CLISSON.

Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die.

My Lord the Constable, I pray you note That you are losing some few thousand crowns By slaying this man; also think: his lands Along the Garonne river lie for leagues, And are right rich, a many mills he has, Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: Though wishing well for Clement, as we do, I know the next heir, his old uncle, well, Who does not care two deniers for the knight As things go now, but slay him, and then see, How he will bristle up like any perch, With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord, You'll get the money, this man saved my life, And I will buy him for two thousand crowns; Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then, Ten thousand crowns?

GUESCLIN.

My sweet lord, much I grieve I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve This knight must die, as verily he must; For I have sworn it, so men take him out, Use him not roughly.

SIR LAMBERT, _coming forward_.

Music, do you know, Music will suit you well, I think, because You look so mild, like Laurence being grill'd; Or perhaps music soft and slow, because This is high day of triumph unto me, Is it not, Peter?

You are frighten'd, though, Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much, Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine, You ruin'd wretch! Men mock me in the streets, Only in whispers loud, because I am Friend of the constable; will this please you, Unhappy Peter? once a-going home, Without my servants, and a little drunk, At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets.

A wh.o.r.e came up and spat into my eyes, Rather to blind me than to make me see, But she was very drunk, and tottering back, Even in the middle of her laughter fell And cut her head against the pointed stones, While I lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her, And cried, being drunk.

Girls would not spit at you.

You are so handsome, I think verily Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes, And yet you will be hung like a cur dog Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face, And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad.

Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now, With Guesclin getting ready to play chess, And Clisson doing something with his sword, I can't see what, talking to Guesclin though, I don't know what about, perhaps of you.

But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard, Let me say this, I'd like to tell you now That your life hung upon a game of chess, That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat, Why you should live, but hang if I beat him; Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then: Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let My squire Robert beat me, then you would think That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all, But I should keep you three days in some hold, Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind, Considering the tax there is on salt; And afterwards should let you go, perhaps?

No I should not, but I should hang you, sir, With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope.

But I forgot, you have not told me yet If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus, Instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd?

You are not quick at guessing, give it up.

This is the reason; here I hold your hand, And watch you growing paler, see you writhe And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear, I cannot by all striving tell you how I love it, nor I think, good man, would you Quite understand my great delight therein; You, when you had me underneath you once, Spat as it were, and said, 'Go take him out,'

That they might do that thing to me whereat, E'en now this long time off I could well shriek, And then you tried forget I ever lived, And sunk your hating into other things; While I: St. Denis! though, I think you'll faint, Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless You let it out and weep like a hurt child; Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet, For I am Alice, am right like her now, Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love?

CLISSON.

You filthy beast, stand back and let him go, Or by G.o.d's eyes I'll choke you!

[_Kneeling to_ Sir Peter.

Fair sir knight I kneel upon my knees and pray to you That you would pardon me for this your death; G.o.d knows how much I wish you still alive, Also how heartily I strove to save Your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well, (I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would, If it were possible, give up my life Upon this gra.s.s for yours; fair knight, although, He knowing all things knows this thing too, well, Yet when you see his face some short time hence, Tell him I tried to save you.

SIR PETER.

O! my lord, I cannot say this is as good as life, But yet it makes me feel far happier now, And if at all, after a thousand years, I see G.o.d's face, I will speak loud and bold, And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself; Sir, may G.o.d bless you!

Did you note how I Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think That Lambert's taunts did this, I hardly heard The base things that he said, being deep in thought Of all things that have happen'd since I was A little child; and so at last I thought Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'd No longer gone than yesterday, that this Was the sole reason G.o.d let me be born Twenty-five years ago, that I might love Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her; This seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes, And is so bitter strong, I cannot see Why I was born.

But as a last request, I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man, Some good man, mind you, to say how I died, And take my last love to her: fare-you-well, And may G.o.d keep you; I must go now, lest I grow too sick with thinking on these things; Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth, From whence I shall be lifted upright soon.

[_As he goes._ Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death; And yet not so, I only wept because There was no beautiful lady to kiss me Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed From her dear lips. O for some lady, though I saw her ne'er before; Alice, my love, I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind, If he had been a woman, I should die Without this sickness: but I am all wrong, So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die.

There, I will go.

My G.o.d! how sick I am, If only she could come and kiss me now.

_The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux._

_The_ Lady Alice de la Barde _looking out of a window into the street_.

No news yet! surely, still he holds his own: That garde stands well; I mind me pa.s.sing it Some months ago; G.o.d grant the walls are strong!

I heard some knights say something yestereve, I tried hard to forget: words far apart Struck on my heart something like this; one said: What eh! a Gascon with an English name, Harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: Poictou.

As one who answers to a question ask'd, Then carelessly regretful came: No, no.

Whereto in answer loud and eagerly, One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play!

And went off angrily; and while thenceforth I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard: Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson.

My heart misgives me it is all in vain I send these succours; and in good time there Their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights, G.o.d up in Heaven keep you.

If they come And find him prisoner, for I can't believe Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm.

The last horse turns the corner.

G.o.d in Heaven!

What have I got to thinking of at last!

That thief I will not name is with Guesclin, Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love!

O, if I lose you after all the past, What shall I do?

I cannot bear the noise And light street out there, with this thought alive, Like any curling snake within my brain; Let me just hide my head within these soft Deep cushions, there to try and think it out.

[_Lying in the window-seat._ I cannot hear much noise now, and I think That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim And faint, and I shall soon forget most things; Yea, almost that I am alive and here; It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway, And soft and slow it rises and it falls, Still going onward.

Lying so, one kiss, And I should be in Avalon asleep, Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers; And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread Far out among the stems; soft mice and small Eating and creeping all about my feet, Red shod and tired; and the flies should come Creeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid; And there should be a noise of water going, Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates, Likewise the flies should creep: G.o.d's eyes! G.o.d help!

A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight.

Ah!

I was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true; He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms?

Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart, And be quite gentle till he is gone out; And afterwards: but he is still alive, He must be still alive.

_Enter a_ Squire _of_ Clisson's.

Good day, fair sir, I give you welcome, knowing whence you come.

SQUIRE.

My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord, Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope You will not count me villain, even if They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate; For I am but a mouthpiece after all, A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well To you and your's.

ALICE.

Can you talk faster, sir, Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes On mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see, Still go on talking fast, unless I fall, Or bid you stop.

SQUIRE.

I pray your pardon then, And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say I am unhappy that your knight is dead.

Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all.

We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms, And scant five hundred had he in that hold: His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain, And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit; Yet for three days about the barrier there The deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across, And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came; But still amid the crash of falling walls, And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts, The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out St. George's banner, and the seven swords, And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until Their walls were flat as Jericho's of old, And our rush came, and cut them from the keep.

ALICE.

Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then, And where he died, if you can really mean That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead?

SQUIRE.

Fair lady, in the base-court:

ALICE.

What base-court?

What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on; 'Twas only something gone within my head: Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick, And something cracks there with sore pain? go on, And still look at my eyes.

SQUIRE.