and subtle human mixture

Of cleverness and charm and swift deceit,

And yet I like thee, though thou voicest me

Upon the evil longings of my nature.

What canst thou love in me?

Viv. Yea, all of thee, not thy misshapen body,

But thy deep, precious mind, thy spirit rare,

That patent greatness seated on thy brow

Wherefore I’d see thee lift this Arthur down,

And show thy kingship on thy rightful throne.

Thou hast a grievance against this callous world,

If ever man were saddled by grim woe.

Enter Launcelot at left, followed by Guinevere.

And here doth come the way will help thee to it.

[Pulls Mordred back into the shadow.

Laun. (comes forward, followed by Guinevere) My

      dearest lady, why wilt tempt me thus?

Thou art the rightful, wedded spouse of Arthur.

Guin. O Launcelot, thou hast doomed me with thy

      beauty.

I am no more the rightful wife of Arthur;

I cannot live without thee, Launcelot!

Laun. Lady, this stolen sweetness is a hell.

I am no more the Launcelot that I was,

Nor would I be that Launcelot for high Heaven.

[Both pass on.

Viv. (aside to Mordred) These words are rungs by

      which to build thy ladder,

Over the ruins of this doomèd kingdom.

Mor. I cannot play thus on my father’s shame,

Even though he hate me. I would rather go

And bury my sorrows in a hermit’s grave

Than build a power upon this human folly.

Even these twain, my heart doth pity them.

Not all their beauty hath kept them from this hell.

Viv. Hast thou no pride, Prince Mordred?

Yea, wait a breath, I’ll show thy wrongs too deep

To languish in a monkish wilderness.

What hath thy soul to do with weeds and turf?

Assert thy greatness or else kill thyself.

Thou art not fit to cumber this flat earth

If thou canst not assert thy dignity.

Were I misshapen o’er a thousand times,

Had but one eye, a wen upon my neck,

And swart and foul as foulest Caliban,

And were a man, I’d make my kingship felt—

So all should fear the god that looked a devil.

Mor. Where’er thou comest from, thou comest not

      from Heaven.

Viv. What cometh from Heaven is not for such as thee.

The day doth come when thou wilt call on me.

Re-enter Guinevere, alone.

Viv. Stay, lady, I would speak with thee.

Guin. What art thou, woman?

Viv. I am a maiden here about thy court,

Of whom ’tis said that she did love great Arthur,

Our high lord Arthur, whom thou lovest so well;

If this be my poor crime, forgive me, lady,

Seeing thou thyself art happier in the same.

Thou art the splendid moon to his great planet,

And we but stars that vanish at thy rising.

Guin. What wouldst thou with me?

Viv. I would fain bring unto thy notice one,

Wrongèd of nature and his human kind,

Knowing where thine admiration stopped,

Might follow thy pity.

Mor. Nay, all but pity. Pity is such a gift

That all the world would grant it, none receive.

Grant me thy scorn, lady, but withhold thy pity.

Thou mightst pity a horse or dog or fowl,

But man of rarest compounds moulded up,

And standing on foundations of a soul,

Hath too much of the god within him hid

To need such shallow, cold, inclement gifts.

Your pities would freeze the icèd heart of winter

Colder within its breast.

Guin. And what art thou, strange heap, that speaketh

      thus

Unto thy Queen?

Mor. Madam, I am one who through this world

Goeth by ways of sorrow and mishap.

Knowest me not, madam?

Guin. Thou seemest like some gloomier Dagonet,

Wearing proud black of some mock tragedy.

Art thou another fool?

Viv. (aside) Ah! that will touch him.

Mor. A fool, madam! Callest thou Mordred a fool?

Takest him for one who juggles for a court,

A football for the passing merriment,

Forgotten ere his wit hath passed to sadness?

Because I wear mis-nature on my form,

Knowest thou not the son of Britain’s King?

Guin. I know thee not, save thou art insolent.

Pass! You bar my way.

Mor. Is there so little in this royalty

That men know not a king when he goes forth?

When that great Arthur thou callest lord goes out,

I tell thee, madam, I am Britain’s king.

Guin. Enough, insolent! is it some mock tragedy

Thou playest? Or art thou mad?

Mor. Madam, though thou wert thousand times a

      queen,

The day will come when thou wilt eat those words

With the salt rue of utter wretchedness!

Viv. (aside) He hath awakened at last!

Enter Launcelot.

Guin. Dost threaten thy Queen? Make way, monster!

Laun. (rushing forward) Dost thou insult the Queen?

Mor. Nay, not as thou hast insulted great Arthur’s

      wife.

Laun. Toad! abortion! take that, and that!

[Beats him with the flat of his sword.

Mor. (starting back and drawing) Thou hast slain

      pity and peace forever.

Come on, adulterous knight, and each foul stroke

Dishonoring my poor back I’ll pay with hate

To fullest usury!

[They close. Launcelot disarms Mordred.

Laun. There, go, Mis-shapen. Wert thou not a prince,

I’d teach thee manners toward thy father’s wife;

Wert thou a man, and not that which thou art,

With this quick blade I’d stop thy craven heart.

Mor. There is nought more to do but to slay me.

(bares his breast) Slay me ere I kill myself.

Viv. Nay! nay!

Laun. Kill thyself, Prince; Launcelot fights with men.

(to the Queen) I will follow you, my lady.

[Exeunt Launcelot and the Queen.

Mor. (flings his sword away) All sweet compassions,

      pityings and resolves

That dwelt in Mordred’s breast are slain at last,

Slain by a woman’s scorn, a man’s brutality.

A last good-bye to all my gladder thoughts,

And hail, dark vengeance, plots and evil counsels.

Mordred is misshapen, then will he breed chaos.

Mordred is monstrous, then will he breed horrors.

Mordred is dark, then will he cast a shadow

That ne’er shall loose this kingdom’s light again.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 3.

Place—Another part of the castle.

Enter Vivien.

Viv. Now for the plot to bring this kingdom down.

I’ve racked my wits. Yea, I have got a plan.

Ho! here comes Mordred.

Enter Mordred.

Art thou resolved to put it to an issue?

Or art thou craven?

Mor. Yea, I am all determination now.

Compunction’s dead. Yea, I am over-tired

Of playing the wart upon the hand of time,

But am resolved to be that hand itself,

And move the issues of this foolish world.

Viv. What is thy plot?

Mor. To hold the world at bay.

Viv. ’Tis too vague.

Mor. Yea, all this life is vague till evil shrinks

The vistas of our longings down to lusts.

My plot is this, to reach this kingdom by

The sinister door that opens to Launcelot.

Viv. Yea, ’tis my thought.

Mor. To catch the Queen in her own guilty net,

Then open her shame to all the gaping world.

’Twill bring great Arthur’s glory by the walls,

With thunder and smoke of splendor to the ground.

Launcelot is half of Arthur’s greatness,

And when he hateth Launcelot for the Queen,

This house of majesty will rend itself,

And Mordred be the raven in the smoke,

Flapping his wings across its desolation.

Viv. Yea, then will my hate—my love—

Mor. Nay, woman, do not speak of hates or loves,

Or other foolish human-hearted moods

Of man’s poor weakness, nay, but steel thyself

To be an engine of the crushing fates;

For he who would be powerful must be iron

And adamant amid this cruel world,

Knowing not heat nor cold, remorse nor shame,

Doing the deed that cometh to his hand.

But we must have a care and watch and wait,

And bait the trap and lay the springe and mine.

Not such a greatness crumbles in a day.

Much might be lost by hastening the issue.

Some one must work upon the moody King

And mould him softly, cunningly to knowledge

Of his cuckoldship. It must be deftly done,

Or like spark i’ the powder, it would send

Our plottings and hopings out o’ the skyhole.

Viv. It is well.

Mor. Meanwhile we watch the Queen and Launcelot,

Each action, aye, the changing of their faces;

Till knowledge be garnered of their secret commerce.

Who will approach the King?

Dag. (heard without, singing)

Viv. Here cometh one who may work the matter.

Mor. Who be it? Not the fool?

Viv. Yea, the fool! He is not all surface, he is deep,

Yea, deep for me.

Mor. May he be trusted?

Viv. Yea, like one who is in love.

Leave me, Prince, I would sound him.

Dag. (enters, singing)

[Exit Mordred.

Ho, Vivien!

Viv. Well, fool, and what wert thou singing?

Dag. ’Twas but a fool’s carol.

Viv. If thou wert not a fool I would say thou wert

      in love.

Dag. (starts) Well guessed, Vivien.

And by Our Lady, thou art in the right of it.

Viv. And who might be the object, sir fool?

Dag. Madam, I am deep in love with three mistresses,

To wit, the past, the present, and the future.

Viv. And how be that, fool?

Dag. The first be my breakfast which I have had,

The second my dinner which I have just eaten,

And the third be my supper which, like the morrow,

Is the more joyful as yet to come.

Viv. Wouldst thou do me a favor?

Dag. What be it?

Viv. Dost thou love the King?

Dag. Yea, that I do, though he be sometimes like a

      great child,

Spoiled on the weather-side,

There be something grieves him.

Viv. Yea, well hath he cause to grieve!

Dag. Thou dost say so! What be the cause?

Viv. The Queen.

Dag. Why, she be well favored?

Viv. Yea, but treacherous.

Dag. Aye! Knowest thou that?

Viv. Yea, and more!

Dag. Then is hell come on earth!

What wilt have me do?

Viv. I would have thee warn the King.

Dag. The King!

Viv. Yea, the King.

Dag. As well ask the cricket to pipe for the

      thunder-storm.

Dost thou crave my destruction so dearly?

Viv. Thou alone canst do it and survive,

Thou art so little in his estimation,

And thou must.

Dag. Yea, Vivien, I will. O poor world,

Where e’en royalty cannot ’scape the blight!

God save us all! I will e’en commence now.

Here cometh the King.

[Exit Vivien.

The King enters at the left.

Dag. Though she bade me hellward, I will obey.

But what evilment is abroad now,

That would I know? There’s something back o’ this.

The King a cuckold! Then Heaven help us all!

I would this were dispatched, yet how to do it

Passeth my understanding.

Ar. Well, sir fool,

Hast a merry message for my heart to-day?

Dag. Yea, sire.

Ar. Then mouth it, fool.

Dag. He who cometh to the wall hath crossed the last

      ditch.

Ar. Thine is but grim comfort, fool.

Dag. Then is it thine, King; and he who garners not

      i’ the morning

Can laugh with death.

Ar. Indeed, thou art over-weird.

Come, play me a masque.

Dag. A masque, sire! Should it be merry?

Ar. Aye, merry, or thou ruest it!

Dag. Here be a comedy, sire:

There be a king, sire,—

Ar. Yea.

Dag. And there be a queen, sire,

And there be a bishop—nay, a knight.

Ar. And what then?

Dag. The knight taketh the queen!

Ar. And the king, fool?

Dag. Oh, he be fool’s-mated, ha, ha, ha!

Ar. And where be the comedy, fool?

Dag. Oh, the fiends laugh i’ the pit.

That be the comedy! ha, ha, ha!

Ar. Ha! Hast thou a moral?

Dag. Nay, not a moral, sire! Morals be not in it.

Ar. Thou art but a wry fool to-day.

Dag. (aside) My plan faileth.

(to the King) Yea, sire, I passed an uncommon sorry

      night.

Ar. How, fool?

Dag. I dreamed of thee, Sire, and as I love thee

I liked it not.

Ar. What was thy dream?

Dag. I dreamed I saw thee stand, and back of thee

A great blackness, that thou sawest not,

And from the shadow loomed—pardon me, sire—the Queen

And—and—

Ar. Ha, and what?

Dag. Forgive thy poor fool, Sire, but methought I saw

      Sir Launcelot.

Ar. (in a terrible passion) Heaven damn thee, beast!

      scum!

[Knocks Dagonet down and would throttle him.

Did the greatest knight i’ this kingdom

Dare even dream such a thought, I would hack him to

      earth!

Dag. Slay me, great Arthur, but forgive thy fool.

Ar. Knowest thou not thou hast slandered the whole

      realm?

Dag. I am but a poor fool, sire.

Enter Gwaine, a tall, clumsy youth in scullion’s dress.

Ar. Who art thou?

Gwa. Thou must tell me.

Ar. I am the King.

Gwa. Art thou? Thou lookest like one.

Ar. Whence comest thou?

Gwa. I came out o’ the marches yestermorn,

Where I served my father i’ the bogs,

Intentioning to be a knight,

And they put me down in the kitchen.

Ar. Thou wouldst be a knight?

Gwa. Yea.

Ar. And wherefore?

Gwa. That I might serve the King.

Ar. Thou wouldst serve me?

Gwa. That I would!

Ar. (loosening Dagonet) Then hang yonder imp i’

      the crane over the castle wall.

Gwa. Come, rat!

[Lifts Dagonet and hangs him on the crane.

Dag. Oh, oh, the shame!

Gwa. Hath such as thou shame?

Dag. Yea, I house me a soul.

Gwa. Then is it poorly lodged.

[Goes out.

Ar. (strides back and forth) Yea, a fool!—worse

      than a fool!

Arthur, why wilt thou shame thyself even in thought?

Out, damned suspicion, that insulteth my dignity!

Enter Guinevere.

Ar. Madam, I would entreat thy pardon!

Guin. Wherefore, my lord?

Ar. For a thought. Guinevere, I am unworthy of thy

      queenliness.

Guin. Nay, nay, my lord. I am but flesh and blood.

Ar. Thou art a Queen!

Guin. Yea, and a weak woman.

Ar. It seemeth we be strangers even yet.

Guin. Aye, my lord.

Ar. Thou art cold, madam, and I like that iciness.

It well becometh this whiteness I uphold.

What wouldst this morning, my Queen?

Guin. I would know of the tournament thou hast in

      hand.

Ar. Yea, the tournament!—the tournament!

I fear I am over-moody, forgetful at times.

Hast thou seen Launcelot?

Guin. (starts) Why Launcelot, my lord? He is not the King.

Ar. Yea, not the King, but he hath charge of such

      matters.

Knowest thou, my lady, that Arthur loveth Launcelot?

Yea, had Arthur a brother or a son, would he were

      Launcelot!

And were Launcelot evil, the heavens would distil poison.

Guin. Yea, my lord, but thou forgettest the tourney.

Ar. Heralds have been sent out, and throughout the

      kingdom

Jousts are called, with strange and wondrous tests.

Re-enter Gwaine.

Gwa. Well, what next?

Ar. Sirrah! the Queen!

Gwa. (doffs his cap) Morrow, madam!

Ar. To your knees! by my blade, to your knees!

Gwa. By my legs, I am no lick-spittle to claw the earth.

Kneel to your own woman, I’ll to none!

Ar. Death! down on your life!

[Draws.

Guin. Nay, nay, he will kneel.

Gwa. Not he! King or other man, I can crack a neck.

Come on, give me a quarterstaff and I’ll knock your

Kings like nine-pins.

Guin. (gets between) Nay! nay!

Ar. Wilt thou kneel?

Gwa. I will fight, but I will not kneel,

Not to mine own mother. Gwaine is honest, but a plain

      man.

Guin. And thou shalt not kneel, if thou wilt not.

Thou art well-favored, hadst thou manners.

Gwa. Manners, madam, like fine feathers,

But hide the lice i’ the bird.

Gwaine loveth acts, not appearances.

Ar. Madam, wilt thou that I make him kneel?

Guin. Nay, but grant his wish.

Ar. What wilt thou, knave?

Gwa. That I be made a knight.

Ar. Thou must kneel to be knighted.

Gwa. Not to man.

Ar. To thy God, then.

Gwa. So be it, if it must.

[Kneels.

Ar. What be thy name?

Gwa. They called me Gwaine i’ the marches.

[Arthur lifts his sword. Gwaine leaps to his feet.

Wouldst thou hit a man when he is down?

Ar. I would knight thee, clown; ’tis the mode.

Gwa. Oh, but be careful, King, i’ the doing.

[Kneels.

Ar. Art thou of noble blood?

Gwa. Dost thou mean honest? Gwaine is plain; if thou meanest i’ the getting, no one can mis-call Gwaine’s mother.

Ar. (raises his sword and strikes him with the flat on the shoulder) Rise, Sir Gwaine.

Gwa. (rises) Is it done, King?

Ar. It is in sooth.

Gwa. Then, King, am I thine, but yours first, madam. Gwaine is plain but honest; I would have a sword, King.

Ar. Go, get thee one!

Gwa. Dost thou mean it, King?

Ar. Yea.

Gwa. (goes to the arras and, taking one down, proceeds to buckle it on) Then this one pleaseth me.

Guin. Stop, knight, ’tis the King’s!

Gwa. Then will it be the King’s still.

[Goes out.

Ar. What more wouldst thou with me, my lady?

Guin. I would speak of one Mordred.

Ar. My son! what of him?

Guin. My lord, I would have him banished the Court.

He is sinister on my sight, and exceeding forward.

I like him not. Wilt thou promise?

Ar. It is a heavy matter. We will consider it.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 4.

Enter Elaine and her retinue.

A Squire.  Lady, this is the place; we will retire.

Within short space the Queen doth come this way.

[Exeunt all except Elaine.

El. They say she is all goodness, she will grant

That I may meet this noble knight and fair,

And know my love returned, or else I die.

Enter Guinevere and ladies.

Guin. Lady, what wouldst thou?

[Elaine kneels.

El. O most noble lady, I am a maid,

Called Elaine, daughter unto Astolat’s lord,

Who cometh to thee, madam, for kind help

Upon the matter of a maiden’s love.

It rendeth me so, unless it be returned

My heart will burst in twain, and I will die.

Guin. Maiden, thy tale is sad; be thy quest pure,

The Queen will help thee; be thy person wronged,

By Arthur’s mighty kingdom, thou art ’venged.

El. Nay, madam, Elaine’s love is white and pure,

And he she loves is noble as any knight

In all this kingdom. Forgive my boldness, madam,

And by that love thou bearest to the King,

Our great lord, high Arthur, help me now,

And bring me to the face of him I love.

Guin. Of truth, thou hast a boldness in thy love.

(aside) There is an innocence in this fair maid

Doth make me pity her, so deep in love

For some false face that made a summer toy

Of her frank passion. Yea, I pity her.

(to Elaine) Maiden, to-morrow we do hold a tourney.

Thou wilt be present with us in the Court,

And thou canst note the knights and seek thy lover,

If he be ’mid the guests of noble Arthur.

El. Oh, thank thee, noble madam, may kind Heaven

Bless thee in thy great wifehood to the King.

Guin. Come, maiden, thou wilt follow in our train.

[Exeunt all.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 5.

Place—The Court.

Enter Vivien disguised as a strange maiden, followed by men bearing a great stone with a sword thrust in it.

Ar. Whence comest thou unto our Court, strange

      maiden,

And on what quest art sent?

Viv. Nine days are past and gone, O noble King,

Since thou didst advertise throughout the land

The kingdom be gathered for tests at Camelot,

And marvellous feats might here performèd be.

Wherefore I, knowing of that noble pride

With which you hold the flower of your great Court

For manhood’s purity, woman’s chastity,

Have deigned to show before the world, great King,

The truth whereof thou boastest.

Ar. It is bold, indeed, but Arthur keeps his word.

What be the tests?

Viv. First, here to test thy knighthood’s purity,

We bring a sword sunk fast in yonder stone

By magic’s force, and he who plucks it forth

Must be a knight who hath not known a woman,

Save in the lawful mode of marriage bed.

(to Launcelot) Wouldst try, pure knight?

Laun. Yea, I would, doth great Arthur will,

Though all the fiends of hell clutched nether end.

Do other knights but make the trial first.

[A number of knights come forward, try to pull the sword out of the stone, but fail. Launcelot then places his feet on the stone and grasps the sword and pulls with all his might, but the sword remains fixed.

Ar. It is in sooth a marvel!

Laun. It seemeth grown therein,

Yea, I will bend and strain until it comes.

It will not.

[Stands to take breath.

Guin. It is enough!

Viv. Wouldst thou try again, pure knight?

Laun. Yea, I will try till I die, if it come not.

[Tries again, bends his whole strength, then staggers to his feet.

Methought the earth’s roots hung thereon.

I am shamed!

Ar. ’Tis enough!

Viv. Wilt not try again, pure knight?

Laun. (with set face) Yea, now for Camelot’s glory.

Launcelot’s manhood pulls on this side, Hell on that.

[Braces himself and gives one terrible tug, then falls back fainting.

El. ’Tis he!

[Rushes out and falls fainting on his breast. The Queen’s women lift her and bear her out.

Guin. Great Heaven!

Ar. ’Tis enough! away with it, maiden; thy magic hath outdone our noblest worth.

Viv. (scornfully) Is there no pure man here will

      make a trial?

Gwa. (emerges from the throng still dressed in scullion’s

      dress) Yea, I will try, although I rend the stone.

[Leaps on to the stone and plucks the sword out with both hands with a great pull, and waves it aloft with an exultant shout. The throng starts back.

How now, mighty King?

Ar. ’Tis a great marvel!

Laun. (steps forth) Thou must face Launcelot to the

      death—the death!

[Faces Gwaine and draws.

Guin. My God!

[Her maids support her; she hides her face in her mantle.

Gwa. I would not slay thee.

Laun. Thou canst not!—Keep you!

[They fight. Knights try to separate them.

Ar. Nay, back, more room! give them more room!

[Continue fighting; each draws blood, but neither gives way.

Guin. (aside to the maids) Be he slain?

A Maid.  Neither be slain, madam.

Ar. Enough! I say enough!

Laun. Sire!

Gwa. Must we stop the exercise?

Ar. It is enough, you are both brave knights.

Laun. Gwaine, thou art better than I.

Gwa. Thou art the best I have met.

Wilt thou take the hand of Gwaine?

Laun. Yea, I will, though it hath pressed me hard.

Ar. Clear the Court.

[Trumpets blow and the throng falls back.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 6.

Place—An outer room in the castle.

Guinevere walking back and forth. Enter Launcelot, kneels, would take her hand.

Laun. Madam!

[Guinevere draws back coldly.

Laun. Madam, what means this coldness?

Thou wert not ever wont to meet me thus!

Guin. Where hast thou left the maid of Astolat?

Laun. Maid of Astolat!

Guin. Yea, that frail pink-and-white that pillowed thy

      breast,

What time thou didst faint; some slim cowslip miss

Such as do flatter you strong men by their weakness.

Go, flippant knight, and seek your skim-milk love.

Guinevere would hate thee but for scorn.

God curse the day I ever let thee love!

Laun. Madam, each word thou utterest, like a dagger,

Doth stab with cruel agonies my heart.

If Launcelot hath sinned in loving thee,

That love is maiden unto all save thee.

Yea, I am damnèd daily for thy face,

And even thou dost scorn me!

Guin. A truce of words; I saw with mine own eyes

What all the Court and all the world doth know.

Launcelot’s Love, the Maid of Astolat,

Is mouthed by all fools’ lips in all men’s ears,

Till Guinevere is even Mordred’s scorn.

I’d slay thee, were I only but a man.

Laun. Madam! by my love!—

Guin. By thy love, a flimsy, forsworn thing,

A toylet of a moment! Such as thou!

And I! I gave—By Heaven! I pluck thee out,

And thrust thee from me, thou false, handsome face!

Thou devil-eyed to lead hearts on to ruin!

Laun. Madam, wilt thou not hear?

Guin. Nay, nay, begone! I scorn thee, yea, I hate!

Laun. (sadly) Yea, Guinevere, I go, to come no more.

It is well seen that thou hast tired of me.

Thou hast driven Launcelot mad! mad!

The world reels round me, I am all alone.

All else the visions of a noisome dream.

I am mad, mad, Guinevere!

And dost thou smile? here’s for the lonely dark!

Ho, ho! the world’s one hideous mockery.

[Leaps from the casement.

Guin. Nay, nay, Launcelot! Launcelot!

Come back! I love thee, I forgive thee all!

(falls on her face) O Heaven! I have driven him away,

Nevermore, oh, never to return.

O Love! O Love! my maddened heart will break.

O foolish stars, why smile on this grim night,

Lighting the heartless heaven with your eyes?

O foolish birds, why pipe across the dark,

Calling the rosy morn, the false-faced morn,

While hearts are breaking here amid the dark?

Launcelot! Launcelot! Hark! now he returns.

Nay, ’tis the foolish wind wooing the silly trees.

He never will return, nor will forgive.

O poor white hand! he nevermore will clasp.

O wayward lips! he nevermore will kiss.

O heart, break! break!

Enter a Maid.

Maid.  Madam, here cometh the King.

[Guinevere rises.

Enter the King.

Ar. Watchest thou the splendor of the night?

Guin. Yea, there is a burden in the distant sea,

And a soft sadness from the far-off night

Of ghost-winds footing under the haunted dark.

It groweth chill, my lord.

Ar. We will go within.

[Exeunt both.

Enter Gwaine and Dagonet.

Gwa. Yea, mad! mad! stark, raving mad, you say?

Dag. Yea, mad. His eyes were like balls o’ fire,

An’ his face fixed like he followed a vision

Or walked i’ his sleep,

An’ his hands did beat the air the while he shouted a war

      song.

It hath frighted me out of a week’s sleep.

Gwa. Yea, he is indeed mad. ’Tis this crazy love.

And he such a man, the best i’ the world.

I will take horse and follow him.

Drop that lanthorn, fool, and help me wi’ this buskin,

’Tis new to me. The best i’ the world, damn this love!

Fool, wert thou ever in love?

Dag. Yea, thou knowest I be a fool.

Gwa. Then be wise like Gwaine, fool, and scorn love;

’Tis but a mad fever o’ the head and marrow.

It creepeth in by the eyes and spoileth a good man.

It killeth sleep and maketh a mock at feeding.

It heateth the blood and routeth caution.

’Ware of love, fool, an’ thou wouldst be wise.

Dag. Yea, thy words be like what the wind said to the

      wall.

Gwa. And what be that?

Dag. Stand up while I blow thee down!

Art thou off now?

Gwa. Yea, till I find him.

Tell the King Gwaine hath ta’en French leave, but he will

come again when he bringeth the best man i’ the kingdom.

Ho! without there! Fool, go ahead with that lanthorn.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 7.

Enter Vivien and Mordred.

Viv. Prince, and do you weaken now again?

Mor. Yea, Vivien, I have only half a heart

For this ill business.

Viv. ’Tis but a lack of manhood in thy blood,

That runs to water dwelling on puerile things,

Like parent-love and other sickly longings,

Forgotten with forgetting of the paps.

Now, me, my memory knows no parentage

Save circumstance and mine own nimble wits.

’Tis but our acts that build the bridge of fate

Across this perilous river men call life.

Some kneel and pray, trust some fond deity,

And build in fancy safety for themselves,

Then soon are churning ’mid the ravening flood.

Others do build them piers of solid stone,

Or use men’s bodies for to tread upon.

These get the surest over.—Hast seen the Queen?

Mor. Ha, that one name hath more to conjure with

Than all your sophistries, to my dark soul.

Yea, how I hate that woman! I am but

The hideous toad that poisons on her sight.

Though I may sense the glories of this earth

With all its wealth, the heaven o’er-bridged with stars,

And know love’s heights and depths, and pity’s well,

Brimming with pearls of tears and woman’s eyes;

I am but hideous Mordred after all.

Viv. Yea, in her eyes art hideous, not in mine.

Mor. Woman, thou liest! It were natural

To love the perfect shape and noble form,

The sunny face and splendid laughing eye;

But canst thou love the wry and gnarlèd shape

And beetle-browed, night-shaded soul like mine?

I am a toad, a bat, a gnarlèd stump.

Those hideous in nature are my kin.

Woman, thou liest, when thou speakest of love!

Viv. Nay, Mordred, do not scorn me! Thou’rt a man

In more than mere out-seeming; ’tis thy fate,

Thy whole grim spirit, Vivien pitieth.

Wouldst thou but love me, Vivien would be

Thy queen, thy slave, the ’venger of thy wrongs,

That call to heaven.

Mor. Nay, nay, it cannot be, thou wastest words.

I like thee least in this strange mood of thine.

Love is no word for Mordred, rather hate,

And thou wert made for plottings, not for joys.

Yea, we will marry in compact of ill,

And will beget as child, black, black revenge.

This is my mood.

Viv. Now thou art natural! There is much to do.

Our schemes o’erreached, proud Arthur’s jealousy

As yet untouched, and Launcelot fled the Court

In some queer madness. How likest the conditions?

Mor. He must come back, I am a devil at root.

We’ll seethe him in the Queen’s despairs and sorrows.

I have a plan,—she giveth soon a feast

Of autumn fruits unto her favorite knights,

And I will go, although she hates my face,

For I misdoubt she fears me even now.

There is a joy to know, if thou’rt not loved,

That thou canst wield an influence over those

Who otherwise would pass thee by in scorn.

Well, I do know a poison, subtle, sharp,

That when it bites it is the tooth of death.

This will I get inserted in some fruit,

And manage that one knight will eat of it,

Sir Patrise, brother unto that Sir Mador,

Who hates the Queen for that she scorned his love,

And not being present will call for loud revenge

Upon his brother’s death ’gainst Guinevere.

Proud Arthur, then, will call upon some knight

To prove her innocence upon the sword,

And her extremity makes Launcelot sane.

He will return. Then I will trap him with her,

Set Arthur and Launcelot at bitter war,

And wrest the kingdom from their weakened hands.

This is my plot, now for the working of it.

Down all compunction! Mount all dark resolves!

Let me be Mordred inward as well as out,

All inky poison of soul, even that I,

Who’d trample others, must crush out myself.

Viv. Yea, Prince, indeed, ’tis seen thou hast a mind

Of subtle working fit to rule a king.

Thou wilt be greater than great Arthur yet,

When thou sittest in his place.

Mor. Nay, woman, tantalize me not with hopes.

’Tis not the splendid end that leads me on.

’Tis but the getting there that Mordred loves;

The mood of one who’d trample on the flowers

In some fair garden whence he is excluded.

Here is the poison. That will be thy part

To get it hidden in the special fruit,

And get it fed unto the special man

Whose snuffing out will pander to our end.

Viv. Give me the poison!

Mor. Here it is, this small pill,

So petty, but all-powerful.

’Tis wondrous that this tiny polished globe,

Could hide betwixt the finger and the thumb,

Hath power to open the gateways of this world,

And in a sudden sleep dislodge a soul.

Hast thou an agent for to do this work?

Viv. Yea, that I have.

Mor. Not the fool again?

Viv. Yea, the fool!

Mor. See he does this better than the last. ’Tis the more perilous. Thinkest he will undertake it?

Viv. Yea, he will.

Mor. By what compulsion?

Viv. By that most powerful of all most powerful compulsions. He loveth me.

Mor. And thou wilt use him, put him on the rack,

Which is thine influence?

Viv. See my little finger; he is as the yarn

That I may wind around it.

Mor. Thou art a devil! Ho! ho! Mordred hath

      mirth!

And this be life? Mordred hath mirth, yea, Vivien, mirth!

See, woman, that thou failest not.

Mordred is roused, it must be.

[Exit Mordred.

Viv. Ho! ho! Thou art travelling my road at last.

I must haste hence and find me Dagonet.

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 8.

Enter Dagonet.

Dag. I’m but the ghost of mine old former self,

Who, once a jester, am now but the jest

Of some outrageous fortune. Sleep hath fled,

My meat hath no more taste unto my mouth,

The wine but heavy lees within the cup.

I am so held in love for Vivien

That I must end this foolish spark o’ life.

My heart leaps up for joy to see her face,

A silly joy, such as a child might have,

Loving some star for plaything, out of reach.

Oh, what would I not do to even dare

To press the velvet of her dainty hand!

Back, down, poor foolish dreams! Now I must play

The frothy merriment of a world that’s gray.

Enter Vivien. Dagonet starts.

Viv. Thou growest gruesome, Dagonet; where hast lost thy mirth?

Dag. I know not, Vivien, I know not; belike I am a fool, indeed. Poor Dagonet is no more himself.

Viv. Poor Dagonet!

Dag. Why not call me fool? Dost thou pity me?

Viv. Yea, I do.

Dag. And since when?

Viv. Since I knew that thou wert a man.

Dag. Dagonet, the fool, a man?

Viv. Yea, since I knew as thou couldst love indeed.

Dag. That I love, Vivien, what knowest thou?

Viv. Yea, that thou hast a heart under thy mask. Yea, more, for whom thou hast this feeling. Wouldst thou win her grace?

Dag. (falls on his knees) Yea, yea, Vivien, for one look, one smile. O Vivien, well thou knowest I am thy slave.

Viv. What wouldst thou do for my love?

Dag. Thou hast my heart bare in thy sight. Write on it what characters thou likest, for I am thine. I tell thee I am thy dog, thy slave.

Viv. Not dog, nor slave, but lover.

[Vivien holds out her hand, Dagonet crawls near and takes it.

Dag. O Vivien, dost thou mean this?

Viv. Yea, in sooth I will try thy love. Wouldst thou win my love, Dagonet?

Dag. Dost thou mock me?

Viv. Nay. (takes a little box from her girdle and opens it) Dost see this pill?

[Leans near and whispers in his ear.

Dag. (starts back) Nay! nay! not that!

Viv. That or nought.

Dag. Wouldst thou use me thus?

Viv. Thou art the man who’d win my love! I tell thee so must all who’d love Vivien.

Dag. Nay, nay, I must think. This is indeed death, death!

Viv. Yea, death or nought! I thought thou wert a man?

Dag. For that reason am I now in hell.

Viv. (takes his hand) Dagonet, dost thou love me?

Dag. O God! Yea, Vivien, give me the pill. I am not myself any more. I am thine, I will do it. Vivien, thou wilt not fail me?

Viv. See that thou dost not fail me, and be sure that thou doest this well.

Dag. I will.

[Exit Vivien.

At last, O Dagonet, thou hast thy wish,

Thou’st passed the iron o’ that grim barrier

That shutteth comedy from black tragedy.

Dagonet, now thou art indeed a man!

Thou art pitied! Thou canst win love.

Thou canst snuff the candle out o’ a life.

Dost know thy former features any more?

And all for love!

Yea, I am on fire. Snow! snow! Would I had snow to

      cool me!

Fool, thou art no more a fool. Dagonet, thou art a man!

Thou lovest. This must be done.

[Goes out.

Curtain.

---

ACT III. Scene 1.

Arthur, Mordred, Dagonet and Nobles.

Enter the Queen in great trouble. Enter Sir Mador and Knights, bringing in a dead body and crying, “Treason! Treason!” The Queen takes her state.

Ar. Who would accuse the Queen?

Sir M. ’Tis I, my liege.

Ar. What be the substance of thine accusation?

Sir M. Murder, sire! murder most foul and treacherous!

Other Knights.  Yea, murder most foul and treacherous!

Ar. On whom?

Sir M. On the body of this knight, my brother, Sir Patrise, whom thou knowest to have been a courteous knight of much steadfastness to thee and the Court.

Ar. It is most strange. Relate the circumstances.

Sir M. ’Twas at the banquet, Sir King, where we all invited of thy Queen, the Madam Guinevere, who sitteth there, and after meat, she, with much courtesy of seeming, did press on us to partake of some fruit, the which on partaking of, my brother, this dead knight, did fall in agony so extreme and mortal that his soul went out, and now he lieth as thou seest him.

Other Knights.  Yea, ’tis true, ’tis as he saith, a most foul and damnable murder.

Ar. (turns to the Queen) Madam, what sayest thou to this accusation?

Guin. ’Tis a false, foul lie. I am innocent of this deed.

Dag. (aside) Yea, ’tis true!

Ar. Thou seest this dead knight here, and these witnesses. As I am King I must see justice, even against thee. Hast thou no other defence to offer?

Guin. Nay, my lord, as I am the Queen, ’tis a most damnable lie. ’Fore Heaven, I am innocent of this strange murder.

Dag. (aside) Now is my soul in flames!

Sir M. According to our ancient laws, when a guest dies in this most suspicious manner, where proof of grievous intent is present, the accused is condemned to be burnt at the stake.

Guin. Great Heaven!

Ar. ’Tis a foul punishment.

Sir M. But for a foul crime.

Other Knights.  Yea, ’tis but justice.

Ar. There is also a trial.

Mor. Yea, sire, the accused, being a woman, must have a knight to prove her innocence by his body on the body of the accuser ere the time of death be accomplished.

Ar. Then be it so. The law must follow on the weight of these many witnesses. (turning to the Queen) Guinevere, Queen of Britain, I believe thee guiltless of the crime whereof thou art accused, as thou hast said. As King, I am not free to prove thine innocence with my body, but, as the King, unless thou procurest a knight to assoil thee ere the time appointed, I here condemn thee to be taken hence to a place of public note and there be burnt to death, as the law requireth.

Guin. O great Heaven!

[Falls in a swoon.

Ar. Sir knight, art thou satisfied?

Sir M. Yea, on my body.

Ar. Then clear the Court.

[Exeunt Knights.

Madam, this is the heaviest hour of all my life.

Guin. (supported by her ladies) Yea, my lord, thou wilt save me?

Ar. That I will, in all justice. Ho, there, without!

Enter a Page.

Bring me Sir Hake on the instant!

[Exit Page.

Enter Sir Hake.

Ar. I command that this stern sentence on the body of the noble Queen be proclaimed widely, and that messengers be sent, on pain of death, to find Sir Gwaine and Sir Launcelot, that if they be not procured here within the present month, the messengers pay the penalty with their bodies.

Sir H. Yea, Sire, it shall be done.

[Exit.

Ar. And thou, my Queen, retire to your apartments; I will come shortly to you. Keep up thy heart; as thou art innocent so will Heaven help thee.

Guin. Yea, my lord, thou wilt save me, as I am innocent.

[Exeunt Guinevere and her ladies.

Ar. Ho, page, bring wine. (aside) I would forget my sorrow.

Bring wine, I say, and send me hither my fool!

[Exit Page.

Enter Dagonet.

Ar. Fool, I would forget my heaviness. Make me merry.

Dag. (aside) O God! (to the King) Yea, sire, what wouldst thou have?

Ar. Some music.

Dag. Yea, sire. (sings)

Ar. Would I had thy merry heart, fool.

Dag. Yea, sire.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 2.

Launcelot discovered seated almost naked amid swineherds.

Ha! ha! Cowards, who’ll fight? (rises) Ha! ha!

Enter a Knight.

Knight.  Who be this?

1st Swineherd.  Him be mad, though him hurt us not, for us be soft wi’ him. Him tend a’ swine.

2nd Swineherd.  Him mun fight, but us not answer. Him be o’er hulk a man twa hanle a staff.

Laun. Winds are cold and flowers are dead. All is past, past!

Knight.  Ho, there! who be thou?

Laun. ’Tis an old world, an old, old world, I tell thee truth. I loved a queen, but that be long past.

Knight.  His wits be dull.—Who art thou, fellow?

Laun. It hath been never summer this many a year. Canst tell me why?

Knight.  ’Tis summer now, thou fool!

Laun. Nay, nay, ’tis but winter. I loved a queen—

Knight.  Oh, damn thy queen! who art thou?

Laun. Yea, damn all queens, I am with thee, friend,—wilt thou fight?

Knight.  Not with thee.

Laun. Curse thee! thou shalt!

Knight.  I tell thee I won’t.

Laun. Then, damn thee, take that!

[Knocks him down.

Knight.  Oh! oh! I am murdered!

Laun. More! more!

Enter Gwaine.

Gwa. Ha! at last, it seemeth!

1st Swineherd.  Have care, master! Him be dread.

Gwa. How long hath he been like this?

2nd Swineherd.  ’Tis some time agone. At first him did tear the earth

An’ bite hisself, but him be better now.

Laun. I chased the moon, the silly moon,

Ahind a willard tree.

I knocked the stars like nine-pins down,

One, two, three.

I loved a queen. Ha, ha! ’tis winter.

Gwa. And this be he, the best o’ Arthur’s Court,

A ragged ninny, mouthing wanton froth,

The sport o’ pig-folk; this be love’s good work?

O Love! thou hast much to answer!

1st Swineherd.  Him want allus twa foight.

Gwa. Yea, he spoileth for a bout; ’tis often a right cure,

I will try it. God give it may bring him round!

(to Launcelot) Ho, there, fellow!

Laun. Ho thyself, windbag. Thou hast a fine voice, friend;

Canst thou call back memory?

Gwa. Yea, I can.

Laun. Canst thou find springtime? I loved, I loved—

Gwa. Oh, damn love—dost thou know me?

Laun. Know thee? know thee? I know thou art a man. Wilt thou fight, friend?

Gwa. With a merry good-will.

Laun. Then let’s to’t.

[Gwaine takes a quarterstaff; they fight hard and long. Gwaine belabors Launcelot on the head, back and shoulders.

Ha! it raineth thoughts now. Come on, Hell, come on!

Gwa. Yea, am I coming. (hits him harder) If I beat that fool’s love out o’ him I will do him a good deed. How’s that, and that?

Laun. And that, and that?

[Both fight till exhausted.

Gwa. Launcelot, dost know thyself now?

Laun. Methinks I partly do, under a cloud.

Gwa. And dost thou know me?

Laun. Methinks thou art the moon.

Gwa. Fiends take this love! If I be the moon thou shalt find me no honeymoon.

[Hits him again; they fight fiercer.

Laun. Come on, thou art welcome. Oh!

Gwa. Well, dost thou know me yet?

Laun. Methinks thou art one named Gwaine. Oh, my bones!

Gwa. Be this winter?

Laun. I be warm now?

Gwa. An’ dost thou love a queen?

Laun. What mean’st thou?

Gwa. I would rid thee of this damned love.

Laun. Then wouldst thou rid me of this life. Gwaine, thou art a noble soul, but thou canst not do that.

Gwa. Art thou thyself now?

Laun. Methinks I am—Yea, I have been mad.

Gwa. Yea, and I have cured thee. Come, this be no place. Let us go.

[Exeunt both.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 3.

Place—Another part of the forest.

Enter Launcelot and Gwaine.

Gwa. Launcelot, thou art a fool. Thou art the King’s man, and the best. Thou hast an arm and a sword on it. Thou must come. I will no longer here.

Laun. I may not; this hurt be too deep.

Gwa. Curse thy hurt, man! thou art sound as I.

Laun. ’Tis a deep hurt; Launcelot fights no more. Here will I die.

Gwa. Better go a monk. Thou art a fool, man. This love is a girl’s folly. Fighting is a man’s trade and his sword his true mistress. Gwaine will have no other. Come, thou art not dead yet.

Laun. Aye, Gwaine, thou wastest words. Launcelot is ended.

Gwa. Nay! nay! I gave my word I would bring thee. Will I have to go forsworn, else carry thee on my back. Have I cured thy madness but for this?

Laun. Nay, nay, make peace best thou canst. Thou art a good fellow, but I cannot. Launcelot will die here.

Gwa. I say, damn thee, thou shalt come!

Laun. Thou liest!

[Both spring to their feet and draw. Trumpets without.

Enter the King’s Messengers.

Gwa. Who comes?

Mess.  From the King.

Gwa. What want ye?

Mess.  We seek two knights, Sir Launcelot and Sir

      Gwaine.

Gwa. We be thy men—what be thy message?

Mess.  The King desireth thee in great haste; the Queen be in great peril.

Laun. Nay!

Mess.  Yea, of her life. She be condemned to the stake if a knight assoil her not with his body on her accuser to-morrow noon.

Laun. Dread Heaven!

Gwa. What be the accusation?

Mess.  Murder on the body of Sir Patrise.

Laun. Enough! Hast thou brought horses?

Mess.  Yea.

Laun. Then quick! on your lives! lead us hence!

[Exeunt Launcelot and Messengers.

Gwa. The foul fiend take this love! It be a queer sickness, indeed. Anon it made him like to luke water, and now he be all fire. It bloweth now up, now down, like the wind i’ a chimney. Yea, I love that man like a father his child. There is no sword like to his i’ the whole kingdom. An’ a wench that be a queen leadeth him like a goss-hawk. (voices without) Yea, I am coming.

[Exit.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 4.

Enter Court-ushers with trumpets, Soldiers and Knights. Enter the King, takes his state. Enter the Queen, in a black robe surrounded by her women; she comes to the foot of the throne, falls on her face.

Guin. Arthur, thou wilt save me?

Ar. My Queen, as the King I may not. My heart is hell.

Put thy trust in Heaven.

Guin. ’Tis a dread death.

Ar. Madam, could Arthur save thee he would. If thou diest, so doth my joy in this world. Keep thy heart!

Guin. ’Fore God, I am innocent.

Ar. Thou must trust to Heaven.

Guin. That I do.

[Rises and takes her state.

Court Chamberlain.  Guinevere, Queen of Britain, of this dread crime whereof thou art accused, what hast thou to say?

Guin. (rising) That I, Guinevere, Queen of Britain, am innocent of this most foul charge of which I am here accused, and here call on Heaven to prove on the body of that foul knight, my accuser.

Marshals enter and trumpets are blown.

Court Chamberlain.  Doth no knight assoil the Queen?

Guin. Heaven help me!

Ar. Do no knights approach?

Page.  Nay, sire.

Ar. Then has the hour of my life’s sorrow come!

Enter Sir Mador, doffs to the King.

Sir M. Sire, the time hath almost passed, and I demand a knight to do me battle, or that the Queen be burnt.

Guin. (aside) Merciful Heaven!

Ar. (to the Page) Do none come?

Page.  Nay, sire.

Dag. Were I not bound to Vivien body and soul I would state the truth. Nay, I am accursed. There is but one way.

[Staggers to the front of the throne; the throng presses back in wonder.

Dag. (kneels) Sire!

Ar. (in voice of thunder) Well, fool?

Dag. Didst thou not once make me a knight?

Ar. Yea, in a moment of jest.

Dag. Then would I take this gage!

Guin. Nay, nay! death, death! but not this insult! What base knight of this Court hath prompted this?

Dag. None, none, my lady; ’tis my wish.

Ar. Take him out! Now is Arthur shamed!

[Knights hurry Dagonet out.

Dag. (aside) Now is hell indeed my portion!

Guin. Sire, I would now die.

Ar. Yea, my Queen, so would Arthur.

Sir M. Sire, the time be up. And I, as the accuser, now ask that thou, as King, wilt command that Guinevere, Queen of Britain, who standeth there, be taken from hence and burnt till she be dead.

[A commotion without.

Launcelot rushes in, draws, and faces Sir Mador.

Laun. And I say, nay!

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 5.

Enter Mordred.

Mor. Now cursed be the womb that gave me birth!

Thrice cursed be the paps that gave me suck!

That I, but made for hellish plots and hates,

And inky thoughts and moods and black despairs,

The most unhappy man in this dread world,

Should house in me a dream of womanhood

Such as doth dwell in all the milk-white glory

And glamored stateliness of Arthur’s Queen.

Yea, would I now forego all I hold dear

In this life and the next, if such there be;

My chance of Heaven thrust to darkest Hell,

One hour like Launcelot to know her love.

Hell! Hell! I laugh at Hell! such flames I burn

Would scorch the northern ice-seas in their beds,

So deep a flame I hold me in my thoughts

Of madness for her love.—Yea, I am turned

A very subtle Satan that will plot

High Arthur’s downfall, Launcelot’s banishment,

And all the ruin of this present kingdom.

Yea, I will be a king and perch a crown

In its unsteady poisings on this brow,

So that by very glamor of my power

And inner majesty of mine iron soul,

I build in her a fancy for my person.

For I am Mordred; in this hour I’m great

In subtle cunning far beyond these days

Of mere brute strength and stature physical.—

Yea, I was born upon an evil time

Of evil parentage of sin and shame,

Thrice cursèd in the inner soul and form.

What sportive fate gave me the gifts I bear?

But I am willed to use them to my use.

Yea, I will use all deviltries and lies,

All plots and counterplots, to gain mine end.

This misbegotten now doth hold the key

To this doomed kingdom.

Enter Vivien.

We are well met. Thou art upon the hour.

The plot grows closer to our waited end.

The net is weaving closer, mesh by mesh,

That traps the leopard and the lioness.

I have by long connivance, secret planned,

Built round me many knights who hold my weal,

Jealous of Launcelot and Arthur’s glory.

These will be with me when the stroke comes down.

A thousand swords will leap their scabbard mouths

At shout of Mordred! Yea, a thousand throats

Will cry me king when my fate topples Arthur.

Viv. Now art thyself, this be thy natural mood.

Yea, Mordred, when thou kingest it, there will be

A splendid thraldom to true kingliness.

For thou wilt sink a terror in men’s hearts

Of king’s prerogatives will make them fear

The very sound and rumor of thy name;

And there will go before thee waves of will

Presaging thunders of thy royal coming.

But wilt thou then, my lord, remember Vivien,

When thou dost come unto thy royalty,

Her who did place thy footsteps in the way

That led thee to these gateways of success,

And bade thee trample on thy youthful fears

And doubts and milksop fancies of the mind,

And gave into thy hand an iron mace,

And bade thee use it? Wilt thou think on her,

The only one who loved thee for thyself,

The single soul that knew thee in the dark,

And loved thee for thy nobler qualities?

Mor. What wouldst thou have me promise?

Viv. I would be a queen!

Mor. Ha! thou climbest high!

Be careful or thy stairway

In toppling over carry thee to ruin.

(aside) This be her trend! I must match cunning with

      cunning,

And tie this serpent in her venomed coils.

Were she a man I would admire her much,

But not as woman! She be Mordred’s queen,

When queen of women there be one Guinevere!

(to Vivien) When I am king thou wouldst then be the

      queen?

’Tis a daring thought!

Viv. Not more than that thou bearest,

That Mordred, squat and monster, lorn, despised,

Misgotten, friendless save to such as me,

Should rise in dreams to heights of Arthur’s glory,

And even sigh to husband Guinevere.

Mor. What now? Thou devil!

Viv. Ha! Now I stabbed thy longings to the quick,

And probed thine ink-heart.—Thou dost love the Queen,

Thou, who dost dwell so far below her scorn!

Mor. Witch-hag or devil! Wert thou but a man,

And I would quickly send thee to that place

Where thou belongest.

Viv. Nay, I fear thee not.

I am too much a part of all thy plans

For thee to quarrel with. Stab me and thou stabbest

The life of all thy longings. Let my blood,

And with it flows the making of thy dreams.

Mor. (aside) ’Tis as she says. She’s woven in my

      web,

And I must keep her, evil though she be.

Yea, Mordred! Mordred! (to Vivien)

Vivien, thou art hasty

In dreaming Mordred would do thee an evil.

’Twas but the sudden mantling of the blood.

Yea, I indeed do owe thee overmuch,

And Mordred will pay thee with what gratitude

Of words and acts as such as he possesses.

Yea, when my mind dwells on the what I was,

And that which I now am, an admiration

Sudden and great comes o’er me at the change

And the swift transformation thou hast made.

Thou took’st a youth from out his sickly longings,

Vague, undefined with musings on this world,

And sick with evil of a shadowed fate,

Dried up his kindness, showed him he was iron,

And gave the keys of cruelty to his hand

Wherewith to pick the lock of this poor kingdom.

Yea, I am wrapped in admiration vast.

Then I would shudder did an evil thought,

Wandering vaguely through my caverned mind,

But stop and grin me. Now it seems mine act

Would neck and neck with Hell’s most foul desire.

Yea, thou hast right in pride of workmanship

In building from material thou hadst

So deft a moulded villain to thy hand.

Yea, Vivien, fear not Mordred will forget,

When every waking moment on his bed,

And every devil knocking on his sill,

Mindeth him of cause for gratitude.

Viv. Wilt thou promise?

Mor. Nay, I will never promise!

What part have I with pledges in this world,

Save pledge that I will topple all to ruin?

This give I Fate, as sure as I am Mordred.

I tell thee, woman, I am thy slave no more,

Nor slave to any, be it man or devil.

Viv. What art thou then?

Mor. I am thy master. Thou wilt be my slave,

Thou cunning plotter, schemer to my hand,

To be my dagger, poison, flaming brand,

My very slave, convenience, creature, tool;

And if thou art not, I’ll trample, trample thee.

I tell thee I will thrust this kingship out;

Will spin these actors round my crooked thumb,

Until this devil Mordred walketh king.

Little didst dream what demon thou wert raising

When thou didst conjure Mordred.

Viv. Darest thou me?

Mor. Yea, look into my glass and ask thyself

What Mordred hath in life to hope or fear?

But I do tell thee, woman, Mordred in hell

Will be no tortured creature spinning round,

But himself the very devil.

To show my power of evilment, I tell thee,

I know thy fatal liking for myself.

’Tis the one part of thee that now can suffer,

The only part of thee that holdeth good.

Viv. Nay, I will not hearken!

Mor. (seizes her wrist) I’ll bind thee on the rack as

      thou hast me,

Or, rather, finding me there, stretched my sorrows,

And show thee all the fiend that thou hast roused.

Then hear me: I do scorn that love of thine:

Do trample on, despise, as I do thee!

Viv. (falls on her face) Nay, Mordred, thou breakest

      my heart.

Nay, curse me not.

Mor. Yea, ask the rack for mercy when it racks,

Or seek for honey in the aspick’s sting!

Yea, more, I tell thee plainly to thy face,

Guinevere makes hell within my breast,

And thou, my slave, wilt help me to her arms.

Viv. One little smile, one little word of peace!

Mor. Nay, silence, or a curse! Wilt thou do this?

Viv. Thou knowest I will, let me but touch thy hand!

Trampled on, despised, I love thee still.

Mor. Now to the point: Launcelot goes this night

To secret assignation with the Queen—

This saving of her life hath patched their quarrel—

And thou must find for me the hour of meeting,

Must intercept the trusted messenger,

And bring me secret knowledge of the time.

I go now with some knights unto the King,

To force his leave for this our undertaking,

And put their secret love to open shame.

Thou must watch near the apartments of the Queen,

And take by fraud or force knowledge of the hour,

And bring it to my ears with thy best speed.

[Exit Mordred.

Viv. Yea, I will.

He hath read true, I am his slave at last.

Aye, what a splendid devil he doth make!

There is no man like him in all this world.

I’ll see him crowned, climb he there o’er my body.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 6.

Place—An audience room in the castle.

Enter Mordred, Sir Agravaine and other Knights.

Mor. ’Tis a delicate business we be come upon,

Though one of grave importance, therefore I

Will stand i’ the background. Thou, Sir Agravaine,

Being a kinsman not o’ the sinister side,

May speak the plainer. Let it fall on me.

Yea, I will answer with my body here.

Sir Ag. Yea, I will put it plainly to the King,

And show the evil placed upon our house,

And that foul insult tendered King and kingdom

By overbearing Launcelot and the Queen.

Other Knights.  Yea, we are with you.

Enter a Page.

Sir Ag. We would see the King.

[Exit Page.

Enter Arthur.

Ar. What means this sudden assembling of knights

At this strange hour?

Sir Ag. We’d bring a matter to thy hearing, King,

Of grave import unto thyself and us

Of thine own household, who’d uphold thy pride.

Yea, one affecting the dignity of this land.

Ar. What be this matter?

Sir Ag. The matter is one which toucheth thine own

      honor,

And hath to do with Launcelot and the Queen.

Ar. Dost thou insult thy King?

[Draws.

Sir Ag. Nay, ’tis thou dost insult thyself and us,

Dost thou not listen!

Other Knights.  Yea, King, ’tis true.

Ar. ’Tis treason, damnable treason ’gainst my Queen,

’Gainst myself and ’gainst this noble kingdom!

Sir Ag. Wilt thou hear me, King?

Other Knights.  Yea, hear him.

Ar. Then I will hear thee further, but ’tis plain

You prove this on your bodies to the death.

If this strange lie be not as true as Heaven,

Each man who thinks this damnèd treason dies!

Knights.  ’Tis just, King; we will prove it on our bodies.

Sir Ag. We think, Lord Arthur, thou art over-blind

To certain things that compromise thine honor,

And some of us have reason to suspect

Sir Launcelot holdeth commerce with the Queen.

Ar. Stop, caitiff!

Sir Ag. Wilt thou not hear it?

Ar. Have ye forgotten that my name is Arthur?

Or is this nobleness a vanished dream?

Sir Ag. We would prove this same upon our bodies,

By taking of them in the very act.

Ar. No more! by heaven, no more! I say, no more!

Or by my crown, I’ll cleave thy caitiff tongue,

And spatter thine evil brains on yonder pavement,

That dared impeach my royalty of such dishonor.

Sir Ag. Nay, King, we will die for the truth of this

      matter.

Knights.  Yea, Lord Arthur, we are so prepared.

Ar. Nay, ye are mad, blind, besotted mad.

Sir Ag. Nay, King, here is Sir Mordred, who will show

The truth whereof we speak.

[Mordred comes forward.

Ar. Ha! ’Tis thou at bottom o’ this ill!

Mor. Sire, I would but do my duty to this kingdom,

And to the honor of your kingly place.

Sir Agravaine is over-blunt in speech,

And speaketh sudden on a cruel matter;

Yet he hath but the right in this grave question,

Nor doth dishonor thee in this respect

More than do any of these loyal knights,

But rather would show wherein thine honor lieth.

If dishonor lies therein, it doth not lie

On them who’d prove the evilment suspected,

But rather on those who by their treasonable act

Have brought this shame upon us. It would seem

That thou dost love Sir Launcelot even more

Than the unsullied honor of thy Queen.

Ar. Nay! Speak no more! Thou hast insulted Arthur.

If but one thousandth part of this be true,

Then is great Arthur’s glory brought to ground.

Mor. Sire!

Ar. No more of words! What wouldst thou have me

      do?

Mor. Sire, we would that thou give opportunity

To prove the cruel substance of our coming

By taking the doers in the very act,

And trapping Launcelot in the Queen’s apartment.

Ar. Go on! Death! Speak on! Accursed me!

Mor. If thou wilt go abroad this coming night,

And advertise thy going, and grant to us

Sufficient knights to make the matter proof,

We will fulfil this matter with our lives.

Knights.  We will.

Ar. And it hath come to this!

Mor. Sire, wilt thou grant this?

Ar. Yea, I will grant it, but, by Arthur’s honor,

The knight returning from such vile ambushment

Without full proof unto the open world

Of that which spills the sea of Arthur’s glory,

Shall die the foulest death this kingdom lends!

On this condition only do you go.

Mor. Yea, we accept the conditions.

Knights.  Yea, we do.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 7.

Place—A passage near the Queen’s apartments.

Enter Vivien.

Viv. Now, slave, but do the bidding of thy master,

And soon the boding hour will draw anigh

When Guinevere will queen a royal hunchback.

Now serve me well, my wits, until I play

The issue of this matter to my mind.

[Retires into an alcove.

Enter Unid, the Queen’s Maid, with a ring.

Unid. Now, drat that page! What can the matter be?

This ring must go, but who will be the bearer

It bothereth me to discover.

[Passes out on left.

Enter Dagonet on right.

Dag. O me! me! me! that ever I did that deed!

(to spirit) Nay! nay! spirit, come not here!

Hide, hide that woeful face. Sleep, sleep

Quiet i’ the grave! Dagonet meant it not.

Ha, ha! I’ll laugh and be merry. ’Tis but my wits.

I’ll think on Vivien.—Nay, nay, not that face!

I slew thee not! Away! away! away!

’Tis but a fancy, but it lifts the hair

In frosty bristles, makes the eyeballs stare,

And turns me to a horror. Away! away!

Re-enter Maid.

Unid. What play is now, sir fool, that thy wit playeth?

Dag. Oh! ’tis thou!

Unid. ’Tis said that thou art looking at the Queen,

And wouldst oust Sir Launcelot. Thou art a bold fool.

Dag. Nay, nay, ’tis thou, sweet Unid, rendeth my heart.

Unid. Now art thou a kind fool.

Dag. Is the Queen within?

Unid. She sleepeth.

Dag. I will sing thee a song. (sings)

Unid. Well acted, fool, and well sung!

Dag. Yea, it is a part of me.

Unid. (aside) He will do. (to Dagonet) Fool, wilt thou deliver a message for me?

Dag. Yea, by my love.

Unid. It be a pressing business, and a private one.

[Speaks in a low voice.

Thou seest this ring. It is the Queen’s. Thou needs must find Sir Launcelot, and deliver it to him privately and say: “This night afore midnight.”

Dag. What doth it mean?

Unid. It meaneth, do thy part, and shut thy ears and mouth, and put a padlock on thine inward thoughts. Wilt thou do it?

Dag. Yea, that I will, ’tis for the Queen. (to spirit) Away! away! Haunt me not!

Unid. What aileth thee?

Dag. Did I speak?

Unid. Thou spokest as to someone.

Dag. ’Tis but an infirmity.

Unid. ’Tis a queer one. Thou wilt be speedy and private?

Dag. That I will. Not one kiss?

Unid. Away! away! Haunt me not!

[Exit. Vivien comes from the alcove.

Viv. Ha! thou false lover!

[Dagonet drops the ring.

Dag. ’Tis thou!

Viv. Caught in the act, soft words and lovers’ songs,

And rings exchanged, and even kisses proffered.

Thou double-dealer! Thou wouldst seek my love?

Dag. I tell thee thou art wrong. ’Tis the appearances are at fault.

Viv. Thou liest! Didst thou not offer to buss her?

Dag. ’Twas but a sally to cover mine inward thoughts.

Viv. Thou liest again. What were those low words she spake, when she took thy hand?

Dag. ’Twas but a message she gave me on a private matter.

Viv. Oh! oh! very private, Dagonet, very private!

Dag. I cannot tell thee of its import.

Viv. Nay, thou canst not, for thou liest.

Dag. I tell thee, Vivien, thou wilt madden me.

I tell thee I love thee only, and thou knowest it.

Viv. What was the substance of that message?

Dag. If thou must have it—and thou draggest my heart out—it was from the Queen: the words, “to-night afore midnight.”

Viv. A true story! To thee?

Dag. Nay, to Sir Launcelot.

Viv. Thou liest! Canst thou explain that ring she gave thee?

[Picks it up.

Dag. ’Tis the Queen’s.

Viv. Ho! ho! And thou the trusted messenger! ’Tis a likely story. Wouldst have me believe it?

Dag. Vivien, I tell thee that I love thee, and am in hell for thee, aye in hell!

Viv. Thou forgettest thine important message, thou most trusted lover and messenger!

Dag. Vivien, wilt thou not believe me?

Viv. Go, go, I tell thee; I will see thee again.

[Exit Dagonet.

Now cometh the hour when my revenge approacheth,

Now winds my web about doomed Camelot,

An angered fate hangs o’er these castle walls.

There will be bloody deeds abroad to-night.

Rise, spirits of old vengeance and affright!

Vivien conquereth! Wait! wait!

Curtain.

ACT IV. Scene 1.

(Rise outer curtain.) Passage near the Queen’s apartments.

Enter Dagonet.

Dag. ’Tis little I can do, but I will mend

The devilment that I have helped to cause.

Hark, now they come! Here I will take my stand.

’Tis over my dead body, when they come,

That they’ll come at her. Ho! stand without!

(sounds heard without)

Enter Mordred, Sir Agravaine and other Knights with torches and naked swords.

(draws) Where go you, masters?

Mor. We go this road; ’ware how you stop our way.

Dag. The man who goes this road goes o’er my body.

Sir Ag. Louse! take that!

[Stabs Dagonet; he falls.

Mor. ’Tis the King’s jester.

Dag. You have leeched my folly. Now is the jest ended. Vivien!

[Dies.

A Knight.  He was a man, after all.

Mor. Onward, knights, to better game than this,

Though little we know the tragedy that ended

When yon poor light went out! Come this way!

[Exeunt all.

(Rise inner curtain.) The Queen’s apartment.

Enter Launcelot and Guinevere.

Laun. I come this night to bid you a long farewell,

Before I leave this kingdom’s shores for ever.

This love doth hold me in a demon’s grasp,

And my heart breaks to feel great Arthur’s love,

And all the time we twain be meeting thus.

Guin. Nay, nay, Launcelot, leave me not forlorn,

I cannot live without thee. Thy strong arms

And thy warm kisses are to me the one

Fair garden springing on this drearsome earth.

Laun. Lady, I must go. My lands in France,

Tribute to my sword, I’ll make a kingdom,

And pass my days in memories of thee.

Guin. Nay, nay, thou wilt not go! and if thou must

My heart will bleed for thee until my death.

Unid. (hurrying in) Madam, there is treason roused

      without.

Many armèd knights do come this way.

Laun. Now is the end come I have long expected,

The grim fatality of all my fears,

The nightmare real at last. Quick, my sweet!

Kiss me your latest now! This is my death!

Guin. Launcelot, hasten! save, oh, save thyself!

I will bar them with my body here.

They will but trample a dead, dishonored Queen,

Whom brute fatality made its passing sport.

Quick! that way!

Laun. Nay, nay, sweet love, but I will die with thee,

And show great love can make a greater death.

(draws) Would to God I had mine armor!

[Loud knocking heard at the door, and the voice of Mordred heard without.

Mor. Come out, thou traitor, Launcelot, and show the

      world

The face of him who hath dishonored Arthur!

Come out, thou traitor!

Guin. Launcelot, save thyself, there is time yet.

Laun. Nay, love, I’ll end me here, if be my fate.

Ho! Cowards without! I am a single man,

Devoid of armor, having but my sword;

Yet will I open and give you hell’s glad welcome.

[Unbars the door; Sir Agravaine rushes in.

Die, hound!

[Brains him. Launcelot drags him aside and bars the door.

Quick! Help me to this armor!

[Takes the arms from Sir Agravaine’s body and arms himself.

Guin. (helping him) Aye, love, if prayers are aught,

      will mine clothe thee.

Voices outside.  Open up, traitor, open up!

Guin. Great God, Great God, help this poor Queen

      who prays!

[Launcelot buckles his armor.

Laun. Now am I ready. Fare thee well, sweet love!

Whatever haps—and we may meet no more

This side of darkness—carry to thy grave,

That Launcelot loved thee, thee, and only thee.

Guin. O Launcelot, my heart breaks!

[They embrace. The Queen faints.

Laun. (to the Maids) Take her back from this,

      protect her, keep her safe.

This work is not for her sweet presence. Now Heaven help

The man that meeteth Launcelot’s blade this night!

Voices without.  Coward! Traitor! wilt thou open up?

Laun. Yea, traitors who forswore the name of knight,

When like some drunken rabble ye polluted

The gentle sacredness of these apartments!

And every man who shamed her ears to-night

(throws open the doors) Shall die! die! die! Come on,

      ye fiends!

[They rush in and then fall back in surprise.

Ha! ha! here’s wine that Launcelot’s blade would drink!

[Rushes forward, hacking fiercely with his sword; twelve knights fall one after the other.

Mor. God of heaven, let us back! This man be mad!

[Retreats with four knights; Launcelot slays the rest.

Laun. Come on, ye fiends of hell! I’ll back me here!

Launcelot is indeed a man of honor!

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 2.

Place—Sir Launcelot’s apartment.

Time—Midnight.

Enter several Knights with torches and swords.

Sir Ban. Hello there! wake up!

Knights.  Hello! Within! Within!

[Loud knocking heard at the doors.

Enter several other Knights. Enter Sir Launcelot.

Laun. What means this, that ye be armed?

Sir Ban. Strange horrors woke us frozen from our beds. Hideous nightmares beset us. Some heard moanings, some that grave-bells rang, and others saw strange spectres, and I myself heard clash of mighty arms, and quick each man found himself leaped from his bed, naked blade in hand. What may it portend? We be much affrighted.

Laun. ’Tis a true portent. Now the end hath come

Of peace and happiness for this doomèd kingdom.

To-night, on private meeting with the Queen,

In her apartments, there was I surrounded,

And, hounded traitor, slew so many knights,

There’s scarce one left to tell the King the story.

Knights.  A most foul and dastard attack! The kingdom is doomed!

Enter a Messenger.

Laun. The Queen! quick! the Queen! what of her?

Mess.  An order hath but come in the King’s name: And she is to be burnt to-morrow noon.

Laun. Never! by my blade, she shall not die!

Knights.  She shall not! she shall not! on our lives!

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 3.

Place—The King’s lodge in the forest.

Arthur walks back and forth.

Ar. Would I had not done this! Heaven this hour

Be kind to this poor King, suspend thy wrath.

For my past frailties judge me not too heavy.

Oh, were it dawning! Nay, if it be shame,

Night roll forever round your shrouding glooms,

Hide Arthur’s woe in your convenient black.

Rise not, O pitiless day, with searching white,

Showing abroad catastrophe and doom.

Hark! ’tis the messenger. Now, my royal soul,

Is it black or white, is it death or life to thee?

Enter Messenger.

Mess.  Sire!

Ar. Speak! Is it calamity?

Mess.  Yea, sire, it is calamity; Sir Launcelot ta’en—

Ar. In the Queen’s chamber?

Mess.  Yea, sire.

Ar. Then, sable Night, shut out the morning now!

O Blackness, bury Arthur in thy shroud!

O Calamities, pelt, pelt your fire!

Sink now, proud Arthur, sink to rise no more!

Enter Mordred and two Knights.

Mor. We bring you evil news in sorry haste.

Launcelot ta’en by us in the Queen’s apartments,

When we, hailing him traitor, would bring him out,

Then he, mad with a devil, did issue forth

And slay the most of us, so that we are scarce fled with

      our lives,

As these two knights do witness.

Knights.  ’Tis true, King.

Ar. Murder and Treason walk abroad this night.

Adultery and Incest leave their graves.

Arthur, Arthur, thou art a King no more!

Mor. We would arrest the Queen, did we know thy

      will.

Ar. O Night! Night! Night!

Mor. ’Tis not an hour for grief and memories, sire,

But action, instant action is the word,

If thou wouldst keep thy kingdom. Sir Launcelot knoweth

That thou wert privy to this heavy matter,

And, swearing direst vengeance on us all,

Buildeth a party for to help the Queen

And oust thee from thy royalty.

Ar. Dost thou not know I loved this Launcelot?

And had I chosen a brother or a son,

It had been Launcelot! O thou cruel world!

Thou hast no cloud of evils brooding dire,

So much hath rained. Mordred, take my crown.

To illegitimacy pass my glory now.

Mor. Nay, sire, but be a King until thou takest

A King’s dread vengeance on thine enemies.

Ar. Enemies, thou sayest! Who so low

To stoop to hate this cuckold, shamèd King?

I am a King no more, my Table Round

Is but a stall-yard where the swine of men

Will rend and snarl and tear my glory down.

Enter Gwaine.

Gwa. This is a bad and foolish matter, King,

And thou wert fool to fetch it to an issue.

But now thou makest bad worse. Didst thou send out

For Launcelot’s arrest and the Queen’s murder?

Mor. The order hath gone out in the King’s name.

’Tis gone too far for compromises now.

Gwa. ’Tis thou hast done all this, thou plotter!

Mor. Thou liest! ’Tis but the natural end of circumstance that worked its issue. I tell thee, the King ordered this.

Gwa. King, didst thou give these orders?

Ar. Gwaine, thy words were ever over-blunt,

But now they’re fitting. None need show me reverence.

Gwa. I know not reverence, but I would of facts.

Didst thou proclaim that Guinevere should die,

Being found of treason foul against thy person,

And doom her to the stake to-morrow noon?

Ar. The Queen! the Queen! thou sayest? I’ll have

      no queens!

If there be a Queen to-morrow in this land,

She shall die the death! ’Tis the King’s word!

Mor. Now thou hast thine answer.

Gwa. Then fear Sir Launcelot’s hate and split this

      kingdom,

Topple yonder King and bring him down,

As thou wouldst love to. Gwaine will none o’ this.

The Pope shall hear it! What’s a woman worth

That, truth or untruth, she should wreck a kingdom?

Enter a Messenger in haste.

Mor. Speak!

Mess.  Sir Launcelot and many knights have rescued the Queen and have taken her to Joyeous Guarde, and in the quick struggle Sir Gareth and Sir Lynnette were slain.

Ar. More woes! More woes! Where will this end?

Mor. (to Sir Gwaine) Now art thou satisfied?

Gwa. (to Messenger) What! Thou liest! tell me my brothers be slain?

Mess.  ’Tis true, master, mine own eyes saw them dead.

Gwa. Hell! who did the deed?

Mess.  Sir Launcelot himself. He rode quick i’ the Court, and lighted and hacked without looking at whom he met, to reach the Queen, whom bearing to horse, he stayed not to see who were dead or wounded, but straight rode away.

Gwa. This world or the next, he will answer me!

Mine own two brothers, and all for a damned wench!

Queen or no, King, thou shalt answer here.

Yea, all shall answer for this fatal business.

Mor. Yea, I will help thee. ’Twas most unnatural,

Who never harmed him, he should serve them so.

Gwa. Launcelot, Launcelot, now I cast thee out!

One world won’t hold us!

Mor. This works my way. O world, thou art moulding swift

To my poor vengeance!

(to Arthur) Sire, what wilt thou do?

Ar. To arms, to arms! we’ll siege him in his hold.

’Tis death that cures dishonor. He will reap

The swift, dread harvest of Heaven’s retribution.

Gwa. Would Launcelot were but two men, I’d slay him twice

’Twould suit my feelings.

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 4.

(Rise outer curtain.) Court at Camelot.

Enter two Gentlemen.

1st Gent.  Were I the weaker kind, I’d trickle tears

For this poor kingdom. Hast thou seen the Pope’s bull?

2nd Gent.  Yea, forbidding the carrying on of this strange war,

And commanding Arthur to take back his Queen,

And give Sir Launcelot passage from the Kingdom.

He be a wondrous knight, this Launcelot.

’Tis pity this love o’ercame him.

[Both pass out.

Enter Vivien and Mordred.

Viv. My heart grows hot to bring things to an issue.

Mor. Patience! and thou wilt see the issue come.

Launcelot banished, Arthur follows after,

With blustering Gwaine, both ravening for war.

Arthur will leave me regent, then’s mine hour.

[Both pass on.

(Rise inner curtain.) Enter Arthur, takes his state. Knights and Ladies. Trumpets blow without. Enter Launcelot with the Queen, draped in black, with her Ladies. Launcelot leads the Queen, who stands. Launcelot kneels. Arthur averts his face. Launcelot speaks.

Laun. Sire, by order of the Pope of Rome,

And your most royal promise, here I bring

Unto your keeping Guinevere the Queen,

And dares one knight within these royal precincts

Impugn her chastity or queenliness,

I meet him with my body.

Ar. Madam, I acknowledge you as Queen.

It is the will of Heaven. I submit.

But loving wife thou art no more to me.

Not Pope nor Prince can white thy black in this.

[Guinevere takes her state.

Guin. Arthur of Britain, I answer thee, the King,

I am no more thy wife, nor ever was,

Nor am I shamed as Queen to own the love

I’ve borne for Launcelot. In the coming world

He will be mine, as I am truly his.

I wronged thee not, great Arthur, but ’twas thou

And hellish circumstance have wrecked my days.

’Tis the Queen’s answer, she will speak no more.

Ar. Sir Launcelot Du Lake, arise!

[Launcelot stands.

Launcelot Du Lake, thou traitor knight,

Sinner against the honor of this realm,

I banish thee forever from this kingdom,

On pain of foulest death, dost thou return.

Laun. Sire, I accept the issue.

Mor. ’Tis but a gentle majesty that leans

To mercy such as this. Were I thy King—

Gwa. Yea, get thee quick. Fast as thou nearest

      France,

We sail the faster. Thou shalt meet with Gwaine,

And pay his brothers’ spirits thou hast slain,

Thou foul, lewd traitor!

Laun. Lord Arthur, thou hast reason to scorn me now,

And all thine anger stabs mine inward soul;

But now ’tis open I must tell thee true,

I love Queen Guinevere as mine own body,

And her alone will love unto my death,

As to none other. For this woeful love,

I’ll answer to my God who put it there,

And not to man, nor even to thee, proud King.

And yet I say it, yea, with breaking heart,

I love thee King, as doth no other man;

And did no hideous fate come in between

I had been thy Launcelot still.

Ar. (aside) Great God! Now my heart breaketh.

(to Launcelot) Begone, false knight. ’Tis enough.

Laun. Yea, yet a little, sire, it is the end.

If Gwaine would hearken, I would answer him

For his two brothers.

Gwa. Nay, nay, I’ll not hearken.

Laun. ’Tis ended, then, but I would say to thee,

That nothing, next to this most heavy matter,

The most dread, sorrowful matter in this poor world,

Hath grieved me so as that I did that deed.

All blinded with my sorrow for the Queen,

I knew not ’twas your brothers that I slew.

Gwa. Nay, nay, blood, blood alone will answer.

Laun. (to the Queen) And thou, sad Guinevere, thou

      queen of women,

Sweetest of soul and form upon this earth,

I’ll look upon thy beauteous face no more.

Let womanhood blossom in the days to come,

There nevermore will be one like to thee.

[Bends and kisses her hand. Guinevere goes toward him.

Guin. Launcelot, take me with thee; I am thine!

Ar. And thou, the Queen?

Guin. I am no Queen of realm save this man’s heart.

And where he treads, that land to me alone

Beloved of the kingdoms of this earth.

Oh, take me, Launcelot, my lord, my king!

Ar. Ladies, the Queen to her apartments!

Laun. I would not shame thy kindness, Guinevere.

We were each other’s ere this world began,

And we together, unshamed yet shall go

To meet our God. Sweet love, farewell, farewell.

[Hurries out. The Queen borne slowly to her apartments, weeping.

Ar. O black, brute Evil, why was Arthur born?

Now is all loveliness gone out from life.

Yea, I will sink. Nay, I am Arthur still.

The Kingly still, defying Hell and Fate.

To arms! to arms! Red battle is my mood!

Mor. Yea, battle!

Gwa. Yea, blood for blood! my brothers’ spirits call.

Ar. My heart awakens! Mordred, as my regent,

I leave thee filial keeper of my crown,

My queen and kingdom, while I wed with war,

And bring as issue yon foul Launcelot’s doom.

Make my forces ready. France! is the word.

All.  (drawing swords and shouting) Yea, battle!

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 5.

Place—A corridor in the palace.

Enter two Gentlemen.

1st Gent.  Hast heard the news? Mordred’s usurped the kingdom, hath seized the Queen, and, backed by half the realm, doth challenge Arthur to a warm home-coming. ’Tis said he hath plotted this long time, and now hath proved his chances. How stand you in this most bitter struggle?

2nd Gent.  I’m for Arthur, and now for Dover and France this coming night.

1st Gent.  Then I am with you. May we bring these

      shores

New peace from this usurper when we come!

[Exeunt both.

Enter Vivien with a dagger.

Viv. Nay, he shall never make her Queen. Nay, never!

She shall die first! No Queen but Vivien

Shall royal it while Mordred lifts the crown.

His slave, his creature, yea, in all save this.

I’ll make her beauty wan, I’ll curtain her lights.

Yea, she shall queen in Tartarus this night.

[Sounds heard without. Vivien gets behind the tapestry.

Enter Mordred as King.

Mor. Now have I reached the pinnacle of my revenge

In these uncertain heights of Arthur’s glory.

And even now I sicken of the struggle;

Even now I top a tower of fear.

A thousand swords, would leap at my command,

And swim this land in blood at my one word,

Would at a stronger power but turn and rend me.

The thousand throats that this morn shouted “Mordred!”

To-morrow morn may shout as loud for Arthur.

’Tis but a petty thing to be a King,

And strut an hour to crown a people’s will

And make them think they wield a majesty,

And hold a phantom rule; then pass and be

A little dust in a forgotten heap.

Nay, ’tis not worth the blacking of a soul,

The letting of a single human life,

The fouling o’er of youthful memory.

And I am now this self-contemnèd thing,

A man of truest sorrows who descended

From out the pedestal of nobler dreams,

And used the subtle intrigues of this world

To climb this pyramid of human weakness.

And now I hate it as I hate myself

Who stooped to gain it. Yet must Mordred king

This realm with a tyranny that fear

Wields o’er a monarchy that knows not love,

And burn his heart out for a woman’s scorn.

Yea, she shall be my Queen if love can win her.

Enter Guinevere as a State Prisoner.

Mor. Madam, I would detain you.

Guin. Usurper! why this bringing of me here?

I deemed the shelter of a sisterhood

Were not denied me.

Mor. Madam, I would to you unfold this matter.

I am not all you think me in your scorn.

Though I be born misshapen, yet my soul

Hath appetite for beauty like a man’s

That shows the inward in the outward mien.

Madam, I would lay the matter plainly:

I have long been a victim to thy beauties,

And would new-make thee Queen of this old kingdom.

Guin. Never! Were Launcelot or Arthur standing by,

Insulter of thy Queen, thou quick wouldst die.

Make way! Make way!

Mor. Madam, have compassion on my weakness!

A soul is lodged within this crooked body.

No man hath ever loved as Mordred loves.

Guin. Make way! this be hideous!

Mor. Let your sorrow plead for Mordred’s sorrow.

As thou hast loved Launcelot unhappy,

So he loves thee.

Guin. Show it by closing quick this audience.

I am all Launcelot’s, this world and the next,

As Heaven knoweth.

Mor. Then thou wilt not have compassion?

Guin. I pity thee, but this may never be.

Mor. Never?

Guin. As I am a Queen, never!

Mor. Lady, thy pity doth but little help me.

Yet will I show thee Mordred hath a heart.

Know thou hast killed the spark of Mordred’s hope,

And silenced the music of this world for him;

Yet, lady, as rightful King of this great land,

He grants thee safest passage where thou wilt.

Guin. I would go to a nunnery.

Mor. As thou wilt. Not one word? Not one token?

Guin. Prince, thou hast my respect and gratitude

For this thine act.

[Exeunt Guinevere and her train.

Vivien comes forward.

Viv. Ha, ha, ha! King Mordred!

Mor. (springs forward and draws) Fiend! thou diest! (He clutches her, they stand confronting each other) Nay, nay, and thou didst hear all? Nay, I will not kill thee. Thy punishment hath been more than I could mete thee. I see sharp agony in thine evil face. Yea, woman, thou hast suffered.

Viv. O God! My love! My love!

[Would stab herself.

Mor. Nay, die not! (throws the dagger away) Thou deservest thy reward. Mordred will crown this farce and make thee Queen.

Viv. Me! thy wife?

Mor. Nay, nay, nor mistress even; only Queen.

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 6.

Place—France. A tent on the field near Launcelot’s castle.

Arthur paces to and fro.

Ar. I would I were on British soil again!

This leaguer goes but feebly. I am sick

Of losing battles to this Launcelot,

Whose strength and prowess in far kinder days

Were my heart’s pride. Arthur, thy star grows dark.

Thou canst not keep the love of woman. Nay,

Men’s friendships turn to traitor on the lips.

O Merlin, couldst thou now but see thine Arthur!

Enter Messenger.

Ar. Well?

Mess.  Sir Launcelot met Sir Gwaine beneath the wall,

And of all the bloody fights betwixt them two,

Which have enhorrored this ensanguined war,

This was the bloodiest.

Ar. Speak on!

Mess.  Sir Gwaine be mortal wounded, so it seemeth.

Ar. Nay!

Mess.  He even fought on after he was down,

Till his blade fell from out his palsied hand.

Ar. This time maketh thrice that he hath been defeated,

And surely this will cool his fiery blood.

He is the strongest hater I have known

In all my royalty. He would as lief go

To hell, so that his foe might forfeit heaven.

Enter Gwaine, born by Squires and Attendants.

Gwa. Let me forth—forth, I say! Hell! caitiffs, I be

      better now.

I would at him! Oh!

Attendants.  Sire, if he rest not he will die.

The blood runneth from him in streams

So we cannot quench it, do he not lie still.

Gwa. King, I be a shamed man. Damn this world!

I will shut it out o’ my knowledge. I be in pieces.

Ar. Thou hast had enough, temper thy hates.

And do thy brothers more they lodge in hell.

I am for England.

Gwa. Nay, King, let me but once more.

Ar. Thou canst scarce utter, thou wilt die.

Gwa. Nay, I will stand his front so long as I may hold a blade, and shake it at him!

Enter a Messenger in great haste.

Ar. Whence come you?

Mess.  From England. Mordred hath made him King.

Ar. Nay! nay!

Mess.  ’Tis true, and seized the Queen.

Ar. Great Heaven!

Mess.  Even now he sitteth robed in thy late state,

And wieldeth puissance.

Gwa. The damned hunchback!

Ar. O world! would I were gone! My Queen untrue,

My heart’s best brother traitor, even my son,

Mine ill-got son doth rend me. Who would now

Hold fate with sunken Arthur?

(to the Messenger) Be there more?

Mess.  Nay, sire, I came in haste at the first news,

Though it is said that he would wed the Queen!

Ar. A thousand devils take him!—Nay, not that,

Not that most foul completion!

Ho! Sir Hake, Sir Mark! Ho, knights without!

Enter Knights.

Ar. Mordred’s usurped the kingdom. We must haste to England now. The siege is raised. Yea, I will blot him out or make an end righting mine old glory.

Gwa. (borne out) Now are my chances gone. Gwaine is disgraced. This is a world of woe. I’ll fight no more. But one more bout, and my sword might ha’ done it.

Curtain.

ACT V. Scene 1.

(Rise outer curtain.)

Enter two Soldiers.

1st Sol.  Ho, without there!

2nd Sol.  What news?

1st Sol.  Arthur is back for England with all his forces, and the King hath sent an army to withstand his landing, and himself leaveth to-night to follow them.

2nd Sol.  He be a rare King, this hunchback. He hath a marvellous power. His knights be feared of him, but ’tis said he’s just.

1st Sol.  He be not lawful got, ’tis said, but none can say his rule be foul.

2nd Sol.  ’Tis said that the new Queen be a witch an’ hath holpen him wi’ her deviltries.

1st Sol.  God save us if it be true! Yet it is safe to say: God save the King an’ Queen. ’Tis better to cry a witch Queen than to be split i’ the gullet.

2nd Sol.  Yea, wi’ plenty ale i’ the pewter and meat o’ the spit, no matter who queens or kings it, so says I. I’m for Mordred an’ the witch.

1st Sol.  So be I till the next change comes.

[Exeunt both.

(Rise inner curtain.) Enter Vivien as Queen, with many Ladies and Pages; takes her state. Enter a Knight, who kneels.

Viv. What news from France, Sir Bors?

Knight.  Arthur cometh back, my lady.

Viv. Nay!

Knight.  Yea, my lady, the army be embarked.

Viv. Oh, short and bitter!

Enter Mordred.

Mor. Well, madam!

Viv. (to the Ladies) Begone!

[Exeunt all.

(to Mordred) Hast thou heard the news?

Mor. ’Tis as I have long expected. He now cometh

      back.

Viv. Art thou prepared?

Mor. Yea, if ’tis death thou meanest.

And ’twere better so. Thou art a Queen already!

I had not thought thou wouldst so look the Queen.

Viv. Mordred, would that thou mightst also see

I wear a heart, a woman’s heart, beneath

This queenly mask!

Mor. A heart?

Viv. That beats and breaks for thee!

Mor. I’m not myself, I am a hunchback king

Who stole his father’s rule by subtlety,

And keepeth it by power of being a devil.

I know not love. Woman, thou art mad!

Art thou not satisfied with what thou art?

I made thee all that woman’s heart might crave.

Revenge, ambition, these all can I grant,

But love, a commodity not in Mordred’s giving.

Use this thy power to surfeit while it lasts;

To-morrow it will topple. I’m o’er-weary

Of all this sycophancy of creeping men,

Who fear my power and sneer upon my back;

A pageantry of lies where human worms,

Who crawl to-day, to-morrow get a sting

And use it on the hand that ’friended them.

I cannot mould the face to popular form,

And hide the thought behind the outward act,

And make good ill, ill good, by royal patent.

Nay, I can scorn, and I can hate,—yea, strike,

When rules the mood, yea, I’m a very devil;

But cheat myself and others to what I am,

And be a popular dream, a fancied god,

The victim of a world’s delusiveness,

What manner I am, I were not made for this.

Yea, coming struggle, I meet thee with a joy,

’Twere scarce expected. Madam, I bid farewell.

We worked this masque together, thou and I,

And if it like thee little, blame not Mordred.

I go to-night to meet my sire in battle.

Such fight will be this kingdom hath not known

In all its sorrows. Britain’s darkest hours

Are blacking on her, I feel I go to death.

I leave some knights to guard thee. If thou desirest,

Thou canst withdraw unto some convent close

Till this blows over.

Viv. Nay, Vivien flees not. She dies first. Woman

      or Queen,

She will be found where dangers threaten thee

And menace thy kingliness. O Mordred,

Thou knowest not the woman that I am.

Take me with thee as thy heart’s true slave.

Where thou diest, there would Vivien die,

Or where thou goest, there would she wander, too.

Mor. Nay, nay, ’tis vain, I am a man apart.

Thou knowest not the iron I am become.

Mordred needs no shield of kindly help

Other than what unkind nature gave him.

Woman, thou dost unqueen thyself, I tell thee.

Thou wastest thy words on Mordred.

Viv. O brute, O cruel shape, not natural man,

Hast thou no feeling?

Mor. I go forth to-night

To wreck my father, stem his tide this way

Unto his rightful kingdom. Speak me love!

Rather tell the lamb skipping the mead

Go ask the wolf for suckle.

Viv. Nay, Mordred, slay me now, and thou wilt know

Vivien had blood full warm to flow for thee.

Mor. Woman, I’m all iron and adamant,

And yet I pity thee, for thou hast hell.

I would not slay thee—rather fare thee well.

[Exit Mordred.

Viv. O God! Mordred! Mordred! Is this all?

And I have moulded him unto this iron

I beat against. It is my punishment!

O God! O God! Nay, I will go with him,

And die with him if need be. Now, my wits!

But how? How? How?

Enter a Page.

Page.  Madam, the King?

Viv. He hath just left.—Stay, dost thou go with him?

Page.  Yea, madam.

Viv. Dost see this jewel?

Page.  Yea, madam, it be wondrous indeed.

Viv. It will be thine—wilt thou stay,

And let another go in thy stead.

Page.  The King trusteth me.

Viv. ’Tis the will of one who loveth the King far more than ever thou couldst. ’Tis my will. Thou must stay. Quick, this way!

[Exeunt both.

Re-enter Mordred with his Knights.

[Trumpets without.

Mor. Make haste! Make haste! Where tarrieth this squire of mine? We must ride to Dover ere it darkens.

A Knight.  He cometh now, sire.

Enter Vivien, disguised as a Squire.

Mor. Dost thou keep thy King? Thou wert long in coming.

Viv. I came with all speed, sire.

Mor. Thou seemest over pink and white for this work. Canst thou fight?

Viv. Yea, sire, I can use a dagger.

Mor. Then follow.—Ho, there without! Now for Mordred’s doom!

Curtain.

————

ACT V. Scene 2.

Place—The Kentish coast.

Landing of Arthur’s troops opposed by Mordred. Battle going on in the distance. Enter Gwaine, borne ashore on a litter. Battle comes near.

A Soldier.  They come this way. Here will we stand and guard thee.

[They put down the litter.

Gwa. How goes the fight?

A Squire.  Desperate hard. The enemy be strong,

As if half England would shove the other i’ the sea.

Gwa. Give me my sword and help me up; I’ll fight.

A Leech.  Sir knight, if you rise up it is your death.

Gwa. Damn thee, to lie here helpless is to die,

With those fierce sounds of battle in mine ears.

Quick! my sword! mine old strength cometh back.

[A Squire hands him his sword; he leaps to his feet. The battle comes near, and they are all borne out fighting. Re-enter Gwaine, borne by Soldiers and the Leech.

Leech.  I told thee thou wouldst die.

Gwa. And so wilt thou some day, and, like a milksop, i’ thy bed.

’Twas a poor prophecy, though a sure one. It is naught.

Turn me over. Yea, I wedged some skulls, and clipped

Damned Mordred’s wings o’ some pen-feathers.

Enter Arthur.

Ar. So far the battle’s ours. This edge, at least,

Of Britain’s soil doth Arthur own to-night.

What be this?

Gwa. ’Tis Gwaine, King, brought to bay at last.

Ar. Thou wert mad to fight.

Gwa. ’Twas madness not to fight with all that battle

Ringing its clarion thunders in mine ears.

All life be madness, and death but the healing of it.

I have reft some brain-pans i’ my time, ha, ha!

Tell traitor Launcelot—Yea, turn me softly;

’Twas a deft hand did give me that last stroke.

Leech.  What be thy message, knight? thy time groweth short.

Gwa. Yea, take away—tell Launcelot Gwaine’s vengeance waits him i’ the nether black.

[Dies.

Curtain.

————

ACT V. Scene 3.

Night on the battlefield. The royal tent, Arthur’s camp.

Ar. Ho! there without! (Enter a Page) Send me Sir Bedivere.

[Exit Page.

Enter Sir Bedivere.

Ar. Is all safe i’ the camp?

Sir B. Yea, sire, the sentries are set and watch-fires ablaze. And all ready for battle i’ the first dawn.

Ar. What of the enemy?

Sir B. They be the same, sire; all seemeth quiet i’ the camp.

Ar. Remember all watchfulness, so there be no surprise. Thou canst go, Bedivere; I would fain sleep.

Sir B. Yea, I go, sire, and God keep thee this night.

Ar. Stay, knight; Arthur of England is a lonely man,

Betrayed of those who should have loved him best.

To-night perchance he fronts the brink of death,

In bloody battle for his rightful kingdom.

Take this ring, knight, in memory of thy King,

(gives him a ring) Survive he not the morrow.

Sir B. God keep thee, sire.

[Exit Sir Bedivere.

Ar. Now what will morrow’s dawn-rise bring to Arthur?

Will it bring bloody victory or defeat?

How like an autumn wood is stript my glory,

Who short since was sole monarch of this realm.

O evil Spite, that ruleth this sad world!

Come, joy, come hope, there’s nothing sure but death.

Yea, I will sleep and muffle out my sorrows.

A little while.

[Goes toward the couch.

Nay, Arthur will not pillow till he beds with death,

Or doth regain his kingdom. I will rest me here.

[Seats himself on a chair and wraps his cloak about him.

Now for oblivion’s peace!

O stricken King, thou art the loneliest to-night

In any realm.

[Leans forward; falls asleep. A Page steals in.

Page.  He sleeps.

[Exit Page.

Ar. (starts and mutters) Launcelot! Launcelot! My friend! my friend! Guinevere! Ah! Guinevere!

Ghost of Merlin rises.

Ghost.  Arthur of England!

Ar. (in his sleep) Merlin! Ah! Merlin!

Ghost.  I come to tell thy doom. To-morrow, Arthur! to-morrow!

Ar. Away, spirit! Affright me not. Away! Away!

[Ghost vanishes. Arthur starts up.

Ah, did I dream of Merlin? ’Twas but fancy.

O Mage, to-night thy portents wander back

Unto my mind. Oh, couldst thou see thine Arthur!

To-morrow, said the voice within my dream.

To-morrow! Yea, to-morrow!

[Sits down again and folds his cloak. Sleeps. Mutters, “Mordred! my son Mordred!”

Ghost of Gwaine rises.

Ghost.  King!

Ar. Ah! ’Tis thou! Away! Away!

Ghost.  King, fight not to-morrow.

Ar. (in his sleep) Nay, I will!

Ghost.  King, fight not to-morrow.

[Ghost vanishes; Arthur wakes.

Ar. Yea, sleep is but the borderland o’ death.

’Tis twice! ’Tis twice! It is a certain portent.

Yea, Arthur fights, though Arthur dies, to-morrow.

Yea, now I’ll sleep, for I am over-weary.

Weary of life, yea, I am over-tired.

I would fain sleep, though night should have no morning.

This night is sweet. To-morrow cometh doom,

This hour for soft oblivion.

Curtain.

————

ACT V. Scene 4.

Place—Near the battlefield.

Enter two Knights.

1st Knight.  This day is Britain doomed and Arthur’s

      Court

Rent and dismembered by old grisled war.

2nd Knight.  Meseems the kingdom’s severed like two

      tides

That meet together in some mountain course

To whelm other. Arthur’s star grows dark,

And Mordred’s darker. ’Tis the Queen, they say,

Hath cursed the realm with her godless loves.

Enter two other Knights, fighting on foot.

One.  A Mordred! Ho! A Mordred!

The Other.  An Arthur! An Arthur! Have at you!

[They close and each stabs the other. Both die.

1st Knight.  Thus is the kingdom rent like doomsday’s

      crack.

Such awful portents have been told abroad

Since yesternight. Some say the world hath end.

2nd Knight.  And what be they?

1st Knight.  The crucifixes on the churches’ walls

Have trickled blood, and many abbey-bells

Have tolled the midnight, rung by no man’s hand.

Yea, even the dead have risen from their graves.

2nd Knight.  Ora pro nobis!

1st Knight.  Some even say that Merlin hath come back

And prophesied the kingdom at an end,

And all last night I dreamed such fearsome dreams

Of blight and pestilence and spectres dire;

I fear me much the end of days hath come.

2nd Knight.  How goes the fight?

1st Knight.  Yea, even fiercer, as two tidal waves

That roar together on some mighty bore,

And meet in thunders. Never hath such war

Been known in Britain since the ancient days.

The bowmen’s arrows darken all the sun,

The battle-axes clamor on the shields,

As on some morn the loud woodcutter’s din

By some bright hillside. Knight encounters knight

In serried thunders. All the kingdom’s turned

To one mad tournament of blood and flame.

[The battle is heard moving nearer. Both rush out.

Another part of the field. Enter Arthur, surrounded by his Knights.

Ar. Now where is he, that monster foul, deformed,

In shape and spirit, Nature calls my son?

Enter Mordred.

Mor. Here!

Ar. Ah, Blot on all this sunlight, Creature dire,

Spawn of mine incest. There standest thou, my sin,

Incarnate now before me; mine old doom;

Thou that wast stronger in thine influences

To work dread evil in this hideous world

Than all the glory all my good might win.

Mor. Father!

Ar. Yea, well say Father! Parent I this ill

That hath enrent my kingdom all in twain.

In that dread night of my licentious youth,

When I in darkness thy foul shape begot,

I worked a web of blackness round my fate

And thine, distorted phantom of my sin,

Not all the tolling of sweet abbey-bells

And murmur of masses sung this thousand years

Can sweep from this doomed kingdom. Father! Yea,

There is no truce betwixt us. Thou art Death

To all that I hold dearest on this earth.

Thou stood’st betwixt me and my gladder fate,

The one black spot on all my glory’s sun.

In thee once more mine evil blackens in,

Reddens mine eyesight! Have at thee, foul Curse!

Mor. Father!

Ar. Have at you!

[They fight. Arthur wounds Mordred. He falls. A Knight stabs Arthur from behind.

Ar. Ho! all the sunlight blackens! Mordred! Oh!

My glory darkens! Curtain not yon sun!

[Dies.

Mor. Yea, this is all, and I were made for this,

To scatter death and desolation round

On this fair kingdom, ruin this sweet land,

And level all the pride of Arthur’s glory,

As men might level some great castle walls;

And sow with salt the fields of his desire,

And make him mock before the eyes of men.

Turn all his great joy into bitterness.

Yea, I his blood, and I were made for this.

O ancient, cruel Laws of human life,

O deep, mysterious, unfathomable Source

Of man’s poor being; we are ringed about

With such hard rinds of hellish circumstance

That we can never walk or breathe or hope,

Or eye the sun, or ponder on the green

Of tented plain, or glorious blue of heaven,

Or know love’s joy, or knotted thews of strength,

But imps of evil thoughts creep in between,

Like lizards in the chinks of some fair wall,

And mar life’s splendor and its fairness all.

’Tis some damned birth-doom blended in the blood

That prophesies our end in our poor acts.

Oh! we are but blind children of the dark,

Wending a way we neither make nor ken.

Yea, Arthur, I had loved thee sweet and well,

And made mine arm a bulwark to thy realm,

Had I been but as fair as Launcelot.

What evil germ, false quickening of the blood,

Did breed me foul, distorted as I am,

That I should mar this earth and thy great realm

With my wry, knotted sorrows? Launcelot’s love

Was manly, kind and generous, as became

A soul encased in such propitious frame.

The kingly trees well turn them to the sun,

And glory in their splendor with the morn.

’Tis natural that noble souls should dwell

’Twixt noble features, but the maimèd soul

Should ever be found in the distorted shape.

But I had loved as never man hath loved

Did nature only plant me sweet at first.

(to his Knights) And now I die, and blessed be my death,

More blessed far that I had never breathed.

Murder and Treason were my midwives dire,

Rapine and Carnage, priests that shrive me now.

Enter Vivien, disguised as a Squire.

Viv. Mordred! thou diest!

Mor. Who art thou?

Viv. I am Vivien.

Mor. Hence, hence, viper! thou incarnate fiend!

Not natural woman, but Ambition framed,

And all lust’s envy. Thou wert unto me

A blacker blackness. Did an angel come,

And whisper sweeter counsel in mine ears,

And trumpet hopes that all were not in vain,

But thou wouldst wool mine ears with malice dire,

And play upon the black chords of my heart.

Hence, devil! hence! Mar not my closing hours.

Viv. Oh, woe! woe!

[Steals out.

Mor. (to the Knights) Now bear me slowly to great

      Arthur’s side

And let me place my hands upon his breast,

For he was mine own father! Alas! Alas!

So hideous is this nature we endure.

[The Soldiers place him by Arthur.

How calm he sleeps, Allencthon, as those should

Who die in glorious battle. Dost thou know,

O mighty father, that thine ill-got son,

Ill-got of nature and mysterious night,

To mar thy splendor and enwreck this world,

Now crawls to thy dead body near his death,

As would some wounded dog of faithful days

To lick his master’s hand? Blame not, O King,

If thou somewhere may know what I here feel,

Thy poor, misshapen Mordred. Blame him not,

The turbulent, treacherous currents of his blood

Which were a part of thine, nor let one thought

Of his past evil mar thy mighty rest;

He would have loved thee, but remember that.

Now, past is all this splendor, new worlds come,

But nevermore will Britain know such grace,

Such lofty glory and such splendid days.

Back of the clang of battle, back of all

The mists of life, the clamor and the fall

Of ruined kingdoms built on human days,

Arthur! Merlin! Mighty dead, I come!

[Springs to his feet.

Ho! Horse! To horse! My sword! A trumpet calls!

A Mordred!

[Dies.

Curtain.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DAULAC.

————

ACT I. Scene 1.

Place—A chateau in France.

 

Time—Night in Autumn. The wind howls loud out of doors and rain beats at window, right.

 

Scene—A room in the chateau, showing a curtained entrance to bedroom at middle back, in the apartments of the Sieur d’Elene. Furniture quaint and old, with rich decorations; doors to left and right, chairs and sofa.

Enter, from middle back, the Sieur d’Elene, a feeble old gentleman, wearing a rich dressing-gown and walking slowly with a cane. He is slight and stooped. He hobbles to a window and looks out.

D’El. This night is like my spirit, filled with age

And haunting voices calling from the past.

All the world is bleak with age and woe,

And I am feeble, like a candle lowered

Into its socket. Only regret and longing,

Only regret and longing dwell with me,

Dwell with me.

[Drops into chair.

Enter, at left, Helène, his niece, a beautiful young girl. She comes in quietly and looks at him.

Hel. Poor uncle! (clasps her hands) Poor uncle!

Of late he broods alone in solitude,

And seems to avoid me. Some haunting, saddening thought

Weighs down his spirit.

[Goes forward and places her hand on his shoulder.

Uncle, do you know me? your Helène!

D’El. (shakes his head) Nay, nothing, now, save winter, age and death.

[She goes round and sits at his feet on a stool.

Hel. Uncle, uncle, I am your own Helène.

D’El. (strokes her hair feebly) Yes, yes, my child,

      your hair is like the raven’s,

But mine is bleached like winter’s wasted snows.

You are all I have left, all I have left.

Hel. Uncle, I love you, you know I love you well.

Would comfort your age; let me share your sorrow.

D’El. Look up, my child; your face to-night brings

      back

That sweet look which filled your angel mother’s,

My dead child-sister. I never loved another.

She used to sit as you sit by me now,

But she is gone. Soon I will follow, too.

Hel. O uncle, put this gloomy spirit by.

It wrings my heart to know you suffer pain.

Smile on your Helène, tell her you are happy,

[Rises and puts her arm around his neck.

And she will laugh and then be happy, too.

[Sits again and takes his hand in both of hers.

D’El. Sorrow, child, Sorrow is Age’s sister.

The autumn bleak that beats at yonder pane

Is fit alone to echo back my heart.

Speak not to me of gladness. Close around

Stand all the ghosts of this grim, ancient house

To tell me it is ended. Never child of mine

Will laugh athwart its rooftree. Nevermore

Henceforth devote alone to gloom and woe.

Happiness and smiling greet these walls.

Hel. O uncle, uncle, you were not always thus.

And in this atmosphere of sombre gloom

I, too, grow old and sad. Oh, why not send,

Oh, why not send for Daulac?

D’El. (trying to rise, in great agitation) Daulac!

      Daulac! Speak no more of Daulac!

Hel. (frightened) O uncle, uncle, what has Daulac

      done?

D’El. He is the root of all my heart’s disease,

The bitter cause of all my spirit’s winter.

Ingrate and viper, warmed at this old heart!

Hel. Uncle!

D’El. Nay, girl, speak not his name, if you would keep

The only love that holds me to the living.

Hel. What mean you by these dread and awful words?

Daulac! What has Daulac done? Your words

Fill me with fear and anguish.

D’El. (gazing at her sadly) So, girl, you love this

      Daulac?

Hel. He is my cousin, we have lived together

As girl and boy. He is all nobleness—

Believe me, uncle—he is all nobleness,

So much that woman would desire in man,

So much, so much, I cannot help but love him.

[Hides face and sobs.

D’El. Yea, curse him, curse him. Every word you

      speak

Makes him the graver sinner in my sight.

(aside) I cannot reveal all to so pure a soul.

This sweet girl-nature, like a limpid brook,

This trusting spirit he has played with. No,

He is no heir of mine. I cut him off.

I will not weaken. This poor girl’s confession

But binds my will the firmer. Helène!

Hel. (looking up) Yes, uncle!

D’El. Desjardins comes to-night; some business,

Some special business. I would be alone.

I’ll need two witnesses, so leave you two

Servants within hearing should I ring.

Now say good night, my child.

Hel. O uncle, I dread to leave you in this mood.

Heaven keep you, my more than father, yet

Forgive me if I say it once again,

Be kind to Daulac.

[Tries to put her arms about him.

D’El. Child, I love you, but you go too far.

Nay, nay, not Daulac. I cannot tell you all.

I have resolved. Kiss me, my child. Good night, good

      night.

Hel. (aside, going out) O Heaven, be with us. I am

      sore afraid

Some terrible business fatal unto Daulac

Doth happen here to-night.

[Exit.

D’El. (rises) Ha, I am old, my fingers are but bones,

My legs but tottering crutches, and my soul

But shrunken, wasted water. But my will

Is firm, is firm! This ingrate Daulac, yea,

I’ll disinherit, disinherit him.

The girl shall have it all, shall have it all.

[Totters to window.

O mad, lone night, in all your haunting voices,

What hope bring you to me?

Only death, only death, only death!

I will go in. The girl shall have it all!

[Totters to door at middle back.

Enter Desjardins, a notary, cloaked and with a sword.

Des. This is a night, a fit and proper night

For projects such as mine. Would such were ever,

All seasons Autumn, every night like this.

[Goes to window, draws blind and looks out. Rain and gust blows against window.

Ha, ha, it meets me, gives my spirit greeting!

Cruelty to cruelty, ice to ice,

So storms it at my heart, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Howl storm! beat gust! Sweep out and wreck this world.

Murder the hateful memories o’ summer,

The gaudy splendors of the nauseous year.

She loves me not, I am not lovely to her,

So wreck all beauty, lay all sweetness low.

Ha, ha, do your work as I’ll do mine.

[Leaves window.

Murder, murder, ’tis a serious thought;

One to be well considered. Perchance the greatest

Of all the arts, were it but deftly done.

Heh, heh, Desjardins, Desjardins,

No bungling, or this serious business were

Better undone than badly! But a weak old man—

’Twould almost seem a single puff of air

Would blow the spark from such a heap of ashes.

Ha!

[Gets behind a curtain.

Re-enter the Sieur D’Elene.

D’El. I will to bed, to bed. Why comes he not?

[Goes slowly to the window.

Oh, such a night! the world is aged like me,

Blown by the storms of a too rugged fate.

I’ll to bed, to bed. Why comes he not?

[Desjardins steps forward.

Des. I have come.

D’El. Oh, ’tis you, Desjardins. O Desjardins, ’tis an

awful night, an awful night!

Des. Here is the will.

D’El. Ready so soon?

Des. Yea, ready to sign. Did you not expect me?

D’El. Yea, I will sign it, I will sign it.

Des. Need I read it?

D’El. Nay, I am tired. Doth it fill all the conditions?

Des. Yea.

D’El. Leaves it all to my niece?

Des. Yea, of a certainty.

D’El. Then give it me, I will sign it. O Daulac,

Daulac, you might have loved me better!

Des. Have you the witnesses ready?

D’El. Yea, the two servants.

Des. Then call them in.

[D’Elene rings a bell; two servants enter.

Des. (to servants) This is your master’s will, do you

      understand?

Servants.  We do.

D’El. Where will I sign, Desjardins?

Des. Here.

[D’Elene signs the will with a trembling hand; servants affix their marks. Exeunt servants.

Des. (aside) ’Tis done, ’tis done!

(to D’Elene) You are weary, I had better go.

D’El. Yea, Desjardins, I in truth am weary,

But my mind runs still on Daulac. Tell me, now,

Think you truly I have done me right

In this sad matter?

Des. Certainly, certainly. To bed, to bed;

You grow more weak and childish in your age.

Speak I not truly, would you not relent?

D’El. Nay, I am strong, I am strong.

Des. Well, then, good night, good night, and may you

      rest.

[Exit.

D’El. Good night, Desjardins. Desjardins! wait,

      Desjardins!

Oh, he hath gone, and he hath taken the will.

I’ll see to-morrow, ’chance I’ll change that will.

O Daulac, Daulac, my dearer than son!

I’m strong, I’m strong. He’s right; to bed, to bed!

[Goes slowly behind the curtain. After a slight interval the room grows darker. Re-enter Desjardins. The storm still continues, with patter and gust at the window.

Des. Well, well; well, well, this is a serious matter!

Well done or not at all, that is the dixit.

[Peers out of the window, then comes back and goes behind the curtain, then steals out again.

He sleeps like any cradled nine months’ child.

Curse these old men, they ever grow so healthy.

He just stirred once, and mumbled in his dreams

That cursèd name Daulac! How I hate it!

He’ll repent him, will he? Not this side of Hades.

[Lays his sword on the table.

My grandsire was an armorer at Cologne;

My father knew his passes, though a notary,

And I know mine. I’m but a notary,

No lordly soldier with a martial bearing,

Yet often in the middle of our practice,

When, blade to blade and watchful eye to eye,

I taught Daulac those defter under-strokes,

Hath this same devil prompted me to kill him.

Not yet, not yet; but be my work to-night

To put yon senile babbler out o’ sight.

He’d burn that will, would he? He’d make a new one?

Nay, nay; nay, nay, he shall not make a new one!

[Takes up sword, then lays it back on the table.

Nay, not that way, it leaves too red a witness.

’Twill keep for cursèd Daulac when his fate

Meets my necessities. There’s a cleverer way.

Not thus, not thus; we lop off youthful trees

But pluck the old ones upward by the roots.

Weeds choke out blossoms; ergo, I’m a weed.

I’ll choke out this old blossom, thus, aye thus!

[Clenches his fingers as if strangling something, and steals out into the bedroom; after an interval returns, dragging the body of D’Elene, drops it on the carpet and steps back from it.

Ha, ha! ’tis done! ’tis done! He never stirred,

To cry or groan, or call out “cruel murder!”

But went out voiceless in a single gasp;

As snuffs a candle, thus his light went out.

Ha! I’m an artist! From a whimpering ancient,

A poor, worn bundle of human sighs and groans,

I’ve made yon wondrous silence now before me.

Rage, storm! howl, night! crack your mad cheeks in

      twain!

You cannot wake him! He is marbling now

Into that long, last, kind serenity.

Blow, night! rage, storm! he hath long past thy terrors.

Billow the oceans, batten the ruined lands,

Terrorize monarchs, make heroes quake i’ their beds,

But he’s invincible! Nay, you cannot shake him.

All else is puerile, naught is great but death.

Ha, ha! ’tis done! I stay here over long,

Too filled with pride in mine own handiwork.

Now life! now life! for I’ve a life to live,

Though but a notary. Halloo! halloo! help! help!

Your master is dead! Rascals, wake up! your master

Has ta’en a fit! Help! help! before he’s mortal!

He’d change that will, would he? he’d change that will!

Ha, ha; ha, ha! Now, Daulac, I have matched you!

[Servants rush in, calling. Helène runs in and falls in grief on D’Elene’s body. Exit Desjardins on other side.

Curtain.

---

ACT II. Scene 1.

Place—Front of an inn in a forest.

 

Time—Some days after Act I.

Enter, from left, Fillet, a short, stout innkeeper, carrying a table too big for him. He places it.

Fil. Here! (hurries out left and returns with a chair,

      places it at right of table) Here, for the gentleman,

      one louis. (hurries out again, returns with another

      chair, places it at left) This for the lord, two louis

      d’or, ha!

Enter Desjardins, booted and spurred, with sword, and whip in hand.

Des. Not yet?

Fil. Nay, master.

Des. Master?

Fil. (bowing) Sir!

Des. Sir?

Fil. Sieur!

Des. (more angry) Sieur?

Fil. (almost touching the ground) My lord! (aside)

Two louis d’or.

Des. My lord, the devil!

Fil. Yea, your majesty. (aside) Nothing!

Des. Wine, quick!

Fil. Yea, sire! (goes out bowing behind and yelling

      within) One bottle for his majesty the devil!

Des. Scoundrel!

[Exit Fillet.

The devil was ever notary to a fool,

And I’m the devil. This dead dotard uncle

And orphan niece were waxen in my hands;

And now to trap this Daulac in my snare.

How I do hate him only heaven doth know,

Or fitter hell, for am I not the devil?

His luck against my cunning, chance for chance,

I’ll match him yet. Why doth not Piotr come?

Enter Piotr running, at right, breathless; falls, clutching his breast, at Desjardins’ feet. As he runs he knocks over Fillet, who enters at same time, spilling wine. Fillet looks around in disgust.

Des. Quick, knave, quick! the letter!

Pio. (fumbling in his breast) Here, master, here!

Des. (opening quickly and reading) Ha, ha! ’tis done,

      ’tis done, the lettre de cachet.

It means his banishment and deep disgrace.

(to Piotr) Who gave you this letter?

Pio. The Duke’s own man, master.

Des. And when do the officers arrive?

Pio. To-morrow. Master, I faint!

Des. Wine, quick, wine.

[Goes on reading letter.

Fil. (who has been sighing over the decanter) Yea, sire, yea.

[Exit shaking his fist at Piotr.

(calling) One more bottle for his majesty the devil!

Re-enter with wine; Piotr takes it at a gulp.

Fil. Thou mindest me of a cowherd’s lanthorn.

Pio. Why?

Fil. Thou art so transparent! Say, (aside) be he

      thy master, boy?

[Pointing at Desjardins.

Pio. Yea, old firkin-sides.

Fil. Then art thou damned indeed.

[Exit at left.

Pio. Yea, not like thee, but for my leanness.

Des. (coming to centre) Doth he not come yet?

Pio. Who, master, who?

Des. Why, who else but Daulac?

Pio. Not yet, master.

Des. Not yet! not yet! A soldier should be prompter.

A like gallant is this to win his lady.

Had I his fortune-given mask of form,

His mock-heroic ways, his poet face,

I would not dally all my days at Paris,

But with quick siege and sans all ceremonie

I’d win her to my liking. Heaven, earth, hell!

How I do hate him!

Pio. Say, master!

Des. Well, rascal?

Pio. Old firkin-sides taketh thee for the devil.

Des. What think you?

Pio. Naught, seeing if it be so I be damned.

Des. Like you my form?

Pio. May he never come in worse.

Des. Look here, master Piotr, a word with you:

I’ve half suspicioned you these many days;

Indeed, I chose you for a rogue’s whip-lash.

Now, hearken, rascal: if you at my bidding

But crack anon to suit my spirit’s will,

Your fortune’s made; but if you do but fail me,—

You’ll meet the very devil.

Pio. Yea, master, I understand. I am the lash, you snap me, and someone else gets hurt. Ha, ha, that’s it!

Des. Yea, you’ve caught it. But, to change the subject, how does the sprightly Fanchon?

Pio. (in amazement) Ah, master! how knew you that I love Fanchon?

Des. Am I not the devil?

Pio. But she would no more have me than Mademoiselle would give a thought to you.

Des. Fiends of hell! what said you, rascal?

Pio. (aside) Now the bung is out of the barrel! (to Desjardins) I—I did but remark that she won’t do the love business with me. She prefers a basket paunch to a bean pole, and so favors that fool, Pornac.

Des. So that’s the trouble, is it?

Pio. Yea, master. That’s what makes me so thin; that she likes me not for my leanness but makes me the leaner, so that her distaste but aggravates the disease, so to speak.

Des. Oh, that’s nothing.

Pio. Nothing, master? Nothing? Yea, that’s me, or what I will be if this wasting of affections and flesh keeps on. Nothing!

Des. I but meant, rascal, that it is all right.

Pio. Oh, it is all right, is it? (counting on his fingers)

See: Nothing is all right, all right is nothing.

That’s me, or I am no logician.

Des. I mean to say, fool, that she shall marry you.

Pio. Master, master, say that again. Marry me—who?

Des. Fanchon.

Pio. Fanchon? Look here, master. You may be the devil, and his uncle to boot, but you can’t move a maid’s mind, let alone Fanchon’s. Why, master, she keeps me dancing to her changes like a turkey on hot irons. Nay, nay, master.

Des. Pshaw, she’s but a woman! Changeable as the

      moon

On moving water. Truthful as the lie

That trembles on the breathings of a slander.

Keep your courage, man, do my bidding,

And leave the maid to me.

Pio. But, master, she loves Pornac.

Des. Love? She’ll love you just as well.

I know a woman.

Pio. Well, if you do, then all that I can say is, you’re devilishly more devilish than the devil. (aside) But I have my doubts.

Des. Fanchon is like her mistress. She will go

Which way the other. That’s the way she’s blown.

Love’s not in this. Mad’moiselle’s uncle dead,

She’s by my schemes the mistress of his fortunes,

And Daulac by the same brave fact a pauper.

Pio. A pauper? the Sieur Daulac a pauper?

Des. What else? ’Twas I drew up his uncle’s will.

What would you call that man who stands therein

Sans land, sans houses, monies, destitute?

Pio. A pauper, master. Ergo, he has nothing, therefore he is nothing. That’s like me.

Des. Well, such is Daulac.

Pio. And, master, you did this?

Des. Yea.

Pio. Then—you—are—the—devil!

Des. Now, hearken, sirrah, that you know my power,

Remember I am your master and dread mine anger.

Now, next to win the mistress. When that happens,

Be you but with me, you shall have the maid.

Do you mark me, sirrah? Now go. Send me yon

Barrel-paunch.

Pio. Yea, I mark you. (aside) But be you devil or no,

I much misdoubt me if you do know Fanchon.

I like this not, I like it not, I smell murder

Or something deeper here. I’ll watch this devil

Whom fate hath made my master.

[Goes out calling.

Firkin-sides, firkin-sides!

Re-enter the Landlord.

Fil. (bowing low) Yea, your majesty.

Des. Whom do you take me for? the devil?

Fil. Who else?

Des. Look you here, scoundrel, do you know this name?

[Whispers in his ear.

Fil. (retreats, trembling with fear. Piotr comes in,

      listening) Nay, your majesty, not here, he comes

      not here!

Des. Yea, and to-night.

Fil. To waylay this lord? Then this means murder.

Pio. (aside) Yea, so say I. Monsieur Daulac, you are more than dead if I do not save you.

[Exit.

Des. Now, villain, this will pay you.

[Gives a purse.

Fil. (going out) But murder, murder, murder,

Oh, murder!

[Counts gold.

Des. Ha, ha, I’ll have him sure. All cannot fail.

I’ll slay him here to-night, or, missing that,

The officer from Paris comes to-morrow

With lettre de cachet wheedled from the King,

Banishing Daulac from these shores forever.

Ha, ha! the Duke doth hate him for that lunge

He gave him in that secret midnight duel.

So gains his vengeance granting my poor prayers.

Even kings are workable to the devil’s arts.

This last disgrace will wreck him; meanwhile I

Will come back here to-night in cloak and mask

And see if fate dare give him to my blade.

With these two villains to aid me I may do it.

Ha, ha! Why, here he comes at last, at last.

Damn him! damn him! How I hate his face!

Enter Daulac, booted and spurred, with sword and military cloak.

Daul. Desjardins, Desjardins!

Des. Welcome, Daulac, mine own noble friend. This

      is a meeting.

[Grasps and wrings his hand.

Daul. Welcome, Desjardins, wisdom’s counsellor,

The brother-confessor to my many follies.

The cynic chider, he who hath forgiven

More in mine acts than ever Heaven can.—

O my friend, had I one thousandth part

Of all the wisdom under your brain’s roof,

I would not be the reckless soul I am.

Well, well! Heaven ne’er made two single souls alike.

You’d laugh, Desjardins, did you hear my follies.

I’ve fought six duels, old comrade; ponder that—

And come off in them all without a scratch,

Save in the first, and that was but a prick,

Healed up in a week—and all for why

I know not, save that chivalry wanes at court,

And men will slander women in my presence.

Des. I heard you pinked the Duke?

Daul. (starting) You heard that?

Des. Ha, ha! a rumor, but ’tis a dangerous business.

Daul. When a man insults a woman, be he King,

[Lifts his hat.

He answers to my sword.

Des. (taking snuff) Ha, ha! Yea, yea, brave, brave,

      but dangerous.

(aside) As you will find.

Daul. O Desjardins, think me not all lightness;

Amid the court I sickened of its follies.

Its shallow conceits and hollow mock of worth,

Where arrogance and cringing joined in one,

Janus-like, in every soul I met,

Till all my spirit in a ferment burned.

Des. For paths of glory?

Daul. Yea, friend, you read me right. Some day,

      somewhere,

I know not where, only in dreams that come,

I will loose my spirit battling on some field

For France and glory.

                      But tell me, mine old friend,

How be it that I meet you on my way?

Des. I came to meet you.

Daul. To meet me! that was kind. God bless you,

      friend!

[Wrings his hand again.

And how is Helène?

Des. She is well.

Daul. And happy?

Des. As her circumstances grant.

Daul. And my uncle?

Des. He—is—well.

Daul. Poor uncle, I have often grieved him sore,

And now I’ll grieve him sorer: I can never

Give up in life the great career of arms

To settle down to humdrum country life,

And, beating my sword into a gentle ploughshare,

Play me the squire of vineyards. Nay, Desjardins,

For I was born a soldier. In my cradle

My spirit must have run on war’s alarms

And drained its ardors from my mother’s breast.

Yea, you have known it, Desjardins, my true friend,

And how it had but one sole rival thought.

Des. And that?

Daul. My love for Helène.

Des. (aside) Curse him! does he dare to prate of

      that?

Daul. Yesterday in Paris the Sieur de Condé,

Who sails anon to try his soldier’s fortunes

Beyond the rim of ocean’s western verge

In those new lands discovered by Champlain,

Did bid me share his perils, and perchance

The glory or death that fate will grant him there.

Des. (aside) This is my chance. (to Daulac) You

      agreed?

Daul. Nay, I did neither say him yea nor nay.

Des. And why?

Daul. My love for Helène drew me hitherward,

And bound my feet to France’s holy shores,

While glory pointed promising toward the West.

But Helène conquered.

Des. (aside) S’death, I’ll crush him now!

Daul. And then I thought me of my poor old uncle,

How he would grieve; I could not break his heart.

Des. (aside) Now the dagger goes home.

(to Daulac, solemnly) ’Twill break no more.

Daul. What, what! did you not say he was well?

Des. Yea, well indeed, for, Daulac, he is dead.

Daul. (rising) My uncle dead! My God! When did

      he die?

Des. Four days ago.

Daul. And—

Des. Was buried yesterday.

Daul. And Helène?

Des. Is heiress to all his fortune.

Daul. Great heavens, Desjardins, what doth all this

      mean?

Des. It means but this: your uncle for some time

Has marked your course in anger, and at last,

Thinking you unworthy of his trust

Willed all his wealth to Mad’moiselle Helène,

Cutting you off without one single louis.

Daul. Then I am ruined!

Des. Yea, ruined.

Daul. And this is why—

Des. I came to meet you.

Daul. To break it to me, ere I saw Helène.

(taking Desjardins’ hand) Thank you, friend. God

      knows I need a friend

In this hard hour. Not that I grudge the wealth.

Heaven is witness, I joy for Helène’s sake.

She in her pure and simple womanhood

Is fitter trustee to that splendid wealth

Than such a spirit as I, but O great God!

That he, the uncle that I have always loved,

Should die without forgiving, nay, with thoughts

Unmerited by my worst and wildest follies;

Should think me so unworthy of his love,—

’Tis this unmans me.

Des. You know me, Daulac, one sans aspirations,

Believing only what my reason holds,

Deeming not overmuch those attributes

Of love, hope, glory, friendship, as men mouth them,

Save as poor ebullitions of the moment,

Gendered in foolish souls that know not life

And its gray, stern realities, and would not

Be o’erhard on you in this bitter hour,

Save to remind you, you have one thing left

’Mid all this wreck of earthly hope and fortune,

Which is—

Daul. Mine honor. I would die for it.

Des. Then you must die to love.

Daul. O Desjardins, this worst final stroke!

Des. You are a man of honor. She is rich

And you a pauper.

Daul. Yea, you are right, so infinitely removed

Is Helène from my hopes that Ind to Ind

Were nearer. O inexorable fate,

Thou mockest me, miserable! I will go and die.

Des. Daulac, methought thou wert at least a man.

Daul. I am a man; for that dread reason I

Do suffer all the torments of the damned.

Man, man, cannot you see I am shut out

From all I love best? It is easy seen

That you have never loved. O Desjardins,

Your coldly calculating nature views

This life as but a problem to be solved

Like an equation. He hath never suffered

Who never loved.

Des. (aside) I never love? Yea, I can hate, too.

(to Daulac) You wrong me in your heat of suffering,

      Daulac.

Heaven knows I meant but for the best.

I thought you strong, but see I was mistaken.

There is a way: forget this barrier fate

Hath built between you; go to her, and if

She truly loves you nought can come between

Your mutual happiness.

Daul. And lose mine honor?

Des. Yea, what is honor but a thing to prate of,

But never practised in this material world?

Daul. Never, Desjardins! Since this one short hour

Helène is dead to Daulac. Whoe’er may hope

To win her happy, Daulac never can.

Nay, brightest honor, thou captain of my spirit,

Beloved of heaven and worshipped of holy men,

Without thee love were never love at all,

But life’s poor semblance.

Des. I did but plead for your own happiness;

But now you’ve forsworn love for glory’s sake,

What is your purpose?

Daul. There’s but one pathway in this world for him

Whom love hath banished, that which leads to death.

I have decided; this new western world

Will coffin Daulac from his many woes.

Des. Then you go to Canada?

Daul. It is my object, if such as I can hold

A living interest.

Des. (aside) ’Twas an easy victory. I’m rid of him.

(to Daulac) But will you send no message to your

      cousin? No last farewell?

Daul. Farewell to Helène? Desjardins, I cannot go

Before I see her pure, sweet face again.

This much I owe to nature, come what will.

Des. (aside) He’ll weaken, will he? be a man of

      straw

For all his protestations? Never, Daulac!

You have too good a foe to forfeit now

Your boasted honor.

(to Daulac) Do you not fear that in this tender meeting

(Man is but flesh and woman over-loving)

That this same honor boasted now so loud

May not get worsted?

Daul. Never, Desjardins!

Des. (aside) Ha, ha! we’ll see! The devil is a sceptic,

Or else this world were all an innocent place.

(to Daulac) Do you return with me?

Daul. Nay, friend, forgive me my weak human nature.

Leave me a space to wrestle with my sorrow,

And I will follow.

Des. (aside) Now I’ll see the poison work this side,

I’ll go prepare the lady, till the rift

In this sweet lute spills all the music out.

Piotr, Piotr!

[Exit, calling out.

Pio. (outside) I’m coming, master.

Daul. Now must I make the soldier shame the man,

And in one short hour change this throbbing nature

Into the semblance of a heartless stone.

O Helène, next to Heaven thou wert to me.

I placed you in that niche in my heart’s temple

Where blessed thoughts and sacred only dwell.

And now perforce I must crush out this being,

Tear out this bleeding heart with these two hands,

And still its beat forever. O great Heaven!

Let not one single tender sigh of hers,

One last sweet glance of sorrow, melt my soul

From out this marble semblance of a man.

I’ll go to her, but I will go as stone,

All passion dead as I am dead to her.

[Sinks his head on table. The stage grows darker.

Re-enter Piotr, rushing in.

Pio. Danger, danger! Draw and guard yourself!

[Rolls under the table. Daulac leaps to his feet and draws. Enter two assassins, with Desjardins cloaked and masked. They all attack Daulac. He fights the three.

Des. Ha, ha, ha!

Pio. (under the table) Murder! murder!

Fil. (at side, calling) Murder! thieves! murder!

[They fight harder. Daulac kills one, then wounds the second, fighting his way out.

Des. Damn him! damn him! he still lives, still lives!

But wait! the lettre de cachet! ha, ha, ha!

I’ll have him yet! I’ll have him yet!

Curtain.

————

ACT II. Scene 2.

Place—A room in the Chateau. Fanchon at work.

Fan. Well, if I’m not the most bewildered girl!

Two lovers are mine, but which of them to choose

I know me not, for if I choose this one

The other suffers. If I say Pornac,

I pity Piotr. If I choose Piotr,

I think of Pornac. Ten times a day I try

To choose in this wise, counting on my fingers:

Piotr, Pornac, Pornac, Piotr,

Pornac, the odds have it. It is Pornac.

But when I favor Pornac it is Piotr.

Heigho, heigho! what is a maid to do

When man, poor, silly man, doth come to woo?

Nor is there much to choose betwixt the two.

Pornac is stout and ruddy, full of mirth,

But too familiar; doth not reverence enough.

Piotr is lean and tall, but much too backward.

I hate a roisterer, but I dread a muff.

If one were only what the other is not,

The other only what the—(starts) Ha, what’s that?

Enter Piotr.

Pio. Fanchon!

Fan. Sir, you here?

Pio. Yea—that is, I think so—that is—I’ll go and see.

[Turns to go.

Fan. Noodle!

Pio. Nay, but, Fanchon—(aside) She ever mocks me

      thus.

Fan. Nay, noodle. Say, why are you always going?

Pio. I know not, save that I am always coming.

Fan. Well, solemn sir, what do you want of me?

Pio. I came—I came—to—to see what you were doing.

Fan. Well, I was at a poor business,

Balancing two peas within a pod.

Pio. Ah!

Fan. And I found them, just like two peas,

Too much alike.

Pio. Well, I must go.

Fan. Don’t be in a hurry. What’s the news?

Pio. Fanchon, there is only one bit of news for me to tell you, and—and—when I see you it all flies out o’ doors and leaves me.

Fan. Ah!

[Toys with her apron.

Pio. Fanchon!

Fan. What?

Pio. I—I—I have come to—to—ah—protect you.

Fan. You? to protect me? For heaven’s sake, from what? You protect me? Then heaven help me!

[Rises.

Pio. Stay, O Fanchon, stay. Oh, stay! Oh, do! Oh, stay forever!

Fan. Nay, ’twould be too tiring, but I will consider.

Pio. Dear girl!

Fan. But on one condition.

Pio. Any condition and all conditions, but name them.

Fan. ’Tis but one.

[Toys with her apron.

Pio. Name it, angel, but only say you’ll stay.

Fan. Don’t angel me! Yes, I will stay, if you—if you—

Pio. Speak, Fanchon, speak!

Fan. Well, I will stay if you do—go away.

Pio. (rising) The devil! I am a poor fool.

Fan. Yea, now you speak the truth.

(puts handkerchief to her face) Oh, my!

Pio. Fanchon, what aileth thee?

Fan. (trying not to laugh) I—I—I (mocking Piotr)

      think I’ve got something in my eye.

Pio. What, what? not a cinder? (aside) I’m sure

      it’s not a man.

Fan. Yea. (aside) And if you’re a man you’ll try to take it out. (moves over to his side; he edges from her) Don’t move, sir. Now, take this, then. (twists handkerchief into a point) Do you see it?

[Placing her face near his.

Pio. Nay, I see it not.

Fan. (aside) Dolt! Idiot! (to Piotr) Place your hand on my shoulder, thus. Come nearer and look again.

Pio. (uneasily) Nay, I am near; I tell thee,

Fanchon, thou art mistaken. There is nought.

Fan. I tell thee I am not mistaken. (aside) Idiot! can he not see beyond his nose? (rising in anger) I must go in.

Pio. Yea, so must I. I will come again.

Fan. Nay, nay, never! Stay away, away,

I tell thee, thou lean—lean gawk!

Pio. Well, well, I have angered her!

[Exit.

Fan. (stamping her foot) Fool! idiot! dolt! not to see, not to see! Here comes the other; free enough, but not so welcome.

Enter Pornac.

Por. Ha, ha, my Fanchon!

[Runs to kiss her; she eludes him. He chases her round the table; she stops.

Fan. Sir!

[He turns to catch her; she slaps his face.

Take that—and that!

Por. Why, Fanchon, ’tis not your wont to greet me

      thus!

Fan. Well, it will be in future, thou bloated freedom! Learn to keep thy place.

Por. When? Ha, ha! what’s up? what’s up? what’s

      up?

[Exit.

Fan. If this had but the other’s person, the other this one’s spirit, betwixt them they might be a fairsome man. If ever a girl were burdened it be me!

Enter Helène, dressed in mourning garb; slowly seats herself at the table in an attitude of grief. Fanchon approaches her.

Fan. Mistress, it grieves me much to see you thus.

Hel. O Fanchon, Fanchon, I fear my heart is broken!

Fan. Nay, lady, speak not thus; temper your grief

To what is fitting. Nature never intended

That youth should spend itself in useless grieving.

Men cannot live forever; your poor uncle,

My honored master, had passed the allotted age.

This is not natural.

Hel. You wrong me, Fanchon. Heaven knows my woe,

Though it be deep and natural, I feel

Hath cast its weight on Heaven for my uncle.

Fan. Then why this grief, these tears, this air of woe?

O my mistress, forgive your simple Fanchon,

If in her love she fear that you may weaken,

By too much grief and sad, uncertain vapors,

That dignity, that presence which is yours

As heiress, mistress of this high estate.

Madam, forgive these words, for Fanchon loves you.

Hel. O Fanchon, ’tis this very terrible wealth,

This heirship, that is now my present curse.

Oh, why did Heaven bring me on this earth

To stand betwixt a noble man and all

That should be his by birth and heritance.

Fan. Mistress, the Sieur Daulac, that is a man!

Hel. O Fanchon, I do fear ’twill break my heart.

Fan. It was a wondrous madness in your uncle

To use him thus; it passes my poor reason,

Unless, perchance, it was—forgive me, madam!

Hel. Whom?

Fan. That notary.

Hel. What notary?

Fan. What but one who creeps into a room

With his two sinister eyes before he enters,

Whose hand is like a dead man’s at the touch,

Whose glance a poison, whose whole attitude

A cringing arrogance. There is something, madam,

About that man that makes the spirit sick

To look upon him.

Hel. Who is this notary you rail against?

Fan. M. Desjardins.

Hel. Fanchon! How dare you? He, my uncle’s friend,

So grave and wise and thoughtful for his years,

Whose slow precision and whose cynic smile

Are rooted deep in duty.

Fan. Forgive me, madam, if my woman’s heart

In love for you outran the menial bounds;

But though it grieve you, I would warn you, madam,

Against that man.

Hel. Fanchon, another slander such as this,

And we are parted. Tongue shall never speak

Nor mind conceive, by any consent of mine,

That heart unloyal which my uncle trusted.

Fan. Forgive me, madam, punish your poor Fanchon,

Do anything but drive me from your presence.

For all her faults, her rude outspoken thought,

Your Fanchon loves you.

Hel. My almost sister, you are now forgiven.

If you’ve a heart, oh, pity your poor mistress

In her mad sorrow, you who know her secret.

And is it crime in me, a simple maid,

To open my heart to you, a sister woman,

And say to you and Heaven how I love him?

Nay, I were not woman, nature had made me

Distort, unnatural, did I not feel

A pride amid my blushes at his name.

And now, O life, O terrible, cruel fate,

Thou put’st a barrier ’twixt us, this dread hate

That he must hold for me who, like some thief,

Some bold brute robber, now hath come between

Him and his heritage. Yet, could he know,

I’d walk a beggar ’neath the stars this night,

Yea, live in rags and own a menial’s fate,

To know him mine. O Daulac, Daulac!

(a sound without) Go, Fanchon, straight, and see if he

      doth come.

I’ll cure this matter, this shall never stand!

O uncle, uncle, could you be so cruel?

They’ll see that I’ve a mind, though but a woman.

A nunnery is my hope, mine only hope.

I’ll die a maid that he may have this wealth.

[Looks toward the door.

He comes, he comes! How can I meet this man

Whom I have wronged, and yet do love so true?

Oh, he’ll have justice, or I am no woman!

Enter Desjardins.

Welcome, sir, though you are over late.

(seeing Desjardins) Oh, ’tis you!

Des. Yea, mademoiselle, ’tis but the courier;

The king comes after.

Hel. The Sieur Daulac is slow in coming, sir.

Des. Yea, mademoiselle, we ever travel slow

To that we dread approaching.

Hel. You have informed him of his uncle’s death?

Des. Yea, mademoiselle, and of his disinheritance.

Hel. (starts) And how took he it?

Des. Not well, my lady; who ever welcomed the sun

That ushered in the hangman?

Hel. Desjardins, as my uncle’s trusted friend,

As Daulac’s friend, as mine, I bid you hearken:

I have a way to mend this cruel matter.

Des. (aside) As Daulac’s friend; yea, as Daulac’s

      friend,

She has a way. Confound these obstinate women,

She shall not find a way, I’ll stop all roads

That lead to Daulac’s fortune.

(to Helène) A way, madam? So interest in our noble,

Impoverished friend has made of you a lawyer?

Hel. Yea, I renounce this fortune, all these lands;

They are not mine, but his by truest right.

Des. And you?

Hel. My heart leans toward a cloister; I a nun,

All this would pass to Daulac.

Des. (aside) A pretty simpleton, a charming fool!

Well, by my soul, who can count on a woman

When sentiment enters with a handsome man?

She a nun? Not if I confess her.

(to Helène) Mademoiselle, your feelings wrong the dead.

To him who fathered, loved you all these years,

Owe you no duty? That he is scarce cold,

The coffined clay scarce rounded on his grave,

Ere you would tumble his wisdom to the ground

And scatter his wishes to the winds of heaven.

And all for what?

Hel. For justice!

Des. Justice? (aside) If this same cousin were wry and shrunk of limb would he get justice? Heaven protect the ugly that goes as man when woman dons the ermine.

Hel. Monsieur Desjardins, you know I loved my uncle

And reverence his memory; but this will,

This monstrous will—I cannot yet believe

It was his love, his wisdom ordered it—

I will not take the cruel advantage it gives

And ravage Sieur Daulac of his rights;

And you—you think this cruel indenture just,

That cheats your friend?

Des. Lady, methinks your feelings wrong the dead.

Hel. Nay, never reverence for the holiest dead

Dare bid me wrong the living.

Des. Mademoiselle,

I have no right of feeling in this matter,

I’m but in this the humble notary,

The slave that pens just what the hand hath willed,

But I would be full lacking in that sense

Of what I owe your uncle and mine honor

Did I refuse, because my feelings urged,

To do my duty in this present case.

Aspirations are for your soldiers, lady;

Not for the common, plodding, parchment drudge,

The notary. But, being the notary, I

Must point to you the duty which is yours.

This will is plain, no matter who has feelings;

You are, besides, a ward and under age;

So did your folly wish to squander all,

You could not do it.

Hel. O Heaven!

Des. Yea. Further, as the humble notary,

I must speak plainly.

Hel. Speak! I bid you.

Des. You are my ward for one full year from this,

Under this will, and therefore ’tis my duty

To tender you advice: I long have known

The love you bear for Daulac.

Hel. Monsieur Desjardins, you presume!

Des. Lady, ’tis but the notary.

Hel. Go on, sir, but be careful.

Des. Well, this same love—forgive the notary, lady—

How know you ’tis returned?

Hel. Monsieur! this from you?

Des. ’Tis but the notary, lady. True, he hurts,

’Tis but the bungling surgeon at the best;

But let me warn you; young, impressionable,

Susceptible to all that charms in man,

What know you of men’s ways, their arts to please

Where smiles are easy spent and broken hearts

Too quick forgotten? Now, if I know Daulac

As man knows man from boyhood up to youth,

His one true love, his mistress, is his sword.

Hel. Sir, this is cruel.

Des. Cruel, lady; so is the shining lance

That wounds to save the sufferer. If your love

Hath gone such lengths, you might even buy him,

I will not nay it; but you must acknowledge,

If love be like a magnet, we have seen

But little of this Daulac here of late.

Hel. Enough, sir, notary or no,

You speak me not as father would dare speak.

Des. Forgive me, lady, I but do my duty.

Hel. Pardon me, sir, but methinks that in

The notary you outrage the man.

Des. The man, madam, the man is ever outraged

In this poor, shifty, cringing, scheming world,

Where none so free that he may love his neighbor.

Adieu, I hurt you, madam, I will withdraw;

You look for braver company.

(aside) The mine is lit, I’ve touched her woman’s pride.

Ha! Daulac, Daulac, come and conquer now!

Hel. Nay, good Desjardins, stay and be my friend.

Fear not for Helène d’Arno, she will ne’er

Let foolish feeling wrong her sense of duty

To those she loves and her own womanhood.

Des. I will return with Daulac, madam, should you wish.

Hel. I do wish it, sir, if you will come.

[Exit Desjardins.

They think I have no pride! wait; they shall see,

Rather than buy a lover I will die

A single maid. Now to be ice and snow

And frigid, stately dignity to this lover

Who came so tardily that ruin and death

Showed him the roadway. He shall never know

The foolish thoughts that I have squandered on him.

Enter Daulac and Desjardins.

O woman’s pride, help me to be proud,

Imperious, cold and just; but melting never!

[Daulac advances and kisses her hand.

Daul. Helène!

Hel. Daulac, my cousin!

Daul. (aside) Cousin?

Hel. I never thought I should have met you thus.

Daul. Nor I, but all are mortal; my poor uncle,

God knows I hold nought towards his memory

Save truest sorrow. Heaven is my witness,

He might have taken all away from me,

Had he but left his pardon.

Hel. O God! O God! Cousin, my heart is broken.

I you have wronged, Heaven knoweth, all unwittingly.

Had I the power to give you what is yours,

I’d rather die than leave things as they stand.

Daul. Helène, my cousin, if poor words of mine

Can ease your sorrow, carry to your grave

That Daulac’s thoughts of you were thoughts of blessing.

Adieu, Helène, the playmate of my youth,

When I am far perchance you will remember.

Hel. Wherefore away? Is this not yet your home?

Daul. Sweet cousin, to-morrow I leave these shores

      forever.

Hel. (aside) Heaven help me, Heaven help me now!

(to Desjardins) Cruel sir, cruel sir, you had not told me

      this!

Des. Not even the notary, believe me, madam,

Were surgeon to such a wound.

Daul. Sweet cousin, you who always bade me courage

When only in hope I waged me deeds of glory,

Will you not bid me Godspeed even now?

Hel. Sir, I, a soldier’s daughter, cannot say

To you, a soldier, any word but Godspeed.

But is there not assistance I can give you?

Monies, credit, all are at your service.

Daul. Helène, I am a soldier; my poor sword

And sense of honor are my sole fortune now.

If you would of the riches of your heart

But loan anon a single kindly thought,

A tear, perchance a prayer sent up to God,

For Daulac in his wanderings, he’d be your debtor

Deeper a thousand times than if you showered

The wealth of Ind upon him.

Hel. You have my prayers, my wishes. (aside) Oh,

      help me, God!

Daul. Farewell, Helène, God keep you. Fare you well.

[Kisses her hand.

Des. (aside) Why come they not? Why come they not?

Enter an Officer of the King and two attendants.

Officer.  Mademoiselle, your pardon. (to Daulac) I

      would speak

With the Sieur Daulac.

Daul. Speak, I am he.

Officer.  Pardon, lady, this most painful business,

But I do bear an order from the King,

Monsieur Daulac, asking for your sword.

Daul. The King! my sword! My God! what new

      misfortune?

Des. (aside) Ha, ha, ha!

Officer.  Here is the order, sir, commanding that you be cashiered and banished.

Daul. Cashiered and banished?

Officer.  Yea, to America.

Daul. Banished, cashiered, ruined!

[Clutching at his heart.

What unseen hand hath done this? What malignant influence

      looms about me?

Des. (taking his hand) This hand, at least, is yours

      until the end.

Hel. Daulac, Desjardins, what doth all this mean?

Disinherited, cashiered, banished! Farewell, hope!

Officer.  Yea, further, sir, your sword. You are my prisoner while on these shores.

Daul. Not that, not that disgrace!

Officer.  Men, arrest your prisoner!

Daul. Nay, I’m a noble. Whate’er his reason be,

The King can do no wrong. I go with you.

My gentle cousin, a long, a long farewell!

[Goes out with bowed head.

Des. And now ’tis time for the notary to go, too.

[Exit.

Hel. Daulac, Daulac, I love you! O my God!

I might have saved him! What have I not lost?

And all for woman’s pride!

Curtain.

---

ACT III. Scene 1.

Place—Montreal, Canada.

 

Time—One year later.

 

Scene—A room in an inn.

Enter Desjardins.

Des. Well, here’s a pretty pass, to let this woman

Slip through my hands like this: first ’twas Daulac,

Now ’tis the Church has got her. Nothing suits

But she must come to Canada like the rest

Of those poor fools who, lacking misery,

Would seek it in these savage-haunted wastes.

She tells her beads and sighs ’tis Heaven draws her,

But I have my suspicions it is Daulac.

That man, that man! have I not cause to hate him?

Since his departure she hath never smiled,

But mopes and prays to Heaven. Business, business

She will have none of. I have noticed, too,

She has grown half-suspicious of myself,

And such a scornful icicle hath grown

That all my cunning, all my arrogance

Hath not sufficed to make me hint my love.

Nay, Desjardins, caution, perseverance,

These are your arms to fight with, you are but

A plodding notary, but Hell’s my pledge.

I’ll have her yet, and avenge myself on him

If I’ve to win the poles to ’complish this;

No seas, no rimless oceans shall prevent,

No savage hordes of earth’s most desolate waste

Will daunt my vengeance; say she yea or nay,

I’ll go with her.

Enter Piotr.

Des. Well, what have you discovered?

Pio. Daulac is here, master, in this very inn.

Des. What are his prospects?

Pio. They say he is the governor of an island.

Des. And Pornac?

Pio. Is here, too.

Des. Does Daulac know of the Lady Helène’s arrival?

Pio. Nay, master, not by me.

Des. Nor through you, rascal?

Pio. Am I not narrow enough?

Des. Scarcely for my purposes.

Pio. (aside) Then will I be wide for some one else’s.

Des. Have you carried my orders?

Pio. Yea, master.

Des. Then watch and bring the Governor to this room.

We have a meeting here which, when ’tis ended,

Will settle this same Daulac.

Pio. But Fanchon, master, when shall I have her?

Des. I tell you, do my work, and when ’tis ended

You shall have your Fanchon, and for my part

I wish you well of her.

Pio. (aside) You wish me well; then I am cursed,

      indeed!

(to Desjardins) But when, O master, when?

Des. Go to the devil!

Pio. I’m gone there now.

(aside) I do his work, but me he never pays,

Save in fine promises;

“To-morrow it will be fine, next day ’twill shine,”

Doth never help the growth of grass to-day.

This working for the devil is unlucky.

If this goes on I’ll choose another master.

[Exit.

Des. (rings bell; enter waiter) Wine!

Servant.  How much, my lord?

Des. Two bottles, quick, of your best.

Servant.  Yea, my lord.

[Exit.

Des. So Daulac is a Governor. If he knows

She has given her money to the Church,

And that she’s here, then all my schemes are foiled.

He’ll win her in the face of all my plans.

Nay, he’ll die first, if it comes to that.

I’ll kill him—but of that more anon.

I’ll trap him first, this dreamer, in his dreams.

I’ll seethe him in the milk of his own glory,

Or I’m no notary; get him from my path,

She soon will tire of this religious waste,

And back in France, I’ll trust my skill to win her.

Enter Piotr, followed by Maisonneuve, the Governor.

Governor.  You are the gentleman who sent this letter?

Des. Yea, sir, and at your service; and, methinks,

One who can give assistance to you now,

And this poor colony. Be seated, sir, and pardon

My sending for you to this common inn,

But matters of state know not of the conventions.

Enter Servant, with wine.

Governor.  How can you aid? My very coming here

In answer to this letter you have sent

Shows my extremity. Necessity knows no custom.

If I have read your letter aright, you have

Some business to disclose.

Des. Some wine, my lord?

Governor.  Thanks, monsieur.

[Drinks.

Des. Well, now to business. Coming to the point,

I understand this colony is decimated

And slowly wasted by two insidious foes,

Disease and the savages.

Governor.  From the first we are recovering; but

The savages, I fear, will be our doom.

Daily we hear the fearful war-whoop sounding,

Nightly my people are butchered in their beds,

Till hope is wasted; and, I fear, ere long

France’s lilies will wither from this coast.

Des. Have you no plan to tide this terrible fate?

Governor.  I see no way; and now a fearful rumor

Hath reached me that a thousand Iroquois

Do purpose besieging us in this our hold.

And do they enter here and see our weakness,

Then we are lost.

Des. Have you no soldiers?

Governor.  A few, such as they are; but what are they

      without a leader?

Des. This is my cure. ’Tis a leader you want.

If you are with me, I do know your man.

Governor.  You offer, sir? you are yourself that man?

Des. Nay, nay, my lord, I’m not so tired of life.

Like you, monsieur, I am a man of peace;

But love naught better than setting others fighting.

The man you want must be a reckless devil,

Full of the vapors, moon-sick like a lover,

Who yearns for danger as young ducks for water.

Just such a man I know to fill your wants,

Ripe like an apple, ready now to drop

Into your basket do you promise glory.

Governor.  Who is this man?

Des. Do you know of one Daulac?

Governor.  Not the Sieur Daulac, he who owns an

      island,

A seigneury far up the river shore?

Des. The very man.

Governor.  They say he plays the hermit with one man

And a few Hurons whom he hath befriended.

Des. He is your man. If you would save your trade,

Your Church, your very Governorship itself,

You’d better use him.

[Exeunt both.

Enter Daulac and Pornac. Daulac sits at a table.

Por. This room is yours to-night, the inn is full.

To-morrow you can have a better one.

Daul. ’Tis well enough; what more does soldier want?

A place to eat and sleep and wake and think,

But not to die in.

Por. You have not eaten, master?

Daul. I want nothing.

[Leans his head on his hand and sighs.

Por. (aside) My poor master, he groweth daily worse;

Love-sick at heart, this life is killing him.

There is no murdering here, save taking of scalps,

And that the howling, painted paythens do.

Oh, saints betide that ever we came here!

This land of peace will be the death of him.

Daul. Look here, Pornac, I saw the priest this even;

This marriage market goeth on to-morrow.

Are you still minded in the same opinion

As to this wiving business? Are you sure

You have got cured of Fanchon?

Por. Fanchon, master! Fanchon is an angel,

And ever will have first place in my heart,

But she is absent, and upon her place

There sits a fear that we may never meet,

And a more fearful fear that every night

My scalp-lock will be shriven from my head,

So that each morn I find it there in wonder.

Now, for to medicine this same fear of mine,

I have prescribed unto myself a wife.

Daul. Ha, ha, Pornac, ’tis a strange protection.

Por. Not if you know it; she will either keep away

      savages,

Or fear o’ them by her company; fears, like troubles,

Should hunt in couples, master; or else my fear of her

Will drive out fear of them, so it’s all the same.

Daul. But a woman, Pornac, a woman is to be protected,

Not a protection.

Por. Not so, master. Barring their fear of mice, gray

      hairs

And wrinkles, I often think they out-courage men.

Daul. Then you are sure of happiness, Pornac, without

      Fanchon?

Por. If Fanchon were here I would love her truly;

But Fanchon absent is another matter.

Nay, nay, I will risk it, ’tis the way of nature.

Daul. Well, Pornac, have your will; remember to-morrow,

The Jesuits’ church. Now go, I’d be alone.

[Exit Pornac.

My interest in that poor fellow’s affairs

Doth make me for a moment half forget

Mine own poor miseries, but once alone

They all come crowding back a thousandfold

To torture my spirit. O Helène, Helène,

Fair spirit of the past, your memory

Fills all my heart to-night. Glory’s touch

Is dimming fast; this is no soldier’s land.

The men seem ever palsied with a fear

Like Damocles’ sword that hangs above them,

Just waiting to descend. The Indian,

Though cruel in his instincts, I admire;

He is a worthy foe, dreading nor death

Nor torture. Yet meseems the men

I see around me are not dead to honor.

Were they but once aroused, had I the chance,—

’Tis maddening to daily have to hear

Of families butchered, fields despoiled, and men

Carried away to fates of horrid death.

(a knocking) Ha, who is that? Come in.

Enter Desjardins.

What! good Heaven! ’tis Desjardins!

Des. Yea, Daulac, ’tis I.

Daul. When did you arrive?

Des. In the last ship.

Daul. And—and—I fear to ask you, Desjardins, but

      how is Helène?

Des. Oh, she is well.

Daul. And happy?

Des. As any other mad woman.

Daul. What mean you?

Des. She talks of giving her property to the Church.

Daul. Then I may hope, Desjardins, I may hope.

Des. (aside) Curse him, he would hope yet, would he?

(to Daulac) Nay, Daulac, she is dead to you.

Daul. Has she entered a cloister?

Des. Daulac, be a man, and think no more of Helène,

She is dead to you, but think of glory.

Daul. Of glory?

Des. You know the state of this poor colony?

Daul. Yea, indeed, but even now I chafed

At mine own weakness to better its condition.

Des. Why not act then?

Daul. Who am I, a single unknown man?

Had I a commission!—

Des. I bring you that commission, or rather the man

Who alone can grant it.

Daul. Who?

Des. The Governor; he awaits you.

Daul. Where?

Des. Here in this inn, presiding o’er a council

Suddenly called to settle this grave matter.

[Both go out.

Daul. God bless you, Desjardins, ever my true friend,

      my noble friend.

[Goes out first.

Des. (going out behind) Yea, we will see.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 2.

Place—Montreal.

 

Scene—Interior of a convent. Night. Helène is discovered kneeling in prayer. Procession of nuns pass in middle back past entrance, going to prayers. Music in distance. When nuns have passed, chanting heard in chapel at back. Helène slowly rises and advances to centre.

Hel. Heaven protect me, keep my maiden thoughts

In troth to him I love. Oh, guide me, Thou

Who guidest all poor stumbling human feet

To paths of peace.

[Pauses in meditation, then sinks into a seat.

Fanchon rushes in, screaming, and falls sobbing at her feet.

Fan. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, save me! save me!

Hel. Why, Fanchon, what is the matter? Tell me,

      Fanchon.

Fan. That horrible marriage market! Save me! save

      me!

Enter a Nun.

Nun.  Mademoiselle, this girl is disobedient.

’Tis the law of the colony, she must present

Herself within the marriage mart to-morrow;

And, now, do what we can, she doth protest.

Hel. Leave her to me, she is over-wrought.

[Exit Nun.

Fan. O mistress, save me! I would rather die

Than stand there in that place and be the barter

Of any yokel who may fancy me.

Are women cattle, that they treat us thus?

Hel. Fanchon, compose yourself, you are distraught.

You overrate the dangers of this course.

To shame the woman is not required of you.

There is no reason under Heaven why,

If some good youth should seek your hand to-morrow,

You should not accept him.

Fan. Yea, my lady, well you know there is one.

My love for—for—

Hel. Pornac?

Fan. Yea.

Hel. Fanchon!

Fan. I cannot help it, mistress; ask me else,

But this I cannot.

Hel. But you have promised, Fanchon. By deceit

You won your passage; ’tis against the law,

Your coming, save for purposes of marriage.

Fan. How about your own position, madam?

Hel. Fanchon!

Fan. Forgive me, lady, but when you speak me thus

You lose your Fanchon. I am but a woman

Who, like the she-wolf battling for her cubs,

Defends her love. Is love but for the mighty?

Believe me, madam, wherever woman is woman

Love is but love; there are no golden barriers;

This world is common when you touch the heart.

My only object was to be with you;

I could not let you travel forth alone.

If I lied, madam, it was because I loved you.

Hel. Then you love Pornac to such extremity?

Fan. That I will have none other.

Hel. Then, Fanchon, none shall have you, trust to me.

Do what I tell you, go with me to-morrow,

And stand this ordeal that unmaids you so,

I’ll stand your side, and, hap no miracle,

Though all the world should clamor nay upon it,

I’ll keep you single.

Fan. Heaven bless you, mademoiselle, Heaven bless

      you!

Hel. I have my sorrow, Fanchon, as you know;

Though in the public eye we’re deemed but barter,

Enter Nun, who stands apart.

The willing slaves of easy circumstance,

Yet to a real woman who hath loved,

And proved that love, no holy sacrament

Can be more sacred than that worship of hers.

Good night, Fanchon, pray to Heaven in peace.

Believe me true, there’s a divinity

Encloses in a golden mercy those

Who dwell in aspiration. Good night, Fanchon,

And trust in God.

[Kisses her. Exit Fanchon with Nun.

How the true, simple love of yon poor maid

Doth touch my spirit to tears and makes us equal!

How that strong throb of womanhood in her

Doth make her great and raise her to a majesty

A sceptred queen might envy! Oh, we women

Have but one nature. Wisdom may outwit us,

Truth slander us, Philosophy prove us shallow,

But first and last and always we have Love.

Enter the Mother Superior. A chant rises in chapel at back.

Mother Superior.  My daughter, are you rested?

Hel. Yea, madam, in body, but not in my heart;

I sought these shores to cure a grievous wound,

But here it bleeds even more.

M. S.  My daughter, trust in Heaven; forget these

      longings

That make you earth’s and keep your heart from God.

You have a sorrow, it brought you to these shores,

Forget it in the work He’d have you do.

My heart yearns toward you, you who are alone

Amid these savage wastes where cruel men,

More savage than the savage, wage their wars

For what earth gives them. You are ill protected.

Come, be my daughter; at the feet of God

Lay down your aches, your longings and your fears.

Look how the tender Mother looks upon you,

Sorrowful for your sorrow. Gaze, my child,

She calls you from your sorrow to her peace.

Hel. You half persuade me, did I think it right,

But I have something here within my heart

That mocks her peace.

M. S.  My daughter!

Hel. Nay, ’tis not evil, but as strong an influence

To keep me from her and this holy life,

For it is love.

[Weeps.

M. S.  Love, my child, this life is built of love,

Is moulded on it. In your love for others

You do perfect your own. Hearken to yon sounds

Of Heaven’s praise. Turn your heart to Heaven,

And be my daughter.

Hel. I know not what is best, your spirit calls me

One way to peace; my heart is torn the other.

O mother, pray for me!

[Suddenly shots are fired outside, a war-whoop rises. There is a terrible uproar, and the nuns all crowd forward in terror.

All.  The savages! the savages!

M. S.  Hush, my children, put your trust in God!

He will protect you. Do not shame our cloister

By these poor terrors. Back unto your prayers!

[The firing rises louder, and war-whoops shrill and hideous are heard. The nuns huddle together and shriek.

M. S.  Where is Sister Marie?

A Nun.  Out! She went to see a dying woman.

M. S.  Not out in all this? Why did I not know?

We must, we must find her!

[There is a knocking heard at the door, and a woodman and a priest come in, carrying the nun in a dying condition.

M. S.  O my child, my child, my noble child!

Marie. Yea, mother, poor Marie, going back to God!

(tries to smile) Moisten my lips, mother, it will all

Soon be over. They did not get him, though.

Priest.  It was a little lad, a poor wee lamb,

That she was bringing home, when they attacked her.

She fought for him; we came scarce in time

But to die with her, when the Sieur Daulac

Rescued us all, but not before this saint

Had got her death!

Hel. (aside) Daulac!

Marie. Father! Mother! I die. O Christ, receive me!

[Dies. The procession of nuns forms, headed by the stretcher with the body, and passes out into chapel chanting the Miserere.

Hel. Daulac! out there! in all that danger!

M. S.  (coming back) My child, this rude interruption

      must not break

My pleading with you. Yon poor soul is in Heaven.

Yours is yet unsaved.

[Chanting dies away.

Hel. Mother, I cannot, cannot, cannot answer now.

Curtain.

————

ACT III. Scene 3.

Place—Interior of a drinking room in the same inn, Montreal. Several young men and an old man discovered drinking in sombre silence.

Enter an Old Man who sits down at a table and calls for wine, rapping his stick on the table.

Old Man.  A stoup of wine, good wine, for I can pay for it. My son Jacques is a good son, none better, so I can pay for it.

[A waiter brings in the wine; the other old man looks up with a disconsolate sigh.

Old Man.  Well, good neighbor, why don’t you drink, man? Why so down? Hast the megrums, neighbor?

2nd Old Man.  Who can drink and be merry, with this cursed state o’ things? Grim murder fills the air. There is scarce a man of us but hath lost a son or a brother. Who can drink at such a time?

Old Man.  Tut, tut, man! life is life, an’ let death come as it will, let it find us merry. Drink, drink, I say! that’s my Jacques’ creed; live and let live, nohap who may die. So here, a drink all round.

2nd Old Man.  Nay, nay!

Old Man.  You will not, hey? Here, come, be merry! Here, let’s drink a health: let it be my son’s. A jollier lad and a better son ne’er was begotten. (all sit silent) Then you will not, cowards? Then I’ll drink it alone. Here’s to one who is no coward!

[Rises with cup in his hand. Just then a bell tolls; he sits down suddenly.

2nd Old Man.  There goes another. Where will this end? Twenty bodies brought in yesterday; sixteen to-day. Where will this end?

Old Man.  Just so long as you are cowards. Yea, I will drink!

[A man comes in suddenly and, seeing the old man, starts back, then whispers to a man near the door; a hurried whisper goes round the room. All gaze in horror at the 1st Old Man.

A Young Man.  They are bringing him here; for God’s sake get the old man out!

Another.  Can we not stop them?

Another.  ’Tis too late now, they are at the door.

Old Man.  Will you not drink, cowards?

All.  Nay, nay.

[The door opens. Enter four men, carrying a stretcher, with the face covered.

Old Man.  (starts back) Ha, who is it?

I will drink; men must die. So here is Jacques’ health!

All.  Nay, nay.

2nd Old Man.  Nay, for Heaven’s sake, nay! For your own son?

Old Man.  My son? my—Jacques? You lie! Jacques, Jacques? (goes near corpse) Jacques?

A Young Man.  Nay, old man! nay, old man, I will.

[Pulls off cloth.

Old Man.  Jacques! O my God!

[Falls on the body in terrible grief.

Enter Daulac and the Governor, followed by Desjardins.

Governor.  Another instance of this terrible condition.

Daul. (going forward) Good father, who is this?

Old Man.  My son, sir, my son! I did but drink his health, and now they say he’s dead! O God, dead! He who was so merry, sir, so merry, and so good to his poor, foolish old father! Jacques, speak, speak! ’tis your father! O God!

Daul. Good father, he died a soldier’s death.

Old Man.  Jacques a soldier! Nay, sir, Jacques was a woodman. I was a soldier, but he was brave, sir, Jacques!

Governor.  Some one take him home.

Old Man.  Nay, nay, I will stay with Jacques.

Daul. (aside) This breaks my heart.

(to Old Man) Good father, I did know your son; he

      was brave and noble, though scarce more than a boy.

Such a one as I would choose for brother had I choice.

Old Man.  Nay, sir, you are a great lord, and poor Jacques but a woodman.

Daul. Nay, father, but a soldier like yourself,

And my sole lordship this good, faithful sword.

Could I have saved your son I would have done it,

But he is dead.

Old Man.  O sir, you are a good and noble man. Oh, do not mock me, say he is not dead.

Daul. (aside) This goes beyond the natural; my heart

      bleeds.

(to the crowd of young men) Is there a man here who will follow me? I swear this must be ended though I die. Will no man follow me?

[The young men one by one rise and crowd around him, drawing their swords.

All.  We will.

Daul. To death?

All.  To death!

Daul. Swear it!

[Holds up cross of his sword; each man comes in turn and kneels before it, kissing the symbol.

Governor.  (aside to Desjardins) This man is mad! Sixteen men to go against eight hundred Iroquois. I’d have given him a good company had he but waited. If ever a man courted death this one does. He is mad!

Des. No madder than you or I. But ’tis his bent,

And they his friends that let him follow it.

Perchance this man was born for this. Who knows?

See how they crowd around him, and how each

Did volunteer the moment he convinced them.

A natural general this, I warn you, Governor,

Don’t now disown him.

Governor.  But such an army! Were it not he looks

So noble, in his face such hero valor,

I’d laugh at the whole matter. Such an army!

A tanner, two shoemakers and a clerk;

Three squires fresh from the anvil, and the rest

Woodcutters, idlers, sans the thing they need,

A knowledge of warcraft. If their madness last,

They are all dead men.

Des. What matter a thousand lives if you but save

The colony. If this man be mad,

’Tis not our matter.

Governor.  ’Tis gone beyond me now, but ’tis a pity.

He is so noble it doth seem like murder.

Des. And if it be, what else is any war

But licensed murder? You will hang a man

For but one thousandth part of what a nation

Does in the name of glory.

Governor.  Well, well, I save my fort; but who are you?

Des. Oh, me? Oh, I’m—I’m just a notary.

Governor.  I will speak; this man is mad.

Des. Nay, nay, not so, not so, ’tis you are mad.

Governor.  (to Daulac) Are you mad, sir? These

      men are not soldiers.

Daul. Monsieur le Gouverneur,

It is not soldiers now New France doth need,

But men!

Curtain.

---

ACT IV. Scene 1.

Place—Near the Jesuits’ Church, Montreal.

 

Scene—The marriage market.

Enter a company of young men, followed by a company of old men who are lame, halt and decrepit.

Young Men.  (singing)

Old Men.  (singing)

Young Men.  (in derision) Ha, ha, ha!

Old Men.  (sourly) Ha, ha, ha!

1st Young Man.  Heaven help the women.

1st Old Man.  Mere boys, mere boys!

Young Men.  Ha, ha, ha!

Young Men.  (singing)

Old Men.  (in chorus) Mere boys!

[Old men now march past.

Old Men.  We who are young and careless, etc.

Young Men.  Ha, ha, ha!

1st Old Man.  Who ha, ha’s me? I’m of age!

1st Young Man.  Yea, you’ll qualify!

1st Old Man.  Am I not sound? Have I the rickets? the spavin? the rheumatics? Nay, who says I can’t marry?

2nd Young Man.  Well done, young Lothario. How old are you, youngster?

2nd Old Man.  He is old enough to keep a wife, which same I much doubt thou art.

2nd Young Man.  Who consulted you, sprightly Winter?

2nd Old Man.  (in a rage) Winter! Winter! I’ll

      winter thee could I get at thee.

3rd Young Man.  Worry him not; he hath cut his

      wisdom teeth.

2nd Young Man.  Cut his wisdom teeth? They have cut him long ago and left him in the lurch.

Enter a short man with one arm and a wooden leg.

Short Man.  Is there a widow left, or are they all gone? I want to get a widow.

1st Old Man.  Widows? Hem! too old, too old!

Short Man.  You believe that extremes should meet, hey? But is there a widow? I must have a widow.

[Hobbles out.

[A bell rings. A young girl goes past with a pensive air. Two more go past with a self-conscious air and a toss of the head. A couple of fat widows now go past with a languishing look at the young men. Two sour old maids come next, with a look of scorn for the old men, who shout in derision.

Old Maids.  One leg in the grave, the old wretches!

1st Old Man.  You needn’t fear, ladies; your age protects you.

Old Maids.  Horrid!

[Exeunt both.

[A bell rings. Exeunt young men and old men, all singing, “Good-bye to youth,” etc., etc., the most decrepit bringing up the rear. Enter suddenly, running, a callow youth.

Callow Youth.  Are they all gone? all gone? Jean! Finette! Marie! Are they all gone? I’ve got the stove and a wash-tub, and I’ll soon be rich. Oh, they’ll all be gone, the girls, they’ll be all gone!

[Runs out.

Enter Piotr and Pornac, by different ways, both in a hurry. They run against each other; both fall.

Por. Ha! ’tis thou, scum!

Pio. Rat!

Por. (rising) Don’t rat me!

Pio. I’ll teach thee to scum me!

Por. Yardstick! beanpole!

Pio. Potbelly! swine!

Both.  (edging off) Ha, ha!

Por. (disdainfully) I would spare thy terrors, coward.

Pio. (the same) I scorn to vantage by thy tremblings, craven.

[Exeunt both in a hurry by different ways.

[Rise inner curtain, men and women discovered ranged on separate sides of the room. A bell rings. Enter an official, who hammers with a baton on a table.

Officer.  I declare the market open.

[Reads from a list.

Number one: Jeanne Pierrotte, stand forward.

[An old maid comes forward. Officer continues reading.

Jeanne Pierrotte, spinster, over forty.

Jeanne. It’s a lie!

Officer.  But a fair housekeeper, though sharp-tempered.

1st Old Man.  Too old!

Other Old Men.  (in chorus) Too old, too old!

Officer.  This woman has a good dowry in gold.

1st Old Man.  Ha, ha! she is not so formidable.

Fair one, would you consider my youth and loveliness?

Old Maid.  Dotard, marry a scarecrow? Not me.

1st Young Man.  ’Tis a tidy sum. Sweet angel, would you consider?

Old Maid.  O sir, spare my blushes.

1st Young Man.  Don’t mention them. (aside) They’re spare enough. Is it a match?

Old Maid.  I’m yours.

[Faints in his arms.

1st Young Man.  (supporting her out) Now for the dowry.

Officer.  (reading) Marie Denoit, widow, small dowry, fair looking, healthy.

[A fat widow stands forward.

1st Old Man.  Madam, can we do business?

Fat Widow.  Well, I should say not.

1st Old Man.  Madam, I have a friend here who will speak me better in your eyes.

Fat Widow.  What friend?

1st Old Man.  In this bag. (shakes bag, making gold clink) Hear him speak, madam!

Fat Widow.  It doth sound kindly. Is there much?

1st Old Man.  More than much. What is your mind?

Fat Widow.  I will consider.

1st Old Man.  Then you are won.

Fat Widow.  Have you had experience?

1st Old Man.  Much, madam, I have buried my fifth.

Fat Widow.  Then I will be your sixth!

[Exeunt both, Fat Widow carrying bag.

Officer.  (rapping with baton) These be all the dowries. I now declare the marriage market open for general arrangement.

[Men and women pair off in earnest consultation. The short man with a wooden leg limps by with a young girl.

Short Man.  I have a cow and a field of corn, and will soon be rich.

Girl.  But I would as lief marry a deal table.

Short Man.  Consider now, I would make you happy.

Girl.  With that leg and that arm? Never!

[Turns to leave him; he tries to kneel to her, but falls over and cannot get up. An old maid tries to help him, but he waves her off with strong objection. He escapes and leaves the old maid alone. Just then the callow youth rushes in.

Callow Youth.  Are they all gone, all gone? Are the girls all gone? (starts on seeing the old maid) Yea, I knew it, I knew it.

[Turns to go out.

Old Maid.  Nay, there is one, there is one! Oh, leave me not!

Callow Youth.  Oh, thunders, no!

[Rushes out followed by Old Maid.

Enter Piotr and Pornac by different doors. Enter the Mother Superior, Helène and Fanchon. Piotr and Pornac both start and fall on their knees before Fanchon.

Both.  O Fanchon!

Fan. I cannot marry you both.

Por. Then choose.

Pio. Yea, choose.

Fan. Then I will have Pornac.

Por. (squeezing her hand) Angel!

[Exit Pornac and Fanchon.

Pio. Well, I am a fool! ’Tis the devil’s wages.

[Exit.

Enter Daulac and Desjardins by different doors.

Daul. Pornac, Pornac! (sees Helène) O Helène!

Hel. Daulac!

Daul. This is happiness!

[Kisses her hand.

Hel. Daulac, could I tell you how I have wronged you!

Daul. And I have wronged myself by losing you! O Helène, I have loved you!

Hel. Have loved me?

Daul. And do now, as merciful Heaven knows, Helène.

[Folds her in his arms.

Mother Superior.  Stay, stay, sir; this maiden is in my charge.

Des. And you, sir, wed to glory!

Daul. But Heaven says nay, for love hath conquered both. Helène, my love, would you marry me had I but one hour to live?

Hel. Daulac, I would rather die with you than live without you.

Daul. Then you are mine, and you shall be my wife. By Heaven I swear it!

Des. (aside) Fiends of hell, he shall not! He shall not, for I also swear it!

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 2.

Enter Desjardins with a letter in his hand.

Des. I am still triumphant. Peal out, bells!

Blow, blatant music! I have that about me

Will spill this melody in the middle tune.

Enter Helène, veiled, leaning on Daulac’s arm.

Daul. Helène, my wife at last, sweet welcome home.

[Kisses her.

Hel. My husband!

Des. (coming forward) Madam, I would congratulate you.

Hel. Thank you, Desjardins.

Des. (to Daulac) And you.

Daul. (takes Desjardins’ hand, still holding Helène’s)

Thank you, old friend, this is true happiness:

The woman I love my bride; the life-long friend,

The man I honored, joining in my happiness.

My heart’s too full for utterance.

Hel. Yea, thank you, Desjardins, this kind hour

Seems too much filled with blessing. I will go

And supplicate Heaven that its joy may last.

Des. (detaining her) Yea, madam, happiness is all

      at most

Anticipation. Scarcely do we lift

The cup we dreamed of to our thirsting lips,

Than some cruel fate, with rude, arresting hand,

Doth dash it from us. Madam, you do well

To doubt its reality.

Hel. Sir, you are pale. Daulac, my husband, I will go and pray.

[Goes to a prie-dieu at one side and kneels with her back to them.

Daul. Desjardins, by your manner and your looks, You bring some desperate business.

Des. (giving him letter) Forgive my intruding on an

      hour like this,

This ravaging a bridegroom from his bride,

But the occasion urges. (aside) Now we’ll know

How he doth like the issue of his promise.

Daul. (opens letter and reads slowly in gradually growing

      horror and amazement) Great Heaven! from

      the Governor!

Des. Yea, did you not expect it?

Daul. (reads) “The Iroquois are forming in large numbers on the Upper Ottawa. Your plan to proceed to Long Sault and stop their progress is now necessary, if to be attempted at all. The young men await you in the Church of the Jesuits, ready to take the oath you suggested and proceed at once to the Long Sault. If you now have any doubts as to the wisdom of your proceeding, I would advise you to await further developments, but there is no doubt that the Colony of New France was never in so great a danger.—Faithfully yours, Maisonneuve, Governor.” My God! my God!

Des. Then you repent your proposal?

Daul. O Desjardins, so soon, so soon!

Des. Then you will not go?

Daul. Can you not feel for this, mine agony?

The woman I have loved so many years,

To have to leave her at the altar steps

To go to death.

Des. How many have loved as truly all their lives

Never to get that far, and yet men say

There’s a God in Heaven.

Daul. O Desjardins, think me not a craven

If in this hour I’m but a suffering man,

Hounded by fate into so cruel a corner

That seems me man was never cornered so.

Look on her, Desjardins, kneeling like a spirit

New shrived for Heaven, praying that Heaven to keep

In hallowed bonds her golden happiness,

Breathing on innocent lips, whose every breath

Is but an incense of divinity,

Over and over the hallowed name of wife.

And all the while you stand like some grim fate

Urging on me to kill those very prayers

And, playing the robber, wreck that happiness.

Des. Be careful, or she will hear you.

Daul. Hear? She cannot hear us. So hallowed is

      this love

In woman’s innocence on her wedding night,

That, believe me, Desjardins, she is deaf to earth;

She is so far away, her heart’s in heaven.

Des. Yea, ’tis a pity, ’tis a veritable pity

To spoil so rare a picture, but meanwhile

The Governor waits. You are a soldier, sir.

There are two roads, they will not go together:

Glory or love, which will you choose to-night?

The occasion waits.

Daul. Then it shall wait no longer, I have chosen!

Des. Ha! now which? Have I studied this man

Full half a lifetime to discover now

Some unseen flaw in all that open nature

That yet may defeat my hopings? Oh, this minute,

It seems the longest I have ever lived.

Speak, Daulac, speak and break my heart or lift me up to

      heaven.

Daul. Desjardins, have you loved me all these years

And not yet know me? Have we been such friends

That even a doubt in this supremest hour

Should pain you with a single shuddering fear

Lest I should wreck on such a shoal as this?

O Desjardins, Desjardins!

Des. Then you choose glory?

Daul. Nay, I choose love.

Des. Oh, I am mated by this paper man,

This poor stuffed idol, even my suspicions,

Mine evil instincts that would dare impugn

The very angels of heaven, did not dream

This froth of honor would blow on the wind,

This fountain of glory fall at the first spout!

O human wisdom, poor, weak, servile wit,

Now I discard you. I will go a fool!

I am checkmated (aside) by the very weakness

I thought to play on.

Daul. Desjardins, Desjardins, you have read me wrong!

Des. Would to mischief I could read you right!

Daul. Upon this night, this holiest night on earth

To me that fate e’er brings to erring man,

Would you say “Glory”? What is glory, I say,

To him who loves? If you would have my answer,

(pointing to Helène) There is my glory. All of earth’s

      wide dreams,

All majesties, all vistas of my youth,

Are concentrated on her rose-red lips

When she speaks that word “husband”!

                              Nay, Desjardins,

The bitter struggle in my heart to-night

Is ’twixt love and love, the human love

That which doth bid me stay, the higher love

That would not let me make her soul a bait

To trap mine honor. The higher love doth conquer.

I have chosen. Give me but a moment

To bid farewell.

Des. (aside) Then I have conquered!

Daul. Helène!

[She starts. He goes to her and raises her.

Helène, my love, I must leave you now.

Hel. When? now? But you will come to me soon?

Daul. Yea, my love, forgive this parting now.

Hel. Before you go, let me say that one word,

It is so sweet, you know, to woman’s heart,

“My husband!”

Daul. My wife, my wife! (kissing her)

[Exit.

Des. I grieve to part you from so new a husband.

Hel. (as if waking from a dream) Did you speak?

[Suddenly she sees the letter which Daulac has dropped.

That letter! what means it?

[Goes to pick it up, but Desjardins intercepts her.

Sir, give me that letter.

Des. I cannot, madam.

Hel. Was it not to my husband?

Des. It was, madam.

Hel. Then I must see it. Am I not his wife?

Des. He would not have you see it.

Hel. Sir, you insult me with your reasons. They must

      be

Cruel ones would keep the knowledge of

Her husband’s absence from his new-wed wife.

Sir, I demand it, I must have that letter.

Des. Madam, did it never strike your fears

That in your husband’s love you had a rival?

Hel. Sir!

Des. Nay, madam, you mistake; ’tis no woman.

Hel. (stamping with her foot) What mean you, sir?

You insult me with enigma.

Des. I mean that Daulac, who loves you so well,

Loves glory more.

Hel. Glory? What mean you? I scarce understand.

Des. If you will come with me and trust my word, I will show whereof I mean.

Hel. Go with you, sir? Nay, I will not leave here Till my husband comes.

Des. Then you will have it, madam!

[Gives her letter.

Read your letter.

Hel. (reads the letter) O cruel Heaven! Daulac!       Daulac!

[Falls fainting to the ground.

Des. O God, I have killed her! I who love her so! Helène! Helène! She moves not. Dare I kiss her? Just one light kiss, I will but touch the dews Of her sweet lips! Nay, nay, I dare not now. He! he! love her! He knows not of love! Ha, she revives! Helène!

Hel. Sir, did you speak? Where am I? Daulac! Oh! (rises) Now I remember. Have I fainted? Nay, You need not help me; I will go with you.

Des. Are you recovered?

Hel. I am a soldier’s daughter. It was a weakness, A foolish weakness that doth shame us women. Give me that letter. Thank you. We will go.

Des. Are you prepared?

Hel. Have I not said it?

[Points to the door. Exeunt both.

Curtain.

————

ACT IV. Scene 3.

Place—A gallery or alcove of the Jesuits’ church. The interior of the church is seen in the background.

 

Time—The same night.

Enter priests and acolytes. Music and chanting is heard in the distance. Enter Daulac and the seventeen young men. They all kneel. The Priest comes forward. Enter Desjardins and Helène in the shadowed foreground. Helène sees Daulac kneeling.

Hel. (starts) My husband!

Des. Yea, madam, see his face; his features rapt

On deeds of glory, battle’s rugged perils,

Have lost the lover-look that gazed in thine

But these short moments since. Gaze thou and see

How far away is Daulac’s heart from love.

So far is he, that yon sweet hour ago,

Yon lover-kiss still trembling on thy lips,

To him were never given.

Hel. Nay, cruel man, see, even now he prays.

My name upon his lips looks up to God.

Let me go to him!

Des. ’Twere sacrilege, the grossest sacrilege!

You would not stay him. Did he love you true,

He’d die before he’d ever use you thus.

Hel. He loves me yet! O God! he loves me yet!

Des. And yet upon his very wedding night,

Yea, from the shadow of the altar itself,

He’d go to this.

Hel. I’ll not believe, though all the fiends of hell

Do jabber it in mine ears but Daulac loves me.

[The Priest in the distance administers the oath to Daulac.

Priest.  My son, your heart is consecrate to God.

Sacred to this purpose, alienate,

By this dread oath from all that dwells in life,

From father, mother, brother, sister, wife.

Hel. (starts forward with a cry) Daulac, O Daulac!

Des. (pulling her back) Nay, madam, are you mad?

Hel. I tell you, let me go! He is my husband!

[Daulac sinks once more in prayer. The Priest administers the oath to the others in turn. Then the priests, soldiers all pile out of the church.

Hel. O God! O God!

Des. Are you satisfied?

Hel. He loves me still! I cannot but believe

You are some wizard, some horrible conjurer,

Who with an evil dream doth visit mine eyes.

I’ll not believe upon my wedding night

That I’m forsaken. God would not permit.

Des. By all that’s holy, all that’s pure and true,

That Daulac to whom a little hour ago

You promised wifehood is dead to earth and you.

Think not of him, O Helène; in this hour,

Hour of my triumph, turn your eyes on me,

I who have loved you, not as yonder shadow,

But as a man, a soul of flesh and blood,

Whose very fancies tingle at your name.

Who all these years has plotted, waited, schemed

To get you; would go to nether hell

And suffer all the agonies of the damned

To catch one little smile of kind regard,

One token of your love.

Hel. Daulac! Heaven! I am going mad!

Des. Nay, nay, repulse me not. O sweetest of women,

Give me but one small crumb of all you’ve wasted

On that cold statue. I will make you happy.

We will go back to France. Nay, say it not!

Don’t curse me, Helène!

Hel. Back, insulter! Leave me, monster! Go!

Des. Yea, name me monster, name me what you will.

Am I that monster? Why? Because I love

Your womanly, sweet perfections, your true self.

Nay, rather, he who having gained such a prize,

And envied of earth and Heaven, should so prove

Trebly a monster as to cast it off.

O Helène, Helène! had it been my fate

Like yonder Daulac, to have won your heart,

Not all the glory, all the honor prized,

Had come between us.

Hel. Man, or rather devil, let me pass!

Des. Madam, be I devil, or what you like,

I am not lightly scorned. Beware my hate.

Your noble Daulac is no longer yours

This very night, devoted to New France,

The victim of his folly and my wiles,

He goes to death.

Hel. O Heaven, Heaven, save him! Daulac!

[Falls in dead faint.

Des. So let her lie. Yon lovely drift of snow

That froze my hopes. Why did fate make it so,

That she, all Spring to Daulac, to me all Winter.

O angel perfections, hair and curvèd mouth,

Sweet eyes all hidden, splendid pulsing breast,

Be fate but kindly, I will melt you yet.

Meantime I take this memory of your splendors.

[Slips her wedding ring from off her finger.

Now I must go. I’ll haunt him till I know

That he is dead. I’ll brave the painted storm

To see him ended, he whom I do hate.

[Exit.

Enter Mother Superior.

Hel. (rises) Madam, where am I? Yea, now I

      remember.

It all comes back. Oh, tell me, tell me true,

Is this a dream, a hideous midnight dream?

Or is he dead to me?

M. S.  Yea, my child, Daulac is dead to thee.

Hel. Dead? dead? to me? Then tell me, holy mother,

What God would have me do.

M. S.  Submit to Heaven, my child.

Hel. Nay, he’s my husband still. I’ll go to him.

Enter Daulac.

Daulac!

[Flies to his arms.

Daul. (kissing her brow) Then you know all?

Hel. Yea, all.

Daul. My poor, poor love!

This life is not all harvest, some must lose

Where others garner. Had I stayed with you,

The agonies of butchered women and children

At night and morn had ever come between

Our holiest love. God asks this sacrifice,

That, loving you, my bride, my sweet Helène,

I go to death.

Hel. Yea, Daulac, it is fated, but once more

Take me into your arms and kiss my lips,

And call me wife.

Daul. O my love, my wife!

Hel. My husband, farewell!

Daul. We will meet in heaven!

Hel. Soon. (exit Daulac) O Daulac, Daulac!

Enter Fanchon.

Fan. O my mistress!

Hel. O Fanchon!

Did ever Heaven ask so much of woman?

And, O my Fanchon, that horrible Desjardins,

He—he—made love to me!

Fan. Oh, I have known him long; he is a devil.

Hel. I kept this fact from Daulac; I would never

In this dread hour prevent him in his duty,

But I’ve a duty I do owe to him.

Fan. Yea, madam, to retire and pray for him.

Hel. Nay, he shall have my prayers, yea, even now

With every breath goes up a call to Heaven.

But I’m a soldier’s daughter: where he dies,

I am his wife, I’m going to die with him.

Curtain.

---

ACT V. Scene 1.

Place—The Long Sault, a sheltered spot near the fort.

 

Time—Night.

Enter Helène and Fanchon.

Fan. O madam, stay not in this terrible place.

Death creeps about us, looks us in the face.

Oh, stay not, this is death.

Hel. Yea, all life, too; back, back, the way you came,

Or this same death you prate of in his net

Will mesh another victim!

Fan. O noble lady, what is this poor longing,

This love of life and heat and moving sound,

That makes us cowards to the crowding dark?

I sorrow to leave you, yet I dread to die.

Hel. Quick! haste, or ’tis too late. Fear not for me!

Quick! kiss me, Fanchon; now good-bye, good-bye!

Fan. Forgive me, madam, that I love to live.

Hel. Go! go! May you be happy, happy as I.

Fan. O madam!

Hel. Farewell!

[Helène pushes her out; she goes out sobbing.

Oh, now I’ve reached my zenith as a plotter;

Could I but make a noise I’d like to sing,

Or lilt and dance around, like any child.

’Tis strange, with death about me like a wall,

There creeps across me this fantastic mood;

But I could laugh and sing and cry by turns,

For I am his, he cannot send me back.

Yea, I will die first. O you foolish world!

Little you know what woman will do for man;

’Tis said by shallow-pate philosophers

That there be nothing equals woman’s wit,

That renders woman so unconquerable.

’Tis something ’twixt her two breasts planted deep,

Pulsating her whole being, called the heart,

And be she guided thus, what menaces

The dreams of subtlest intellect crumbles down

To airy nothings at her constant will.

O stars! that rise and know me true to him,

Ere you do set, will see us die together!

[Footsteps heard. She gazes swiftly about her and glides into a shadowy corner. An Indian war-cry is heard in the distance.

Enter Daulac with cloak and sword.

Daul. Another dawn will usher our souls to Heaven.

Enter Desjardins disguised as a Huron chief.

Des. Ha, ha, ha!

Daul. Avaunt, Fiend!

Des. (advancing into the light and opening his blanket)

      Know you me not?

Daul. ’Tis you, Desjardins? Methought you were the Huron

In paint and feathers hidden from my ken,

But now you laughed as harshly as the fiend

When he mocks mortals ushered into hell.

Des. ’Tis well said, ha, ha, ha!

Daul. What mean you? Why this coming in a mask,

When you, by joining in our open act,

Had shared our glory? I had not dreamed you martial,

But rather subtle, wise and full of cares,

A friend to moor to in the deeps of life;

But now I greet you sudden built about

With unsuspected virtues. Welcome, friend,

A soldier hand I give you in this breach,

Where ere another sunrise we will sleep

To save our loved New France.

Des. Nay, nay, not yet until you know the truth!

Daul. The truth?

Des. I am no soldier full of oaths and follies,—

Glory I crave not, knowing its poor lease;

Country I own not save where I may thrive.

I’m not so drunk with patriotic dreams

To snuff my candle in such breach as this.

Nay, Daulac, you are wrong; on other matters,

’Twixt me and thee, I come to thee to-night.

Daul. What mean you, Desjardins? why this sinister

      mask?

Des. Are you a dauntless spirit?

Daul. Whatever Daulac’s faults, and he hath many,

No mortal ever turned him where he faced!

Des. Then know the truth: this is the true Desjardins;

The other was the mask.

Daul. The mask?

Des. Yea, the mask. Thou need’st all thy bravery,

Whereof in pride thou boastest thyself possessed.

’Tis easy dreaming; full many hearts are brave

When glory and achievement lie ahead,

Like splendid hills, topped by more splendid sunset,

Making a crown of memory o’er their deeds,

Where immortality lights them to their rest.

But when in starless midnight, all unwitnessed,

The sharp encounter runs, with shaking shame,

And hideous obloquy and dead men’s bones,

Then who is brave, who glory-hearted then,

When cruel death camps round the ebbing hours,

Bidding to silence?

Ha, ha, with thee it is another matter,

Yea, ’tis a sterner road to travel then.

Daul. I know not if thou art mine olden friend,

Who counselled me oft upon my youthful follies,

Or whether thou art some fiend, in my last hours

Sent hither in shape of him to shake my spirit;

But man or devil, I do say to thee,

Thou canst not daunt me.

Des. Wait, wait, speak not so fast, my noble soldier;

Desjardins’ vengeance hath not burned in vain.

Wait, wait, thou gilded idol, blinded fool,

Till thou hast met the master of thy fate,

Then thou wilt tremble!

Daul. Desjardins, chance before the dawn I die,

But tell me what dread sin I sinned against you,

That makes you such a devil in this hour?

Des. Ha, ha! ’twill take some time, but could I spread

This hour of agony over many years,

For bitter ages, I would die anew,

To see you suffer as you will to-night.

You think you are a hero, you who are

A poor tricked creature, taken in my cunning.

You ask how you have sinned. In your whole being!

You crossed my nature since your earliest years.

All that you had I lacked, I speak it plain,

And hated you with an instinctive hate.

You little knew the hell that walked your side,

The enemy that crept into your life,

That probed your very weakness, searched your follies,

Studied the deep recesses of your nature,

To take you in this final trap at last.

Had I not reason? What you had I envied,

The form, the spirit, the charm that dazzles men

And leadeth women as the magnetic needle

Is drawn to either pole. Had I not reason?

You had what my soul lacked!

Daul. Great God! Great God! Can such a nature be?

Des. Great God? What hath a God to do with thee?

You cheat your spirit with a vain conceit

That Deity hath guided all these years

Your being to this one great act of glory,

This splendid deed of high heroic valor,

Wherein through death you hand your memory down,

Immortal and resplendent to all days.

But know the truth: ’twas I, not He, who guided

Your poor fool-nature, blinded, to this pass,

Where men will laugh to scorn the self-built hero,

Taken at odds in his own childish dreams,

Aping in play the demi-gods of Greece,

Uselessly ending, in fountain spout of glory,

A self-marred life he did not dare to live.

Daul. There is a something in your very voice

That freezes my being. No thousand thirsting tongues

Of angry, eager steel poised at my heart

To drink its fountains had power to wake the dread

My spirit feels to know that all these years

Your soul has been so near me. Of a truth,

We live next door to beings all our days,

Quaff social beakers at the self-same inn,

Tread the same streets with similar joys and cares,

Share the same roof, yea, even board and bed,

From eager youth to pining, palsied age,

To part as strangers at the very end.

Yea, sooth, it is indeed a wondrous world.

But to be shown long after many years,

The path you treaded nightly cunningly hid

A precipice to gulf you at the end,

Is not a thousandth part so dire and dread

As this unmasking of a hidden hate.

God knows I am a poor slow-minded man,

Following one impulse all my days:

If I have had the folly to dream of fame

Beyond my merit, Heaven hath rebuked me daily.

I know not of your subtle sophistries

That seek below the surface to confound

The simple-minded, who have only duty

To light them on to what is best in living;

I may not ken your wisdom, mayhap I am

O’er-blinded by my passions to achieve,

Treading the path of those who went before;

But I know this—that in my poorer insight

The simple following of those noble voices

Who point in lofty dreams to aid our fellows,

Is greater far than all the deep intrigue

Builded of all the sophistries of hell.

I am a simple soldier without wisdom,

Save that which serves for valor; without knowledge,

Save what a man should know; but I am certain

What I have done is right in eye of God,

And my best instincts:—though I die to-night,

This sleeping world, this mighty-brooding mystery,

That dreams in awe of its own majesty;

Those wondrous rolling orbs that light each other

Along the endless ways of outer space;

All tell me I am right and whisper comfort.

Des. Ha, ha! this demi-god, he is above me,

Out of my reach, my envy cannot touch him.

Wait, wait, till I do tumble his soul to earth!

(to Daulac) Wait, wait, my Daulac, how about Helène?

Daul. She is an angel, far beyond your hate,

Or my poor love.

Des. Beyond your love, perchance, but not my hate.

Have you never in your innocence dreamed

The one supremest reason why I hate you

Is that I love Helène?

Daul. You—love—Helène?

Des. And why not? May the moth not love the star?

The bat bathe in the moonlight with the eagle?

Yea, I have loved her, secret, all these years.

’Twas I who separated you in France,

Drove you out here, trapped you into this corner;

And now I tell you, petted fool of Heaven,

I am your master, I will wed her yet.

Daul. O God in heaven, tell me is it true

That yonder devil is not flesh and blood,

But some grim phantom?

Des. Yea, more; to teach you what a patch your honor,

When ’tis too late to mend it; would you know it,

She’s not all yours!

Daul. Devil, your life shall answer, pollute not

That angel memory by such hellish slander.

Though I be sworn to Heaven a million times,

I am yet a man!

[Draws sword.

Des. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I fear you not!

You are too great a soul to trample a gnat

That stings like me; know you your marriage ring?

[Holds the ring up.

Daul. Great God! It is! It is her wedding ring!

What mist is this that creeps before my spirit?

Nay! nay! I am forsworn! By earth and Heaven,

She is as pure as that same Heaven itself,—

And you a liar!

Des. (starting back) I am a liar, aye. Ha, ha; ha, ha!

What proof have you that I am what you say?

Yea, die in doubt. Here is your wedding ring.

You trusted Heaven! Where is your wife to say

I am a liar?

[Helène comes out and confronts him.

Hel. That Heaven you slander takes you at your word,

And I am here.

Des. Great God! Curses! curses! I am beaten,

Yea, beaten, beaten, at the very last, and by the woman!

Daul. Helène!

Hel. (rushing into his arms) Yea, Daulac, Helène, come to die with you.

Daul. My love! my angel love!

[A gun is fired. Helène screams.

Hel. Daulac, I die! I die!

Daul. (supporting her to a heap of fir) O God! she

      is shot!

Hel. Kiss me, my love, I could not live without you.

Daul. O Helène! tell me that you do not suffer.

Hel. Nay, Daulac, I die happy in your arms.

[Dies.

Daul. (laying her gently down) Dead! Oh, dead!

O universe of love so soon extinguished!

(turning to Desjardins and drawing his sword) Now,

      Devil, to settle with you.

Des. Yea, yea; this is the work I’d fain be at.

(draws) Now, vengeance, vengeance, match with Daulac’s

      fate!

Daul. Desjardins, though it be my latest hour on earth,

I could not die till I had finished you!

[They fight long and hard. Desjardins wounds Daulac.

Des. Ha, ha! Mine, mine!

Daul. No, by the stars of heaven, no! Take that—aye,

      that!

[Runs Desjardins through. Desjardins falls and lies on ground, gasping. He tries to get up, then crawls toward Helène’s body.

Des. Yea, mine! Yea, mine! in death! in death!

Daul. Back, back!

[Prevents him.

Des. Curse you! curse you!

[Dies.

[A loud war-whoop rises, and Indians with raised hatchets rush in from all sides. Daulac lifts Helène’s body and, placing his foot against Desjardins’ body, turns, takes sword in hand and confronts them. They all start back in tableau.

Daul. O loved New France, my own beloved New

      France,

I die, I die for thee!

Curtain.

---