Locrine: A Tragedy

SCENE I.—_Troynovant_. _A Room in the Palace_.

_Enter_ GUENDOLEN _and_ MADAN.

Guendolen. Child, hast thou looked upon thy grandsire dead?

Guendolen. Then thou sawest our Britain’s heart and head Death-stricken. Seemed not there my sire to thee More great than thine, or all men living? We Stand shadows of the fathers we survive: Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive.

Madan. Why, he was great of thews—and wise, thou say’st: Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced— The kinglier and the kindlier.

Guendolen. Yea, his eyes Are liker seas that feel the summering skies In concord of sweet colour—and his brow Shines gentler than my father’s ever: thou, So seeing, dost well to hold thy sire so dear.

Madan. I said not that his love sat yet so near My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine, Thou knowest, than his.

Guendolen. Nay—rather seems Locrine Thy sire than I thy mother.

Madan. Wherefore?

Guendolen. Boy, Because of all our sires who fought for Troy Most like thy father and my lord Locrine, I think, was Paris.

Madan. How may man divine Thy meaning? Blunt am I, thou knowest, of wit; And scarce yet man—men tell me.

Guendolen. Ask not it. I meant not thou shouldst understand—I spake As one that sighs, to ease her heart of ache, And would not clothe in words her cause for sighs— Her naked cause of sorrow.

Madan. Wert thou wise, Mother, thy tongue had chosen of two things one— Silence, or speech.

Guendolen. Speech had I chosen, my son, I had wronged thee—yea, perchance I have wronged thine ears Too far, to say so much.

Madan. Nay, these are tears That gather toward thine eyelids now. Thou hast broken Silence—if now thy speech die down unspoken, Thou dost me wrong indeed—but more than mine The wrong thou dost thyself is.

Guendolen. And Locrine— Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me?

Guendolen. Yet—I may choose yet—nothing will I say More.

Madan. Choose, and have thy choice; it galls not me.

Guendolen. Son, son! thy speech is bitterer than the sea.

Madan. Yet, were the gulfs of hell not bitterer, thine Might match thy son’s, who hast called my sire—Locrine— Thy lord, and lord of all this land—the king Whose name is bright and sweet as earth in spring, Whose love is mixed with Britain’s very life As heaven with earth at sunrise—thou, his wife, Hast called him—and the poison of the word Set not thy tongue on fire—I lived and heard— Coward.

Guendolen. Thou liest.

Madan. If then thy speech rang true, Why, now it rings not false.

Guendolen. Thou art treacherous too— His heart, thy father’s very heart is thine— O, well beseems it, meet it is, Locrine, That liar and traitor and changeling he should be Who, though I bare him, was begot by thee.

Madan. How have I lied, mother? Was this the lie, That thou didst call my father coward, and I Heard?

Guendolen. Nay—I did but liken him with one Not all unlike him; thou, my child, his son, Art more unlike thy father.

Madan. Was not then, Of all our fathers, all recorded men, The man whose name, thou sayest, is like his name— Paris—a sign in all men’s mouths of shame?

Guendolen. Nay, save when heaven would cross him in the fight, He bare him, say the minstrels, as a knight— Yea, like thy father.

Madan. Shame then were it none Though men should liken me to him?

Guendolen. My son, I had rather see thee—see thy brave bright head, Strong limbs, clear eyes—drop here before me dead.

Madan. If he were true man, wherefore?

Guendolen. False was he; No coward indeed, but faithless, trothless—we Hold therefore, as thou sayest, his princely name Unprincely—dead in honour—quick in shame.

Madan. And his to mine thou likenest?

Guendolen. Thine? to thine? God rather strike thy life as dark as mine Than tarnish thus thine honour! For to me Shameful it seems—I know not if it be— For men to lie, and smile, and swear, and lie, And bear the gods of heaven false witness. I Can hold not this but shameful.

Madan. Thou dost well. I had liefer cast my soul alive to hell Than play a false man false. But were he true And I the traitor—then what heaven should do I wot not, but myself, being once awake Out of that treasonous trance, were fain to slake With all my blood the fire of shame wherein My soul should burn me living in my sin.

Guendolen. Thy soul? Yea, there—how knowest thou, boy, so well?— The fire is lit that feeds the fires of hell. Mine is aflame this long time now—but thine— O, how shall God forgive thee this, Locrine, That thou, for shame of these thy treasons done, Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son?

Madan. My heart is whole yet, though thy speech be fire Whose flame lays hold upon it. Hath my sire Wronged thee?

Guendolen. Nay, child, I lied—I did but rave— I jested—was my face, then, sad and grave, When most I jested with thee? Child, my brain Is wearied, and my heart worn down with pain: I thought awhile, for very sorrow’s sake, To play with sorrow—try thy spirit, and take Comfort—God knows I know not what I said, My father, whom I loved, being newly dead.

Madan. I pray thee that thou jest with me no more Thus.

Guendolen. Dost thou now believe me?

Madan. No.

Guendolen. I bore A brave man when I bore thee.

Madan. I desire No more of laud or leasing. Hath my sire Wronged thee?

Guendolen. Never. But wilt thou trust me now?

Madan. As trustful am I, mother of mine, as thou.

_Enter_ LOCRINE.

Locrine. The gods be good to thee! How farest thou?

Guendolen. Well. Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell No fire to fear. The world I dwelt in died With my dead father. King, thy world is wide Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust: But mine is strait, and built by death of dust.

Locrine. Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then, That held thy life up happy? Guendolen, Hast thou nor child nor husband—or are we Worth no remembrance more at all of thee?

Guendolen. Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine: If ever siren bare a son, Locrine, To reign in some green island and bear sway On shores more shining than the front of day And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning’s brow, That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.

Locrine. Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men; And yet no siren’s honey, Guendolen, Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south, Which thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.

Guendolen. Thy soul is softer than this boy’s of thine: His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine That put such fire in his? for none that heard Thy flatteries—nay, I take not back the word— A flattering lover lives my loving lord— Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.

Locrine. What have I done for thee to mock with praise And make the boy’s eyes widen? All my days Are worth not all a week, if war be all, Of his that loved no bloodless festival— Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one Who craved no more of comfort from the sun But light to lighten him toward battle: I Love no such life as bids men kill or die.

Guendolen. Wert thou not woman more in word than act, Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine: But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine, Strong as thy speech is gentle.

Locrine. God assoil The dead our friends and foes!

Guendolen. A goodly spoil Was that thine hand made then by Humber’s banks Of all who swelled the Scythian’s riotous ranks With storm of inland surf and surge of steel: None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath More bitter than the bitterest edge of death.

Locrine. None.

Guendolen. This was then a day of blood. I heard, But know not whence I caught the wandering word, Strange women were there of that outland crew, Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew.

Locrine. Nay, Scythians then had we been, worse than they.

Guendolen. These that were taken, then, thou didst not slay?

Locrine. I did not say we spared them.

Guendolen. Slay nor spare?

Locrine. How if they were not?

Guendolen. What albeit they were? Small hurt, meseems, my husband, had it been Though British hands had haled a Scythian queen— If such were found—some woman foul and fierce— To death—or aught we hold for shame’s sake worse.

Locrine. For shame’s own sake the hand that should not fear To take such monstrous work upon it here, And did not wither from the wrist, should be Hewn off ere hanging. Wolves or men are we, That thou shouldst question this?

Guendolen. Not wolves, but men, Surely: for beasts are loyal.

Locrine. Guendolen, What irks thee?

Guendolen. Nought save grief and love; Locrine, A grievous love, a loving grief is mine. Here stands my husband: there my father lies: I know not if there live in either’s eyes More love, more life of comfort. This our son Loves me: but is there else left living one That loves me back as I love?

Locrine. Nay, but how Has this wild question fired thine heart?

Guendolen. Not thou! No part have I—nay, never had I part— Our child that hears me knows it—in thine heart. Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son, Didst give not—no—but yield thy hand to mine, To mine thy lips—not thee to me, Locrine. Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years; Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears To lure or melt it meward. I have borne— I that have borne to thee this boy—thy scorn, Thy gentleness, thy tender words that bite More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite These limbs and lips made thine by contract—made No wife’s, no queen’s—a servant’s—nay, thy shade. The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee, Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me. And now,—nay, speak not—now my sire is dead Thou think’st to cast me crownless from thy bed Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now Shall perish with me, if thou wilt—and thou Shalt live and laugh to think of us—or yet Play faith more foul—play falser, and forget.

Locrine. Sharp grief has crazed thy brain. Thou knowest of me—

Guendolen. I know that nought I know, Locrine, of thee.

Locrine. What bids thee then revile me, knowing no cause?

Guendolen. Strong sorrow knows but sorrow’s lawless laws.

Locrine. Yet these should turn not grief to raging fire.

Guendolen. They should not, had my heart my heart’s desire.

Locrine. Would God that love, my queen, could give thee this!

Guendolen. Thou dost not call me wife—nor call’st amiss.

Locrine. What name should serve to stay this fitful strife?

Guendolen. Thou dost not ill to call me not thy wife.

Locrine. My sister wellnigh wast thou once: and now—

Guendolen. Thy sister never I: my brother thou.

Locrine. How shall man sound this riddle? Read it me.

Guendolen. As loves a sister, never loved I thee.

Locrine. Not when we played as twinborn child with child?

Guendolen. If then thou thought’st it, both were sore beguiled.

Locrine. I thought thee sweeter then than summer doves.

Guendolen. Yet not like theirs—woe worth it!—were our loves.

Locrine. No—for they meet and flit again apart.

Guendolen. And we live linked, inseparate—heart in heart.

Locrine. Is this the grief that wrings and vexes thine?

Guendolen. Thy mother laughed when thou wast born, Locrine.

Locrine. Did she not well? sweet laughter speaks not scorn.

Guendolen. And thou didst laugh, and wept’st not, to be born.

Locrine. Did I then ill? didst thou, then, weep to be?

Guendolen. The same star lit not thee to birth and me.

Locrine. Thine eyes took light, then, from the fairer star.

Guendolen. Nay; thine was nigh the sun, and mine afar.

Locrine. Too bright was thine to need the neighbouring sun.

Guendolen. Nay, all its life of light was wellnigh done.

Locrine. If all on thee its light and life were shed And darkness on thy birthday struck it dead, It died most happy, leaving life and light More fair and full in loves more thankful sight.

Guendolen. Art thou so thankful, king, for love’s kind sake? Would I were worthier thanks like these I take! For thanks I cannot render thee again.

Locrine. Too heavy sits thy sorrow, Guendolen, Upon thy spirit of life: I bid thee not Take comfort while the fire of grief is hot Still at thine heart, and scarce thy last keen tear Dried: yet the gods have left thee comfort here.

Guendolen. Comfort? In thee, fair cousin—or my son?

Locrine. What hast thou done, Madan, or left undone? Toward thee and me thy mother’s mood to-day Seems less than loving.

Madan. Sire, I cannot say.

Locrine. Enough: an hour or half an hour is more Than wrangling words should stuff with barren store. Comfort may’st thou bring to her, if I may none, When all her father quickens in her son. In Cornish warfare if thou win thee praise, Thine shall men liken to thy grandsire’s days.

Guendolen. To Cornwall must he fare and fight for thee?

Locrine. If heart be his—and if thy will it be.

Guendolen. What is my will worth more than wind or foam?

Locrine. Why, leave is thine to hold him here at home.

Guendolen. What power is mine to speed him or to stay?

Locrine. None—should thy child cast love and shame away.

Guendolen. Most duteous wast thou to thy sire—and mine.

Locrine. Yea, truly—when their bidding sealed me thine.

Guendolen. Thy smile is as a flame that plays and flits.

Locrine. Yet at my heart thou knowest what fire there sits.

Guendolen. Not love’s—not love’s—toward me love burns not there.

Locrine. What wouldst thou have me search therein and swear?

Guendolen. Swear by the faith none seeking there may find—

Locrine. Then—by the faith that lives not in thy kind—

Guendolen. Ay—women’s faith is water. Then, by men’s—

Locrine. Yea—by Locrine’s, and not by Guendolen’s—

Guendolen. Swear thou didst never love me more than now.

Locrine. I swear it—not when first we kissed. And thou?

Guendolen. I cannot give thee back thine oath again.

Locrine. If now love wane within thee, lived it then?

Guendolen. I said not that it waned. I would not swear—

Locrine. That it was ever more than shadows were?

Guendolen. —Thy faith and heart were aught but shadow and fire.

Locrine. But thou, meseems, hast loved—thy son and sire.

Guendolen. And not my lord: I cross and thwart him still.

Locrine. Thy grief it is that wounds me—not thy will.

Guendolen. Wound? if I would, could I forsooth wound thee?

Locrine. I think thou wouldst not, though thine hands were free.

Guendolen. These hands, now bound in wedlock fast to thine?

Locrine. Yet were thine heart not then dislinked from mine.

Guendolen. Nay, life nor death, nor love whose child is hate, May sunder hearts made one but once by fate. Wrath may come down as fire between them—life May bid them yearn for death as man for wife— Grief bid them stoop as son to father—shame Brand them, and memory turn their pulse to flame— Or falsehood change their blood to poisoned wine— Yet all shall rend them not in twain, Locrine.

Locrine. Who knows not this? but rather would I know What thought distempers and distunes thy woe. I came to wed my grief awhile to thine For love’s sake and for comfort’s—

Guendolen. Thou, Locrine? Today thou knowest not, nor wilt learn tomorrow, The secret sense of such a word as sorrow. Thy spirit is soft and sweet: I well believe Thou wouldst, but well I know thou canst not grieve. The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears, The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears, The sound of raging silence in the brain That utters things unutterable for pain, The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease, What knows thy soul’s live sense of pangs like these?

Locrine. Is no love left thee then for comfort?

Guendolen. Thine?

Locrine. Thy son’s may serve thee, though thou mock at mine.

Guendolen. Ay—when he comes again from Cornwall.

Locrine. Nay; If now his absence irk thee, bid him stay.

Guendolen. I will not—yea, I would not, though I might. Go, child: God guard and grace thine hand in fight!

Madan. My heart shall give it grace to guard my head.

Locrine. Well thought, my son: but scarce of thee well said.

Madan. No skill of speech have I: words said or sung Help me no more than hand is helped of tongue: Yet, would some better wit than mine, I wis, Help mine, I fain would render thanks for this.

Guendolen. Think not the boy I bare thee too much mine, Though slack of speech and halting: I divine Thou shalt not find him faint of heart or hand, Come what may come against him.

Locrine. Nay, this land Bears not alive, nor bare it ere we came, Such bloodless hearts as know not fame from shame, Or quail for hope’s sake, or more faithless fear, From truth of single-sighted manhood, here Born and bred up to read the word aright That sunders man from beast as day from night. That red rank Ireland where men burn and slay Girls, old men, children, mothers, sires, and say These wolves and swine that skulk and strike do well, As soon might know sweet heaven from ravenous hell.

Ay. no such coward as crawls and licks the dust Till blood thence licked may slake his murderous lust And leave his tongue the suppler shall be bred, I think, in Britain ever—if the dead May witness for the living. Though my son Go forth among strange tribes to battle, none Here shall he meet within our circling seas So much more vile than vilest men as these. And though the folk be fierce that harbour there As once the Scythians driven before thee were, And though some Cornish water change its name As Humber then for furtherance of thy fame, And take some dead man’s on it—some dead king’s Slain of our son’s hand—and its watersprings Wax red and radiant from such fire of fight And swell as high with blood of hosts in flight— No fiercer foe nor worthier shall he meet Than then fell grovelling at his father’s feet. Nor, though the day run red with blood of men As that whose hours rang round thy praises then, Shall thy son’s hand be deeper dipped therein Than his that gat him—and that held it sin To spill strange blood of barbarous women—wives Or harlots—things of monstrous names and lives— Fit spoil for swords of harsher-hearted folk; Nor yet, though some that dared and ‘scaped the stroke Be fair as beasts are beauteous,—fit to make False hearts of fools bow down for love’s foul sake, And burn up faith to ashes—shall my son Forsake his father’s ways for such an one As whom thy soldiers slew or slew not—thou Hast no remembrance of them left thee now. Even therefore may we stand assured of this: What lip soever lure his lip to kiss, Past question—else were he nor mine nor thine— This boy would spurn a Scythian concubine.

Locrine. Such peril scarce may cross or charm our son, Though fairer women earth or heaven sees none Than those whose breath makes mild our wild south-west Where now he fares not forth on amorous quest.

Guendolen. Wilt thou not bless him going, and bid him speed?

Locrine. So be it: yet surely not in word but deed Lives all the soul of blessing or of ban Or wrought or won by manhood’s might for man. The gods be gracious to thee, boy, and give Thy wish its will!

Madan. So shall they, if I live.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.—_Gardens of the Palace_.

_Enter_ CAMBER _and_ DEBON.

Camber. Nay, tell not me: no smoke of lies can smother The truth which lightens through thy lies: I see Whose trust it is that makes a liar of thee, And how thy falsehood, man, has faith for mother. What, is not thine the breast wherein my brother Seals all his heart up? Had he put in me Faith—but his secret has thy tongue for key, And all his counsel opens to none other. Thy tongue, thine eye, thy smile unlocks his trust Who puts no trust in man.

Debon. Sir, then were I A traitor found more perfect fool than knave Should I play false, or turn for gold to dust A gem worth all the gold beneath the sky— The diamond of the flawless faith he gave Who sealed his trust upon me.

Camber. What art thou? Because thy beard ere mine were black was grey Art thou the prince, and I thy man? I say Thou shalt not keep his counsel from me.

Debon. Now, Prince, may thine old born servant lift his brow As from the dust to thine, and answer—Nay. Nor canst thou turn this nay of mine to yea With all the lightning of thine eyes, I trow, Nor this my truth to treason.

Camber. God us aid! Art thou not mad? Thou knowest what whispers crawl About the court with serpent sound and speed, Made out of fire and falsehood; or if made Not all of lies—it may be thus—not all— Black yet no less with poison.

Debon. Prince, indeed I know the colour of the tongues of fire That feed on shame to slake the thirst of hate; Hell-black, and hot as hell: nor age nor state May pluck the fangs forth of their foul desire: I that was trothplight servant to thy sire, A king more kingly than the front of fate That bade our lives bow down disconsolate When death laid hold on him—for hope nor hire, Prince, would I lie to thee: nay, what avails Falsehood? thou knowest I would not.

Camber. Why, thou art old; To thee could falsehood bear but fruitless fruit— Lean grafts and sour. I think thou wouldst not.

Debon. Wales In such a lord lives happy: young and bold And yet not mindless of thy sire King Brute, Who loved his loyal servants even as they Loved him. Yea, surely, bitter were the fruit, Prince Camber, and the tree rotten at root That bare it, whence my tongue should take today For thee the taste of poisonous treason.

Camber. Nay, What boots it though thou plight thy word to boot? True servant wast thou to my sire King Brute, And Brute thy king true master to thee.

Yea. Troy, ere her towers dropped hurtling down in flame, Bare not a son more noble than the sire Whose son begat thy father. Shame it were Beyond all record in the world of shame, If they that hither bore in heart that fire Which none save men of heavenly heart may bear Had left no sign, though Troy were spoiled and sacked, That heavenly was the seed they saved.

Camber. No sign? Though nought my fame be,—though no praise of mine Be worth men’s tongues for word or thought or act— Shall fame forget my brother Albanact, Or how those Huns who drank his blood for wine Poured forth their own for offering to Locrine? Though all the soundless maze of time were tracked, No men should man find nobler.

Debon. Surely none. No man loved ever more than I thy brothers, Prince.

Camber. Ay—for them thy love is bright like spring, And colder toward me than the wintering sun. What am I less—what less am I than others, That thus thy tongue discrowns my name of king, Dethrones my title, disanoints my state, And pricks me down but petty prince?

Debon. My lord—

Camber. Ay? must my name among their names stand scored Who keep my brother’s door or guard his gate? A lordling—princeling—one that stands to wait— That lights him back to bed or serves at board. Old man, if yet thy foundering brain record Aught—if thou know that once my sire was great, Then must thou know he left no less to me, His youngest, than to those my brethren born, Kingship.

Debon. I know it. Your servant, sire, am I, Who lived so long your sire’s.

Camber. And how had he Endured thy silence or sustained thy scorn? Why must I know not what thou knowest of?

Debon. Why? Hast thou not heard, king, that a true man’s trust Is king for him of life and death? Locrine Hath sealed with trust my lips—nay, prince, not mine— His are they now.

Camber. Thou art wise as he, and just, And secret. God requite thee! yea, he must, For man shall never. If my sword here shine Sunward—God guard that reverend head of thine!

Debon. My blood should make thy sword the sooner rust, And rot thy fame for ever. Strike.

Camber. Thou knowest I will not. Am I Scythian born, or Greek, That I should take thy bloodshed on my hand?

Debon. Nay—if thou seest me soul to soul, and showest Mercy—

Camber. Thou think’st I would have slain thee? Speak.

Debon. Nay, then I will, for love of all this land: Lest, if suspicion bring forth strife, and fear Hatred, its face be withered with a curse; Lest the eyeless doubt of unseen ill be worse Than very truth of evil. Thou shalt hear Such truth as falling in a base man’s ear Should bring forth evil indeed in hearts perverse; But forth of thine shall truth, once known, disperse Doubt: and dispersed, the cloud shall leave thee clear In judgment—nor, being young, more merciless, I think, than I toward hearts that erred and yearned, Struck through with love and blind with fire of life Enkindled. When the sharp and stormy stress Of Scythian ravin round our borders burned Eastward, and he that faced it first in strife, King Albanact, thy brother, fought and fell, Locrine our lord, and lordliest born of you,— Thy chief, my prince, and mine—against them drew With all the force our southern strengths might tell, And by the strong mid water’s seaward swell That sunders half our Britain met and slew The prince whose blood baptized its fame anew And left no record of the name to dwell Whereby men called it ere it wore his name, Humber; and wide on wing the carnage went Along the drenched red fields that felt the tramp At once of fliers and slayers with feet like flame: But the king halted, seeing a royal tent Reared, with its ensign crowning all the camp, And entered—where no Scythian spoil he found, But one fair face, the Scythian’s sometime prey, A lady’s whom their ships had borne away By force of warlike hand from German ground, A bride and queen by violent power fast bound To the errant helmsman of their fierce array. And her, left lordless by that ended fray, Our lord beholding loved, and hailed, and crowned Queen.

Camber. Queen! and what perchance of Guendolen? Slept she forsooth forgotten?

Debon. Nay, my lord Knows that albeit their hands were precontract By Brute your father dying, no man of men May fasten hearts with hands in one accord. The love our master knew not that he lacked Fulfilled him even as heaven by dawn is filled With fire and light that burns and blinds and leads All men to wise or witless works or deeds, Beholding, ere indeed he wist or willed, Eyes that sent flame through veins that age had chilled.

Camber. Thine—with that grey goat’s fleece on chin, sir? Needs Must she be fair: thou, wrapt in age’s weeds, Whose blood, if time have touched it not and stilled, The sun’s own fire must once have kindled,—thou Sing praise of soft-lipped women? doth not shame Sting thee, to sound this minstrel’s note, and gild A girl’s proud face with praises, though her brow Were bright as dawn’s? And had her grace no name For men to worship by? Her name?

Camber. My brother is a prince of paramours— Eyes coloured like the springtide sea, and hair Bright as with fire of sundawn—face as fair As mine is swart and worn with haggard hours, Though less in years than his—such hap was ours When chance drew forth for us the lots that were Hid close in time’s clenched hand: and now I swear, Though his be goodlier than the stars or flowers, I would not change this head of mine, or crown Scarce worth a smile of his—thy lord Locrine’s— For that fair head and crown imperial; nay, Not were I cast by force of fortune down Lower than the lowest lean serf that prowls and pines And loathes for fear all hours of night and day.

Debon. What says my lord? how means he?

Camber. Vex not thou Thine old hoar head with care to learn of me This. Great is time, and what he wills to be Is here or ever proof may bring it: now, Now is the future present. If thy vow Constrain thee not, yet would I know of thee One thing: this lustrous love-bird, where is she? What nest is hers on what green flowering bough Deep in what wild sweet woodland?

Debon. Good my lord, Have I not sinned already—flawed my faith, To lend such ear even to such royal suit?

Camber. Yea, by my kingdom hast thou—by my sword, Yea. Now speak on.

Debon. Yet hope—or honour—saith I did not ill to trust the blood of Brute Within thee. Not prince Hector’s sovereign soul, The light of all thy lineage, more abhorred Treason than all his days did Brute my lord. My trust shall rest not in thee less than whole.

Camber. Speak, then: too long thou falterest nigh the goal.

Debon. There is a bower built fast beside a ford In Essex, held in sure and secret ward Of woods and walls and waters, still and sole As love could choose for harbourage: there the king Keeps close from all men now these seven years since The light wherein he lives: and there hath she Borne him a maiden child more sweet than spring.

Camber. A child her daughter? there now hidden?

Debon. Prince, What ails thee?

Camber. Nought. This river’s name?

Debon. The Ley.

Camber. Nigh Leytonstone in Essex—called of old By men thine elders Durolitum? There Are hind and fawn couched close in one green lair? Speak: hast thou not my faith in pawn, to hold Fast as my brother’s heart this love, untold And undivined of all men? must I swear Twice—I, to thee?

Debon. But if thou set no snare, Why shine thine eyes so sharp? I am overbold: Sir, pardon me.

Camber. My sword shall split thine heart With pardon if thou palter with me.

Debon. Sir, There is the place: but though thy brow be grim As hell—I knew thee not the man thou art— I will not bring thee to it.

Camber. For love of her? Nay—better shouldst thou know my love of him.

[_Exeunt_.