Where are those children? If I had but seen him!

I could have borne all then. One word--one kiss!

Hark! What's that rushing? White doves--one--two--three-- Fleeing before the gale. My children's spirits!

Stay, babies--stay for me! What! Not a moment?

And I so nearly ready to be gone?

Guta. Still on your children?

Eliz. Oh! this grief is light And floats a-top--well, well; it hides a while That gulf too black for speech--My husband's dead!

I dare not think on't.

A small bird dead in the snow! Alas! poor minstrel!

A week ago, before this very window, He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight; And housewives blest him for a merry singer: And now he freezes at their doors, like me.

Poor foolish brother! didst thou look for payment?

Guta. But thou hast light in darkness: he has none-- The bird's the sport of time, while our life's floor Is laid upon eternity; no crack in it But shows the underlying heaven.

Eliz. Art sure?

Does this look like it, girl? No--I'll trust yet-- Some have gone mad for less; but why should I?

Who live in time, and not eternity.

'Twill end, girl, end; no cloud across the sun But pa.s.ses at the last, and gives us back The face of G.o.d once more.

Guta. See here they come, Dame Isentrudis and your children, all Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow-drifts.

Eliz. O Lord, my Lord! I thank thee!

Loving and merciful, and tender-hearted, And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy.

Lo! here's my ancient foe. What want you, Sir?

[Hugo enters.]

Hugo. Want? Faith, 'tis you who want, not I, my Lady-- I hear, you are gone a begging through the town; So, for your husband's sake, I'll take you in; For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, He was a very honest sort of fellow, Though mad as a March hare; so come you in.

Eliz. But know you, Sir, that all my husband's va.s.sals Are bidden bar their doors to me?

Hugo. I know it: And therefore come you in; my house is mine: No upstarts shall lay down the law to me; Not they, ma.s.s: but mind you, no canting here-- No psalm-singing; all candles out at eight: Beggars must not be choosers. Come along!

Eliz. I thank you, Sir; and for my children's sake I do accept your bounty. [aside] Down, proud heart-- Bend lower--lower ever: thus G.o.d deals with thee.

Go, Guta, send the children after me. [Exeunt severally.]

[Two Peasants enter.]

1st Peas. Here's Father January taken a lease of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff. What be I to do for spring-feed if the weather holds,--and my ryelands as bare as the back of my hand?

2d Peas. That's your luck. Freeze on, say I, and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep. I have ten ton of hay yet to sell--ten ton, man--there's my luck: every man for himself, and--Why here comes that handsome canting girl, used to be about the Princess.

[Guta enters.]

Guta. Well met, fair sirs! I know you kind and loyal, And bound by many a favour to my mistress: Say, will you bear this letter for her sake Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen?

2d Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among cabbage.

She told me once, G.o.d's curse would overtake me, For grinding of the poor: her turn's come now.

Guta. Will you, then, help her? She will pay you richly.

1st Peas. Ay? How, dame? How? Where will the money come from?

Guta. G.o.d knows--

1st Peas. And you do not.

Guta. Why, but last winter, When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold.

1st Peas. Well--I'll be generous: as the times are hard, Say, if I take your letter, will you promise To marry me yourself?

Guta. Ay, marry you, Or anything, if you'll but go to-day: At once, mind. [Giving him the letter.]

1st Peas. Ay, I'll go. Now, you'll remember?

Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen.

G.o.d and His saints deal with you, as you deal With us this day. [Exit.]

2d Peas. What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously?

1st Peas. Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress' ear; And if I marry her, no doubt they'll make me Bailiff, or land-steward; and there's n.o.ble pickings In that same line.

2d Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke: Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain.

1st Peas. Dost think? Well--I'll not fret myself about it.

See, now, before I start, I must get home Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze; And then to get my supper, and my horse's: And then a man will need to sit a while, And take his snack of brandy for digestion; And then to fettle up my sword and buckler; And then, bid 'em all good-bye: and by that time 'Twill be 'most nightfall--I'll just go to-morrow.

Off--here she comes again. [Exeunt.]

[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the children.]

Guta. I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay An hour, thus treated like a slave--an idiot.

Isen. Well, 'twas past bearing: so we are thrust forth To starve again. Are all your jewels gone?

Guta. All p.a.w.ned and eaten--and for her, you know, She never bore the worth of one day's meal About her dress. We can but die--No foe Can ban us from that rest.

Isen. Ay, but these children!--Well--if it must be, Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me Should be in heaven--and there he'll know my heart.

Take it, girl, take it. Where's the Princess now?

She stopped before a crucifix to pray; But why so long?

Guta. Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul, Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee, Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest flower, Heedless of cold, will linger listless on, And freeze in odorous dreams.

Isen. Ah! here she comes.

Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and mire!

How's this?

[Elizabeth entering.]