Wolfstan. He shall die! Asselyn. (eagerly.) How soon? Wolfstan. I know not; but a Vision night by night Where oozing slowly from the broken grave-stone Fold on my heart? He wrong'd me of my lands, High up, and hear you curse him ere he dies! Wolfstan. Nor for your wrongs I curse him; not for mine; Not for the land's he tramples into ruin : Nor for my native England's fettered grief— Attendant. Gone in haste Call Henry hither. To cross to England and to seize the Crown. Why come you not, and stand before my sight? Attendant. Sire, all have left you all but only I. William. I could have borne it all-but my two sons! If they had left my side in battle thus, The Headsman had unspurred them with his axe! This Death, whose icy hand is on my throat, And none comes to the rescue.-Arms! Sir Knave, Yield me to ransom? Ha! my arm is chilled,-- I yield not They will not reach to heaven, clogged with the hate That weighs them down. Wolfstan. How know you that I hate? William. All hate me-all; the ruddy cheeked young child That lisps its broken words, the grey haired man That staggers in his speech from weary age, Who love all else by the compelling force Of sixteen summers mellowing all their thoughts Wolfstan. Whose soul is sick to death, and needs your help; Not that you sting him with those maddening eyes! Wolfstan. What! you'd have soothing words to clear your path To heaven, as heralds to your kingly state? Think, king! now reft of crown! Think, bloody man, Of what a naked grovelling thing you are! And ask no pardon till you've purchased peace. William. I have enriched our holy mother church, With wealth so vast that gold fills every shrine. Wolfstan. Blasphemous gold, that fills the shrine with curses. William. There's not a plain in all our English realm But shall be studded with majestic towers, To watch upon its peace. Chantries shall rise In every dell; I've poured my guarded wealth In a rich flood, at shrine of every saint Whoe'er drew English breath. Wrung from their country's blood. Have you no thought Of sins no gold can cover ? Life fleets fast From you-from me-this meeting is our last, From a lone cottage in a forest dell, And lust and murder held their revelry. William. I would that Forest ne'er had stretched its bounds, Nor trenched upon the homes of living men. Wolfstan. Have you forgot that pleasant eve in June, When your array burst in with jubilant cries On the small circle, cleared from bush and tree, Where stood a cottage near a babbling brook ? William. There were so many-and I fired them all. Wolfstan. But this the blackest of your deeds of shame. When rose from his stone bench beside the door By pityless stabs in that old grandsire's breast. William. Pardon-oh! pardon-let me die in silence. In lonely vigils. And my sister's voice, s—was mingled with its words. Wolfstan. No! 'Tis for this I've waited; here we stand In preseuce, as we stood, a stripling I, You a great king, gorged with success and blood; You spurned me, you denied the pity I claimed. Once more we are together, a foul thing, Wolfstan. Let that peace I clutch my fingers thus, And keep that blessing in my sinewy grasp. SCENE THIRD. [Dies. Burial Ground at Caen. A Coffin lying beside an open Grave. Enter Friar Eustace and four Peasants. Friar. Death sheds ro holiness around this man, Toil-wearied boors who met us on the way To him that was a king. 1st. Peasant. Father, we hope You've not been sparing of the holy water Upon these coffin boards. 2nd. Peasant. I fear to touch them, They say the dead man was a murderer. Friar. He was the mightiest Conqueror earth e'er saw, And ruled the greatest kingdoms of the world. Peasant. Howbeit he was a murderer I've heard tell And little good his conquests do him now. Friar. The Holy Abbot promised to be here At noon-to bless the grave. Draw near, my friends, Down in the dell,-see how in snaky folds It coils around the hamlet, pushing forth A lapping tongue of flame from roof and window. Peasant. 'Tis truth he speaks, there's fire o'er all the town. [An alarum bell is rung. Asselyn. Aye, ring the alarum, 'tis a jubilee day, And flames are but the ministers of heaven, To purify the air from so much woe, As this foul murderer brings,-burst forth, ye fires, In scorching ruin on the blackened sky! Come vultures, sit upon his breast and croon Your songs of rapine! Leave the bloated corpse Fly for your dwellings burn,-roof, wall, and floor, And gaze upon the dead? Friar. May I lift the lid [Exeunt Peasants. The bell tolls continually. No-back a space,— Abbot. Quick! brother Eustace, into sacred earth Lay the deserted body of the king. Death has assoiled him of the darkening crimes, That barred the Church's blessing while he breathed. Asselyn. Stop! I command you. Here I plant my foot On soil that was my own,-it held my cradle, |