_Gaina._ A man, my lord.

_Ber._ A man!

_Gaina._ There, don't feel for your sword, for that's at home, and I never heard yet of spitting a man with a flute, though it may e'en go to the heart of a woman if she be young and soft like my mistress.

_Ber._ The truth, Gaina!

_Gaina._ I can spare it, sir. My master's daughter is so in love with you----

_Ber._ Angels do not love!

_Gaina._ That may be. I'm speaking of my mistress, "Magpie!" Not meaning you, sir.

_Ber._ She can not love me!

_Gaina._ That's what I said--at first. A roaming creature with only his cloak for shelter, though it's a good gentleman's weave, I'll allow, and I know you'll go away before her poor heart gets too heavy for carrying.

It's nigh that now, and before you came it was so light she was tripping and chirping till I could 'a' sworn she had no heart at all--just toes and wings. And now, dear soul,--but you'll go, sir? You know you'd have to hunt the door soon enough if her brothers got a breath of what's between you.

_Ber._ There's nothing between us!

_Gaina._ A bat could see it by daylight. It's been in your eyes all the time.

_Ber._ I never meant it!

_Gaina._ Shame to you then. You'll go, sir?

_Ber._ Yes, yes, yes!

_Gaina._ Here's my lady. Now don't tell her you're going. Just go.

_Ber._ Just ... go.

_Gaina._ [_At right_] Ay, you've got it.

[_Exit Gaina as Ardia re-enters_]

_Ard._ My brothers are at supper. Will you join them, Or do you fast?

_Ber._ I fast.

_Ard._ A stern religion Is yours, my friend.

_Ber._ I've chosen it. Ardia, You know me for a knight.

_Ard._ [_Softly_] Who wears no sword.

_Ber._ But in the English isle where I was born, I was a monk ... and true. True am I now, Save that my cell is what men call the world.

_Ard._ Spare speech and me. I know the rest.

_Ber._ Your prayers Then be my bond that Christ may search my heart And find no part not his.

_Ard._ No prayer of mine Shall fetter youth to bloodless vows. And you Look not as one faith-leeched of life. Your cheek Is sudden gray, not changeless pale. 'Tis hued Like rebel morning pushing back a dawn Too eager for its peace. A monk. Our ways Part as our souls. Know you I am to wed Prince Banissat? So dumb?

My father comes!

[_Meets Charilus re-entering and leads him to a seat_]

Our guest was telling me of English days.

Now you change tongue with him and speak the tale You promised yester night. Why does this Oswald, This war-mad lord of England, on his way To free the holy tomb, forget his path And turn his army's strength against a man No greater than thyself?

_Char._ Yes, you shall know.

_Ard._ At last!

_Char._ For morning parts us.

_Ard._ Oh! Not that!

_Ber._ Shall I go in, my lord?

_Char._ Nay, Vairdelan.

I'd have thee hear. Thou thinkest me a man Of holy heart.

_Ard._ Ah, who does not?

_Char._ There's one Has cause for doubt. 'Twas I who slew in rage Earl Oswald's father.

_Ard._ You? These hands?

_Char._ These hands.

_Ber._ I've heard 'twas so.

_Ard._ You've heard?

_Char._ 'Tis thirty years Since Oswald, with his father, John of Clyffe, Marched in Red Giles' crusade. You know of that?

_Ber._ My grandsire captained there.

_Char._ I served not Christ, At least as they, with pillage, fire and rape.

But there were some among the English youths Who took my heart, and Oswald was my choice Of all who camped before the holy gates.

_Ard._ That man!

_Char._ I, too, was young ... and I was wed.

Not to my Ardia's mother, but to her Whose heart yet boldly beats in my two sons.

In her strange beauty John of Clyffe found death.

He sought her, and I slew him. When his blood Ran at my feet, I fled,--not from the swords Hot on my path, but from that stream of blood.

_Ard._ Dear, dear my father! 'Twas a world ago!