The Enchanted Lady

A Comedy

Dramatis Personae

Stanislaus, King of Bohemia.
Ferdinand, Eldest son of Stanislaus.
Karl, Banished son of Stanislaus.
Archduke of Austria.
Ivan, Prince of Muscovy.
Conrad, Count of Elsass.
Friends of Conrad:
 Sir Henry Cassl
 Plessing
Lords and Courtiers
 Herrmann
 Hoffmann
 Von Hast
 Klopstok
 Weiss
Arnheim, a banished lord of Bohemia.
Thoreau, a Swabian robber-chief.
Jorgensen, a gentleman of Prince Ivan’s train.
Shepherds
 Basil
 Jerome
 John
 James
 Oliver
 Wilhelm
Sigismunda, Queen of Bohemia.
Irene, Princess of Poland.
Anna, a novice of St. Clara’s.
Lady Superior of St. Clara’s.
Titania, Queen of Faery and train of elves.
Puck.

Lords, ladies, jester, officers, brigands, shepherds, masquers, messengers, etc.

Act I.

Scene I.—A Park in Prague.

Enter Plessing, Von Hast, Hoffmann and Klopstok.

Plessing
I love this terraced pleasaunce; here the walks
Are bordered with all choicest flowers and shrubs
Unnurtured in Bohemia else; yon statue
Beneath its covering pine keeps to the life
The form and visage of Bohemia’s saviour,
Our glorious Sobieski; here a pool,
Gay with white lilies and the water flag,
Gathers the restless fountain.

Von Hast
There’s a fish
That I have marked a thousand times, who hides
Under this plantain’s root—a very monster!
We have made plots to take him and to learn
If he be very gold, as sure he seems it.

Plessing
That bird again! See! On yon mouldering wall,
Where, round the granite scutcheon, harbouring ivy
Clings and falls richly, he has found a nest.
At every hour on this long branch o’ the pine
He sits, then turns in air and hawks for flies,
Then back to perch again. A tiny bird!
See where, far-gleaming through the ash trees, glides
The river at our feet; let us go down.
How it is thronged with craft! Those happy shouts
Chide us for lingering here.

Hoffmann.
Well, we will go down, then.

Plessing
Come, Klopstok, why, you lag, sir!

Klopstok.
Nay; I would I might with you, but I may not.

Plessing
Not so fast! We must have reason for’t, an you leave us now.

Klopstok.
Well, to speak truth, I have appointment with a friend, a most particular friend.

Plessing
Then we allow it; commend me to the lady.

[ Exit Klopstok. ]

Von Hast.
How knew’st thou, Plessing, ’twas not his cousin Martin he desired to meet?

Plessing
Because, sir, I know that Martin himself has gone to see “a most particular friend.”

Von Hast.
Marry, I trust your omniscience, no matter whence you derive it, knows nothing of me.

Plessing
Somewhat here, also, it knows.

Von Hast. Then muzzle it, merciful Plessing. Look you, here comes Conrad. Welcome, young sir!

Enter Conrad.

Plessing
Why, Conrad, how is it that the shadow takes the air without the substance that should accompany it?

Conrad.
Sir Henry Cassl has gone to meet—

Plessing
“A most particular friend?” Fie on Sir Henry! I had thought otherwise of him.

Conrad.
Why, yes; it is Lord Kerry.

Plessing
Ah, his fellow-countryman, I think?

Conrad.
You are right. Lord Kerry travels in Bohemia desirous to pluck up life, as Venus, from the wave; his health requires the famed oceanbreezes which so enhance the value of these deserts. But I must on to them. Farewell.

[ Exit Conrad. ]

Hoffmann.
He and his friend are a most strange couple; as strange, I think, as any that left the ark.

Plessing.
Wherefore strange?

Hoffmann.
Ill-matched, I mean.

Von Hast.
Conrad is full of jest, of merriment, quick-blooded, nimble as the wind in thought and in action; full, too, of humours, as contrary and as taking as a woman’s are. In brief, he is what all men must love.

Plessing.
Is not Sir Henry?

Hoffmann.
Yes, but he is far otherwise; I find him strange. He is—I know not what to say. He is reserved and calm; a quiet soul, and yet not altogether quiet, now I bethink me. He is—I know not what.

Plessing.
Friend Hoffmann, your brain is mazed; such effort will prove more than it can bear. What says Von Hast?

Von Hast.
Why, no sooner hath one act proclaimed his nature’s bent as thus or thus, the next, being contrary, sets it back as far to the other pole. I have known him do things as opposite!

Hoffmann.
You’d ne’er believe!

Plessing.
He acts upon reflection, not upon impulse or any special slope which is his of nature.

Von Hast.
I have seen him walk our streets bonnetless, with his hair loose on the wind, which caught it and played fantastic tricks with it.

Plessing.
Why, I have seen this, too; also, I have known his garments full of holes and attracting every wandering, homeless breeze to seek its tabernacle there and to cling to him as lovingly as pensioners do to the court. When he is from home, he cares not greatly how he is garbed; for the heavens are above him and the fields before him, and the trim habit of Courts afar behind him.

Hoffmann.
Nay, more, I do assure you—

Plessing.
All this is nothing, nothing; but old Bohemian custom. Do they not say our King himself has held a levfee clad in a blanket or something very like it?

Von Hast.
May be. Now you speak on’t, I too have seen Stanislaus drive along the public streets of Prague in ’s shirt-sleeves; he was drunk, they said.

Plessing.
That, at least, one must believe; I mean that he was drunk.

Hoffmann.
But, then, that’s different.

Plessing.
How so? Is not this, too, ancient Bohemian custom, both to dispense with coats and to be drunk? Hath this not made Bohemia famous?

Hoffmann.
True, true; I’ll not deny thee, Plessing. But—

Plessing.
But what? Friend Hoffmann, you quibble too much, and I fear I cannot match you. But ere I go, just this; Conrad I know and love, and Henry I know also, and, though I fear he likes not me as I like him, I swear that in all Bohemia are none who surpass, in depth and bravery, this Irish Knight.

Both.
That have we ne’er denied.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene II.—The Outskirts of Prague.

Enter Conrad and Sir Henry Cassl.

Sir Henry.
Come, now the evening’s cool, shall we go further
And wander through the woods, as is our wont?

Conrad.
Yes, I am with thee.

Sir Henry.
Let’s together then,
And ere the sunset, which is coming on
And soon will blossom like a rose out yonder,
Again is gathered into evening’s chalice,
Let’s hurry from the town; for I would speak
Of matters sacred, touching thee alone,
Matters most delicate, which I would not mention
Were not my love too great to keep a silence,
Courteous, perhaps, but hurtful.
Moreover, from our ancient love and friendship
I hope a patient hearing.

Conrad.
Which that love
Shall surely have, seeing it deserves no less.

(Voices are heard singing.)

Voices.
O’er the western hills advancing,
See the dark-browed warrior stride!
See the ashen arrows glancing
Past the brake and waterside!
Wounded Day lies slowly dying,
While towards the clouded west,
Where he builds his ruddy nest,
Fast the phoenix sun is flying,
Flying, flying, flying, flying.

Conrad.
Phoenix? Why phoenix sun? Canst thou expound it?

Sir Henry.
The sun’s a phoenix; when his race is done
He sets his bed afire.

Conrad.
And from the ashes
Springs on the morrow, vigorous as before.
Does that complete the allegory?

Sir Henry.
Ay.

Conrad.
Who were the singers whom we heard but now?

Sir Henry.
Late revellers from the town, without a doubt;
These warm, light evenings draw the rabblement,
Who are, thou know’st, both numerous and musical.

Voices (again).
Lapped in slumber do we lie,
Couched in bud and bell and brake,
Sleeping till the daylight die;
Then, and only then, awake,
When the garish hours have run
Homewards, posthaste, every one.

Conrad.
These are no townsfolk, no late revellers.
Why, Henry, know’st thou not? I see thou dost.
Hast thou not heard these woods are full of spirits,
Harbouring in every bough a vampire, elf,
Fairy, or troll?

Sir Henry.
So have I heard, and I
Can well believe it.

Conrad.
Henry, recollect
John Tetzel, our own schoolfellow, but last fall
Found dead beside the pool called Odin’s, killed,
’Twas said, in hunting;
But lured, the talk in Prague would have it, thither
By a fantastic shape with horns and slain there.

Sir Henry.
Let us go back. Yon clouds are promising rain.

Conrad.
Ay, so they are. Henceforward let’s avoid
These knitted gloamings, black and earthy hollows!

A Voice.
Aslant these boughs light never creeps;
Th’ undappled shade is dusk and drear;
Entangled silence ever sleeps
And everything is drowsy here.

Conrad.
Look at yon dancing light! See, now ’tis blue!
This is the mound o’ the Huns, whose dreadful ghosts
Walk leagued with fiends, with waving fires about them
And helmeted—

Titania.
But we are no such monsters.
Rather, regardless of the angriest weather,
We clasp the winds and sweep the glades together,
As nimble and flower-footed as the down
Leaving the thistle. Why do your teeth still chatter?
Queen am I of these woods and alleys green,
And of these marishes and heaths am queen,
Taking the moon’s fair lustre for a light,
When through the heav’ns the shouting owl in flight
Convener is, my faery realm to call;
Whome’er I love I let no ill befall
From quaking bog or Jack-o-’Lantern fire,
Or thistle tall and nodding, or the briar
That drags against the footsteps.

Sir Henry.
Lady, I know thee,
Although I cannot see thee; thou art she
Heir to the spreading plains of vasty Pan,
Since on that earliest Christmas morn he died.
What would’st thou with us, Lady?

Puck.
Thou knew’st who sang to thee lately, did’st thou not?

Sir Henry.
I thought I knew the voices.

Puck.
So thou should’st:
We sang to thee in thy cradle.

Sir Henry.
I had forgot.

Puck.
Nay, thou hadst not, else how didst know our voices?
I marked how on the sudden thou didst start,
Knowing right well the authors of the music.
Here are we all, “both numerous and musical.”

Titania.
Be silent, Puck. We know thee well, Sir Henry;
And thee and Conrad have we often seen
Thridding these glades sequestered, when the clouds
Began with reverence to arrange themselves
About the sun’s red pyre, like vassals waiting
The dissolution of their mighty lord.
We have seen you—

Puck.
Ay, and heard you, and overheard you.
O, many private matters have I hearkened!

Titania.
We have seen you also when the moon rode empress
In the blue infinite—

Puck.
O, the merry moon!
Companion of our revels, of our dance
Mistress and arbitress! The merry moon!

Titania.
For breaking on your secret converse now
My reason is—

Puck.
She hath no reason for ’t.

Titania.
Puck, though a knavish imp, speaks truth for once;
For, saving that I would not have you walk
For ever ’neath my hollies and my hornbeams
And know not that there dwells a friend among them
Who loves you dearly, such a friend—

Puck.
As loves you
More dearly than the deer adore the crabs
Which stalwart Autumn shakes from these wild thorns.

Titania.
If ever in your bitter need ye seek
A friend beyond a mortal, then, I say,
Such a friend have you—where, ye also know.
This for you both. Conrad, for thee, dear lad,
Somewhat I have of warning: for there waits
For thee the richest gift of Heav’n to man;
Which, if thou wouldst obtain, O then beware
Thy seeming friends, who else will work thee woe!
Remember! Watch! This being said, I go.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene III.—A Park in Prague.

Enter Conrad, Plessing, Hoffmann, Herrmann.

Plessing.
What of the calendar? To-day being Thursday,
Tomorrow’s our King’s birthday.

Conrad.
You are right,
Plessing; I had forgot it; I have heard
Th’ Archduke of Austria will be there.

Hoffmann.
He will:
So will the younger Prince of Muscovy:
Also, the Lady Irene.

Conrad.
Who is this lady?
I heard she is enchanted.

Plessing.
So she was,
But is not now; her tale runs on this wise:
I heard it from Prince Ivan yesterday—
Her father was that famous King of Poland
Who smote the Moslem host and pushed them back
From proud Vienna.

Conrad.
What, not Sobieski!

Plessing.
The same, indeed. Know, this was in the days
Of Ferdinand the Second. Well, this lady,
Who was her father’s only child, and heir
To all his rich estates and gathered glory,
Grew to such beauty that her mother sinned
The sin which ere the world’s foundation brought
The flower of highmost heaven to couch in hell;
The sin which is—

Herrmann.
Speak not in riddles, man.
And cease to moralise. Thou know’st we’re listening
All ear like Midas, thy great ancestor.

Plessing.
Well, then, her mother’s pride—for that’s the sin—
Towered to such pitch that in extravagance
Of praise she far outdid Irene’s suitors,
Though these were very many and very fervent.
Indeed, she said her daughter was as far
Beyond the quivered huntress of the night
As sunset doth surpass the gilded noon;
Whereat Diana, who haunts the forest-glades,
Somewhat in stature shrunken but as jealous
As ever of her honour—

Hoffmann.
Come now, Plessing! I’m a good Catholic.

Plessing.
Well, what of that?

Hoffmann.
I know Diana’s dead; our Lady drove
These pagan gods for ever from our woodlands.

Plessing.
That did she not; as spirits good and evil
They rule them still; and, as of old, with arms
Outstretched and linked, about the wide-boled oak
Or underneath the long-boughed beech they danced,
So still the grassy rings are theirs and still,
The wind their piper, on the whistling heath
They keep their revels.

Hoffmann.
What clown with crook and smock
Has told thee this? They hold thy wit but slight,
Plessing, to gull with such wives’ tales as these.
And thou believ’st!

Plessing.
Diana is Titania
And queen of fairies; all her maiden-train
Are elves and fays; dryad and hamadryad,
Oread and nymph, their old-time grandeur gone,
Bowered in the mossy brake, where briar and fern
Arras the bank that overhangs the burn,
Await the set of sun and with eve’s star
Spread into morrice.

Conrad.
O let’s on, let’s on!
What of this lady?

Hoffmann.
Dian, thou say’st, is now
Titania?

Plessing.
Verily.

Hoffmann. I’ll believe the same
When I have gazed on her.

Conrad.
Let be, let be!
’Tis true.

Hoffmann.
What, Conrad, dost thou then believe it?
I have never heard such a tale.

Conrad.
Neither have I.
Wherefore a murrain on thy silly wits
For breaking in upon ’t in such a sort!

Plessing.
Believe it as thou wilt or not, ’tis truth.
Diana, as I tell thee, wroth, as once
With Niobe, kidnapped the lady Irene,
Bearing her off by night; whereat her father—
I mean the lady’s—searching everywhere,
Decreed that whosoever found his child
Should wed her, and succeed him in his state.
But Sobieski died, and left his kingdom
Wanting an heir; so then our Lord the Pope
Took it in ward, appointing governors,
Keeping, however, the decree in force.

Conrad.
Where was the lady then?

Plessing.
In a cool bower
She lay enchanted, doomed to lie in sleep
A hundred years. ’Twas by an ancient castle,
Once a King’s habitation, but now ruined,
The dwelling-place of bats and owls. A dial,
To register the sweet, unheeded hours,
Stood in the open court, whose mossy stones
Were knit with grasses, lush and tangled, tied.
Around the long-dried fountain the king’s flowers
Grew wildly; roses of a many sorts,
Freaked gillyflowers, stocks, marjoram, lavender,
Sunflower and sceptred iris, flower-de-luce,
Rosemary, pansies, pinks. Rare statuas,
Cunningly cut and stained, stood everywhere;
Here Dian paused, with bow in act to smite,
Where whispering lilies at the goddess’ feet
Disparted unshorn ranks and swept around her;
Her brother there, with hand shading his brow,
Peered betwixt the tall sycamores; wanton fauns
And satyrs, buried to the thigh in flowers,
Like antics sported; and beside the gate
One towering plinth, all form and visage lost,
But holding still a sword in its last hand,
Kept watch on that luxuriant desolation.

Conrad.
And was it here the lady slept indeed?

Pressing.
Here for a hundred years she slept alone,
Alone, remote from touch of living thing,
Save for the bees that would break through at times,
Despite the clustering vines and falling ivy,
Allured by the tall roses that beside her
Stood up like sentinels, stooping now and then,
Before the breeze that constantly attended,
To kiss the roses of her lips and spring
Quickly, as if ashamed, back to their places.

Hoffmann.
Who found her then at length? For found she was;
Else could she not be here.

Conrad.
Ay, and how comes it
Who found her did not wed? For I have heard
Her always spoken of as if still virgin.

Plessing.
Why, he that found her had a wife already;
And so, although he dearly wished it, could not.
It was our own Prince Ferdinand.

Both.
Ferdinand!

Plessing.
Ay, Ferdinand; and so he could not wed her.
’Twas but last year; our good queen loves her much
And brought her to Bohemia seven days since.

Conrad.
Where dwells she now?

Plessing.
At the Clarissan House,
Scarce seven miles out of Prague, beside the sea,
Flanked by tall clifts.

Conrad.
I know ’t.

Hoffmann. They broider well;
These hose were made there.

Herrmann.
“So he could not wed her,
Although he dearly wished it.” Whence thy knowledge,
Friend Plessing, of Prince Ferdinand’s desires?

Plessing.
Could he be man and wish it not? I’ve seen her.

Conrad.
Then is she fair?

Plessing.
More than thou canst believe.
It chanced at tennis, as I passed, her ball
Smote on my eye; with such a winning grace
She craved my pardon that the smitten eye,
From sheer vexation that it could not see her,
Burst into weeping.

Hoffmann.
’Twas more like the stroke,
As oft it will, forced tears. My own eye once—

Plessing.
Well, I can tell you, when she came to me
And touched the eye and spoke of suchlike herbs,
Infusions and decoctions as should heal it,
Murmuring the while for pardon, I would the ball
Had been a fiery bullet and struck both eyes,
To move compassion further. Then she went
Back to her game once more and fell a-laughing,
Then craved again my pardon that she laughed,
But laughed the more. O luckless Ferdinand!
And so he could not wed her!

Herrmann.
Yet I heard
His Lady ails apace.

Plessing.
Ah, does she then?

Herrmann.
Her surgeon saith she is not like to live
To see another Michaelmas.

Hoffmann.
So Ferdinand
Will widowed be.

Conrad.
Poor lady, she was matched
With an ill-fitting lord, who loves her not;
Whence common rumour roundly dares conjecture
Poison behind her illness.

Plessing.
Then our Prince,
I think, will scarcely need to seek a wife.

Conrad.
He will not wed this lady!

Plessing.
Nay, who said it?
I only know that when the embassy
Of Austria sought her marriage for his son,
Ferdinand barred them access to the King
And sent again with honied speeches back,
But foiled of audience. So she was not wedded;
But in the matter of the lady’s kingdom
The wishes of the dead were better met,
Because our pious King, doubtless unwilling
To vex brave Sobieski’s soul, annexed
Poland to his dominions, holding it
The lawful prize of Ferdinand his son,
Who filially surrendered it to him.

Conrad.
Why, it was never Ferdinand’s to give!
What, leave the lady and accept the dower!

Hoffmann.
Ay, the two articles should go together.
I’ faith, that’s certain.

Conrad.
O, she is basely wronged!

Plessing.
Come, you’ll be talking treason. I am sure
Our good King did but what he deemed the best
Both for himself and Sobieski’s soul.
Our monarch’s piety is known.

Conrad.
It is!
I could tell thee of—

Plessing.
Ay, but forbear the tale;
I know it well. Be counselled and be quiet.
Thy generous blood inflames too quickly, Conrad.
Tomorrow, should your footsteps find the palace,
You too may see this lady of the spell.
Till when farewell, gentlemen both!

Both.
Farewell!

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene IV.—A Room in the Palace at Prague.

Enter Stanislaus, Ferdinand, Queen Sigismunda, Irene, Conrad, Sir Henry Cassl, Plessing, Lords and Attendants.

Sigismunda.
My lord, you are welcome.

Plessing.
Royal lady, hail!
I met your messenger, Lord Weiss, but now.
Lay on me your commands.

Sigismunda.
Then, my good Lord,
I cannot find the Count of Elsass here.
Is he not with you?

Plessing.
I will seek him out.
Sir Henry Cassl is here; Count Conrad then
Cannot be far away.

Sigismunda.
My Lord, a moment!
Know you the Lady Irene? My fair ward,
This is Lord Plessing, our good friend.

Irene.
I think, sir,
We two have met before. The eye, I trust,
Which suffered such discourtesy from me
Is well once more.

Plessing.
Lady, when next you play,
I do beseech you, if I pass the court,
To strike again and on th’ unsmitten eye,
Which suffers such vexation for its fellow,
Favoured so much above it, that I swear
They will not work in harness, one grown proud,
The other mad with envy.

Irene.
When next I play,
I’ll advertise you, sir, and if you come
I’ll strive to do your will.

Sigismunda.
I prithee, look;
Is not Count Conrad yonder?

Plessing.
It is he.
I’ll send him hither straight.

(Goes to Conrad, who advances.)

Sigismunda.
Here is Count Conrad, lady; he, since reared
In our Bohemia, learnt to love our ways,
And still, though Lord of Elsass, leaves awhile
The care o’ his county and repairs him hither.
Another week your company you lend us—
Said you not so, Sir Count?

Conrad.
Seven weeks more, madam.
Elsass is quiet; my good Chancellor
Shifts well without my presence.

Sigismunda.
I am glad.
You have come late to-night, my lord; I feared
Our feast would lack your presence.
But see, the King is signing; we must go.
I think the wine approaches; then farewell,
My lord of Elsass.

[ Exit Sigismunda, attended. ]

Conrad.
Lady, thy tale
I heard but yesterday. Fie on the King
And all his bibbing crew! That thou must go,
I having scarcely seen thee! We are cousins,
Princess, I think.

Irene.
Princess me not, sir Count.
Nay, I am but Irene, once of Poland,
Now poor except in Sobieski’s blood;
Of that, at least, they cannot dispossess me.
No Princess then, I pray you.

Conrad.
These your wrongs,
So monstrous and ungentle, since through thee
They wound our country’s saviour, thy great sire,
Have brimmed our drunken monarch’s villainy.
Lady, you must be righted; there are those—

Irene.
What, are you mad, Sir Count!

Conrad.
The words are true.

Irene.
Be counselled, sir; such speech is rash and foolish.
Indeed, not anywise dost thou pleasure me,
Saying them thus and now.

Conrad.
My brain took fire,
Hearing thy wrongs.

Irene.
Now, sir, I will not stay.
Knowing my sufferance here, as know thou must,
And others’ jealous thoughts, either thou plott’st
My speedy exile or this my state forlorn
Too lightly dost consider.

Stanislaus.
The wine! the wine!

Ferdinand.
My lord, the wine is here.

Stanislaus.
Then bring it hither
And pass it freely round.

Ferdinand.
There are ladies still
Present with us; at least, Count Conrad yonder
Is rapt in busy converse.

Irene.
I am alone!
The Queen is long since gone, all eyes are bent
Hither in mocking wonder. Thou hast covered me,
Sir Count, with double confusion. I must go.

Conrad.
O, part not thus in anger, lady. My speech
Was rash, and I crave pardon; but your wrongs
Drew me—

Irene.
Again, sir!

Conrad.
Then I will not mention ’t.
But we are kin; my grandsire’s sire was heir
To Basil, cousin of Sobieski’s queen.

Irene.
I must be gone, sir. Nay, your place is here.

[ Exit Irene. ]

Stanislaus.
Come, come, the wine! the wine!

Ferdinand.
Round with the wine.
See, we are growing sad, let us have music,
Open the flood-gates of our souls and bid
Our heady passions flow in even current,
Tempered, like all this starry universe,
To melody.

A Lord.
My lord, there are musicians
Waiting your highness’ pleasure.

Stanislaus.
Let them wait.
I do not love these strikers of the harp,
Torturers of the noble instrument
Till its indignant soul escapes in sobs,
As Turnus from the sword of base Aeneas.
Ay, I can sing myself.

Archduke of Austria.
My lord, you wrong these men. They’re excellent—

Stanislaus.
So let them be; I love them none the more.
They shall be heard anon; but for this present
I want no hired musicians.

Ferdinand.
Is there none
Of all our court who hath attained to skill
With voice or instrument? Time was, our land,
Full as a briar of morning warblers, bore
Musicians for the world; whilst painter, poet,
Roamed our familiar streets.

Prince Ivan.
My lord, there is;
Jorgensen the Norweyan, a gentleman
One of my train and greatly skilled to sing
Or touch the harp and flute.

Ferdinand.
We’ll ask him fairly
If he will sing some legend of his land,
Or of thine own, Prince Ivan. Is he here?

Stanislaus.
And while he sings, let someone bring more wine.

Ivan.
He says he will.

Ferdinand.
We’re much beholden to him.
No less to you, Prince Ivan. Lords and guests,
Here is a gentleman will sing to us.
I pray you, grant him silence.

Jorgensen. (sings)

Balder the beautiful,
Balder is dead,
Songs must be sung for him,
Tears must be shed.

Empty is Asgard,
Drear and as lone
As a wood from which song-birds
For ever have flown.

The silence that broods now
Unbroken must stay
By the halls of the Ases
A month and a day.

Stanislaus.
Now, why should that be? Who is this same Balder?
And why is Asgard silent and deserted?

(Enter Herrmann.)

Jorgensen.
Why, Balder was the fairest of the gods,
Beloved of his parents and his peers.

Stanislaus.
Oh yes, I know; also, that he was slain
By a blind brother-god. True, true, I know.

Herrmann.
(to Ferdinand) My lord, I have that I would impart to you.
But hardly here.

Ferdinand.
We’ll go without, and leave
This tinsel festival; the King is drunk.
Is that the song, sir?

Jorgensen.
Yet seven stanzas more.

Stanislaus.
We will not have them then. But Balder’s going
Would not leave Asgard altogether void?

[ Exeunt Ferdinand and Herrmann. ]

Jorgensen.
True; but the tale runs thus. It is well known
That Odin gained the promise of return
For Balder from the Empress of the dead,
If all things wept for him—a boon which failed,
As it was meant to do. But few have heard
How yet again the gods, loth to despair,
Strove for their well-beloved, this time together,
Going in a gathered embassy to Hell,
Leaving their rocks and pines and frosty air
To seek the northern day, a band august
Whose gliding pageant glorified the sky
As if the sunset came before its time.
It was a four days’ journey to the Pole,
Where, ribbed and vaulted in with towering ice,
The dead are ’prisoned; ’neath the wild Auroras
The gods arrived, ere the fifth day drew on,
Heralded by the flaming of their robes
And flashing of their awful lineaments,
And, as the eighth day lapsed to its close again,
Returned in failure.

Stanislaus.
Is it so, indeed?

Jorgensen.
It is.

Stanislaus.
’Tis passing sad. Art thou a poet?

Jorgensen.
I’ll not deny I have had aspirations,
Your Majesty, in that direction.

Stanislaus.
So!
I knew a poet once; he was a Celt:
All these big, forest-headed Celts are poets.
Yes, yes, all poets. It is sad. All poets.
Count Conrad, thou art moody. Here, more wine!
Come, drink with me.

Conrad.
This gentleman’s tale is sad,
And set me brooding, sire.

Stanislaus.
It is; most sad.
Sad, sad.

Jorgensen.
This poet, sire?

Stanislaus.
Yes?

Jorgensen.
You had thought on
A poet whom you knew, sire.

Stanislaus.
Ay, a poet.
Yes, it is sad. O yes, I knew a poet.
He wrote some very notable rimes. Let’s see;
Sir Henry, dost thou recollect the poem
He said he writ i’ the Gaelic style?

Sir Henry.
Do you mean, sire,
“The silver-sea-kissed Isle of Inniskin?”

Stanislaus.
Ah, that was it. Sir Henry, let us have it.

Sir Henry.
I think ’twas thus:

“Come, dearest, let us fly together
To the Isle of Inniskin.
For there, I know, beside the hut there are
Beans and potatoes;
Nine rows of beans, all ripening
And growing on sticks before the door.
And the sun is there. And also”—

Prince Ivan.
What, was it stuff like that?

Stanislaus.
Ay, that is it.
O, I remember now; he brought it to me,
Bursting with pride because he said he’d caught
The spirit of the ancient Irish bards.
I told him that the lines did not rime, and therefore
Could not be poetry. Somebody, bring more wine.

Jorgensen.
What was this poet like?

Stanislaus.
A mighty eater:
We had some lines about him, I remember:—

“The poet at the breakfast table
Eats as long as he is able;
Then, collapsing in a heap,
Underneath it goes to sleep.”

Conrad. (aside).
I think that Stanislaus will do likewise
If he still calls for wine.

Sir Henry.
I think so, too.

Stanislaus.
I was myself considered in my youth
A poet of no mean order.

Jorgensen.
Is ’t so indeed?

Stanislaus.
It is. I made a monstrous rime once.

Jorgensen.
Indeed, sire. How was that?

Stanislaus.
Why, it was when
One of my towns sent a petition to me,
Eight of its burghers bringing it. It seems
I had hanged two of their number by mistake;
Wherefore they would have made a trouble of it.
However, when Lord Hochstein came to me
And asked “What of these men?” I, being wroth,
Answered “As for these swine, Let them do time.”

Jorgensen.
Ha! ha! that was indeed a wondrous rime!
And did they do it, sire?

Stanislaus.
Ay; that is, all
Save the seven chief offenders, whom I hanged.

Conrad.
(aside) Vile ruffian! O that these thy tyrannies
Might now come home to thee!

Sir Henry.
Peace, Conrad, peace.
Did you not say there were but eight, sire?

Stanislaus.
True.

Sir Henry.
Then only one did time?

Stanislaus.
Ay, only one;
Him too upon an after-thought I hanged;
Wherefore I had a fresh petition sent.
It was gross insolence.

Jorgensen.
Exceeding gross!

Stanislaus.
It was indeed. I tell you, in the end
I had to be severe. Where is this wine?
I had to be severe. Yes, it is truth.
No, it was not my will, but in the end,
As I say, I had to be severe.
I’ th’ end I had to be severe.

(Collapses).

Sir Henry.
Come help the King to bed, and let’s be going.
One moment, Conrad. Whither away so fast?
Attempt it not, ’tis late; thou couldst not do it.
Wait for thy friend.

[ Exeunt All, except Conrad and Cassl. ]

Conrad.
I prithee leave me here.
No, I’ll not do ’t tonight; no fear for me.
O Henry, leave me; I am torn in thought
And fain would clear my soul.

Sir Henry.
By speech to me.

Conrad.
No, no, I cannot speak. Dear friend, I know ’t:
I read the just reproach within thine eyes.
We have had no secret yet unshared by either,
Nor have we now, I swear; thou shouldst know all
If I could shape it utterance. O I know not!
I cannot give it speech as heretofore.
My heart is locked and I have lost the key.
Trust me, dear friend, nor further press me now
For what my own soul knows not.

Sir Henry.
I will go.
Nay, I will ask no more till thou wilt speak.

[ Exit Cassl. ]

Conrad.
Now have I played amiss. I know not why,
But I have lost all speech; when I was with her,
My tongue was rooted, or, being freed a space,
Ran but to foolishness. I vexed her soul,
Keeping her thus, her comrade ladies gone,
Before this bibbing crew held her to shame.
Rightly and with fair reason was she vexed!
The one that spoke was Ferdinand, whom I hate.
But yet she is my kin and foully wronged,
And I, since cousin, should surely see her righted.
The task belongs to me; for I have power,
Besides my kinship, power, scarce such indeed
As in itself should cause Bohemia dread,
But Brandenburg and Hesse are my cousins;
And certes, she my kin, ’tis mine to right her.
But yet she holds me rash, and fool to boot.
I must gain speech again; I must adventure ’t
And clear these things, and proffer of my power
To succour this afflicted lady, whose cause
As Sobieski’s heir, comes with such claim
That no true sword can choose but give her aid.

[ Exit. ]

Act II.

Scene I.—A room in Conrad’s lodgings, Prague.

Enter Conrad and Sir Henry.

Sir Henry.
Well, Conrad, thou hast seen this wondrous lady,
John Sobieski’s daughter; yestereve,
Amercing of thy countenance thy friends
For space of nigh a thousand precious seconds,
At our King’s banquet thou hadst nought to do
But gaze upon her.

Conrad.
Gaze, ay, gaze for ever!

Sir Henry.
I fear I shall lose my friend.

Conrad.
O that thou might’st!

Sir Henry.
Why, Conrad, that’s a sorry wish.

Conrad.
Nay, Henry;
Be not so quick. Thou know’st I answered thee
But with the jesting sense thou spak’st to me.

Sir Henry.
Ay, but—

Conrad.
Nay, then, the wish is e’en recalled,
If it offends thee; not a moment’s pain,
Old friend, shalt thou endure from speech of mine.
’Twixt our knit spirits let no cloud soe’er
Make severance for an instant. Come, thy hand!

Sir Henry.
O, I was wrong! I am ill at ease this morn
To be so quickly stirred and by a friend.
Prithee, forgive me, Conrad.

Conrad.
Say no more.
As to the lady, I have seen her since,
And hope, ere night, to see her yet again.

Sir Henry.
Where dwells she now?

Conrad.
Upon the outskirts of Prague,
Where the long heath slopes to the water-side
And many rivers tumble to the sea,
Whose kneeling waves perpetual voice of prayer
And thunder of exultant psalms send up
Towards the nunnery which is her home.
Thither will Klopstok, Herrmann, and myself
Resort at dusk for serenade and song.

Sir Henry.
Mad rascals, all of ye! Think what you do.
And Plessing? From this guild of lunacy
That excellent madman will not stand aloof.
Surely he comes?

Conrad.
He would not, though we asked him.

Sir Henry.
I crave him pardon! Now I think on it,
His ways, for all their brave and frolic wit,
Mask o’er some soul of sense and hardihood.
But wherefore cried he off?

Conrad.
For many reasons.
Partly the sanctity of her home, averring
Scandal would be the issue of our action.

Sir Henry.
O excellent youth! Sweet Plessing, pardon me!
Saint Plessing, I have wronged thee! Prithee, pardon!
But further?

Conrad.
Why, he said the King would hear o ’t
And take our action wildly, she being heir
To Poland, bearing Sobieski’s blood,
Though monstrously and vilely dispossessed.

Sir Henry.
Now, Conrad, on my soul his words were truth.
Consider what you do! The place alone,
But for your rank and power, were death by fire.
Certes, to intrude upon the brides of Heav’n
With amorous song will compass what you would not.
As to the lady’s birthright, Stanislaus,
Uneasy in his own throne, knowing the people
Murmur and groan beneath his wasteful Court
And murderous outbreaks of choleric spleen,
Keeps jealous eye on all who seek her favour.

Conrad.
All this is truth, I know.

Sir Henry.
Well, then refrain.

Conrad.
Ay, but—O Henry, thou hast never known
The irresistible assault of love
On heart and soul, on all that spells thee man.
Wrapt in impregnable mail of lonely thought,
High contemplation, reverie austere,
Thou art exempt; thy days beneath the pale
Dominion of thy mistress Piety
Have passed unconscious of a woman’s grace.
I tell thee, if I see her not, I die.

Sir Henry.
And, seeing her, art like to do the like.
Well, if thou wilt not for thyself be wise,
Be so for others; those that share this game
Are like to be the heavier losers by it.
Consider Klopstok; thou, since Count of Elsass,
Hast rank and power that can perchance preserve;
His sire is but a petty knight. Consider.
Though for thyself—

Conrad.
Enough! I’ll not adventure ’t.
Though for the peerless presence of my lady
My rank and life I would not hold of value,
Yet none shall say my friends to capital risk
Were in my cause consigned, while I escaped.

Sir Henry.
I thank thee, Conrad. Further, with your leave,
Fain would I briefly touch another matter.

Conrad.
Speak freely, friend. What, have we dwelt together,
And shared life’s shocks and pleasures, and yet now
Dare not be open!

Sir Henry.
Then, concerning Herrmann;
Of late, you have been much in ’s company.
Conrad, I like it not.

Conrad.
I prithee, why?
Forsooth, you have heard that foolish Count of Plevna,
With other libellous scandals, tell his tale
Of Herrmann and himself in Italy.
Henry, it is not like your generous wisdom,
Because a paltry story fills the wind,
To damn—

Sir Henry.
Now, you mistake me, I protest.
As for the Count of Plevna’s tale, I take it
As in itself like enough to be true,
But in its source, unlikely. There are reasons,
And weighty ones, apart from idle story,
For fearing Herrmann.

Conrad.
As, for example, his hair
Is red—and Judas had a flaming fell.

Sir Henry.
Conrad, put off this petulance; ’tis unmeet,
Nor does my love deserve it at your hands.
Remember Frederick Arnheim, who last year
Fled, exiled and proscribed, for factious speech
And burrowing intrigue in the people’s cause.
His friend was Herrmann—whence, if not from thence,
Came whisper to the Council and the King?

Conrad.
Now, there you err; for his own lips betrayed
His treason in carousal with the Prince.
This have I heard.

Sir Henry.
From Herrmann?

Conrad.
Ay.

Sir Henry.
Yet further.
Arnheim’s estate by confiscation fell
To Stanislaus, all save Hochstadt Manor.

Conrad.
Which now is Herrmann’s, you would say?

Sir Henry.
E’en so.
Remember what of private warning came
To thee with me that midnight in the grove.

Conrad.
What was it? I forget. I think—

Sir Henry.
“Beware
Thy seeming friends, who else will work thee woe.”
And, if her queenship had not met with us,
This matter had I earlier touched upon.
Dost not remember how I spoke to thee
Of matters sacred, scarcely to be named?

Conrad.
Fear not. For not of Herrmann did she speak.
Yet with the reverence fitting, such its source,
This warning from thy lips I will receive;
Though for my friend I fear not.

Sir Henry.
Thou art generous.
Now may Our Lady keep thee! For I know thee
One prompt and capable of all misfortune,
Right in thy heart, but stumbling in thy feet.
Remember, Conrad. Nay, then, blame my love,
Officious, quickly moved, but hear my words.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene II.—The Courtyard of the Palace at Prague.

Enter Irene, Conrad, Sir Henry, Fool.

Conrad.
Lady, Report, that speaks the place so well,
Speaks ill in this, because its beauty shines
So far beyond report. ’Tis fairly found
Upon the hill, with mossy dingles by;
And on the field itself, each smiling minute,
The suns fall clearly, fully, without let,
So that the hours move slowly, and the place,
Invested in a summer languour, sleeps.
June, a pleased sojourner, is busy here,
Flaking with marguerite the poppied slopes,
That know the print of her foot and in response
Scripture their love in crimson characters,
Letters and bands of gold and gleaming white.
Here Flora, with her wanton maids at play,
Runs through the bent and chides the hours away.
Here perfect happiness—

Sir Henry.
Ay, happiness;
So hardly apprehended, gone so quickly!

Fool.
’Tis like the pasty Dido baked, which pious
Aeneas, being hungry, made away with.
Lady, canst tell me of what trade was Nero?

Irene.
Nay, that I know not. Pray reveal it, fool.

Fool.
Marry, I think he was a family butcher.

Conrad.
Thou’rt in the right. Princess, thine ear awhile.
These are the central sports of all our realm,
A custom ne’er unheeded: shepherds here,
Leaving their fleecy cares to browse awhile
In charge of girls and urchins, smocks aside,
Strive for the belt within the wrestling ring;
Guides, that along the jagg’d, precipitous tracks
Bring on his way the fearful passenger,
Race for the meed of best; the students, too,
At their glad noisiest, swift of tongue and limb,
Contend with hand and foot, in wrestle and race,
With pole and hammer.

Irene.
Sir, you weary me.
Such eloquence! and such a running tongue!
In fine, the place is well, the folk are well,
And therefore you would fain?

Conrad.
That which would give
To both as much again of merit, and more.
It only lacks your beauty’s presence there
To perfect what’s already wondrous fair.

Irene.
Again your speech has broken into rime.
Since when did you become a poet, sir?

Conrad.
Since first I gazed upon your beauty, lady,
Whose brows are Love’s abiding-place and stronghold.

Fool. (sings)

For ’t was the Queen of Love bestowed
Such grace upon this dwelling,
And fashioned it her son’s abode,
Consummate and excelling.

Here Love, arrived, as Lord will live,
Each coign with archers filling:
Fly, if thou canst, poor fugitive.
Alas! thou art unwilling!

Sure to be slain if thou dost wait,
Or kept a slave for ever,—
Alas! the archers at the gate
Make flight a vain endeavour.

Then seek no flight, but proffer prayer
For place, although the lowest;
And find Love’s very dungeons fair
Beyond all bliss thou knowest.

Conrad.
Quiet, sir fool. Yet, for the song deserves it,
Here’s a largesse for thy pains. Who passed us then,
Frowning, I thought?

Irene.
Prince Ferdinand, with a scowl
No tempest could outvisage; on that cold lip
A sneer which spoke a will which, an it could,
Would cut to the quick the life that drew its fear.
I know and read the portent.

Conrad.
Never heed him;
We are of those can count his hate our sport.
Then will you come?

Irene.
Why, yes.

Conrad.
Now Heav’n repay thee!
For my weak thanks can never. Wretch that I am,
What poor deserts of mine could e’er attain
Such largesse as the skies now rain upon me?

Irene.
Why, truly none, sir, none that I have heard.
Indeed, to know yourself at last so graceless
Argues more grace than I believed was yours.
So say no more.

Conrad.
Lady, I live your debtor.
I know that God will bless thee, since His sunshine
His almoner thou so liberally dispensest,
Showering on churls, although the unworthiest.
Can life hold more?

Irene.
Question your stars, not me.
Or rather, since I am a palmist skilled,
Shew me your hand; I’ll read your fate for you.

Conrad.
Willingly; take and keep it.

Irene.
I’ll no gifts,
Or, if I must, I’d have them things of worth.
Your character I read with ease, and find it
Plain as your face, sir, plain as it could be.
Yet will I not decipher ’t; ’twere unmeet
(Your friend, who loves you, by) for all to see
To flaunt so black a pennon.

Conrad.
Lady, cruel!

Irene.
Nay, peace, sir, or I read no more to-day.
Next, to your life.

Sir Henry.
Here’s that I long to know.
There’s that affair which Plessing hinted at,
When he and Conrad went to Saxony;
Some dame with russet cheeks and glancing eyes.
I questioned Conrad, but he would not say.
A cook, I think it was.

Irene.
’Tis very like.
She knew where men’s affections most reside.
We’ll find this secret presently, Sir Henry.

Sir Henry.
Do so; I long to hear ’t. And there is more.

Conrad.
Silence, detractor. Lady, reveal my life.

Irene.
I find it, like your conversation, dull,
Little of note to mark it hitherto;
Just at the first a birching now and then,
An orchard-robbing, a fair maid’s pleasant eyes.
But what’s to come I read as dark indeed.
I find you crossed in love.

Conrad.
Nay—

Irene.
I and your stars
Say “yes,” sir; and an early death.

Conrad.
That I believe,
Slain by your cruelty.

Irene.
Now, by my faith,
See how the dial points! Your foolish talk,
As well it might, has made Time run; the Hours,
Fain to have done their stay and to be gone,
Have sped on frighted feet. Would I had, too!
Nay, not a moment longer; I must go.
The Queen awaits me. Gentlemen both, farewell.
Prithee, sweet Fool, accompany me; your talk
Will freshen my jaded brain, and raze from it
This last hour’s pompous folly. You will come?
Now, do not sing again. You’ll come? ’Tis well.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene III.——A street in Prague.

Plessing and Conrad meet.

Plessing.
What, Conrad, here! Thou here!

Conrad.
And wherefore not?

Plessing.
Now, is it possible? Surely thou know’st!
The watch are even now—why the King’s warrant
Was out against thee half an hour ago.

Conrad.
Warrant for me!

Plessing.
Whom else? Three several counts; Treasonous intrigue in the commons’ cause:
Light speech against his majesty: and the last,
Aspiring and conspiring in the interest
Of Poland’s princess, dispossessed Irene.
If once the watch perceive thee, prison and death,
Death surely, wait thee.

Conrad.
Death! ’Tis thou art mad.
Why, Stanislaus dare not; Elsass’ Count,
I stand apart from his dominion’s law.

Plessing.
Trust to no “dare not;” when the King is drunk,
And that is always, he dares anything.
Our dungeons have thick ears; and Stanislaus
Avers that Charles of Bonn, who claims your county,
Bears off the better title, since your grandsire
Was by the Count, whose better sense was poisoned
With accusations forged, disherited,
Beneath which cloud he died. He therefore holds you
By usurpation only Count of Elsass.

Enter Messenger.

Messenger.
To you, my Lord of Elsass.

Conrad (reads).
This from my Chancellor. Plessing! O Plessing!
Read if you will; the earth and air seem fire!
Yesterday I was Conrad, Count of Elsass.
My mistress’ smiles were mine.
Now I am undone for ever.

Plessing.
This Charles of Bonn?

Conrad.
Have you not there the missive? No, ’tis here.
This Charles of Bonn has ta’en my county from me:
With thrice three hundred ruffians at his back,
Hired cut-throats from our Stanislaus here,
He entered Strasburg, while I dally in Prague.
My Chancellor still holds Mingen.

Plessing.
Conrad, fly!
Pass not in Prague another sunset. Fly!
There come the watch! I’ll give their halberds play,
Till you attain the city outskirts. Fly!

Conrad.
Plessing, one moment more. The Lady Irene⸺

Plessing.
She shall have word of this; fear not. Begone.

Conrad.
You will not fail me?

Plessing.
Trust your friends. But haste.

[ Exit. ]

Enter Herrmann.

Herrmann.
What, Conrad, whither away so fast?

Conrad.
I am lost.
Hinder me not, I charge you; stand aside.
Warrants are out against me, treason the charge.
I must fly Prague.

Herrmann.
How fly? What if this hand
Should stay thee till the watch arrive?

Conrad.
This hand
Is too much like my own to keep me here.

Herrmann.
True, lad. Forgive me! Nay, I did but jest.

Conrad.
I know ’t; it was no more, I dare protest.

[ Exit Conrad. ]

Herrmann.
Why, he is gone, and I had meant to take him!
But on the sudden his great trust o’ercame
The lurking fiend within. I dared not do it,
Ay, dared not; would to Heav’n that he might ’scape.
I that betrayed him dare not wish him harm.
I think, if he die, I shall not sleep again.
Heav’n help thee, Conrad!

[ Exit. ]

Scene IV.—The Nunnery grounds. Irene and Anna.

Enter Lady Superior with Messenger.

Lady Superior.
A missive for you, Princess; he that bears it
Declined deliverance save to your own hand.
I’ve brought him through our grounds.

Irene.
I thank your pains,
And will not tax them further, Mother. (Takes letter).

Lady Superior.
I’ll leave you now; you have the letter there.

(To Messenger)

You may return with me.

[ Exeunt Lady Superior and Messenger. ]

Irene (reads).

To the Lady Irene:

Conrad is fled in haste; the King, in part for your sake, seeks his life, and invasion has robbed him of his dominions. Because he bids, I sent you note of this. I must fly Prague, and I can but commend you for counsel to Sir Henry Cassl, whom I know crafty and true; and Conrad bstows on him an absolute trust.

— Plessing.

Enter Anna.

Anna.
Lady, you are not well; will you come in?
These evening airs are treacherous; trust them not.

Irene.
I thank you, I am well. No, I’ll not in.

Anna.
Your cheek has paled again.

Irene.
’Tis nothing, child.
Know you where dwells Sir Henry Cassl?

Anna.
He dwells alone by the water-side; there is not a fisherman on the Moldau but can tell you where he lodges; he is much beloved of them. But why should you desire knowledge of this, lady? You have surely taken some harm from these night winds, for your colour comes and goes in a fashion which I like ill. Will you not speak to me?

Irene.
Child, I am distressed and will trust you; you are but a novice here and, unlike this grim sisterhood, have not left your brothers and lovers so far behind you that you understand nothing but psalms. In brief, Conrad, the Count of Elsass, is fled from Prague, for the King seeks his life on my behalf. I have met him scarce six times, yet have I liked him well; but now my heart, as I hold this letter, tells me that I love him, and I knew it not. ’Tis from Count Plessing, who himself has also fled, and he bids me seek counsel of Sir Henry Cassl.

Anna.
You are a great lady, and, though you have not demeaned yourself as great to me, I dare not presume to advise you in so high a matter as this.

Irene.
Beside the Moldau, said you? I will go forthwith, for I can trust Sir Henry Cassl, and it is like that the King’s drunken anger will fall no less on me. Child, I have done well in trusting you?

Anna.
I’ll not betray you, Lady.

Irene (aside).
Conrad, I did not know my heart and wronged it,
Thy love repulsing with my petulant wit.
But I am wise at last; and I will find thee,
Be the search what it may. O heart of mine!
Still throbbing! Will my temples not be quiet?
This is no breeze of night, a tempest rather
Which chills the spirit and from its throne bears down
The tottering fancy. Henry, Conrad’s friend!
Conrad my lord, I’ll come to thee forthright.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene V.—The Palace at Prague.

Enter Stanislaus, Ferdinand, Lords and Attendants.

Stanislaus.
Conrad of Elsass, erstwhile held its count,
Now known no count, from his usurpèd power
Proclaim we justly driven, Lord Charles of Bonn
Bearing the better title; and furthermore,
This Conrad, falsely held of Elsass late,
For factious intrigue and o’erweening pride
That stayed not at our person, but beyond
Shot yet a higher offence, reviling us
And to the Polish princess’ cause and hand
Aspiring, in mid-blossom of his deeds
Snatched, ere the bud had borne pernicious fruit,
See to our Northern Tower conveyed, and there
Immured to wait our sentence.

Ferdinand.
Good my lord,
They have not ta’en him.

Stanislaus.
What!

Ferdinand.
He has fled the city:
E’en when the watch would take him, he was gone.

Stanislaus.
O base! By whose connivance?

Ferdinand.
Nay, I know not.

A Lord.
My lord, it was Count Plessing.

Ferdinand.
Plessing, say you?

A Lord.
Ay, he both warned Count Conrad and the watch
Hindered from execution.

Stanislaus.
Plessing!
Go, bid the watch arrest him.

A Lord.
I will do so,
But doubt the issue.

Stanislaus.
Wherefore, knave?

A Lord.
He is fled, sire;
Or else I know not Plessing.

Stanislaus.
Fools and knaves!
Will my whole realm turn traitor? But at least
Of the succession to his sire’s estates
We will amerce him; and let curious search
Be made for these our traitors everywhere.
Go, bid them guard the frontiers.
[ Exit Lord. ]
The Polish princess, hath she ta’en the vows
Of the Clarissan house that shelters her?

Ferdinand.
She hath not ta’en the veil.

Enter Herrmann.

Stanislaus.
She shall forthwith.
Since the prime authors of this move are fled,
I’ll strike—

Ferdinand.
My lord, Lord Herrmann, just arrived,
Whispers me that the lady, too, has fled.

Stanislaus.
What! Gone with Conrad?

Herrmann.
Nay, your majesty.
The lady Irene, your just wrath expecting,
Fled—

Ferdinand.
Not alone?

Herrmann.
’Tis said, Sir Henry Cassl
Has likewise left the city. He and Conrad
No doubt were leagued.

Ferdinand.
Then fled Irene with him?

Herrmann.
My lord, I heard so; and belike ’tis true.

Stanislaus.
O villains! By St. Wenceslas I swear it!
If of this crew my hands take one alive
He shall not die till he hath prayed for death
As never, whipped from prison to the wheel,
Shrieked caitiff for his life. To just revenge
So help me, saints and angels!

[ Exeunt. ]

Act III.

Scene I.—A wild part of the Bohmer Wald.

Enter Sir Henry Cassl and Irene.

Irene.
The cave you spake of, is it far, Sir Henry?
It draws towards dusk; I heard the owl but now,
And the day-wearied traveller of the sky
Sinks on yon flaming crag.

Sir Henry.
Keep courage, lady.
Another hour will surely find us there.
You need not fear. None ever seeks these wastes
But wandering shepherd, when his lamb perchance
Has loitered, lest the prowling wolf purloin.

Irene.
Yet heard I music now.

Sir Henry.
No music, lady.

Irene.
Nay, but I heard it.

Sir Henry.
Shepherd’s pipe, perchance.

Irene.
No shepherd; never shepherd owned such strains.
Those notes not he whose bragging Muse proclaimed
“Were Pan himself to vie in song with me,
Arcadia judge, myself would victor be,”
Could e’er attain. No shepherds these; but rather
Seraphs, that in the mid-wood, winding ways
Wander and hymns to Heaven’s High Master raise.

Sir Henry.
’Tis very like.

Irene.
Didst see? Behind yon furze
Was it a lanthorn gleamed? I dread these wilds.
Why hath God left us here?

Sir Henry.
He hath not left us.
Lady, it is not God that goes from us
But we from Him: as the wise heathen saith—
For “Memor nostri Deus semper est”;
The most high God is ever mindful of us.
Take courage, lady; yonder is the cave.

Irene.
I cannot see it.

Sir Henry.
We are very nigh.

Irene.
There were the strains again! And words I catch.

Voices (singing).

Where the mossy walks are strewn
With the beams that scatter wide
From the lanthorn of the moon,
Dappling heath and water-side,
We, that follow in her train,
Roam the Elfin Queen’s domain.

Sir Henry.
I know the voices. Gracious queen o’ the woods!
What wilt thou with me?

Titania.
Lay thy fears aside;
For none that in my silvan realm abide
Shall hurt the clients of the Faery Queen.
No harmful beast shall in thy walks be seen;
The nodding furze shall gently give thee way,
Nor shall the briar thy right of road gainsay.
I’ll make the forest eyes, and for thy sake
Know that thy lovers lurk in every brake.
I come to succour now; hast thou forgot
My promise given?

Sir Henry.
Dread lady, truly, no!
And therefore on thy puissance now I cast
Ourselves thy suppliants. For myself I reck not:
When scarce a babe, my father’s house being sacked
My noble mother murdered in the flames,
Cradled in grief, I learnt to bear all sorrows.
But O, beneath thy gracious empire gather
This my poor ward, Love’s friendless fugitive.

Titania.
Fear not! For who should guard her if not I?
What! did she not in entranced durance lie
Till through our meads a hundred times had paced
The Lady Ver, at whose footfall in haste
Earth into blossom laughed, and in mad love
To crown his hoary head with chaplets strove?
A hundred times while wealthy Summer strewed
His streaming largesse over field and wood?
A hundred times while underneath his load
Of corn and vintage labouring Autumn strode?
A hundred times while miser Winter came
With laggard steps and agued, palsied frame,
Clutching what tattered bravery outstayed
The royal pomp his wealthier kin displayed,
Hoarding what leafage brown festooned the beech
With russet rings beyond the cattle’s reach;
Till Spring, that could with such vile gauds dispense,
From the full bosom of her opulence
Scattered the peeping green, and bursting leaves
Clad every branching arm with emerald sleeves?
Nay, fear not, gentle lady! Though before
In anger from your boastful mother I bore,
Scourging by you the love whose bragging praise
Stood not at reason’s pitch, but dared to raise
Thee, mortal maid, above her rank whose sway
The stars in all their glittering paths obey,
The waves that rise, and kneel, and prostrate fall,
The antlered oaks, and the wild creatures all,
Fear not for that, since now for his loved sake
Who loves thee dearly, thee in love I take.

Sir Henry.
This gracious deed, could my poor thanks avail,
Lady, I would most fitly thank thee for;
Ay, with my heart.

Titania.
She shall be free of the wild:
The grisly wolf, more gentle than a child,
Escort and convoy to her walks shall be;
And unto her my subjects as to me
Shall render fealty through my rude domain.
Know her your princess, elves: she shall remain
Till these rough shocks be past, as she hath been,
Once more in wardship of the Faery Queen.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene II.—Another part of the Bohmer Wald.

Enter Conrad and Herrmann.

Conrad.
I’ll not believe it. O, it is not true!
It is not possible!

Herrmann.
’Tis more, ’tis certain.

Conrad.
Say no word more! Slander my own soul rather.
Indeed, you do no less. Then have a care!
Our love, though great, is young, a very child—
I swear it is no more—to that which knits
Myself and Henry.

Herrmann.
I will say no more.
I see it wrings you; nay, I knew it would.
’Twas but my love compelled me. You would rather,
So you may cherish your soul’s dear comrade still,
Live blind to your lady’s peril and his sin.
Since speech offends, then silence. All is false;
Here in your exile you may rest content;
I did but give imagination wings,
A fancy much my pastime: so, no more.

Conrad.
Now I have wronged you! I am mad, distraught.
Forgive me, Herrmann; prithee, tell me all.
Too much is told; unless I know the whole,
Thinking on what is heard I shall go mad,
Brooding until the thing imagined grows
To darker aspect than the truth itself,
Could that be possible: nay, I must know.

Herrmann.
How should I speak it if it were not true?
I love Sir Henry; is he not my friend?

Conrad.
True, true: I wrong thee grossly; but forgive me.
I never had a brother; if I had,
I had not loved him as I love Sir Henry.
’Tis scarce a week ago, his name being spoke,
Prince Ferdinand at it with some flippant quip
Began to sneer, but left the jest unsaid,
Meeting my eyes; I swear I had smote him then,
If he had spoken it. You need not fear.
Nay, I commend your love; and well believe
The utterance pains you as the hearing me.
I am calmer now; and I must know it all.
Whence learnt you this?

Herrmann.
’Tis certain she has fled,
Fled with Sir Henry, too.

Conrad.
Belike the King
Threatened her life or freedom, and she fled
With Henry.

Herrmann.
That is true; but why with him?

Conrad.
Why, is he not my friend? With whom but him
Could I entrust my lady? She is safe.
Come, this is nothing, sir; your fears are false,
Mere cobwebs of the mind; so, though I thank you
For this your information, I dismiss it,
Glad that my lady to so sure a harbour
Has fled these storms; I can sleep o’ nights again.

Herrmann.
Ay, sleep again. O let me tell thee all!
Consider while I speak. The Lady Irene——
She came to us a stranger, and, being here,
Scarce three weeks since, she hath been much from Court,
Bearing its folk scant love; in which brief stay
Who but Sir Henry as thyself as oft
Has seen her? Was she not towards him ever
Gentle and kind?

Conrad.
Why, so is she to all.
Not heaven in its wide-spent beneficence
Outmatches her.

Herrmann.
Soft! There is more to follow.
Truly, did she not love him?

Conrad.
So she must.
And so must any soul. Why—

Herrmann.
Good so far.
But tell me now: when Klopstok, thou, and I
Upon that night had serenaded her,
Was it not Henry’s counsel that dissuaded?

Conrad.
Why, truly, yes: and wisely, for—

Herrmann.
I know it;
Doubtless because a nunnery, forsooth,
Was then her refuge. But how think you now?
What if Sir Henry on that very night—
Himself—

Conrad.
It is not true!

Herrmann.
But I have said it;
Ay, and I now avow it.

Conrad.
O refrain!
Unspeak the words, I pray you; say them false,

Herrmann.
But wait; do you not now see all the plot?
Have you not in your careless spleen let fall
Rash speech against the King, and vowed he wronged her?

Conrad.
Why, yes; and so have you and every one.

Herrmann.
And who so well had knowledge of such speech
As this thy friend, Sir Henry? He betrayed thee,
That, when thy head was fallen—

Conrad.
Vile! O vile!
I see it all. Yet stay! How canst thou prove it?

Herrmann.
Know you this hand?

Conrad.
’Tis hers.

Herrmann.
The note was found
In Henry’s chamber. All above was torn,
In haste, no doubt, but with especial care,
To fragments, nor could all our utmost pains
Decipher ’t. Wherefore should she write to him?
Or, having written, wherefore he destroy?
Knew you of this? You did not?

Conrad.
This is hell.

Herrmann.
So when thou fledd’st, fearing that when thou knew’st,—
As know thou wouldst, he knew,—not ancient love
Could cover and atone so black offence,
He fled thy vengeance.

Conrad.
He shall never flee it!

Herrmann.
I, knowing all, and loving thee, left Prague
To find thee.

Conrad.
Fool I was! In my first fear,
Hearing a watch was on me, from the city
I fled, but scarcely reached three leagues away
When my great love towards my lady drew me
Back to her rescue: meeting thee I heard,
And in my madness sought these wilds again.
What can I do? Where turn? For live I dare not,
And die I will not till I slay these traitors.
O Henry! I would sooner doubt my sense
And think that when I saw I did not see
Than I had doubted thee! I have been snared.
Nay, there’s no faith in man: the world is false;
And Heaven itself is but a painted lie.

Herrmann.
O, how I pity thee! I will not stay.
My friend, O Conrad, by thy friend betrayed,
Of thy dominions robbed, proscribed, exiled,
Fleeing most certain death, and, last of all,
Thy faithless mistress—

Conrad.
Say no more! I am racked.

Herrmann.
I’ll leave thee. May thy fates be kind to thee!
Would that my love could help thee!

[ Exit Herrmann. ]

Conrad.
I see it all: Herrmann he could not love
For Herrmann knew his villainy. O most wise
That warning in the woods of Prague! “Beware
Thy seeming friends, who else will work thee woe.”
Why, who but Henry this? He was my friend,
Not Herrmann, whom I knew but yesterday.
O monstrous! Yet he fain had drawn my hate
On Herrmann, making him suspect and heir
To all the oracle’s meaning, fain to cover
His treason thus. O, ’tis beyond all thought!

[ Exit. ]

Scene III.—The Bohmer Wald.

Enter Basil, Oliver, James, and Shepherds.

Basil.
Wilhelm and Jerome, have they not returned?

Oliver.
They have not.

Basil.
But our pageant must go forward.
’Tis our Midsummer Festival; and never,
Since from their own Arcadia our forefathers,
Shepherds and pagan, sought Bohemian pasture,
These rites have been omitted; if they should,
In their default, the mistress of these woods,
The old-time chaste and armèd Huntress-maid,
Shooting from her high place in heaven her barbs,
Her arrows silver-shafted, on our sheep
Would cast contagion and with fevers blast
And inward mildews.

James.
That is very certain.
The pageant must be held.

Enter Conrad.

Basil.
Good morrow, sir.
What would you with us?

Conrad.
For love of Christ, fair friends,
Grant me refreshment; I have lost my way:
These wilds I know not, and am like to perish.

Basil.
You are most welcome; will you stay with us,
Share our brief meal, and view our shepherds’ pageant?
It is a yearly custom, ne’er passed over.
’T will now begin. Nay, sit you here, fair sir.
Now let the rites go forward. Wilhelm and Jerome
Are not returned from pasture; it was theirs
To bear the body in, task which now falls
To John and Oliver. Pray you, proceed.

Enter the Chief Shepherd, followed by Shepherds in two bands.

Chief Shepherd.
This is the place, and this the mound which hides
The blessed body of our martyred saint.
Now ere we hail the living, and him who lies
Stabbed by the boar with healing chaplets crown,
Our play with claps of music closing off
And joyful orisons to the mounted sun,
Purveyor of our pastures, to the dead
Let all due vows be paid. Shepherds, advance,
Singing the while ye beat a mournful march,
And what you have of funeral strewings bear
And votive garland. All is now addrest.

(First Band scatter blossoms, singing.)

First Band.

“Roses, pinks, and lilies bring;
Heartsease on his ashes fling;
And to these the woodbine set,
Gilliflower and violet.
That his death and going hence,
As his life, exalt with sense
Of a flowerful excellence.
Wands of willow let us bear,
Wrapt about with blossoms fair;
Crownals of the meadowsweet;
Orchis-garlands, as is meet.
This is right for his dear shade,
Whom, though now immortal made,
We must praise with buds that fade.

Basil.
What think you of the show? Is it not fair?

Conrad.
Most fair. But whither tends it?

Basil.
Thou shalt see:
For more must follow: this is prologue only.
First to their tutelar shade their vows they pay;
And then brief tragedy, before the whole
End in a rain of flowers, as it began.
See, there’s a second song.

(Second Band, singing.)

Leave him to his flowering weed,
And afar your garlands bear:
Of your gifts he hath no need;
His is sepulture more rare.
Though the careless world neglect him,
Yet the woodgods more respect him;
And deserted in his end
Think ye Pan will leave his friend?
Come when, April winds o’erpast,
Burgeons forth the spring at last;
Come, and see the garnished sod
With garlands of the shepherd-god;
Come, and see the jonquils fair
Glittering on the gracious air;
Daffodils and lilies white,
That ensnare the unwary light;
Bethlehem buds, with eyes that are
Each the semblant of a star;
Whilst the violets, that blow
Hidden in the leaves below,
Fittingly with their sweet breath
Sorrow forth a poet’s death.

Basil.
These are rude songs. A mountain-shepherd made them,
One who had some small skill in books and knew
How to set tripping numbers to his rimes.

Conrad.
Who is it that they celebrate?

Basil.
A shepherd.
We never knew his name; ten years agone
He sought us first, and lived awhile, till found
Prone ’neath a cliff, by plausible surmise
Down its sheer side hurled by a slipping stone,
(Being ill-acquainted with our mountain ways),
When searching for a lamb. No shepherd he,
Whose speech was courtly, and his garb no less
Beside our russet weeds; and yet we loved him;
No shepherd of our hills but loved him well.
But hist! The play proceeds; and hither come
Wilhelm and Jerome, erstwhile truant held;
And, by Our Lady, they will bear their part!
For see, they bring the body! This is well.

(Enter Wilhelm and Jerome, bearing a body.)

Wilhelm.
Break off, break off. We must put our sports away.
For here is cause for tears; this gentleman
Within the cavern of a bending thorn
We found, with face pressed to the chilly earth,
Dead, we believe, though whence we bear no knowledge;
For this is not the face of death: but doubtless
Close inquisition will reveal the same.

Basil.
O, this is brave! Here I bear a part.
But what is this?

Jerome.
No jest, but weeping earnest.
He is dead indeed, I fear.

Basil.
Break off, break off.
For this is not our comrade, as we thought;
Some hapless traveller. Put away your games.

Conrad.
By Heaven, I thought to have remained spectator,
But I must bear a part here. Back, friends, back.
Nay, stand aside.

Basil.
The gentleman’s distraught!
What would you, sir? You can do nothing now.

Conrad.
Henry! Is this to meet? How have I sought thee!
Nay, tell me, how couldst thou betray thy soul?
How came his death?

Jerome.
Sheer hunger, as I think.

Basil.
It seems, sir, you have known this gentleman.

Conrad.
What! starved to death! Then it was Heav’n indeed!
O, foul! foul! foul! that, being what thou wert,
Thou shouldst have fallen so, and so have died!
This was the very wrath of Heaven, that strikes,
And swiftly too, such murders and so foul
As this thou didst against our friendship.
Where hast thou left her then?

Basil.
I’ll speak to him.
You are ill at ease. Shall we procure you, sir,
As well we know the art, some precious weed,
Horehound or healwort from the wayside brook,
Whose cooling broth, unless my skill be false,
Can much avail distempers such as yours.
We’ll put them to your temples too.

Conrad.
Still dumb!
Nay, keep the lips sealed ever: I would not hear it.
What, you would speak with me?

Basil.
He is, sure, mad.
Consider, sir. Though, as I gather, your friend,
His death is most unlooked for, and most sad,
Being most miserable, yet is it past.
This grief but harms yourself and nought avails.
Had this not happed, yet is it still most certain
He would have died hereafter.

Conrad.
Would have died?

Basil.
Ay, would have died, for all must die. Though, being
Gentlemen as ye are, your deaths entail
More public pomp of sorrow, yet for us
Death bears as sharp a pang, though we conceal it.
What of the multitude, that toil unknown?
Do they not live and die? Are they not mourned?

Conrad.
They grow like corn, which towers and gains a head,
Nodding before the breeze, which some of it
Untimely breaks; and, when to fulness grown,
The Reaper’s sickle levels them with the sod;
And, following on the heels of their swift course,
Earth, their old Mother, like a matron clad,
Gleaning and gathering comes, and what remains
Plucks to her lap. But he was never such;
Not of the crowd of men that live and die,
But drawn apart and lifted: this was a brow
Built for sure immortality, and a spirit
The world is poorer by. I prithee leave me.
This is the friend I was most fain to speak with.
I pray you, leave me; I have much to say, Yet fear to speak.

Basil.
We will return anon.

[ Exeunt all except Conrad. ]

Conrad.
Had it been death alone, I might have saved thee;
Nay, surely had: for she who rules i’ the grove
For love of thee and me had plaited thee
A chaplet of all healingest herbs, and laid
Cool stalks against thy tired-out lids and eyes,
With goldilocks and lilies touched thy brows,
Restoring the worn frame to freshened life.
But no! no! no!
Thou art beyond the power of leech to cure:
Vervain nor all the simples of the world,
Mint, colewort, agrimony, basil, balm,
Thyme, aloes, southernwood, avail thee now.
Waters medic’nal, roots of sacred rivers
Can never cleanse thee; springs that, gushing forth
The snowy-bosomed glacier, bear with them
Health from the hill-tops, virtueless and vain
Approve themselves before thy monstrous ills.
For what could these avail? They could but bring
Thy perjured, falser self to life again.
But yet . . . . and yet . . . . who knows?
Perchance—for who could feel death’s lustral dews,
And know as now thou know’st, and not be pure?
Out of death’s womb thou wouldst return to life
As pure and fresh as that which once thou owed’st
I well believe it. O, but thou wert false.
How, when the soul, black with its heavy weight
Of treasons foul, iniquitous, shudders hellward,
Can with the body sit so calm a peace,
Crowning the cheeks with smiles, smoothing the brows
Which careful Wisdom furrowed for her own,
So that thou liest as if an infant slept?
I’ll gaze no longer. With another sight,
My heart, which pleads already loudly for thee,
Would strenuous siege against my reason lay,
And I should well acquit thee. O my soul!
Trust thee I must, for who of traitorous sin
Could thee suspect, once having looked within
Thy visage, friend beloved? ’Twere just as wise
To search for treason in an angel’s eyes.¹
Nay, I will kiss thee; come, thy hand in mine:
One touch of the old kindliness, and then
Farewell for ever.

[ Exit. ]

Enter Elves, who bear off the body, chanting slowly.

Elves.

We, for so our Queen commands,
Loving thee for her loved sake,
Binding thee with flowery bands,
Thus into her keeping take.
Neither cold nor hunger more,
Nor the pining grief which slew thee,
Waves that chide nor winds that roar
Shall eternally undo thee:
Wearied lids and brows we steep
In the never-wakening sleep.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene IV.—The same spot. Shepherds searching.

Basil.
What! is the gentleman gone?

Jerome.
We cannot find him,
Nor is the body here.

Basil.
This is, sure, error.
Come, look again, make further inquisition.
This cannot be; ’tis not an hour agone—
Nay, by our Lady, nearer half—
We left them here, the gentleman and his friend.

Wilhelm.
We cannot find them; both are surely gone.

Basil.
This is most strange. He must have ta’en the body—
He was most mad—and borne away for burial.

John.
I think so, too.

Oliver.
’Tis certain, he was mad.

James.
’Tis very certain; he was wildly taken,
Spake in low tones and fierce, and to the corpse
As to a friend beside him.

Basil.
They are gone then?
He must have borne it with him: ’twere no matter,
But that he lacks the strength to bear it far
And must sink down o’erfraught. We must pursue them,
Both for the corpse, to give it sepulture,
As this, its friend, can never; and for the gentleman,
Since he is in these wilds, alone and mad,
He’ll come to most sure mischief.

James.
That is certain.

Basil.
From which we must prevent him. Scour the bushes;
A burdened man can not have travelled far.

Oliver.
This is most wild; among these tangled briars
How should we find him?

Basil.
Yet we must endeavour it.
Scatter and search the boskage. To the left
Let Jerome turn his steps; you, Oliver,
Attend him, and with most especial care,
Where under covering bushes from the foot
Of that red-berried ash the dingle breaks,
Search every treacherous cleft and shining fissure,
Each slippery gap and boulder. O make haste!

[ Exeunt during the speech Jerome, Oliver, and others. ]

From yon black-bosomed vapour muttering thunder
Warns of impending tempest, racking clouds
Refrain the heaven and overvault the oak.
Nay, search not thither, Wilhelm: ’tis a surface
Bare, void of cover; he would never hide there.
Now, scatter, all of ye; with Oliver
To tangled copse and spinney, or with me
To the cracked, flinty surface on the right.
No need to search in front: come, shepherds, all,
And, ere the storm, this helpless gentleman
Save in his own despite; we must endeavour it.

[ Exeunt. ]

Act IV.

Scene I.—A Room in the Palace at Prague.

Enter Herrmann.

Ferdinand.
Lord Herrmann is ’t? Thou art most welcome here;
I much desired thy presence; come, be seated.
Thou hast seen Conrad, then?

Herrmann.
I have seen him.

Ferdinand.
Good.
Where didst thou see him?

Herrmann.
Nay—

Ferdinand.
No matter then.
Indeed, it is no matter; who cares question
Where on its passage perched the bird in flight,
If he can find its present roost? No matter.
Thou know’st where now he lurks?

Herrmann.
Yes. But, my lord—

Ferdinand.
Well, let the knowledge rest; I’ll not desire it.
So salve thy conscience with the thought that merely
In deed, and not in speech, thou hast betrayed.

Herrmann.
My lord, you are merry.

Ferdinand.
Why, yes; and so wouldst thou be,
Knowing, as I know, one long sought, long hated,
Shortly within thy grip, to throttle thus . . .
And thus . . and thus . . and thus. But to the point.
Hard by the water’s edge a nunnery stands
Well-known to Conrad; canst decoy him there?
Feigned missives from his mistress, or mere speech
Purporting her command, would lure him thither.

Herrmann.
I’ll not betray him so.

Ferdinand.
Why, thou hast done it!
Come, here’s a murderer crying shame on theft.
Betrayed thy friend thou hast already.

Herrmann.
Never.

Ferdinand.
I say thou hast.

Herrmann.
I have driv’n him from the kingdom,
But not to ’s death as you would cause me now.
Why, this would make me Judas.

Ferdinand.
So thou art.
Come, strangle this late-born sanctity in the birth.
But tell me first, such scheme as I have broached,
Would it not draw?

Herrmann.
As magnet draws the steel.

Ferdinand.
Then thou wilt do it; nay, hold thy peace awhile.
What?

Herrmann.
I have told him she is fled, alleging
Cassl as accomplice.

Ferdinand.
Itself a fouler treachery
Than that from which thou shudderest now; no matter.
Thy speech was such as caused him cherish Cassl
Beyond all old affection?

Herrmann.
He will slay him.

Ferdinand.
’Tis well. Thou canst propound some second lie
As fellow to that first; O, thou canst do it!
Tell him his mistress has deserted Cassl
And now at her old home awaits in secret
Her lover’s rescue: I am not falsehood-skilled,
Or would myself concoct it; thou wilt do it.

Herrmann.
And if you take him, then?

Ferdinand.
Why, he shall die,
As is most fit.

Herrmann.
O, I will never do it.

Ferdinand.
Fool! Listen. Hath he not ever been,
Until we raised this Charles of Bonn to thwart him,
A plague to our dominion, wild, seditious,
Yet, for his power, beyond correction’s arm?
And this proud madness for the Polish princess,
Whose lands are rightly ours,—

Herrmann.
None questions that.

Ferdinand.
Ay, but they do; and Conrad most of all.
He must be taken off; thy treason to him
His prying comrade knows.

Herrmann.
Nay—

Ferdinand.
Cease to think it.
Cassl’s a meddling fool: he knows, be sure;
And so will Conrad soon. Then from his vengeance
Fly, if a fiend in power as well as malice;
If not, thy forfeit life in wise exchange
Barter for some fair trinket; he will slay thee.
Nay, I have more to say; the state requires it:
His death is needful; there are plots afoot.
The Commons, these ten years rebellion-ripe,
Lack but a head; Conrad they love: and Plessing,
Another of that same knavish crew, has fled
To our shagged uplands and our untamed borders,
Where, by this late report, the clans are stirred,
Drawn to his standard; there his sire has lands.
Wouldst thou hear more? One Arnheim, whom thou know’st—
At least, thou know’st his name—in our wild highlands,
An exile, gathering levies, taking toll
Of all who cross our borders, has attained
To most prodigious head; he seeks one Herrmann,
Alleging matter of life and death between them,
In the which quarrel he has sworn perséverance,
Sworn on the sacred hilt, till blood allay it.
Well art thou pale! Should we fall, thou fall’st with us;
And none, I think, is with thee.
Why, what a pious fool art thou to palter!
If Conrad falls, we rise, and thou with us:
If Conrad lives, thy life’s a whited wand,
The mark of fifty archers skilled to strike
And split the quivering target.

Herrmann.
I am damned.

Ferdinand.
’Tis very like; but so thou wast before;
Ay, and when first I knew thee. Thou wast then
Not my Lord Herrmann, but a low-born churl
Ris’n to be Lutheran priest. Ay, thou art damned;
But so am I, and so’s the King thy master.

Herrmann.
But Honour! Conrad—

Ferdinand.
She will never chide thee;
She counts them not apostate who ne’er knew
Her gracious governance.

Herrmann.
I was guiltless once.

Ferdinand.
’Twas ere I knew thee, then.

Herrmann.
I’ll never do it.

Ferdinand.
Thou wilt; thou canst not choose; the price is paid.
We have bought thy soul, and hold it; there’s no tool
Apt to our bidding as thou; thou art Lord Herrmann
Not by desert or birth, but our creation,
And all know whence, and loathe thee; Arnheim’s lands
Have bound thee to our will; not iron can fetter
Or brass so strongly shackle as links of gold.
Come, if thine honour prick thee, as thou say’st,
Conrad shall never know; we’ll take thee with him
As though supposed his ally and accomplice.
Why shudder from his death? Thou hast robbed of mistress,
Of lands and honours, ’twixt his friend and him
Sown murderous dissension; is this more?
I’ll leave thee here; ponder my words awhile.
Thou canst not choose but serve us.

[ Exit Ferdinand. ]

Herrmann.
Now am I left in hell—O lost indeed!
This is thy master! Well can I remember
How first he drew to these conspiracies.
This my vile greed! Why, not since Arnheim fled
Have I known rest within. My doom is sure.
Here is the missive reached me yestereve;
I know the hand and signet: but last dusk
One dogged me to my home; I cannot sleep.
’Tis dark without, and the white snow drives on.
Why, what a fool am I! This late repentance,
As this untimely snow on the wet earth,
Turns at a touch to mire; I cannot do it!
But yet I must; there is no turning now.
I have wrapt me round with evil, which closelier clings
Than a damp cloak about the wearer’s limbs.
Honour was mine; Arnheim, Conrad loved me.
Why, not this flitting snow outside the window
Was purer! ’Tis as yesterday my sire
Welcomed me from the town; my little sister
Playing beneath the apple, a random gust
Her bonnet wrenched and swung it on to the branches,
And Arnheim laughed, and climbed and brought it down,
And vowed he’d not return ’t unless she kissed him.
Then, having ta’en his fee, retained his spoil,
Playfully perjured, bringing her another,
Such as he said the city dames in use
Kept, with blue ribbons ringing it. I was young then;
Arnheim was rash of speech, and I was careless,
A weak, irresolute fool, soon drawn by flattery,
And prodigal of my speech: now I am lost.
There’s not a devil in hell but holds me fouler,
Vile, and a coward to boot. I cannot do it;
And yet I must: then I must so devise it
That Conrad shall seem drawn and yet avoid them.
Fiend though I am, I am vassal to another,
This cold fiend Ferdinand; I must work his will.
He drew me hither, what I have learnt he taught,
Ay, mastering from the first. Would I were valiant
In my iniquities, to slay him first
And then myself! But I can never do it.

[ Exit. ]

Scene II.—In the woods near Prague.

Enter Titania and a Faery, meeting.

Titania.
Hast thou discharged my bidding?

Faery.
Gracious queen,
Hard by the concave thorn, whose sweeping screen
Of overfalling boughs that kiss the ground
Shelters our summer revels, shrewd Puck I found
Whittling the sworded rush he sat upon,
And gave thy word; he will be here anon.

(Singing is heard.)

Where the yellow marsh-weeds blow,
And the long-tressed grasses shew
Treacherous green where turf is none
To the wretch that steps thereon, Through the mire
With goblin fire
(Enter Puck singing)
I the luckless rascal led,
Over heels and over head.
Ho! ho! ho!
In the bog he made his bed,
Over heels and over head.

Titania.
Peace, saucy goblin. Is it thus thou usest
With this scant ceremony, and thus abusest
The favour of thy lord, discourteous so
Towards his sovereign lady?

Puck (sings).

Ho! ho! ho!
He was by my lanthorn led;
Blithely to his doom he sped,
Over heels and over head.

Titania.
Discourteous still! Rash faery, dost thou dare
Defy thy mistress thus? O have a care!
Thy lord shall know of this.

Faery.
Lady, when late
I bore thy message unto where he sate
Upon a bending reed that to and fro
Shook to his frantic mirth, I found him so.
Anon he would be calm, and cease his laughter
To notch his perch; and then, the second after,
Would hug his creaking seat, and shrilly shout
The news of this his latest mischief out.

Titania.
What new, mad prank is this? What hapless traveller
Hast thou decoyed to watery ruin now?

Puck (sings).

Right beyond the edges spread
Heath-bells pink and purple-red;
Where the shelving bank gave way,
Treacherous ling the gap o’erlay,
Snared his heels, and tossed him down
All among the rushes brown.
O’er the matted, quaking floor
On the hapless rascal trod,
Till the goblin lamp I bore
Vanished, and the gaping sod
Leapt about his ears, and then
Bubbled and spread smooth again.
Ho! ho! ho!
Bubbled and spread smooth again.

Faery.
O, this is vile! Lady, such deeds as this
Have caused the Faery to be famed amiss.
No more the rustic cottagers delight
To style us fairly, and to set by night
The unskimmed cream-bowl; they affect us not;
And in these latest tricks are all forgot
The gentle deeds which won their love of old.
Beside their fires these evil pranks are told
With shuddering hate and fear; and now no more
The Little People bear the names they bore;
Never as their “Good Neighbours” now esteemed,
But spirits damned and wicked goblins deemed.

Puck.

What a hubbub have we here!
How they clamour, scold, and rail,
All because I did but drown
A cheating pimp, a knavish clown,

Enter Faeries.

The thieving miller of the dale,
Whose lying bags due weight of corn
Not once in these ten years have borne!
Nice, fastidious, meddling fay,
Is it so much mischief, pray,
If a rascal disappear,
Tumbled in the muddy mere?

Titania.
What, was it but the miller? There’s no blame;
Nay, not to duck such rascals were a shame
As rob our folk in such a scurvy sort.
To drown a miller always is good sport.

Faery.
I knew not ’twas the miller.

Second Faery.
Furthermore,
If ’twas the miller, he’s not hurt so sore:
For after Puck came one that lugged him out
And packed him home: I met the rascal lout
Dripping along his path in woeful plight;
But, Lord, I never saw so sweet a sight.

Third Faery.
His scolding housewife even now has met
Her sorry knave, with hosen clogged with wet,
His shoon dragged from his feet, the village boys
Following to his home with joyful noise.

Titania.
All this is vastly well; I praise your pains:
But dearer matter for our speech remains.
Conrad is flying upon our hills; to him
Herrmann the traitorous friend now bends his steps,
Suborned by Ferdinand to lure to ’s death
With missives forged from our sweet prisoner,
Irene, Poland’s lady. He, distract,—
As who could help but be, his lady lost,
And false (for so he deems) his heart’s best friend?—
Maddened, and slow to sift what treason offers,
Reading the traitor’s words, will surely fall,
Nor may we hinder; even now they are met,
And straight will hie together. To Ferdinand
Ivan of Muscovy a troop provides
To crush our bandits here, known Conrad’s friends.
They must not pass Bohemia’s eastern wall.
Swift, Puck, and rouse the winds, and call together
The spirits of frost and hail; they are ripe for work.
But yesterday, though now departing June
Powders the hills with blossom, and with gifts
Makes rich her going hence, they scattered snow,
Though mild and quickly mired. But now command,—
For so necessity requires—a frost;
No pretty shower of flakes as this, but cold
Heaping each pass with mountain’d ice, and barring
All access to this realm. Thy task afoot,
Haste with all zeal, ere these our stern allies
Rouse to their toils, to Arnheim and his crew,
Guised as thou wilt, and bid them pass the hills
And march forthwith for Prague.

Puck.
This meets my mood.
Blithely I’ll work your bidding; so, farewell.
Here is my pretty mistress.

[ Exit Puck. ]

Enter Irene.

Titania.
Lady, hail.
How fares our lovely captive?

Irene.
Well, I thank you;
But ill at ease: these walks are well enough,
Could I but think them well.

Titania.
But wherein ill?

Irene.
Not in themselves, indeed, but bright with flowers
Such as midsummer nurtures, orchises,
Woodbine, and streamers of the trailing rose,
Kingcups and golden-hearted marybuds;
So that, apparelled like a queen of May,
Chaplets about my brows, and zoned with lilies,
I tread these sunlit mazes. Furthermore,
In nooks and under shadowing clifts are still
Snowdrop and primrose, sorrel veined with tint
Purple as blood from the heart, and daffodils,
Frail-cupped anemones, long withered here,
Such as the Spring with earliest fingers scattered.
Nor any beast may on my walks intrude,
Save such as maids delight in, merry squirrels,
Brown hares, and velvet fawns; the wolf, at whiles,
If so we meet, is gentle, will play a space,
Then go unhurtful by, nor proffer harm.
And this could win delight, were I not mortal,
Knowing myself as such, in this brief time,
Ev’n as I pass out of the dark behind
On to the dark before, still prone to crave
Not gathering flowers alone, desiring rather
The love of friends, their speech and sweet society,
Perchance a love yet dearer, and a comrade
More than a friend, since to my heart’s best throne
Exalted as my lord and loved possessor.

Titania.
These words are well, and move, against my wont,
To what, were I but human, would be grief.
Say, then, what makes your chief of sorrow here?

Irene.
My lord’s best friend and mine, who convoyed hither,
Shielding from all distress, is gone again—
To what of grief and danger who can know?
But that when first we came, too dazed and worn,
Forwearied with the way and faint for food,
I knew not what he did, I had not suffered
That he should leave me here, and, going forth,
Should pine with cold and hunger till, perchance,
To some vain thorn he crawled and perished thus.
As for my lord, I know not how he fares:
A languished prisoner now, for aught I think;
Starved in the wilds; or by the iniquitous King
Consigned unto a miserable death.
Then, Lady, how can I delight in flowers,
Posies and suchlike knicknacks, these my friends
Wandering forlorn or, into endless sleep
Hurried, now pillowed on the clammy root
Of some entwining tree or hidden stone?

Titania.
Lady, your griefs are just; but put them by.
These are my friends as yours; I watch by Conrad,
Waiting to bring my succour up and save.
For Henry, since the Power he serves is mindful,
He dies not save by high command, nor falls
To detriment in aught, since marked by friends
Innumerable, whose viewless hands minister
The charities of Heav’n and shield from hurt,
Unless the Love he serves ordain his death.
This is a might beyond our puissance’ reach:
And he whom it attends needs not our aid,
Though that is freely his, far as we may,
By dread permission, watch upon his steps.
Fear not, my ward, but in thine orisons
Be constant still, that to their rich avail
The blessed Saints, and Heav’n’s all-holy Maid,
Star to the storm-racked wanderer, may attend
These pilgrims, girt with thy pure intercession.

Irene.
These words have eased my trouble. I’ll not cease
From vows and prayers; matins to evensong
My thoughts shall bear them up, and so constrain
Their swift release from woe.

Titania.
Do so, and I
Will stir my spirits up to yet more zeal
For these thy hapless lovers. I’ll go hence,
And straightway send my elves to seek them out,
Bringing thee word again; till when, sweet lady,
Surcease with tears to fret your cheek’s bright rose,
And rest those loving eyes. Fear not, ’tis well.

[ Exeunt ]

Scene III.—The Outlaw’s Camp.

Arnheim and Plessing on a knoll.

Arnheim.
Plessing, thine eyes are keen; accustomed, too,
To these hill-distances, since reared among them:
I pray thee, tell me, yon calm light that glows
All day above that crest, and now at eve
Spreads through the farther heav’n, what bodeth it?’

Plessing.
Were it not midsummer, I’d swear it snow.

Enter Thoreau.

Those signs foretell no paltry frost, when hung
In the white front of Heaven. But coming now,
The season such, I vow it troubles me,
Since there for no good cause, yet not for snow.

Thoreau.
And wherefore not for snow? I grant the season;
Yet frosts have fall’n in June, and mid-July
Has seen her flowers by Winter’s shrivelled hand
Plucked on a sudden from her lap: and snow
Fell yesterday throughout the hills.

Plessing.
Light flakes,
Turned mire upon an instant. Still, ’tis like.

Thoreau.
Arnheim, there’s one that seeks your ear a space;
An upland hind, one nurtured on these borders,
A fellow still unbowed, though shagged with age.
If dead December’s bracken, tattered, frayed,
Grew human and embodied stood to sight,
I think ’twould take such feature as he bears.

Arnheim.
What is his purpose?

Thoreau.
That he’ll not betray,
But seeks our captain: some aver him mad;
I for my part surmise him shrewd and quick
Beyond the common gait.

Arnheim.
We’ll have him here.

Thoreau.
He is at hand; I’ll bring him by-and-by.

[ Exit Thoreau and re-enter with Puck disguised. ]

Arnheim.
Old man, you covet speech with me, they say?

Puck (mumbles).

Arnheim.
What says he?

Thoreau.
That I scarce can find; meseems
He bids us pass the hills with speed, foreboding
Black frost and flocking snows; he proffers guidance.

Arnheim.
Whither?

Puck.
Prague, if you will.

Arnheim.
Why Prague?

Puck.
Why not?

Arnheim.
Come, sirrah, cast this seeming folly off;
It ill becomes your years. Now, can you tell us,
If so these wilds you haunt and know them well,
Aught of the Count of Elsass, rumoured here
A fugitive?

Puck.
I know him.

Arnheim.
Tell us then,
If so you know, where harbours he?

Puck.
In Prague.

Plessing.
Prague, man? No foolery now. Where is thy home?

Puck.
Beside the spring, hard by the withered oak
Which juts its two dead boughs in air, like one
Who stands on head and flings his feet apart.

Plessing.
Conrad in Prague, in Prague? I prithee, friend,
Whence know you this? The Count of Elsass fled,
So all Bohemia’s heard, ten days agone.

Puck.
Why, sir, there was a stranger came to my homestead, at some such time as you speak of, and I gave him rest and food, for he was sore famished, like a winter wolf for hunger; and after there came soldiers, who, searching along the brookside, came upon him as he sought to flee from my house; and from the words that passed I gathered him to have been this Count of Elsass whom you speak of. All I know is, whoever he be, they have ta’en him prisoner to Prague, where it is like to go hard with him.

Plessing.
Conrad in Prague! We must act, and with speed.
Old man, do you know these hills well?

Puck.
Each stick and stone for twenty mile round. I have been a shepherd here all my days. But if you would pass them, you must do it with haste; for snow will fall, and there will be blizzards abroad.

Plessing.
Father, if you will lead us, we will make it worth your while; you shall not fail of reward, I promise.

Arnheim.
Only play us not false, or those grey hairs shall not avail thee aught.

Puck.
’Tis well, ’tis very well. But stir you, sirs, within this hour, for the storm, as I hear it, is gathering; the mountain spirits are now in council, and tempest will be the issue. If we are speedy, all will be well; only, for the ways are wild, we must see that goblin lamps betray us not nor the Puck himself mislead us.

Plessing.
We’ll trust this good old man. And now with haste,
Since Conrad’s life requires our swift despatch
And speediest aid, we’ll rouse our comrades up:
Hard by their fires they sit, and wait the night;
But they must pass the hills, lest dawn shall rise
To find them frozen, or down the sheer crevasse
Flung by the racing tempest. We must speed.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene IV.—The Bohmer Wald.

Enter Titania and Faeries.

First Faery.
Lady, I come from Puck. Beyond our green,
Along the singing brook, that steals unseen
’Neath plaited osier and the whispering fern,
Sailing upon a blossom in the burn,
I came to where the frontier’d waters leap,
A sheet of silver, down the glistening steep,
Then, gliding through the rocky pass amain,
Come to Bohemia and the citied plain.
There saw I Puck; guised as a russet clown,
He led the brigand troop of Arnheim down,
Scrambling by slipping screes, and gullies deep
Bridged with the threatening ice, that hangs asleep
Hammocked in air.

Titania.
Garrulous fay, have done.
Lord, what a windy tale is here begun!
Come, what of Puck?

First Faery.
He bade me haste, and tell
The Mountain Folk have stirred a tempest fell
To your command, and forthwith mean with snow
To white the hills and populous vales below;
They brew on vapour’d crags the boundless hail.
The winds, too, are afoot and will not fail
Of wrack within this hour.

Second Faery.
We must away,
Dread Lady; here no longer boots to stay:
Our rings will be washed out and disarrayed,
Our tables rooted up in every glade,
And we ourselves with chasing winds dismayed.
Then, when our sheltering hills are now the home
Of flocking perils, and th’ unazured dome,
Robbed of its gracious moon, with fiends instead,
Hell-hounds, and spectres of th’ unhallowed dead
Is crowded, and the winds, unchained and free,
Urge on each gibbering, foul auxiliary
To hooting revel, O how shall we then fare,
Frail sprites of summer and the downy air,
Loving the dewfall, and the breeze which tells
Its evening rosary on the foxglove bells,
Rustling its pleasant vespers where the grasses
Bow reverent head before it as it passes?

Titania.
Fear not; there is a place where we may fly,
Covert which never tempest comes anigh,
Whose bastion’d rocks, in guardian pomp amassed,
Refuse all access to the brawling blast.
High on our hills I know a spot which waits
Summer’s hot clamour at its leafy gates;
Not yet has June, with honeysuckle horn,
Defiant challenge to its purlieus borne;
The season lags, mid-May still holding there
Full court; and thither we this night repair.
It hath a spell which keeps its slopes secure,
Long as the heav’n-pavilion’d sun endure,
From prying winds, whose snowy pinions beat
All other heights and depths, but hence retreat,
Because a hermit built his hut erewhile
In midmost of an osier’d lakelet isle,
Making the dale, by many an hallowed charm,
Immune for evermore from hurt and harm.
What though the moon her wonted task forsakes?
Ablaze with winking blooms, the hawthorn-brakes
Booths and pavilions furnish for our wakes;
And our cathedral in the chestnut tree,
With cressets of white blossom hung, shall be,
With swinging buds, censers and lanterns, lit,
For solemn dance and high procession fit;
Whilst from the winds such harmonies shall sound
As best accompany our mystic round.
Hither with dusk, then; haste—for all is well—
And ere, upon the foxglove’s honey’d bell,
Puck, or whoever takes, by Oberon’s will,
This eve his station on the signal hill,
Has tolled the set of sun, and night’s vile bird
Hooting along the blackening wold is heard,
Flock with me hence. Already Day’s red eye
To stormy burial in the bloodshot sky
Speeds, and his lower rim refrains from sight.
Another hour will usher in the night.

[ Exeunt. ]

Act V.

Scene I.—The Palace at Prague.

Enter Ferdinand and Lord.

Ferdinand.
My lord, you are fairly met; come, you can tell us
How stirs the world abroad: here snow has fall’n,
Fouling our streets; the Moldau, ris’n in flood,
Threatens our wretched dwellers by the water;
Our ways are flushed, and none may stir from home
Except with pole and oar.

Lord.
My gracious lord,
The hills are piled with snow; the whited winds,
These three days ranging through the valleys cold,
Heap every access. Winter returns again,
And, in his granite fastness reinstalled,
Guards every front, as though beleaguered there,
With barrier’d ice; the passes all are blocked.
I came from Ratisbon ere the storm rose,
With the first blizzard gained the plains, and thence
Posted to Prague; yet even so the way
Was ill beset with blasts and pelting hail.
Never was such midsummer known; the shepherds,
Even the longest-lived, aver it strange,
Monstrous, and past all memory, thence declaring
Foul fiends astir: one Miles, they say, who dwells
Hard by your rocky frontier, wizard league
And mutinous compact with the goblins damned,
Vampires and mountain elves, yea, and with fiends
Keeps, brewing mischiefs dire.

Enter two officers.

First Officer.
Tidings, my lord!
Conrad, late held of Elsass—

Ferdinand.
What! ye have ta’en him?

First Officer.
Ay, good, my lord; they bring him even now,
Lord Schlettstadt bade me tell. With him they bear
Lord Herrmann, also apprehended, partner
No less, it seems, in these his traitorous schemes.

Ferdinand.
Where were they ta’en?

First Officer.
St. Clara’s House, which late
Harboured the Polish princess.

Second Officer.
I have heard, sir,
The Irish Knight, who was much seen with him,
Was apprehended also.

First Officer.
That is false.
’Twas by his means these traitors were betrayed.
I heard Lord Herrmann swear so, and curse his name
Now, as they came along.

Ferdinand.
Go, call the King.
And thou, bid Schlettstadt bring our traitors hither.
Haste with all speed.
[ Exeunt Officers. ]
My lord, a word with you.
The passes all are blocked? Said you not so?

Lord.
All blocked, my lord. The winds——

Ferdinand.
I crave your pardon.
Heard you of Arnheim, and his brigand band
Aught at our frontier?

Lord.
They were mustered, sir,
Ten leagues beyond your hills, nigh Ratisbon,
Summoning new levies up: a Swabian chief,
One Thoreau, robbed Lord Weiss, and by report
Made on for Arnheim’s camp: I ’scaped their hands.

Ferdinand.
They will not pass the hills?

Lord.
Not these ten days.
Snow packs each entry: after snow, the floods
Will keep your realm secure full three days more.

Enter Stanislaus.

Ferdinand.
My lord, we’re much beholden; these your tidings,
Timely and welcome, like a song to hear,
Have knit you to our love. Conrad, my lord,
Is ta’en, they bring him hither; brief despatch,
I think, is best. This fortunate snow, though barring
Prince Ivan’s troop behind our eastern wall,
Keeps Arnheim’s desperate wolves no less at bay.
Conrad is here; strike him we must, and soon.
The snow past, with Prince Ivan’s aid we’ll rout
These our hill-foxes from their lairs, and then,
Let treason mutter as it will, we care not.

Enter Conrad, Herrmann, Lords and Officers.

Stanislaus.
’Tis fair, most fair! the viper in our grasp!
St. Mary in Heav’n, I praise thee! Ay, bear him in.
Greeting, fair sir! I prithee, Ferdinand,—
My eyes are growing old—look for me now,
And tell me, is not this the Count of Elsass,
Our friend esteemed and loyal?

Ferdinand.
Why, yes, ’tis he.
He left our hospitality in haste,
And, grieved no doubt for that discourtesy,
Pays us this swift return. We have longed to see him.
Sir Count, I hail you!

Conrad.
Cease, hell-hounds, cease! Have done.

Ferdinand.
Gently, fair sir! The smitten asp will turn.
These are hard terms: we too have much to say.
What, our Lord Herrmann too! See, royal sire,
Our brace of traitors here.

Stanislaus.
Fie, fie indeed!
Is this Lord Herrmann whom we loved and honoured?
Surely, not he!

Ferdinand.
The same; he whom we raised,
A starveling priest, and wore beside our heart.
See here our rich return! Well, say no more;
Acts shall be spokesman for us. Officer,
Bring here your bill and read it.

Officer (reads).

Conrad, late styled Count of Elsass, but now known for no Count and justly deposed; we, Stanislaus, King of Bohemia, and under God, Whom we serve, and our Lord Pope, His blessed vicar, shepherd and judge of these realms, do here arraign thee under three several heads:

First, that thou, owing allegiance and honour to our crown and person, hast spoken in malice and contempt of the same;

Second, that thou hast been a stirrer and inciter of our Commons to treason and riotous outbreak; and hast conspired with Frederick Arnheim, who, most justly proscribed, fled our anger last year, to levy war within our dominions;

Third, that thou, being base-born and without lands, hast aspired to the hand of Irene, once styled Princess of Poland, with intent to depose our just authority in her former dominions, now rightly annexed to our crown and empire.

Stanislaus.
So then, sir Count, of these your borrowed glories,
Filched from their rightful lord, now stripped and bare,
Speak while thou may’st. And ye, nobles and lords,
Marking our justice now, how kind and clement
With open trial to indulge, as though unprov’n,
These crimes so manifest no less than monstrous,
Attend our bar. Though kind and merciful,
Observe our search, how stern, and in its issue
Certain to track down vice and apprehend it.
Conrad, we draw thee hither,
(Now known a churl in blood no less than action,
Meet for a churl’s reward, most safely thine),
Not as to trial (for trial small need remains,
Unmeet for crimes so sure and so prodigious),
Rather that men our mercy may admire
Which unto thee, a traitor foul and doomed,
Grants audience and a space wherein to speak
Thy penitence at large, if so much grace,
As much we doubt, have found thee.

Conrad.
Have you done?
Or will you take more wine? For, if wine give,
As now I see it can, such eloquence,
Much wine must needs give more.

Ferdinand.
So! you are merry.
Our patience waits: come, come, accept, Sir Fool,
This space our much-abusèd clemency grants.
Speak while you may.

Conrad.
I, then, of Elsass Lord
Rightly, by title from my sires ancestral
To me, their lawful heir, in turn transmitted,
Owning no fealty here, to these your counts
Scorn answer. Only this much would I say:
As for the first, I own it true; as none,
Viewing a state with king lascivious, old,
Wine-bibbing, murderous, and its prince a viper,
False in his home, in dirk and poison skilled,
Lying in wait but fearful to be seen,—
Since none, I say, views this save straightway moved
To spit and spurn; so I, with horror seeing
The slaughter of your Commons and the death
Daily, by means unknown, when none dared search,
Of noble gentlemen, yea, princes even—

Stanislaus.
Hold, fool!

Ferdinand.
My lord, have patience; wait; what wonder
If terror freeze his brain, and give a courage
Markedly far in life? The fox at death,
As oft he will, goes mad and foams at mouth.
Proceed, sir. You have surely more to say?

(A knocking and confused sound heard. Ferdinand sends out a Lord).

Conrad.
No more of this. My time draws near apace:
Death knocks for me; I will bandy terms no more.
I know you cruel, false; I am in the toils,
And, though no vassal here, I see my end.
I loved the Lady Irene, and her wrongs,
If so I might, had remedied in your hurt.
My plea, here vain, I from these courts remove
Unto a higher; to the ever-living God
I make my plaint.

Ferdinand.
Then, louder. But no matter—
We have retained Him first,—five thousand crowns;
And see, His vicar’s signet here, which brands you,
Conrad, no count of Elsass but a traitor
Deposed, Lord Charles of Bonn in rightful rule.

Conrad.
I leave my plea with Him; there rests it well.

Ferdinand.
Pray you, fair sir, for just one moment’s space
Refrain your courteous words. That tumult still!
The people clamour for bread; this sudden frost
Has left our starving rabble scant at ease.
They have murmured much; but this is overbold,
And, on my faith, we’ll mow sedition down
And school them nicer manners: you, my lord
Acquaint them this.
[ Exit Lord. ]
Fair sir, we are yours again;
You had not done, I think.

Conrad.
Now for myself
I make no useless prayer; my heavens are black,
My lady false, the friend I loved a traitor.
Life, so alluring late, bears nothing now;
As, sure, Earth grows no balm can yet avail
Unto erasure of the hideous past.
But O, Lord Herrmann here, whose love, though young,
Shielded me in my hour, when those I trusted
And would have torn my heart for, wounded me,
I pray your pity on! His sin was friendship,
Friendship, and that alone. Now, as I go
Shortly before God’s bar, for this my death,
Though bearing right, I swear to make no plaint,
Calling no vengeance down, if so you spare
My hapless brother.

Ferdinand.
Herrmann? Why, a creature
Raised by ourselves! We that have built can soon,
But by a spurn of the foot, strike down again.
The rat may go unharmed, and we ne’er fear.
Ay, he may live.

(Noise nearer).

Conrad.
Enough. I die content.
Death knocks again. Yet, though I make no plea,
Ye speak foul blasphemy, asserting God
Knit to your faction; hard was His stroke and swift
On the false friend betrayed me. Starved to death!
’Twas a dog’s death.

Ferdinand.
Remove this muttering fool.
Officer, use the sword; with this much grace,
Because so long he masked in noble dress,
Indulge him. Get you gone.

(The noise is at hand).

A Lord.
My lord, I fear
Some treason stirs. Lord Schlettstadt went out now,
Marking this noise; he has not returned. Lord Weiss
Whispers me . . . .

Ferdinand.
What, fool?

(The door is burst in. Enter Arnheim, Plessing, Thoreau and Brigands).

Lord.
Nay, you may find for yourself.

Arnheim.
Stay, these are friends; take heed. What, Conrad, bound!
O, we are come in time! Quick, to that door!
Prince Ferdinand has fled. Herrmann, at last!

[ Exeunt Thoreau and others. ]

Herrmann.
Arnheim! This hour has haunted me in dreams;
Those vengeful eyes! For these twelve months each day,
Expecting ever your sword, I have waited you.
Here is my breast; bury your vengeance here.

Arnheim.
Then die; but no—I will not.

Herrmann.
O my friend!
I knew thee swift to wrath, but never cruel.
This is the boon my throbbing fears have craved;
I ask no other. What, deny me still?
Arnheim, that sword!

Arnheim.
There is no other way.
(Slays him).
When vengeance lagged, our long-dead friendship sprang
To life again, and quickened resolution.
I swear this was not anger.

Conrad.
Fool! thou hast slain my friend! Now Heav’n be judge!
Thy life’s a forfeit. Draw.

Arnheim.
Trouble me not;
I have much to do.

Conrad.
What! must I strike thee then?
Ruffian! (strikes him in the face).

Arnheim.
Disarm him, Plessing; strike his sword up.
(Conrad is disarmed).
Forgive me, Conrad; thou shalt know anon.
Take him aside and tell him.

A Brigand.
Here lies the King; he is slain; his throat is cut.

Several.
The King is slain!

Arnheim.
Whose hand?

Brigand.
Mad Thomas’s,
The peasant whom we found beside the gallows.

Arnheim.
His wrongs were hideous; ’t was his eldest son
Dangled upon that gallows, three days since
Hung up for Stanislaus’ drunken fury.
The old man was crazed.

Brigand.
He saw the King ere we did,
And clambered madly for him; we were late,
But sought to stay him.

Arnheim.
Well, ’t is well; God’s justice
Outruns our tardy zeal; ’t is well, he is slain.
This was stern work; we had friends within who kept
The King from knowledge: but his Tartar guard,
Hirelings but worthy warriors, fell to a man
Ere we burst in; we trapped them unawares
Within our circling steel and bore them down.

(Re-enter Thoreau with captive).

Thoreau.
I have caught your fugitive.

Arnheim.
This is not Ferdinand;
Lord Weiss, a sorry fool; he may go free.
The serpent’s ’scaped, I fear. Come, gentlemen.
The state was rotten; this sharp physic given
May prove its cure; put up your swords awhile.
Now gentler remedies, where much of ill
Remains, shall serve our end; of these in presence,
Some friends, some foes, the most I think are friends.
Ne’er heed them, then; our stars are smiling here:
On Stanislaus’ bloody ministers
Justice shall fall anon; those that are wronged
Our swords shall right; our land that groaned so long
Shall now recover; Prince Karl we’ll summon back
From exile by his sire and monstrous brother.
Prince Ivan must be met; but fear not him;
A crafty fox, since things have fallen thus,
I think he’ll scarce have stomach for a fight.
The Cossack guard of Stanislaus slain,
There live none else I think will take his part.
These done, our aid Conrad’s brave Chancellor
Shall straight receive.

Plessing.
Frederic, make that my care.

Conrad.
Reck not of me; county and power, what matters
When things of price are gone?

Arnheim.
Believe it not.
Misfortune has unmanned you; put it by.
This mood, upon my soul, becomes you ill.
What! are your friends, your Chancellor, in your part
Stirring them thus, to see it go for nought?

Conrad.
Arnheim, I thank thee; these are words indeed.
Forgive me. Yea, though life be bare for me,
For these my loving friends I’ll live again.

Plessing.
There is my Conrad! Frederic, here is one
Bringing fair tidings; Mingen still is safe.
Nor rests assurance thus; but there is more:
Hesse and Brandenburg have Charles of Bonn
Compelled to stay his hand; they urge the award
Of the Emperor be sought.

Arnheim.
Here’s news indeed!
If here we keep the rule, as sure we shall,
The award will fall our way.

Conrad.
Where’s he that brought it?
Stay your return awhile: I’ll with you, sir:
I will be Count again.

Arnheim.
God speed you well!
Plessing will follow after. Now with haste,
[ Exit Conrad. ]
Gentlemen, to our business: first, to recall
Prince Karl, and this unhappy kingdom settle;
And most of you have private wrongs; the rest
Shall, as their merits call, reward or blame
Reap with all speed. You, Thoreau, to Prince Ivan:
Acquaint him how things are: strive to find him
Ere Ferdinand gain his bosom.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene II.—A wild part of the Bohnier Wald.

Enter Titania, Puck, and Faeries.

Titania.
Sweet Puck, though knavish, well hast thou obeyed,
Locking the hills with frost; the plot so laid,
How fell the issue?

Puck.
Ivan and his crew,
Enmeshed in fog, by dancing lights I drew
From path and road to snowy clifts astray,
Where threatening wreaths o’erhung the slippery way.
The journey done, I doused my phantom spark;
They, fearful and bewildered by the dark,
Clung to the icy ledge; at whiles dislodged
Boulder and snow-field, scarcely to be dodged,
Among the wretched limpets down I cast.
Over the windy hills with horn and blast
Rode the Wild Huntsman with his train that night.
Lord! never saw I mortals in such fright!

Titania.
This was well done; say what of Conrad then?

Puck.
By timely warning Arnheim and his men,
Guised as a peasant, ere the tempest fell,
Thorough the winding hills I guided well.
The lustful King is slain; the Prince is fled;
By Arnheim’s vengeful sword the traitor dead.

Titania.
But what of Conrad? Speak!

Puck.
Is Conrad all?
Conrad is safe, though lately held in thrall,
And now for Mingen posts apace.

Enter Faery.

Faery.
Dread queen,
Hither comes one whom by his dress and mien
Conrad, the Count of Elsass, I declare.
With him one other only comes; the pair
Mean in this thorny cave to make their bed;
For here the branches, knitted overhead,
Keep off the dripping thaws and lingering snow.
Here Conrad slept, he says, a year ago,
A night with gracious dreams and fancies sweet,
Which memory, minding still, would fain repeat.

Enter Conrad and Comrade.

Conrad.
This is the tree I spake of; see, a bed
Of rushes, left by one who used it late,
Some traveller placed as we. This is God’s inn.
Commend you to His care; fear not. Look up!
Yonder, beyond these boughs, His million eyes
Keep watch upon us; we are safer here
Than in the city. My lids are nodding fast.
Our steeds are in our sight; and so, to sleep.

(Lies down).

Comrade.
’Tis vastly well, my lord. Fair dreams befall us!
One prayer to St. Elizabeth, and then
I’ll make you my example.

(Lies down).

Titania.
Wake Conrad with a song. But softly here!
First to his sleeping fellow’s lids this blossom
Touch, and its magic dew shake off. ’Tis well.
Now softly with a song, but be not seen.

Faeries (sing).

Waken, sleeper, waken;
List, but do not stir
Till the dawn has shaken
Night away from her:
Glow-worms round thee glisten;
Nightingales are loud;
Do not move, but listen,
Sleeper heavy-browed.

Conrad.
Sleep I or wake? Was ’t some light fantasy
Pressing my heavy lids, and to my ears
Breathing imagined melodies? Or heard I
Voices indeed that sang to me in slumber,
Bidding awake?

Titania.
Reach me thy lily-wand.
He is awaked enough; he must not stir.
See, now I touch him lightly; now sing on.

Faeries (sing).

Know, the friend you thought untrue
Died for you,
Shielding her you loved yet left.
Piled with leaves and mould he lies;
Starved he died, of friends bereft;
Robin-redbreast closed his eyes;
And the sobbing breeze, to cover,
Leaf and stick and frond swept over.

Titania.
Tell him no more: the morrow shall reveal
His blessed lady. Sing, and then disperse.
Once more I touch him, and he drowses fast.
Once more together, then, and hand-in-hand.

Faeries (sing).

Many a blossom closes
With the eye of day,
In whose heart a fay reposes
Till the sunlight ebbs away.

Then, when yonder steeple
Knells the setting sun,
Creep from buds the Little People,
’Neath the moon’s bright beams to run.

Titania.
You have done your part; one of you guard his bed,
Watching, and bring me word when dawn awakes him.
The rest may go disport you as you will
For these two hours; but with the stroke of twelve
Fail me not at the Miller’s plashy mead,
Where I and Oberon hold our court to-night.
There are grand revels forward; snow is melted;
And from the sloping green above the runnels
Have drained all wet: there will we hold our sport.

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene III.—The same place: dawn.

Conrad and Comrade. Faeries in background.

Conrad (shaking his Comrade).
Come, friend, awake; the sun is mounting fast.

Comrade.
What, is it dawn?

Conrad.
Ay, dawn, and well-nigh day;
’Tis villainous to sleep a moment more.
I have had such dreams; meseemed that voices sang,
Telling me that the friend I thought untrue
Died in my service. “Greater love can none
Than thus to die”; and never, as I think,
Had man such friend as mine.

Comrade.
Is it yet dawn?

Conrad.
Dawn, yes! Awake man, wake! I’ll to the brook
To fill this flask; come, rouse you, gather sticks.
By Wenceslas I swear ’t, on my return,
If you still slumber here, I’ll spill my load
And fill my flask again.

[ Exit Conrad. ]

Comrade.
Fair journey to ye!
An energetic comrade this! Well, well,
’Tis nigh a hundred yards to the brook and back;
I’ll take another turn.

Titania.
This opiate wand
Prevaileth well; I’ll touch his lids again.
He’ll drowse till noon ’less I reverse the spell.
Quick, bear him hence ere Conrad makes return,
I hear him whistling hither.

Enter Conrad.

Conrad.
Now, my friend;
So, you are gone! That saves my labour, then.
Our fast once broken, we must make ere eve
Another sixty miles.

Titania.
Conrad!

Conrad.
Who calls?
I heard my name.

Titania.
Conrad!

Conrad.
And there again!
Why, there’s no soul at hand; this woody covert,
Far as the eye can see, is void of person.
This tree is, sure, enchanted; now I mind
The shepherds swear these gnarled and ancient thorns
Shelter the Little Folk; ay, and when last
I made my bed here on All Hallows E’en,
I thought this emerald roof with fairy lights
Was starred and twinkling lamps; whilst all night long
Sweet voices fluted, though I saw no form,
And jostling shapes brushed by me; twice, meseemed,
Light harebells touched my brow, and pealing laughter,
Sweeter than silver bells, fell rippling after.
’Twas but a fancy though; yet, if ’t were more,
Speak, whosoe’er thou art that here my name
Syllablest thus.

Titania.
Conrad!

Conrad.
The Faery Queen!

Titania.
Nay, do not turn, but listen. Ours were the voices
Pealed through thy dreams on that All Hallows Eve;
Since ever with sleep of those we love we weave
Fair fancies, flowering into speech and song,
While dazzling troops of dancing visions throng.
Ours was the voice last night.

Conrad.
Dread lady, speak,
And to my waking senses now confirm
The blessed news. Henry betrayed me not?
Speak, and my heart, which but to catch the thought
Leapt like a fount to the sun, will slay its care
And carry grief with gladness; say the word.

Titania.
The word we sang was faithful every whit:
Whatever noble seers have sung or writ,
Poets and bards inspired, of loving friends,
The tale of this thy Henry’s love transcends.
Not he the traitor; he to safety bore
Thy lady, compassed round with perils sore,
Shielding her from all shame. ’Twas thus he died,
Praying for thee.

Conrad.
And I had meant to slay him!
Lady, my heart with joy and grief in one
Tugs at my breast.

Titania.
Hither to me he brought
Thy princess, from the world’s contagion caught
Unto my sheltering groves and leafy screen.
Here, ’neath the empire of the Faery Queen,
Over the starry turf, with flowers inlaid
Meet for my own fair sceptre, has she strayed
Fearless, since heavenly chastity can give
A charm beyond my wand’s prerogative,
Besides what awe her loveliness compels
From fiercest beast that harbours in our dells.
See how her wolves pay homage; how they fawn
And kneel before their queen!

Irene enters with two wolves.

Conrad.
Let me kneel too!
Your loveliness demands no less.

Irene.
You shall not.
’Tis I will kneel to you, who art my lord.
Gracious my lord, deny me not.

Conrad.
Deny thee!
Ask what thou wilt, my heart. But I shall kneel. (kneels).

Irene.
Then we must kneel together; (kneels) fie, fie, my lord.
Let’s rise again.

Titania.
Rise not; join hands, while I
Bless you with this my fragrant sceptre. Children,
The benediction of the forest take:
Fair fortune now befall fair love, and make
Shadow and light one weft, and till the end
Bright as the many-tissued rainbow blend
Slander and ill your shining presence fly!
Like turtles live and like the phoenix die,
Not heirless, but your grace and virtue still
Survive your ashes!

Conrad.
Dread queen, forgive us! Love,
See now what foul lack-courtesies are we!
This is the friend whose watchful care has shielded
And brought us here　to-day; yet these our lips,
Sealed save to one another, have spoke no word
In poor requital of such grace as this.

Irene.
Lady, my mother, whose anger, like the herb
Soon withered, to such an aftermath of love
Has given place, a very meadow wherein
I have wandered deep in flowers and played at ease,
As little children do that pass at noon,
With pretty baskets on their arms, through groves
O’ercarpeted with bluebells, and through ways
Where buttercups, beset with singing bees,
Orchis, and fragrant bents dispart before them,
Yielding their trustful steps a gracious path—
Against such love what can my words avail?
Kiss me, my mother.

Titania.
Child, your mother’s speech,
Though rash and rude, did scarce your merit reach.
All of my beauty’s thine, and thereto grace
Which never dwells but on a mortal’s face.
Your mother’s sin I’ll share, and now confess
My beauty foul to this wild loveliness.
Hadst thou no comrade, Conrad?

Conrad.
Where is he?
Here was his bed last night; this day at dawn
I shook him, but he drowsed, so forth I fared
To fill my flask at the fount, and bade him go
Gather him sticks, vowing at my return,
If he still dreamed, I’d spill my flask on him
And go get more.

Titania.
Look from this tree, and there,
The fragrant lilies netted in his hair,
See how the lazy rascal lies at rest
On yonder flowery bank!

Irene.
Come, let’s together!
Conrad, we’ll wake him; I’ll fill your flask again.
O, this is rare! Give me the flask.

Conrad.
My star!
What, have you led me into port at last?

[ Exeunt. ]

Scene IV.—The Palace in Prague.

Enter King Karl, Conrad, Irene, Plessing, Arnheim, Lords, Ladies.

King Karl.
Ladies and lords, I bid you welcome here
To this our coronation-feast. Count Conrad
Returns from Elsass, where that false usurper,
The Lord of Bonn, those that suborned his plots
No longer to his aid, has straight withdrawn
His forged claims and to his castled hill
Confined his foiled ambition. We, to crown
Our coronation, herewith celebrate,
Ere for his realm Count Conrad leaves again,
Nuptials of him and this his lovely lady,
John Sobieski’s child, restored by us
And our good lord the Pope, whose ghostly counsel
Was poisoned late by glozing speech and letters,
Unto her father’s realm, now hers by right.
The masquers will be in anon; till then,
Ladies and lords, dispose you as you will.

Conrad.
Plessing and Arnheim, friends and saviours, hail!
Heav’n, that this gift unparagon’d to me
Assures to-day, not so its bounteous love
Limits, but adds me grace as much again
In friends whose love has so enriched as yours.

Irene.
Indeed, sirs, though my lord should love you well,
The heavier debt is mine. If words could thank,
As sure they cannot, I should needs live still
Within your boundless credit, or each minute
Spend in your due requital, from my lord
Refraining speech for ever.

Conrad.
Heav’n forfend!

Irene.
My lord forbids such payment; then my task
Must be to find you fair and loving wives,
Whose gentle offices shall pay for me
Part of the debt I owe but may not quit.

Arnheim.
Heav’n guide your efforts well! for I can trust them
To bring me sweet reward. But Plessing here
Smiles and says nothing; he, I fear, has found
A nest which yet he hides.

Irene.
We’ll pick his secret.

Conrad.
This would be now my happiest hour alive,
Could Henry but be here; and this his absence,
Not now alone but ever, flaws my joy.
I cannot hear the merry laughter flow
Or gladsome rise of music, but my mind
Figures him dead above his couch of leaves,
The cold sod heaped about him.

Arnheim.
Nay, but say
Art thou made sure of his death?

Plessing.
The question sprang
To my lips too; for, though I doubt him living,
Yet who has seen him dead? He may return.
We’ll search all realms, the homes of all the winds
Ransack to make doubt sure.

Conrad.
I saw him dead.
Stumbling with hunger, on a shepherds’ masque
I fell, and while with liberal hand they bore
Sustenance to my need, their play went forward,
Wherein, when two should bear a body in,
Feigned dead, to be restored, as I surmise,
Straightway the twain appointed, turning jest
To wailing sorrow, bore my comrade in,
Dead, dead indeed, found starved beside a bank
Of late-flowered spurge, whose rank perfume, ’t was held,
Inducing sleep too well, (his frame being worn,
Racked out, and foiled of rest and sweet refreshment),
O’erpowered, and slew th’ already well-nigh dead.
When I, an actor now, with maddened brain,
Fearing my grief to strangers to betray,
Requested them to leave me with my friend;
Which courteous withdrawal, though with wonder
And questioning eyes, they gave me. Then I spake,
Upbraiding in my madness; yet not anger
More than fierce sorrow surged within my heart.
He lay not like a traitor, no, nor died,
I am sure, with any pain; for in those eyes,
All stain of the world, which even in life scant place
Found in their holy calm, was purged away;
Only a smiling infant lay at rest
He slept with God, and for my life I dared not,
Though mad with seeming wrongs, rudely assail,
Fearing some unseen angel. Nay, and now
It comforts me because, before I left him,
I kissed him as of old, and not in wrath,
But in wild faith which, spurning doubts aside,
Leapt through its clouds and would and could believe;
So parted from him.

Plessing.
He was one I loved,
And in whose rare affection shared a part.
There lives no joy within my gift whose treasure
I would not barter but to catch again
Glimpse of those living eyes.

Arnheim.
I that scarce knew him
Yet felt the grandeur of that sacred presence,
Chastening my evil part; and unawares
As to my father whom I love I paid
Reverence and lowly worship.

Irene.
Lord and friends,
Hearing such words, though poor, his merit such
As beggars thought of ours, my mind remembers
All that he was and did, and mirth is quenched
As though a fog of hell should sudden fall
And blot the smiling fields.

Conrad.
Would he were here!
Yet who shall say he is not? Come, be merry.
Ours is the loss; this heaviness no whit
Pleasures his gracious soul where now it dwells,
Beyond our griefs and joys, but watching still,
A blessed saint, to succour and assuage.
Henry is here, I know.

Karl.
The masquers come.
Our friends, for this their entertainment now
Prepare yourselves.
Enter Masquers.
Count Conrad, will not you
And your sweet lady do us this much grace,
To seat yourselves beside us while we watch?

Conrad.
With all my heart, my gracious lord.

The Masque.

Enter Juno, Iris and Nymphs.

Iris.
Thy bidding, royal lady? For but now
One called me to thy presence.

Juno.
’Tis that thou
Summon me Hymen hither, to celebrate
The nuptials of two lovers good, who wait
His saffron cloak and hallowing torch whose light
Must crown their happy ceremony aright.
So rare a couple never in his bands
He yoked before. Go, bear him my commands.

Iris.
I’ll bring him straight.

[ Exit Iris. ]

Juno.
And, till the God appear,
Advance, ye Nymphs, and cast your garlands here.
These lovers, as they now on roses tread,
Shall so with roses through life’s path be sped.
And, bringing strewings, again and yet again
Around their heads let gracious music rain.

Nymphs (scatter flowers, singing).

Lord and lady, we who dwell
In upland fell and crystal well,
Nymphs who rove through nodding grove
And tame the angry ocean-swell,
Hither from our treasures bring
All fantastic wonders rare:
Here are pearls would please a King;
Tangled wisps of mermaids’ hair;
Lilies from the mountain-vale;
Sea pinks faint, and violets pale;
Roses red and roses white;
Pansies, flower of Love’s delight.

Enter Hymen.

Juno.
No need for second song; bright nymphs, aside.
Now Hymen’s self can all we ask provide.

Conrad.
Who is yon gentleman? His bearing grave,
Noble beyond all doubt; and, if I knew not,
But that his face, half-muffled, baulks enquiry,
I’d swear it Henry’s self; with kindled eyes,
Light sparkling through their depths, he scans our pageant.
See, now he smiles! I know that smile; ’t is he.
And see, he comes this way; his muffler falls.
Henry!

Karl (to the Masquers).
Now spare your pains; here’s that crowns all.

Conrad.
Henry, I saw thee dead! Then whence and how,
Because this living hand beyond all doubt
Assures me not from thence, O now relate!

Sir Henry.
Hail, Conrad! And my ward! sweet lady, hail!
Your majesty, I give you loyal greeting.
Plessing and Arnheim! Friends nigh numberless,
I hail you all; and now to this my story
Banish all wonder and with ears of faith
Attend. Know then, my ward made over
To care o’ the forest queen, three days and nights
I wandered, meeting none to grant me aid,
Till, pined with cold and hunger, to a thorn
Whose falling boughs gave shelter I crept, and there,
Plucking dry sticks together, made my bed.
Of what ensued memory is dumb; I woke
Couched ’gainst a grassy knoll, where on its way
Ever a brooklet sang; and at my feet,
As once the prophet, from the idolatrous queen
Flying and fall’n asleep, an angel waked
To bread and fire of coals and water-cruse,
I saw a choice repast of herbs and cakes,
Berries and pastoral fruits, and in a flask
Water yet sparkling from its parent-brook.
These tasted, on my way I passed with ease
Till to a shepherd’s cot at eve I came,
And, for his son had died, I kept his flocks,
Untended else, and shared his mountain fare.
So passed the days, (how many I kept no count),
Till one came took my place, and I was free
And thought to seek my friends; by devious ways
And paths precipitous I left the hills,
Till to our plains I came, but where I knew not.
Thence, meeting with a rough and shaggy hind,
I craved his guidance hither, where arrived,
Hearing of this your revel, though no guest,
I passed the threshold guised, none saying nay;
For so my guide procured.

Karl.
Where’s he that led thee?
Our liberal thanks shall find him.

Sir Henry.
Nay, ’tis vain.
He brought me past the door, then left my side,
Though when and how I know not. He was with me,
Yet when I looked had gone; this was a grace
Crowning the former marvels, and one with them.
I dared enquire no more.

Irene.
My lord, no word:
Speak not, fair friends; you see our play is ended.
I will be epilogue; I have some thoughts,
Doubt not, will do much good—

Conrad.
Before they pass
Thy lips, sweet homilist, I’ll seal them thus,
And thus, and thus again. Nay, if you must,
Then keep your wisdom for my private ear.
We’ll have no epilogue; our souls are crowned.
Our bliss is real and with us, and the woe,
So monstrous when it shadowed us, is gone,
Past as an evil dream of night away,
Which ev’n in seeming being owed no substance.
Our country’s miseries are done; our friends,
From exile some recalled, and one, the best,
As from the port and precincts of the grave,
Are here in presence: and in my home is throned
The Empress of my heart for evermore.

[ Exeunt. ]

Curtain