ELEANOR. I have my dagger here to still their throats.

FITZURSE. Nay, Madam, not to-night—the night is falling. What can be done to-night?

ELEANOR. Well—well—away.



SCENE III.—Traitor's Meadow at Freteval. Pavilions and Tents of the English and French Baronage. BECKET and HERBERT OF BOSHAM.

BECKET. See here!

HERBERT. What's here?

BECKET. A notice from the priest, To whom our John of Salisbury committed The secret of the bower, that our wolf-Queen Is prowling round the fold. I should be back In England ev'n for this.

HERBERT. These are by-things In the great cause.

BECKET. The by-things of the Lord Are the wrong'd innocences that will cry From all the hidden by-ways of the world In the great day against the wronger. I know Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before The Church should suffer wrong!

HERBERT. Do you see, my lord, There is the King talking with Walter Map?

BECKET. He hath the Pope's last letters, and they threaten The immediate thunder-blast of interdict: Yet he can scarce be touching upon those, Or scarce would smile that fashion.

HERBERT. Winter sunshine! Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock should catch An after ague-fit of trembling. Look! He bows, he bares his head, he is coming hither. Still with a smile.

Enter KING HENRY and WALTER MAP.

HENRY. We have had so many hours together, Thomas, So many happy hours alone together, That I would speak with you once more alone.

BECKET. My liege, your will and happiness are mine.

[Exeunt KING and BECKET.

HERBERT. The same smile still.

WALTER MAP. Do you see that great black cloud that hath come over the sun and cast us all into shadow?

HERBERT. And feel it too.

WALTER MAP. And see you yon side-beam that is forced from under it, and sets the church-tower over there all a-hell-fire as it were?

HERBERT. Ay.

WALTER MAP. It is this black, bell-silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hindering interdict that hath squeezed out this side-smile upon Canterbury, whereof may come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. Sudden change is a house on sand; and tho' I count Henry honest enough, yet when fear creeps in at the front, honesty steals out at the back, and the King at last is fairly scared by this cloud—this interdict. I have been more for the King than the Church in this matter—yea, even for the sake of the Church: for, truly, as the case stood, you had safelier have slain an archbishop than a she-goat: but our recoverer and upholder of customs hath in this crowning of young Henry by York and London so violated the immemorial usage of the Church, that, like the gravedigger's child I have heard of, trying to ring the bell, he hath half-hanged himself in the rope of the Church, or rather pulled all the Church with the Holy Father astride of it down upon his own head.

HERBERT. Were you there?

WALTER MAP. In the church rope?—no. I was at the crowning, for I have pleasure in the pleasure of crowds, and to read the faces of men at a great show.

HERBERT. And how did Roger of York comport himself?

WALTER MAP. As magnificently and archiepiscopally as our Thomas would have done: only there was a dare-devil in his eye—I should say a dare-Becket. He thought less of two kings than of one Roger the king of the occasion. Foliot is the holier man, perhaps the better. Once or twice there ran a twitch across his face as who should say what's to follow? but Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother Church, and every now and then glancing about him like a thief at night when he hears a door open in the house and thinks 'the master.'

HERBERT. And the father-king?

WALTER MAP. The father's eye was so tender it would have called a goose off the green, and once he strove to hide his face, like the Greek king when his daughter was sacrificed, but he thought better of it: it was but the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, a smaller matter; but as to the young crownling himself, he looked so malapert in the eyes, that had I fathered him I had given him more of the rod than the sceptre. Then followed the thunder of the captains and the shouting, and so we came on to the banquet, from whence there puffed out such an incense of unctuosity into the nostrils of our Gods of Church and State, that Lucullus or Apicius might have sniffed it in their Hades of heathenism, so that the smell of their own roast had not come across it—

HERBERT. Map, tho' you make your butt too big, you overshoot it.

WALTER MAP. —For as to the fish, they de-miracled the miraculous draught, and might have sunk a navy—

HERBERT. There again, Goliasing and Goliathising!

WALTER MAP. —And as for the flesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all manner of game, and four-footed things, and fowls—

HERBERT. And all manner of creeping things too?

WALTER MAP. —Well, there were Abbots—but they did not bring their women; and so we were dull enough at first, but in the end we flourished out into a merriment; for the old King would act servitor and hand a dish to his son; whereupon my Lord of York—his fine-cut face bowing and beaming with all that courtesy which hath less loyalty in it than the backward scrape of the clown's heel—'great honour,' says he, 'from the King's self to the King's son.' Did you hear the young King's quip?

HERBERT. No, what was it?

WALTER MAP. Glancing at the days when his father was only Earl of Anjou, he answered:—'Should not an earl's son wait on a king's son?' And when the cold corners of the King's mouth began to thaw, there was a great motion of laughter among us, part real, part childlike, to be freed from the dulness—part royal, for King and kingling both laughed, and so we could not but laugh, as by a royal necessity—part childlike again—when we felt we had laughed too long and could not stay ourselves—many midriff-shaken even to tears, as springs gush out after earthquakes—but from those, as I said before, there may come a conflagration—tho', to keep the figure moist and make it hold water, I should say rather, the lacrymation of a lamentation; but look if Thomas have not flung himself at the King's feet. They have made it up again—for the moment.

HERBERT. Thanks to the blessed Magdalen, whose day it is.

Re-enter HENRY and BECKET. (During their conference the BARONS and BISHOPS of FRANCE and ENGLAND come in at back of stage.)

BECKET. Ay, King! for in thy kingdom, as thou knowest, The spouse of the Great King, thy King, hath fallen— The daughter of Zion lies beside the way— The priests of Baal tread her underfoot— The golden ornaments are stolen from her—

HENRY. Have I not promised to restore her, Thomas, And send thee back again to Canterbury?

BECKET. Send back again those exiles of my kin Who wander famine-wasted thro' the world.

HENRY. Have I not promised, man, to send them back?

BECKET. Yet one thing more. Thou hast broken thro' the pales Of privilege, crowning thy young son by York, London and Salisbury—not Canterbury.

HENRY. York crown'd the Conqueror—not Canterbury.

BECKET. There was no Canterbury in William's time.

HENRY. But Hereford, you know, crown'd the first Henry.

BECKET. But Anselm crown'd this Henry o'er again.

HENRY. And thou shalt crown my Henry o'er again.

BECKET. And is it then with thy good-will that I Proceed against thine evil councillors, And hurl the dread ban of the Church on those Who made the second mitre play the first, And acted me?

HENRY. Well, well, then—have thy way! It may be they were evil councillors. What more, my lord Archbishop? What more, Thomas? I make thee full amends. Say all thy say, But blaze not out before the Frenchmen here.

BECKET. More? Nothing, so thy promise be thy deed.

HENRY (holding out his hand). Give me thy hand. My Lords of France and England, My friend of Canterbury and myself Are now once more at perfect amity. Unkingly should I be, and most unknightly, Not striving still, however much in vain, To rival him in Christian charity.

HERBERT. All praise to Heaven, and sweet St. Magdalen!

HENRY. And so farewell until we meet in England.

BECKET. I fear, my liege, we may not meet in England.

HENRY. How, do you make me a traitor?

BECKET. No, indeed! That be far from thee.

HENRY. Come, stay with us, then, Before you part for England.

BECKET. I am bound For that one hour to stay with good King Louis, Who helpt me when none else.

HERBERT. He said thy life Was not one hour's worth in England save King Henry gave thee first the kiss of peace.

HENRY. He said so? Louis, did he? look you, Herbert. When I was in mine anger with King Louis, I sware I would not give the kiss of peace, Not on French ground, nor any ground but English, Where his cathedral stands. Mine old friend, Thomas, I would there were that perfect trust between us, That health of heart, once ours, ere Pope or King Had come between us! Even now—who knows?— I might deliver all things to thy hand— If ... but I say no more ... farewell, my lord.

BECKET. Farewell, my liege!

[Exit HENRY, then the BARONS and BISHOPS.

WALTER MAP. There again! when the full fruit of the royal promise might have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou but opened it to thank him.

BECKET. He fenced his royal promise with an if.

WALTER MAP. And is the King's if too high a stile for your lordship to overstep and come at all things in the next field?

BECKET. Ay, if this if be like the Devil's 'if Thou wilt fall down and worship me.'

HERBERT. Oh, Thomas; I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas, For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone.

BECKET. Nay, of the people there are many with me.

WALTER MAP. I am not altogether with you, my lord, tho' I am none of those that would raise a storm between you, lest ye should draw together like two ships in a calm. You wrong the King: he meant what he said to-day. Who shall vouch for his to-morrows? One word further. Doth not the fewness of anything make the fulness of it in estimation? Is not virtue prized mainly for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an exception: for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would look up to you? and were all as base as—who shall I say—Fitzurse and his following—who would look down upon them? My lord, you have put so many of the King's household out of communion, that they begin to smile at it.

BECKET. At their peril, at their peril—

WALTER MAP. —For tho' the drop may hollow out the dead stone, doth not the living skin thicken against perpetual whippings? This is the second grain of good counsel I ever proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency. Have I sown it in salt? I trust not, for before God I promise you the King hath many more wolves than he can tame in his woods of England, and if it suit their purpose to howl for the King, and you still move against him, you may have no less than to die for it; but God and his free wind grant your lordship a happy home-return and the King's kiss of peace in Kent. Farewell! I must follow the King. [Exit.

HERBERT. Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King Speak of the customs?

BECKET. No!—To die for it— I live to die for it, I die to live for it. The State will die, the Church can never die. The King's not like to die for that which dies; But I must die for that which never dies. It will be so—my visions in the Lord: It must be so, my friend! the wolves of England Must murder her one shepherd, that the sheep May feed in peace. False figure, Map would say. Earth's falses are heaven's truths. And when my voice Is martyr'd mute, and this man disappears, That perfect trust may come again between us, And there, there, there, not here I shall rejoice To find my stray sheep back within the fold. The crowd are scattering, let us move away! And thence to England.

[Exeunt.



ACT IV.

SCENE I.—The Outskirts of the Bower.

GEOFFREY (coming out of the wood). Light again! light again! Margery? no, that's a finer thing there. How it glitters!

ELEANOR (entering). Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither?

GEOFFREY. On my legs.

ELEANOR. And mighty pretty legs too. Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw. Wilt thou love me?

GEOFFREY. No; I only love mother.

ELEANOR. Ay; and who is thy mother?

GEOFFREY. They call her—But she lives secret, you see.

ELEANOR. Why?

GEOFFREY. Don't know why.

ELEANOR. Ay, but some one comes to see her now and then. Who is he?

GEOFFREY. Can't tell.

ELEANOR. What does she call him?

GEOFFREY. My liege.

ELEANOR. Pretty one, how camest thou?

GEOFFREY. There was a bit of yellow silk here and there, and it looked pretty like a glowworm, and I thought if I followed it I should find the fairies.

ELEANOR. I am the fairy, pretty one, a good fairy to thy mother. Take me to her.

GEOFFREY. There are good fairies and bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights because of the bad fairies.

ELEANOR. She shall cry no more; she shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take me to her. I am her good fairy.

GEOFFREY. But you don't look like a good fairy. Mother does. You are not pretty, like mother.

ELEANOR. We can't all of us be as pretty as thou art—(aside) little bastard. Come, here is a golden chain I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to thy mother.

GEOFFREY. No—no gold. Mother says gold spoils all. Love is the only gold.

ELEANOR. I love thy mother, my pretty boy. Show me where thou camest out of the wood.

GEOFFREY. By this tree; but I don't know if I can find the way back again.

ELEANOR. Where's the warder?

GEOFFREY. Very bad. Somebody struck him.

ELEANOR. Ay? who was that?

GEOFFREY. Can't tell. But I heard say he had had a stroke, or you'd have heard his horn before now. Come along, then; we shall see the silk here and there, and I want my supper.

[Exeunt.



SCENE II.—ROSAMUND'S Bower.

ROSAMUND. The boy so late; pray God, he be not lost. I sent this Margery, and she comes not back; I sent another, and she comes not back. I go myself—so many alleys, crossings, Paths, avenues—nay, if I lost him, now The folds have fallen from the mystery, And left all naked, I were lost indeed. Enter GEOFFREY and ELEANOR. Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to! [Seeing ELEANOR. Ha, you! How came you hither?

ELEANOR. Your own child brought me hither!

GEOFFREY. You said you couldn't trust Margery, and I watched her and followed her into the woods, and I lost her and went on and on till I found the light and the lady, and she says she can make you sleep o' nights.

ROSAMUND. How dared you? Know you not this bower is secret, Of and belonging to the King of England, More sacred than his forests for the chase? Nay, nay, Heaven help you; get you hence in haste Lest worse befall you.

ELEANOR. Child, I am mine own self Of and belonging to the King. The King Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings, Almost as many as your true Mussulman— Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him To call his wives; but so it chances, child, That I am his main paramour, his sultana. But since the fondest pair of doves will jar, Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late, And thereupon he call'd my children bastards. Do you believe that you are married to him?

ROSAMUND, I should believe it.

ELEANOR. You must not believe it, Because I have a wholesome medicine here Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty! Do you believe that you are married to him?

ROSAMUND. Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in the fork of the great willow over the brook. Go. See that you do not fall in. Go.

GEOFFREY. And leave you alone with the good fairy. She calls you beauty, but I don't like her looks. Well, you bid me go, and I'll have my ball anyhow. Shall I find you asleep when I come back?

ROSAMUND. Go. [Exit GEOFFREY.

ELEANOR.

He is easily found again. Do you believe it? I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught; But if you should not care to take it—see! [Draws a dagger. What! have I scared the red rose from your face Into your heart. But this will find it there, And dig it from the root for ever.

ROSAMUND. Help! help!

ELEANOR. They say that walls have ears; but these, it seems, Have none! and I have none—to pity thee.

ROSAMUND. I do beseech you—my child is so young, So backward too; I cannot leave him yet. I am not so happy I could not die myself, But the child is so young. You have children—his; And mine is the King's child; so, if you love him— Nay, if you love him, there is great wrong done Somehow; but if you do not—there are those Who say you do not love him—let me go With my young boy, and I will hide my face, Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall know me; The King shall never hear of me again, But I will beg my bread along the world With my young boy, and God will be our guide. I never meant you harm in any way. See, I can say no more.

ELEANOR. Will you not say you are not married to him?

ROSAMUND. Ay, Madam, I can say it, if you will.

ELEANOR. Then is thy pretty boy a bastard?

ROSAMUND. No.

ELEANOR.

And thou thyself a proven wanton?

ROSAMUND. No. I am none such. I never loved but one. I have heard of such that range from love to love, Like the wild beast—if you can call it love. I have heard of such—yea, even among those Who sit on thrones—I never saw any such, Never knew any such, and howsoever You do misname me, match'd with any such, I am snow to mud.

ELEANOR. The more the pity then That thy true home—the heavens—cry out for thee Who art too pure for earth.

Enter FITZURSE.

FITZURSE. Give her to me.

ELEANOR. The Judas-lover of our passion-play Hath track'd us hither.

FITZURSE. Well, why not? I follow'd You and the child: he babbled all the way. Give her to me to make my honeymoon.

ELEANOR. Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind, Dark even from a side glance of the moon, And oublietted in the centre—No! I follow out my hate and thy revenge.

FITZURSE. You bad me take revenge another way— To bring her to the dust.... Come with me, love, And I will love thee.... Madam, let her live. I have a far-off burrow where the King Would miss her and for ever.

ELEANOR. How sayst thou, sweetheart? Wilt thou go with him? he will marry thee.

ROSAMUND. Give me the poison; set me free of him! [ELEANOR offers the vial. No, no! I will not have it.

ELEANOR. Then this other, The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make Thy body loathsome even to thy child; While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own, It must be broken for him.

ROSAMUND. O I see now Your purpose is to fright me—a troubadour You play with words. You had never used so many, Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child.... No.... mercy! No! (Kneels.)

ELEANOR. Play!... that bosom never Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, Which it will quench in blood! Slave, if he love thee, Thy life is worth the wrestle for it: arise, And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee! The worm! shall I let her go? But ha! what's here? By very God, the cross I gave the King! His village darling in some lewd caress Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own. By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! I warrant Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times Never to leave him—and that merits death, False oath on holy cross—for thou must leave him To-day, but not quite yet. My good Fitzurse, The running down the chase is kindlier sport Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee? Come hither, man; stand there. (To Rosamund) Take thy one chance; Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse; Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him For thy life and thy son's.

ROSAMUND (rising). I am a Clifford, My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I Would bow to such a baseness as would make me Most worthy of it: both of us will die, And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven, And shriek to all the saints among the stars: 'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England! Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, Whose doings are a horror to the east, A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle—nay, Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father— Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen— Strike! I challenge thee to meet me before God. Answer me there.

ELEANOR (raising the dagger). This in thy bosom, fool, And after in thy bastard's!

Enter BECKET from behind. Catches hold of her arm.

BECKET. Murderess!

[The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause.

ELEANOR. My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, But having now admired it long enough, We find that it is mightier than it seems— At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it.

BECKET. And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death To wail in deathless flame.

ELEANOR. Nor you, nor I Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he Gainsays by next sunrising—often ready To tear himself for having said as much. My lord, Fitzurse—

BECKET. He too! what dost thou here? Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den? One downward plunge of his paw would rend away Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee. Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, And make thee a world's horror.

FITZURSE. My lord, I shall Remember this.

BECKET. I do remember thee; Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. [Exit FITZURSE. Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath.

ELEANOR. Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me? But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. Well—well—too costly to be left or lost. [Picks up the dagger. I had it from an Arab soldan, who, When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at Our unfamiliar beauties of the west; But wonder'd more at my much constancy To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen, From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord, God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us. I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt. What excellent workmanship. In our poor west We cannot do it so well.

BECKET. We can do worse. Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat; I heard your savage cry.

ELEANOR. Well acted, was it? A comedy meant to seem a tragedy— A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one That mars a cause with over-violence. You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself. We thought to scare this minion of the King Back from her churchless commerce with the King To the fond arms of her first love, Fitzurse, Who swore to marry her. You have spoilt the farce. My savage cry? Why, she—she—when I strove To work against her license for her good, Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, that The King himself, for love of his own sons, If hearing, would have spurn'd her; whereupon I menaced her with this, as when we threaten A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you hear me? Believe or no, I care not. You have lost The ear of the King. I have it.... My lord Paramount, Our great High-priest, will not your Holiness Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your Queen?

BECKET. Rosamund hath not answer'd you one word; Madam, I will not answer you one word. Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter; Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, And live what may be left thee of a life Saved as by miracle alone with Him Who gave it.

Re-enter GEOFFREY.

GEOFFREY. Mother, you told me a great fib: it wasn't in the willow.

BECKET. Follow us, my son, and we will find it for thee— Or something manlier. [Exeunt BECKET, ROSAMUND, and GEOFFREY.

ELEANOR. The world hath trick'd her—that's the King; if so, There was the farce, the feint—not mine. And yet I am all but sure my dagger was a feint Till the worm turn'd—not life shot up in blood, But death drawn in;—(looking at the vial) this was no feint then? no. But can I swear to that, had she but given Plain answer to plain query? nay, methinks Had she but bow'd herself to meet the wave Of humiliation, worshipt whom she loathed, I should have let her be, scorn'd her too much To harm her. Henry—Becket tells him this— To take my life might lose him Aquitaine. Too politic for that. Imprison me? No, for it came to nothing—only a feint. Did she not tell me I was playing on her? I'll swear to mine own self it was a feint. Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, or was, A sovereign power? The King plucks out their eyes Who anger him, and shall not I, the Queen, Tear out her heart—kill, kill with knife or venom One of his slanderous harlots? 'None of such?' I love her none the more. Tut, the chance gone, She lives—but not for him; one point is gain'd. O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis, Scorning his monkery,—I that wedded Henry, Honouring his manhood—will he not mock at me The jealous fool balk'd of her will—with him? But he and he must never meet again. Reginald Fitzurse!

Re-enter FITZURSE.

FITZURSE. Here, Madam, at your pleasure.

ELEANOR. My pleasure is to have a man about me. Why did you slink away so like a cur?

FITZURSE.

Madam, I am as much man as the King. Madam, I fear Church-censures like your King.

ELEANOR.

He grovels to the Church when he's black-blooded, But kinglike fought the proud archbishop,—kinglike Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly sires, The Normans, striving still to break or bind The spiritual giant with our island laws And customs, made me for the moment proud Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which link'd me with him To bear him kingly sons. I am not so sure But that I love him still. Thou as much man! No more of that; we will to France and be Beforehand with the King, and brew from out This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such A strong hate-philtre as may madden him—madden Against his priest beyond all hellebore.



ACT V.

SCENE I.—Castle in Normandy. King's Chamber.

HENRY, ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.

ROGER OF YORK. Nay, nay, my liege, He rides abroad with armed followers, Hath broken all his promises to thyself, Cursed and anathematised us right and left, Stirr'd up a party there against your son—

HENRY. Roger of York, you always hated him, Even when you both were boys at Theobald's.

ROGER OF YORK. I always hated boundless arrogance. In mine own cause I strove against him there, And in thy cause I strive against him now.

HENRY. I cannot think he moves against my son, Knowing right well with what a tenderness He loved my son.

ROGER OF YORK. Before you made him king. But Becket ever moves against a king. The Church is all—the crime to be a king. We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more land Than any crown in Europe, will not yield To lay your neck beneath your citizens' heel.

HENRY. Not to a Gregory of my throning! No.

FOLIOT. My royal liege, in aiming at your love, It may be sometimes I have overshot My duties to our Holy Mother Church, Tho' all the world allows I fall no inch Behind this Becket, rather go beyond In scourgings, macerations, mortifyings, Fasts, disciplines that clear the spiritual eye, And break the soul from earth. Let all that be. I boast not: but you know thro' all this quarrel I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope the crown Would cleave to me that but obey'd the crown, Crowning your son; for which our loyal service, And since we likewise swore to obey the customs, York and myself, and our good Salisbury here, Are push'd from out communion of the Church.

JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. Becket hath trodden on us like worms, my liege; Trodden one half dead; one half, but half-alive, Cries to the King.

HENRY (aside). Take care o' thyself, O King.

JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. Being so crush'd and so humiliated We scarcely dare to bless the food we eat Because of Becket.

HENRY. What would ye have me do?

ROGER OF YORK. Summon your barons; take their counsel: yet I know—could swear—as long as Becket breathes, Your Grace will never have one quiet hour.

HENRY. What?... Ay ... but pray you do not work upon me. I see your drift ... it may be so ... and yet You know me easily anger'd. Will you hence? He shall absolve you ... you shall have redress. I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest. I'll call you by and by.

[Exeunt ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, and JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.

Would he were dead! I have lost all love for him. If God would take him in some sudden way— Would he were dead. [Lies down.

PAGE (entering). My liege, the Queen of England.

HENRY. God's eyes! [Starting up.

Enter ELEANOR.

ELEANOR. Of England? Say of Aquitaine. I am no Queen of England. I had dream'd I was the bride of England, and a queen.

HENRY. And,—while you dream'd you were the bride of England,— Stirring her baby-king against me? ha!

ELEANOR. The brideless Becket is thy king and mine: I will go live and die in Aquitaine.

HENRY. Except I clap thee into prison here, Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there again. Ha, you of Aquitaine! O you of Aquitaine! You were but Aquitaine to Louis—no wife; You are only Aquitaine to me—no wife.

ELEANOR. And why, my lord, should I be wife to one That only wedded me for Aquitaine? Yet this no wife—her six and thirty sail Of Provence blew you to your English throne; And this no wife has born you four brave sons, And one of them at least is like to prove Bigger in our small world than thou art.

HENRY. Ay— Richard, if he be mine—I hope him mine. But thou art like enough to make him thine.

ELEANOR. Becket is like enough to make all his.

HENRY. Methought I had recover'd of the Becket, That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again, Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own.

ELEANOR. I will go live and die in Aquitaine. I dream'd I was the consort of a king, Not one whose back his priest has broken.

HENRY. What! Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe My victor in mid-battle? I will be Sole master of my house. The end is mine. What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing? Why do you thrust this Becket on me again?

ELEANOR. Why? for I am true wife, and have my fears Lest Becket thrust you even from your throne. Do you know this cross, my liege?

HENRY (turning his head). Away! Not I.

ELEANOR. Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think, Half of the Antioch whence I had it.

HENRY. That?

ELEANOR. I gave it you, and you your paramour; She sends it back, as being dead to earth, So dead henceforth to you.

HENRY. Dead! you have murder'd her, Found out her secret bower and murder'd her.

ELEANOR. Your Becket knew the secret of your bower.

HENRY (calling out). Ho there! thy rest of life is hopeless prison.

ELEANOR. And what would my own Aquitaine say to that? First, free thy captive from her hopeless prison.

HENRY. O devil, can I free her from the grave?

ELEANOR. You are too tragic: both of us are players In such a comedy as our court of Provence Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin lay Of Walter Map: the lady holds the cleric Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure A crown of Empire. Will you have it again? (Offering the cross. He dashes it down.) St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. Then mine once more. (Puts it on.) Your cleric hath your lady. Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see you! Foam at the mouth because King Thomas, lord Not only of your vassals but amours, Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue Hath used the full authority of his Church To put her into Godstow nunnery.

HENRY. To put her into Godstow nunnery! He dared not—liar! yet, yet I remember— I do remember. He bad me put her into a nunnery— Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devilstow! The Church! the Church! God's eyes! I would the Church were down in hell! [Exit.

ELEANOR. Aha!

Enter the four KNIGHTS.

FITZURSE. What made the King cry out so furiously?

ELEANOR. Our Becket, who will not absolve the Bishops. I think ye four have cause to love this Becket.

FITZURSE. I hate him for his insolence to all.

DE TRACY. And I for all his insolence to thee.

DE BRITO. I hate him for I hate him is my reason, And yet I hate him for a hypocrite.

DE MORVILLE. I do not love him, for he did his best To break the barons, and now braves the King.

ELEANOR. Strike, then, at once, the King would have him—See!

Re-enter HENRY.

HENRY. No man to love me, honour me, obey me! Sluggards and fools! The slave that eat my bread has kick'd his King! The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried me! The fellow that on a lame jade came to court, A ragged cloak for saddle—he, he, he, To shake my throne, to push into my chamber— My bed, where ev'n the slave is private—he— I'll have her out again, he shall absolve The bishops—they but did my will—not you— Sluggards and fools, why do you stand and stare? You are no king's men—you—you—you are Becket's men. Down with King Henry! up with the Archbishop! Will no man free me from this pestilent priest? [Exit. [The KNIGHTS draw their swords.

ELEANOR. Are ye king's men? I am king's woman, I.

THE KNIGHTS. King's men! King's men!



SCENE II.—A Room in Canterbury Monastery.

BECKET and JOHN OF SALISBURY.

BECKET. York said so?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Yes: a man may take good counsel Ev'n from his foe.

BECKET. York will say anything. What is he saying now? gone to the King And taken our anathema with him. York! Can the King de-anathematise this York?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Thomas, I would thou hadst return'd to England, Like some wise prince of this world from his wars, With more of olive-branch and amnesty For foes at home—thou hast raised the world against thee.

BECKET. Why, John, my kingdom is not of this world.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. If it were more of this world it might be More of the next. A policy of wise pardon Wins here as well as there. To bless thine enemies—

BECKET. Ay, mine, not Heaven's.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. And may there not be something Of this world's leaven in thee too, when crying On Holy Church to thunder out her rights And thine own wrong so pitilessly. Ah, Thomas, The lightnings that we think are only Heaven's Flash sometimes out of earth against the heavens. The soldier, when he lets his whole self go Lost in the common good, the common wrong, Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I crave Thy pardon—I have still thy leave to speak. Thou hast waged God's war against the King; and yet We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may, Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

[Enter EDWARD GRIM.

BECKET. Thou art but yesterday from Cambridge, Grim; What say ye there of Becket?

GRIM. I believe him The bravest in our roll of Primates down From Austin—there are some—for there are men Of canker'd judgment everywhere—

BECKET. Who hold With York, with York against me.

GRIM. Well, my lord, A stranger monk desires access to you.

BECKET. York against Canterbury, York against God! I am open to him. [Exit GRIM.

Enter ROSAMUND as a Monk.

ROSAMUND. Can I speak with you Alone, my father?

BECKET. Come you to confess?

ROSAMUND. Not now.

BECKET. Then speak; this is my other self, Who like my conscience never lets me be.

ROSAMUND (throwing back the cowl). I know him; our good John of Salisbury.

BECKET. Breaking already from thy noviciate To plunge into this bitter world again— These wells of Marah. I am grieved, my daughter. I thought that I had made a peace for thee.

ROSAMUND. Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father. Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper crept That thou wouldst excommunicate the King. I could not eat, sleep, pray: I had with me The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower: I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it. I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once, I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop; 'Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I pass'd From house to house. In one a son stone-blind Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother, Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine, Cried out against the cruelty of the King. I said it was the King's courts, not the King; But she would not believe me, and she wish'd The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once, So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father.

BECKET. Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King, I fear I was as cruel as the King.

ROSAMUND. Cruel? Oh, no—it is the law, not he; The customs of the realm.

BECKET. The customs! customs!

ROSAMUND. My lord, you have not excommunicated him? Oh, if you have, absolve him!

BECKET. Daughter, daughter, Deal not with things you know not.

ROSAMUND. I know him. Then you have done it, and I call you cruel.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop; For once in France the King had been so harsh, He thought to excommunicate him—Thomas, You could not—old affection master'd you, You falter'd into tears.

ROSAMUND. God bless him for it.

BECKET. Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury, Nor make me traitor to my holy office. Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle, 'The King is sick and almost unto death.' How could I excommunicate him then?

ROSAMUND. And wilt thou excommunicate him now?

BECKET. Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it. And were it longer—well—I should not do it.

ROSAMUND. Thanks in this life, and in the life to come.

BECKET. Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste; Let this be thy last trespass. But one question— How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey? No fever, cough, croup, sickness?

ROSAMUND. No, but saved From all that by our solitude. The plagues That smite the city spare the solitudes.

BECKET. God save him from all sickness of the soul! Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, May that save thee! Doth he remember me?

ROSAMUND. I warrant him.

BECKET. He is marvellously like thee.

ROSAMUND. Liker the King.

BECKET. No, daughter.

ROSAMUND. Ay, but wait Till his nose rises; he will be very king.

BECKET. Ev'n so: but think not of the King: farewell!

ROSAMUND. My lord, the city is full of armed men.

BECKET, Ev'n so: farewell!

ROSAMUND. I will but pass to vespers, And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King, His child and mine own soul, and so return.

BECKET. Pray for me too: much need of prayer have I. [ROSAMUND kneels and goes. Dan John, how much we lose, we celibates, Lacking the love of woman and of child.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it—one So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought Is broken ere it joins—a shrew to boot, Whose evil song far on into the night Thrills to the topmost tile—no hope but death; One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth; And one that being thwarted ever swoons And weeps herself into the place of power; And one an uxor pauperis Ibyci. So rare the household honey-making bee, Man's help! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin For worship, and our Mother Church for bride; And all the souls we saved and father'd here Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. What noise was that? she told us of arm'd men Here in the city. Will you not withdraw?

BECKET. I once was out with Henry in the days When Henry loved me, and we came upon A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still I reach'd my hand and touch'd; she did not stir; The snow had frozen round her, and she sat Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs. Look! how this love, this mother, runs thro' all The world God made—even the beast—the bird!

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay, still a lover of the beast and bird? But these arm'd men—will you not hide yourself? Perchance the fierce De Brocs from Saltwood Castle, To assail our Holy Mother lest she brood Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, and send Her whole heart's heat into it, till it break Into young angels. Pray you, hide yourself.

BECKET. There was a little fair-hair'd Norman maid Lived in my mother's house: if Rosamund is The world's rose, as her name imports her—she Was the world's lily.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay, and what of her?

BECKET. She died of leprosy.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. I know not why You call these old things back again, my lord.

BECKET. The drowning man, they say, remembers all The chances of his life, just ere he dies.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay—but these arm'd men—will you drown yourself? He loses half the meed of martyrdom Who will be martyr when he might escape.

BECKET. What day of the week? Tuesday?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Tuesday, my lord,

BECKET. On a Tuesday was I born, and on a Tuesday Baptized; and on a Tuesday did I fly Forth from Northampton; on a Tuesday pass'd From England into bitter banishment; On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to me The ghostly warning of my martyrdom; On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd, And on a Tuesday—

[TRACY enters, then FITZURSE, DE BRITO, and DE MORVILLE. MONKS following.

—on a Tuesday——Tracy!

A long silence, broken by FITZURSE saying, contemptuously,

God help thee!

JOHN OF SALISBURY (aside). How the good Archbishop reddens! He never yet could brook the note of scorn.

FITZURSE. My lord, we bring a message from the King Beyond the water; will you have it alone, Or with these listeners near you?

BECKET. As you will.

FITZURSE. Nay, as you will.

BECKET. Nay, as you will.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Why then Better perhaps to speak with them apart. Let us withdraw.

[All go out except the four KNIGHTS and BECKET.

FITZURSE. We are all alone with him. Shall I not smite him with his own cross-staff?

DE MORVILLE. No, look! the door is open: let him be.

FITZURSE. The King condemns your excommunicating——

BECKET. This is no secret, but a public matter. In here again! [JOHN OF SALISBURY and MONKS return. Now, sirs, the King's commands!

FITZURSE. The King beyond the water, thro' our voices, Commands you to be dutiful and leal To your young King on this side of the water, Not scorn him for the foibles of his youth. What! you would make his coronation void By cursing those who crown'd him. Out upon you!

BECKET. Reginald, all men know I loved the Prince. His father gave him to my care, and I Became his second father: he had his faults, For which I would have laid mine own life down To help him from them, since indeed I loved him, And love him next after my lord his father. Rather than dim the splendour of his crown I fain would treble and quadruple it With revenues, realms, and golden provinces So that were done in equity.

FITZURSE. You have broken Your bond of peace, your treaty with the King— Wakening such brawls and loud disturbances In England, that he calls you oversea To answer for it in his Norman courts.

BECKET. Prate not of bonds, for never, oh, never again Shall the waste voice of the bond-breaking sea Divide me from the mother church of England, My Canterbury. Loud disturbances! Oh, ay—the bells rang out even to deafening, Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants and hymns In all the churches, trumpets in the halls, Sobs, laughter, cries: they spread their raiment down Before me—would have made my pathway flowers, Save that it was mid-winter in the street, But full mid-summer in those honest hearts.

FITZURSE. The King commands you to absolve the bishops Whom you have excommunicated.

BECKET. I? Not I, the Pope. Ask him for absolution.

FITZURSE. But you advised the Pope.

BECKET. And so I did. They have but to submit.

THE FOUR KNIGHTS. The King commands you. We are all King's men.

BECKET. King's men at least should know That their own King closed with me last July That I should pass the censures of the Church On those that crown'd young Henry in this realm, And trampled on the rights of Canterbury.

FITZURSE. What! dare you charge the King with treachery? He sanction thee to excommunicate The prelates whom he chose to crown his son!

BECKET. I spake no word of treachery, Reginald. But for the truth of this I make appeal To all the archbishops, bishops, prelates, barons, Monks, knights, five hundred, that were there and heard. Nay, you yourself were there: you heard yourself.

FITZURSE. I was not there.

BECKET. I saw you there.

FITZURSE. I was not.

BECKET. You were. I never forget anything.

FITZURSE. He makes the King a traitor, me a liar. How long shall we forbear him?

JOHN OF SALISBURY (drawing BECKET aside). O my good lord. Speak with them privately on this hereafter. You see they have been revelling, and I fear Are braced and brazen'd up with Christmas wines For any murderous brawl.

BECKET. And yet they prate Of mine, my brawls, when those, that name themselves Of the King's part, have broken down our barns, Wasted our diocese, outraged our tenants, Lifted our produce, driven our clerics out— Why they, your friends, those ruffians, the De Brocs, They stood on Dover beach to murder me, They slew my stags in mine own manor here, Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter-mule, Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon wine, The old King's present, carried off the casks, Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the other half In Pevensey Castle—

DE MORVILLE. Why not rather then, If this be so, complain to your young King, Not punish of your own authority?

BECKET. Mine enemies barr'd all access to the boy. They knew he loved me. Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt your head! Nay, when they seek to overturn our rights, I ask no leave of king, or mortal man, To set them straight again. Alone I do it. Give to the King the things that are the King's, And those of God to God.

FITZURSE. Threats! threats! ye hear him. What! will he excommunicate all the world?

[The KNIGHTS come round BECKET.

DE TRACY. He shall not.

DE BRITO. Well, as yet—I should be grateful— He hath not excommunicated me.

BECKET. Because thou wast born excommunicate. I never spied in thee one gleam of grace.

DE BRITO. Your Christian's Christian charity!

BECKET. By St. Denis——

DE BRITO. Ay, by St. Denis, now will he flame out, And lose his head as old St. Denis did.

BECKET. Ye think to scare me from my loyalty To God and to the Holy Father. No! Tho' all the swords in England flash'd above me Ready to fall at Henry's word or yours— Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets upon earth Blared from the heights of all the thrones of her kings, Blowing the world against me, I would stand Clothed with the full authority of Rome, Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, First of the foremost of their files, who die For God, to people heaven in the great day When God makes up his jewels. Once I fled— Never again, and you—I marvel at you— Ye know what is between us. Ye have sworn Yourselves my men when I was Chancellor— My vassals—and yet threaten your Archbishop In his own house.

KNIGHTS. Nothing can be between us That goes against our fealty to the King.

FITZURSE. And in his name we charge you that ye keep This traitor from escaping.

BECKET. Rest you easy, For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. Here, here, here will you find me.

DE MORVILLE. Know you not You have spoken to the peril of your life?

BECKET. As I shall speak again.

FITZURSE, DE TRACY, and DE BRITO. To arms!

[They rush out, DE MORVILLE lingers.

BECKET. De Morville, I had thought so well of you; and even now You seem the least assassin of the four. Oh, do not damn yourself for company! Is it too late for me to save your soul? I pray you for one moment stay and speak.

DE MORVILLE. Becket, it is too late. [Exit.

BECKET. Is it too late? Too late on earth may be too soon in hell.

KNIGHTS (in the distance). Close the great gate—ho, there—upon the town.

BECKET'S RETAINERS. Shut the hall-doors. [A pause.

BECKET. You hear them, brother John; Why do you stand so silent, brother John?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. For I was musing on an ancient saw, Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re, Is strength less strong when hand-in-hand with grace? Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus. Thomas, Why should you heat yourself for such as these?

BECKET. Methought I answer'd moderately enough.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. As one that blows the coal to cool the fire. My lord, I marvel why you never lean On any man's advising but your own.

BECKET. Is it so, Dan John? well, what should I have done?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. You should have taken counsel with your friends Before these bandits brake into your presence. They seek—you make—occasion for your death.

BECKET. My counsel is already taken, John. I am prepared to die.

JOHN OF SALISBURY We are sinners all, The best of all not all-prepared to die.

BECKET. God's will be done!

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay, well. God's will be done!

GRIM (re-entering). My lord, the knights are arming in the garden Beneath the sycamore.

BECKET. Good! let them arm.

GRIM. And one of the De Brocs is with them, Robert, The apostate monk that was with Randulf here. He knows the twists and turnings of the place.

BECKET. No fear!

GRIM. No fear, my lord.

[Crashes on the hall-doors. The MONKS flee.

BECKET (rising). Our dovecote flown! I cannot tell why monks should all be cowards.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Take refuge in your own cathedral, Thomas.

BECKET. Do they not fight the Great Fiend day by day? Valour and holy life should go together. Why should all monks be cowards?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Are they so? I say, take refuge in your own cathedral.

BECKET. Ay, but I told them I would wait them here.

GRIM. May they not say you dared not show yourself In your old place? and vespers are beginning. [Bell rings for vespers till end of scene. You should attend the office, give them heart. They fear you slain: they dread they know not what.

BECKET. Ay, monks, not men.

GRIM. I am a monk, my lord, Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. Some would stand by you to the death.

BECKET. Your pardon.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. He said, 'Attend the office.'

BECKET. Attend the office? Why then—The Cross!—who bears my Cross before me? Methought they would have brain'd me with it, John.

[GRIM takes it.

GRIM. I! Would that I could bear thy cross indeed!

BECKET. The Mitre!

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Will you wear it?—there!

[BECKET puts on the mitre.

BECKET. The Pall! I go to meet my King! [Puts on the pall.

GRIM. To meet the King? [Crashes on the doors as they go out.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. Why do you move with such a stateliness? Can you not hear them yonder like a storm, Battering the doors, and breaking thro' the walls?

BECKET. Why do the heathen rage? My two good friends, What matters murder'd here, or murder'd there? And yet my dream foretold my martyrdom In mine own church. It is God's will. Go on. Nay, drag me not. We must not seem to fly.



SCENE III.—North Transept of Canterbury Cathedral. On the right hand a flight of steps leading to the Choir, another flight on the left, leading to the North Aisle. Winter afternoon slowly darkening. Low thunder now and then of an approaching storm. MONKS heard chanting the service. ROSAMUND kneeling.

ROSAMUND. O blessed saint, O glorious Benedict,— These arm'd men in the city, these fierce faces— Thy holy follower founded Canterbury— Save that dear head which now is Canterbury, Save him, he saved my life, he saved my child, Save him, his blood would darken Henry's name; Save him till all as saintly as thyself He miss the searching flame of purgatory, And pass at once perfect to Paradise. [Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters. Hark! Is it they? Coming! He is not here— Not yet, thank heaven. O save him! [Goes up steps leading to choir.

BECKET (entering, forced along by JOHN OF SALISBURY and GRIM). No, I tell you! I cannot bear a hand upon my person, Why do you force me thus against my will?

GRIM. My lord, we force you from your enemies.

BECKET. As you would force a king from being crown'd.

JOHN OF SALISBURY. We must not force the crown of martyrdom.

[Service stops. MONKS come down from the stairs that lead to the choir.

MONKS. Here is the great Archbishop! He lives! he lives! Die with him, and be glorified together.

BECKET. Together?... get you back! go on with the office.

MONKS. Come, then, with us to vespers.

BECKET. How can I come When you so block the entry? Back, I say! Go on with the office. Shall not Heaven be served Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the minster-bells, And the great deeps were broken up again, And hiss'd against the sun? [Noise in the cloisters.

MONKS. The murderers, hark! Let us hide! let us hide!

BECKET. What do these people fear?

MONKS. Those arm'd men in the cloister.

BECKET. Be not such cravens! I will go out and meet them.

GRIM and others. Shut the doors! We will not have him slain before our face. [They close the doors of the transept. Knocking. Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors! [Knocking.

BECKET. Why, these are our own monks who follow'd us! And will you bolt them out, and have them slain? Undo the doors: the church is not a castle: Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf? What, have I lost authority among you? Stand by, make way! [Opens the doors. Enter MONKS from cloister. Come in, my friends, come in! Nay, faster, faster!

MONKS. Oh, my lord Archbishop, A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes— To the choir, to the choir!

[Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the right, part by those on the left. The rush of these last bears BECKET along with them some way up the steps, where he is left standing alone.

BECKET. Shall I too pass to the choir, And die upon the Patriarchal throne Of all my predecessors?

JOHN OF SALISBURY. No, to the crypt! Twenty steps down. Stumble not in the darkness, Lest they should seize thee.

GRIM. To the crypt? no—no, To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the roof!

JOHN OF SALISBURY (pointing upward and downward). That way, or this! Save thyself either way.

BECKET. Oh, no, not either way, nor any way Save by that way which leads thro' night to light. Not twenty steps, but one. And fear not I should stumble in the darkness, Not tho' it be their hour, the power of darkness, But my hour too, the power of light in darkness! I am not in the darkness but the light, Seen by the Church in Heaven, the Church on earth— The power of life in death to make her free!

[Enter the four KNIGHTS. JOHN OF SALISBURY flies to the altar of St. Benedict.

FITZURSE. Here, here, King's men! [Catches hold of the last flying MONK. Where is the traitor Becket?

MONK. I am not he! I am not he, my lord. I am not he indeed!

FITZURSE. Hence to the fiend! [Pushes him away. Where is this treble traitor to the King?

DE TRACY. Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket?

BECKET. Here. No traitor to the King, but Priest of God, Primate of England. [Descending into the transept. I am he ye seek. What would ye have of me?

FlTZURSE. Your life.

DE TRACY. Your life.

DE MORVILLE. Save that you will absolve the bishops.

BECKET. Never,— Except they make submission to the Church. You had my answer to that cry before.

DE MORVILLE. Why, then you are a dead man; flee!

BECKET. I will not. I am readier to be slain, than thou to slay. Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a heart To bathe this sacred pavement with my blood. God pardon thee and these, but God's full curse Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm One of my flock!

FITZURSE. Was not the great gate shut? They are thronging in to vespers—half the town. We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him! Come with us—nay—thou art our prisoner—come!

DE MORVILLE. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man.

[FITZURSE lays hold of the ARCHBISHOP'S pall.

BECKET. Touch me not!

DE BRITO. How the good priest gods himself! He is not yet ascended to the Father.

FITZURSE. I will not only touch, but drag thee hence.

BECKET. Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away! [Flings him off till he reels, almost to falling.

DE TRACY (lays hold of the pall). Come; as he said, thou art our prisoner.

BECKET. Down! [Throws him headlong.

FITZURSE (advances with drawn sword). I told thee that I should remember thee!

BECKET. Profligate pander!

FITZURSE. Do you hear that? strike, strike.

[Strikes off the ARCHBISHOP'S mitre, and wounds him in the forehead.

BECKET (covers his eyes with his hand). I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin, St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England, And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. [GRIM wraps his arms about the ARCHBISHOP. Spare this defence, dear brother.

[TRACY has arisen, and approaches, hesitatingly, with his sword raised.

FITZURSE. Strike him, Tracy!

ROSAMUND (rushing down steps from the choir). No, No, No, No!

FlTZURSE. This wanton here. De Morville, Hold her away.

DE MORVILLE. I hold her.

ROSAMUND (held back by DE MORVILLE, and stretching out her arms). Mercy, mercy, As you would hope for mercy.

FlTZURSE. Strike, I say.

GRIM. O God, O noble knights, O sacrilege! Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral! The Pope, the King, will curse you—the whole world Abhor you; ye will die the death of dogs! Nay, nay, good Tracy. [Lifts his arm.

FlTZURSE. Answer not, but strike.

DE TRACY. There is my answer then.

[Sword falls on GRIM'S arm, and glances from it, wounding BECKET.

GRIM. Mine arm is sever'd. I can no more—fight out the good fight—die Conqueror. [Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict.

BECKET (falling on his knees). At the right hand of Power— Power and great glory—for thy Church, O Lord— Into Thy hands, O Lord—into Thy hands!—— [Sinks prone.

DE BRITO. This last to rid thee of a world of brawls! (Kills him.) The traitor's dead, and will arise no more.

FITZURSE. Nay, have we still'd him? What! the great Archbishop! Does he breathe? No?

DE TRACY. No, Reginald, he is dead.

(_Storm bursts_.) [Footnote: _A tremendous thunderstorm actually broke over the Cathedral as the murderers were leaving it.]

DE MORVILLE. Will the earth gape and swallow us?

DE BRITO. The deed's done— Away!

[DE BRITO, DE TRACY, FITZURSE. rush out, crying 'King's men!' DE MORVILLE follows slowly. Flashes of lightning thro' the Cathedral. ROSAMUND seen kneeling by the body of BECKET.



THE CUP

A TRAGEDY



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GALATIANS.

SYNORIX, an ex-Tetrarch. SINNATUS, a Tetrarch. Attendant. Boy. Maid. PHOEBE. CAMMA, wife of Sinnatus, afterwards Priestess in the Temple of Artemis.

ROMANS.

ANTONIUS, a Roman General. PUBLIUS. Nobleman. Messenger.



THE CUP.



ACT I.

SCENE I.—Distant View of a City of Galatia.

As the curtain rises, Priestesses are heard singing in the Temple. Boy discovered on a pathway among Rocks, picking grapes. A party of Roman Soldiers, guarding a prisoner in chains, come down the pathway and exeunt.

Enter SYNORIX (looking round). Singing ceases.

SYNORIX. Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot, Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering in The city where she dwells. She past me here Three years ago when I was flying from My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost touch'd her— A maiden slowly moving on to music Among her maidens to this Temple—O Gods! She is my fate—else wherefore has my fate Brought me again to her own city?—married Since—married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch here— But if he be conspirator, Rome will chain, Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then When I shall have my tetrarchy restored By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I show'd her The weakness and the dissonance of our clans, And how to crush them easily. Wretched race! And once I wish'd to scourge them to the bones. But in this narrow breathing-time of life Is vengeance for its own sake worth the while, If once our ends are gain'd? and now this cup— I never felt such passion for a woman. [Brings out a cup and scroll from under his cloak. What have I written to her?

[Reading the scroll.

'To the admired Gamma, wife of Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years ago, himself an adorer of our great goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar off worshipping in her Temple, and loved you for it, sends you this cup rescued from the burning of one of her shrines in a city thro' which he past with the Roman army: it is the cup we use in our marriages. Receive it from one who cannot at present write himself other than 'A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.'

[Turns and looks up to Boy.

Boy, dost thou know the house of Sinnatus?

BOY. These grapes are for the house of Sinnatus— Close to the Temple.

SYNORIX. Yonder?

BOY. Yes.

SYNORIX (aside). That I With all my range of women should yet shun To meet her face to face at once! My boy, [Boy comes down rocks to him. Take thou this letter and this cup to Camma, The wife of Sinnatus.

BOY. Going or gone to-day To hunt with Sinnatus.

SYNORIX. That matters not. Take thou this cup and leave it at her doors. [Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy.

BOY. I will, my lord. [Takes his basket of grapes and exit.

Enter ANTONIUS.

ANTONIUS (meeting the Boy as he goes out). Why, whither runs the boy? Is that the cup you rescued from the fire?

SYNORIX. I send it to the wife of Sinnatus, One half besotted in religious rites. You come here with your soldiers to enforce The long-withholden tribute: you suspect This Sinnatus of playing patriotism, Which in your sense is treason. You have yet No proof against him: now this pious cup Is passport to their house, and open arms To him who gave it; and once there I warrant I worm thro' all their windings.

ANTONIUS. If you prosper, Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, Their quarrels with themselves, their spites at Rome, Is like enough to cancel them, and throne One king above them all, who shall be true To the Roman: and from what I heard in Rome, This tributary crown may fall to you.

SYNORIX. The king, the crown! their talk in Rome? is it so? [ANTONIUS nods. Well—I shall serve Galatia taking it, And save her from herself, and be to Rome More faithful than a Roman. [Turns and sees CAMMA coming. Stand aside, Stand aside; here she comes! [Watching CAMMA as she enters with her Maid.

GAMMA (to Maid). Where is he, girl?

MAID. You know the waterfall That in the summer keeps the mountain side, But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock And shoots three hundred feet.

CAMMA. The stag is there?

MAID. Seen in the thicket at the bottom there But yester-even.

GAMMA. Good then, we will climb The mountain opposite and watch the chase. [They descend the rocks and exeunt.

SYNORIX (watching her). (Aside.) The bust of Juno and the brows and eyes Of Venus; face and form unmatchable!

ANTONIUS. Why do you look at her so lingeringly?

SYNORIX. To see if years have changed her.

ANTONIUS (sarcastically). Love her, do you?

SYNORIX. I envied Sinnatus when he married her.

ANTONIUS. She knows it? Ha!

SYNORIX. She—no, nor ev'n my face.

ANTONIUS. Nor Sinnatus either?

SYNORIX. No, nor Sinnatus.

ANTONIUS. Hot-blooded! I have heard them say in Rome. That your own people cast you from their bounds, For some unprincely violence to a woman, As Rome did Tarquin.

SYNORIX. Well, if this were so, I here return like Tarquin—for a crown.

ANTONIUS. And may be foil'd like Tarquin, if you follow Not the dry light of Rome's straight-going policy, But the fool-fire of love or lust, which well May make you lose yourself, may even drown you In the good regard of Rome.

SYNORIX. Tut—fear me not; I ever had my victories among women. I am most true to Rome.

ANTONIUS (aside). I hate the man! What filthy tools our Senate works with! Still I must obey them. (Aloud.) Fare you well. [Going.

SYNORIX. Farewell!

ANTONIUS (stopping). A moment! If you track this Sinnatus In any treason, I give you here an order [Produces a paper. To seize upon him. Let me sign it. (Signs it.) There 'Antonius leader of the Roman Legion.' [Hands the paper to SYNORIX. Goes up pathway and exit.

SYNORIX. Woman again!—but I am wiser now. No rushing on the game—the net,—the net. [Shouts of 'Sinnatus! Sinnatus!' Then horn. Looking off stage.] He comes, a rough, bluff, simple-looking fellow. If we may judge the kernel by the husk, Not one to keep a woman's fealty when Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join with him: I may reap something from him—come upon her Again, perhaps, to-day—her. Who are with him? I see no face that knows me. Shall I risk it? I am a Roman now, they dare not touch me. I will.

Enter SINNATUS, HUNTSMEN and hounds.

Fair Sir, a happy day to you! You reck but little of the Roman here, While you can take your pastime in the woods.

SlNNATUS. Ay, ay, why not? What would you with me, man?

SYNORIX. I am a life-long lover of the chase, And tho' a stranger fain would be allow'd To join the hunt.

SlNNATUS. Your name?

SYNORIX. Strato, my name.

SlNNATUS. No Roman name?

SYNORIX. A Greek, my lord; you know That we Galatians are both Greek and Gaul. [_Shouts and horns in the distance

SINNATUS. Hillo, the stag! (To SYNORIX.) What, you are all unfurnish'd? Give him a bow and arrows—follow—follow. [Exit, followed by Huntsmen.

SYNORIX. Slowly but surely—till I see my way. It is the one step in the dark beyond Our expectation, that amazes us. [Distant shouts and horns. Hillo! Hillo! [Exit SYNORIX. Shouts and horns.



SCENE II.—A Room in the Tetrarch's House.

Frescoed figures on the walls. Evening. Moonlight outside. A couch with cushions on it. A small table with flagon of wine, cups, plate of grapes, etc., also the cup of Scene I. A chair with drapery on it.

CAMMA enters, and opens' curtains of window.

CAMMA. No Sinnatus yet—and there the rising moon. [Takes up a cithern and sits on couch. Plays and sings.

'Moon on the field and the foam, Moon on the waste and the wold, Moon bring him home, bring him home Safe from the dark and the cold, Home, sweet moon, bring him home, Home with the flock to the fold— Safe from the wolf'——

(Listening.) Is he coming? I thought I heard A footstep. No not yet. They say that Rome Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear lord mixt With some conspiracy against the wolf. This mountain shepherd never dream'd of Rome. (Sings.) 'Safe from the wolf to the fold'—— And that great break of precipice that runs Thro' all the wood, where twenty years ago Huntsman, and hound, and deer were all neck-broken! Nay, here he comes.

Enter SINNATUS followed by SYNORIX.

SINNATUS (angrily). I tell thee, my good fellow, My arrow struck the stag.

SYNORIX. But was it so? Nay, you were further off: besides the wind Went with my arrow.

SINNATUS. I am sure I struck him.

SYNORIX. And I am just as sure, my lord, I struck him. (Aside.) And I may strike your game when you are gone.

CAMMA. Come, come, we will not quarrel about the stag. I have had a weary day in watching you. Yours must have been a wearier. Sit and eat, And take a hunter's vengeance on the meats.

SINNATUS. No, no—we have eaten—we are heated. Wine!

CAMMA. Who is our guest?

SINNATUS. Strato he calls himself.

[CAMMA offers wine to SYNORIX, while SINNATUS helps himself.

SINNATUS. I pledge you, Strato. [Drinks.

SYNORIX. And I you, my lord. [Drinks.

SINNATUS (seeing the cup sent to CAMMA). What's here?

CAMMA. A strange gift sent to me to-day. A sacred cup saved from a blazing shrine Of our great Goddess, in some city where Antonius past. I had believed that Rome Made war upon the peoples not the Gods.

SYNORIX. Most like the city rose against Antonius, Whereon he fired it, and the sacred shrine By chance was burnt along with it.

SINNATUS. Had you then No message with the cup?

CAMMA. Why, yes, see here. [Gives him the scroll.

SINNATUS (reads). 'To the admired Camma,—beheld you afar off—loved you—sends you this cup—the cup we use in our marriages—cannot at present write himself other than 'A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.'

Serving by force! Were there no boughs to hang on, Rivers to drown in? Serve by force? No force Could make me serve by force.

SYNORIX. How then, my lord? The Roman is encampt without your city— The force of Rome a thousand-fold our own. Must all Galatia hang or drown herself? And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this province—

SINNATUS. Province!

SYNORIX. Well, well, they call it so in Rome.

SINNATUS (angrily). Province!

SYNORIX. A noble anger! but Antonius To-morrow will demand your tribute—you, Can you make war? Have you alliances? Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia? We have had our leagues of old with Eastern kings. There is my hand—if such a league there be. What will you do?

SINNATUS. Not set myself abroach And run my mind out to a random guest Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw my hounds True to the scent; and we have two-legg'd dogs Among us who can smell a true occasion, And when to bark and how.

SYNORIX. My good Lord Sinnatus, I once was at the hunting of a lion. Roused by the clamour of the chase he woke, Came to the front of the wood—his monarch mane Bristled about his quick ears—he stood there Staring upon the hunter. A score of dogs Gnaw'd at his ankles: at the last he felt The trouble of his feet, put forth one paw, Slew four, and knew it not, and so remain'd Staring upon the hunter: and this Rome Will crush you if you wrestle with her; then Save for some slight report in her own Senate Scarce know what she has done. (Aside.) Would I could move him, Provoke him any way! (Aloud.) The Lady Camma, Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, Will close with me that to submit at once Is better than a wholly-hopeless war, Our gallant citizens murder'd all in vain, Son, husband, brother gash'd to death in vain, And the small state more cruelly trampled on Than had she never moved.

CAMMA. Sir, I had once A boy who died a babe; but were he living And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd it, I Would set him in the front rank of the fight With scarce a pang. (Rises.) Sir, if a state submit At once, she may be blotted out at once And swallow'd in the conqueror's chronicle. Whereas in wars of freedom and defence The glory and grief of battle won or lost Solders a race together—yea—tho' they fail, The names of those who fought and fell are like A bank'd-up fire that flashes out again From century to century, and at last May lead them on to victory—I hope so— Like phantoms of the Gods.

SINNATUS. Well spoken, wife.

SYNORIX (bowing). Madam, so well I yield.

SINNATUS. I should not wonder If Synorix, who has dwelt three years in Rome And wrought his worst against his native land. Returns with this Antonius.

SYNORIX. What is Synorix?

SINNATUS. Galatian, and not know? This Synorix Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also—did Dishonour to our wives.

SYNORIX. Perhaps you judge him With feeble charity: being as you tell me Tetrarch, there might be willing wives enough To feel dishonour, honour.

CAMMA. Do not say so. I know of no such wives in all Galatia. There may be courtesans for aught I know Whose life is one dishonour.

Enter ATTENDANT.

ATTENDANT (aside). My lord, the men!

SINNATUS (aside). Our anti-Roman faction?

ATTENDANT (aside). Ay, my lord.

SYNORIX (overhearing). (Aside.) I have enough—their anti-Roman faction.

SINNATUS (aloud). Some friends of mine would speak with me without. You, Strato, make good cheer till I return. [Exit.

SYNORIX. I have much to say, no time to say it in. First, lady, know myself am that Galatian Who sent the cup.

CAMMA. I thank you from my heart.

SYNORIX. Then that I serve with Rome to serve Galatia. That is my secret: keep it, or you sell me To torment and to death. [Coming closer. For your ear only— I love you—for your love to the great Goddess. The Romans sent me here a spy upon you, To draw you and your husband to your doom. I'd sooner die than do it. [Takes out paper given him by Antonius. This paper sign'd Antonius—will you take it, read it? there!

CAMMA. (Reads.) 'You are to seize on Sinnatus,—if——'

SYNORIX. (Snatches paper.) No more. What follows is for no wife's eyes. O Camma, Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy; Rome never yet hath spar'd conspirator. Horrible! flaying, scourging, crucifying———

CAMMA. I am tender enough. Why do you practise on me?

SYNORIX. Why should I practise on you? How you wrong me! I am sure of being every way malign'd. And if you should betray me to your husband———

CAMMA. Will you betray him by this order?

SYNORIX. See, I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd Of acting on it. [Tears the paper.

CAMMA. I owe you thanks for ever.

SYNORIX. Hath Sinnatus never told you of this plot?

CAMMA. What plot?

SYNORIX. A child's sand-castle on the beach For the next wave—all seen,—all calculated, All known by Rome. No chance for Sinnatus.

CAMMA. Why said you not as much to my brave Sinnatus?

SYNORIX. Brave—ay—too brave, too over-confident, Too like to ruin himself, and you, and me! Who else, with this black thunderbolt of Rome Above him, would have chased the stag to-day In the full face of all the Roman camp? A miracle that they let him home again, Not caught, maim'd, blinded him.

[CAMMA shudders.

(Aside.) I have made her tremble. (Aloud.) I know they mean to torture him to death. I dare not tell him how I came to know it; I durst not trust him with—my serving Rome To serve Galatia: you heard him on the letter. Not say as much? I all but said as much. I am sure I told him that his plot was folly. I say it to you—you are wiser—Rome knows all, But you know not the savagery of Rome.

CAMMA. O—have you power with Rome? use it for him!

SYNORIX. Alas! I have no such power with Rome. All that Lies with Antonius.

[As if struck by a sudden thought. Comes over to her.

He will pass to-morrow In the gray dawn before the Temple doors. You have beauty,—O great beauty,—and Antonius, So gracious toward women, never yet Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead to him, I am sure you will prevail.

CAMMA. Still—I should tell My husband.

SYNORIX. Will he let you plead for him To a Roman?

CAMMA. I fear not.

SYNORIX. Then do not tell him. Or tell him, if you will, when you return, When you have charm'd our general into mercy, And all is safe again. O dearest lady,

[Murmurs of 'Synorix! Synorix!' heard outside.

Think,—torture,—death,—and come.

CAMMA. I will, I will. And I will not betray you.

SYNORIX (aside). (As SINNATUS enters.) Stand apart.

Enter SINNATUS and ATTENDANT.

SINNATUS. Thou art that Synorix! One whom thou hast wrong'd Without there, knew thee with Antonius. They howl for thee, to rend thee head from limb.

SYNORIX. I am much malign'd. I thought to serve Galatia.

SINNATUS. Serve thyself first, villain! They shall not harm My guest within my house. There! (points to door) there! this door Opens upon the forest! Out, begone! Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy.

SYNORIX. However I thank thee (draws his sword); thou hast saved my life. [Exit.

SINNATUS. (To Attendant.) Return and tell them Synorix is not here. [Exit Attendant. What did that villain Synorix say to you?

GAMMA. Is he—that—Synorix?

SINNATUS. Wherefore should you doubt it? One of the men there knew him.

CAMMA. Only one, And he perhaps mistaken in the face.

SINNATUS. Come, come, could he deny it? What did he say?

CAMMA. What should he say?

SINNATUS. What should he say, my wife! He should say this, that being Tetrarch once His own true people cast him from their doors Like a base coin.

CAMMA. Not kindly to them?

SINNATUS. Kindly? O the most kindly Prince in all the world! Would clap his honest citizens on the back, Bandy their own rude jests with them, be curious About the welfare of their babes, their wives, O ay—their wives—their wives. What should he say? He should say nothing to my wife if I Were by to throttle him! He steep'd himself In all the lust of Rome. How should you guess What manner of beast it is?

CAMMA. Yet he seem'd kindly, And said he loathed the cruelties that Rome Wrought on her vassals.

SINNATUS. Did he, honest man?

CAMMA. And you, that seldom brook the stranger here, Have let him hunt the stag with you to-day.

SINNATUS. I warrant you now, he said he struck the stag.

CAMMA. Why no, he never touch'd upon the stag.

SINNATUS. Why so I said, my arrow. Well, to sleep. [Goes to close door.

CAMMA. Nay, close not yet the door upon a night That looks half day.

SINNATUS. True; and my friends may spy him And slay him as he runs.

CAMMA. He is gone already. Oh look,—yon grove upon the mountain,—white In the sweet moon as with a lovelier snow! But what a blotch of blackness underneath! Sinnatus, you remember—yea, you must, That there three years ago—the vast vine-bowers Ran to the summit of the trees, and dropt Their streamers earthward, which a breeze of May Took ever and anon, and open'd out The purple zone of hill and heaven; there You told your love; and like the swaying vines— Yea,—with our eyes,—our hearts, our prophet hopes Let in the happy distance, and that all But cloudless heaven which we have found together In our three married years! You kiss'd me there For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me now.

SINNATUS. First kiss. (Kisses her.) There then. You talk almost as if it Might be the last.

CAMMA. Will you not eat a little?

SINNATUS. No, no, we found a goat-herd's hut and shared His fruits and milk. Liar! You will believe Now that he never struck the stag—a brave one Which you shall see to-morrow.

CAMMA. I rise to-morrow In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis.

SINNATUS. Good!

CAMMA. If I be not back in half an hour, Come after me.

SINNATUS. What! is there danger?

CAMMA. Nay, None that I know: 'tis but a step from here To the Temple.

SINNATUS. All my brain is full of sleep. Wake me before you go, I'll after you— After me now! [Closes door and exit.

CAMMA (drawing curtains). Your shadow. Synorix— His face was not malignant, and he said That men malign'd him. Shall I go? Shall I go? Death, torture— 'He never yet flung back a woman's prayer'— I go, but I will have my dagger with me.

[Exit.



SCENE III.—Same as Scene I. Dawn.

Music and Singing in the Temple.

Enter SYNORIX watchfully, after him PUBLIUS and SOLDIERS.

SYNORIX. Publius!

PUBLIUS. Here!

SYNORIX. Do you remember what I told you?

PUBLIUS. When you cry 'Rome, Rome,' to seize On whomsoever may be talking with you, Or man, or woman, as traitors unto Rome.

SYNORIX. Right. Back again. How many of you are there?

PUBLIUS. Some half a score. [Exeunt Soldiers and Publius.

SYNORIX. I have my guard about me. I need not fear the crowd that hunted me Across the woods, last night. I hardly gain'd The camp at midnight. Will she come to me Now that she knows me Synorix? Not if Sinnatus Has told her all the truth about me. Well, I cannot help the mould that I was cast in. I fling all that upon my fate, my star. I know that I am genial, I would be Happy, and make all others happy so They did not thwart me. Nay, she will not come. Yet if she be a true and loving wife She may, perchance, to save this husband. Ay! See, see, my white bird stepping toward the snare. Why now I count it all but miracle, That this brave heart of mine should shake me so, As helplessly as some unbearded boy's When first he meets his maiden in a bower.

Enter CAMMA (with cup).

SYNORIX. The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing, But you, twin sister of the morning star, Forelead the sun.

CAMMA. Where is Antonius?

SYNORIX. Not here as yet. You are too early for him. [She crosses towards Temple.

SYNORIX. Nay, whither go you now?

CAMMA. To lodge this cup Within the holy shrine of Artemis, And so return.

SYNORIX. To find Antonius here.

[She goes into the Temple, he looks after her.

The loveliest life that ever drew the light From heaven to brood upon her, and enrich Earth with her shadow! I trust she will return. These Romans dare not violate the Temple. No, I must lure my game into the camp. A woman I could live and die for. What! Die for a woman, what new faith is this? I am not mad, not sick, not old enough To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for her, Camma the stately, Camma the great-hearted, So mad, I fear some strange and evil chance Coming upon me, for by the Gods I seem Strange to myself.

Re-enter CAMMA.

CAMMA. Where is Antonius?

SYNORIX. Where? As I said before, you are still too early.

CAMMA. Too early to be here alone with thee; For whether men malign thy name, or no, It bears an evil savour among women. Where is Antonius? (Loud.)

SYNORIX. Madam, as you know The camp is half a league without the city; If you will walk with me we needs must meet Antonius coming, or at least shall find him There in the camp.

CAMMA. No, not one step with thee. Where is Antonius? (Louder.)

SYNORIX (advancing towards her). Then for your own sake, Lady, I say it with all gentleness, And for the sake of Sinnatus your husband, I must compel you.

CAMMA (drawing her dagger). Stay!—too near is death.

SYNORIX (disarming her). Is it not easy to disarm a woman?

Enter SINNATUS (seizes him from behind by the throat).

SYNORIX (throttled and scarce audible). Rome! Rome!

SINNATUS. Adulterous dog!

SYNORIX (stabbing him with CAMMA'S dagger). What! will you have it?

[CAMMA utters a cry and runs to SINNATUS.

SINNATUS (falls backward). I have it in my heart—to the Temple—fly— For my sake—or they seize on thee. Remember! Away—farewell! [Dies.

CAMMA (runs up the steps into the Temple, looking back). Farewell!

SYNORIX (seeing her escape). The women of the Temple drag her in. Publius! Publius! No, Antonius would not suffer me to break Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. [Looking down at SINNATUS. 'Adulterous dog!' that red-faced rage at me! Then with one quick short stab—eternal peace. So end all passions. Then what use in passions? To warm the cold bounds of our dying life And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well. I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink, The more you thirst—yea—drink too much, as men Have done on rafts of wreck—it drives you mad. I will be no such wreck, am no such gamester As, having won the stake, would dare the chance Of double, or losing all. The Roman Senate, For I have always play'd into their hands, Means me the crown. And Camma for my bride— The people love her—if I win her love, They too will cleave to me, as one with her. There then I rest, Rome's tributary king. [Looking down on SINNATUS. Why did I strike him?—having proof enough Against the man, I surely should have left That stroke to Rome. He saved my life too. Did he? It seem'd so. I have play'd the sudden fool. And that sets her against me—for the moment. Camma—well, well, I never found the woman I could not force or wheedle to my will. She will be glad at last to wear my crown. And I will make Galatia prosperous too, And we will chirp among our vines, and smile At bygone things till that (pointing to SINNATUS) eternal peace. Rome! Rome!