Lies a rich strath, once in the Ponthieu bounds; William. 'Tis his. What more? Certain arrears of rents Kept back by Robert, your great ancestor— William. Take them,-and multiply by ten what else Your master claims,-but give me Harold here In safety-honour-as befits the man Who is my friend. Lanfranc. Pause, I beseech, Sir William. No-I'll not pause. I tell you, Policy Leaps sometimes safest when it plants its foot Lanfranc. If you look Your Grace will see the smile that moved your scorn His grace will give you answer more at large When half the hour glass sands have sunk to the end. Exeunt Envoys. William. Why, priest-knave-or whatever name you ownLanfranc. Both-either. By this humble garb I'm warned To endure contempt. William. And yet your eye-balls glow With pride might fit a warhorse, when the spears Are levelled and the cry is in his ear. Lanfranc. Give them no counties-no arrears of rent I sent a message by a barefoot brother To Guido of Ponthieu to claim his prisoner, William. Well? Lanfranc. There's a bolt that makes no noise, yet slays Held by a feeble hand, of deadlier weight Than mounted myriads ;-'tis the curse of Heaven. 'Neath that black shadow pride dissolves in rain. Ponthieu is on his knee.-Harold is here. Exit. William. That priestly voice-that smile-that tranquil eye, They quell me like a moonlight among graves; Like the great gulfs of the tremendous sea Which thrill not to the tempest blow that shakes The upper waves to fury, and sends down Ships in their bravery,-knight and burnished arms, A nation's strength;—yet in their sunless depths Move not, but heavy cling around the globe Welcome at last! the heartier for delay. Harold. Double all thanks I ever paid before, And take them from my heart! William. What you've not pined In Guido's fetters? There's a freeborn air Harold. And it shall not! Chains from him A skipping foreigner! If he had dared To talk of chains,-you see these sinewy five, They would have clutched him, till his Frenchman's tongue William (smiles). It trips not as your tongue were native soil, But halts and boggles like a horse half swamp'd In a Dutch marsh. Speak Saxon, noble Harold! Harold. I do, and thank you, William; tho', by 'r lady, My thanks are elsewhere due. Two shaveling priests Broke prison bars, that might have stood unmoved By Normandy in arms ;—a word or two They said in Guido's ear; when, quick! begone! To smite the villain's ear. But ever they prayed And so I bore me like a Christian lamb And slew not Guido,—till it please the Saints To bring me to close reach of him again. William. They were my holy chaplain's messengers. Harold. I like not chaplains with more power than mine, I'd strip them of it all. William. He is in vows Of poverty, and meekness, and submission. Harold. Hang him, I like not vows, that whet us more To gain what we abjure. Thas often chanced, When labouring with sharp aches from too much wine, I've vowed to abstain; no sooner slips the vow Out of my lips, than-as its words were fire, And made a sandy desert of my throat, Parch'd with hot winds-nothing can quell my thirst I know it well. William. I trust, then, cousin, no vow Of love to me shall make you turn to hate. Harold. Tush! 't is of priests I spoke; for you this heart Beats as of old with love and reverence. William. And mine to you. Ah! they were happy times When we went hawking over all that plain Its name escapes me-where the Druid stones Weigh in such mass upon the flight of Time That he seems moveless since a thousand years. Harold. Salisbury,-'t is a ground to try a hawk. "T might task an eagle's wing. William. And you remember How chafed the gallant steed that bore my child, Ever for safety to your side? Your voice Harold. I remember. William. She hath oft spoke your name since the report How fiercely she could clasp her little hand, On the false traitor who retained her friend. Harold. Heaven send its blessings on her childish head! A lighter never trampled into rings William. You wrong her, Harold, Two years have worn the fairy circles out And put full woman's weight upon her limbs And yet not changed her heart. E'en now she waits SCENE II. [Exeunt. A fortnight has passed amid the amusements of the Court of Rouen. Adela has been compelled by her Father and Lanfranc to extort a promise from her lover Harold, under threat, if she refuses, of being sent to a Convent. To me to Heaven-and to our Lord the Pope. So powerful it can reach the walls of Rome? Is his voice Lanfranc. Rome's walls receive the lightest whispered word That e'er left dying lips in farthest Isle, Or loneliest desert. Harold's voice she hears; And your's dear lady, as with eloquent lip, You ask him to make promise of his aid Lanfranc. Who will not serve the church In Prince's court, shall serve her in Nun's cell. Harold. That man moves ever like a silent cloud, Adela. How know you that she smiles? Adela. Ah! kind Harold, How sweet are words of praise from honest lips! Harold. I meant them not for praise. Praise is but foam From shallow streams,-the deeps hold still the pearl. Adela. And yet my father doubts what truth there lies Within that noble heart! That never leaves the shrine.-We may be rude, In valorous speech and trim built compliment, Adela. Come in to choke it. Harold. Ade'a. Other thoughts Which be they? Ambition's. Harold. Not so; we can aspire and love unchanged, As eagles seek the sun, yet gaze on earth. Adela. Soar not too high, dear Harold, or poor earth Grows to a speck-a point-then disappears. Say you'll forswear all greatness—but your own Say when this Edward gains his heavenly crown, Harold. Who calls the circlet woven by England's might Hangs then on William's liking?—As I thought!— 'Twas safer in the dungeons of Panthieu. Adela. You hesitate-Oh! Harold, give your hand That you will aid my father in his aims. Will you not, Harold ?-he is Adela's father Your's too-dear Harold;-say you'll give your aid! Harold. Why, what are oaths when given in guise like this, Adela. No, not a sword,—a loving-trusting heart. Harold. Ah! eyes like these shall never plead in vain. Harold. What boots it swearing? Adela. Harold. Aye-that I love you. Will you swear? That you slay me rather! Harold. That were false oathing. Harold (lifts his hand) Lift your hand, dear Harold- There Adela. You will swear to aid my father's claims Folding doors open, and display an Altar covered as if for Mass. Priests, &c. Lanfranc in front. Choristers Lanfranc. Heaven and the saints have heard you! If you change Or break the compact firmness of this vow, Earth, heaven and hell shall join to blast your name. A curse shall weigh upon your sword,-your arm Shrivel beneath it, in the day of battle. Angels shall turn their eyes from off your face, |