speak.

ALMACHILDES.

Shameless are they that lie.  I lie not.

ALBOVINE.

Boy,
Tempt not the rod.

ALMACHILDES.

The rod that man may wield
No man may fear: the slave who fears it is not
Man.

ALBOVINE.

Art thou crazed with wine?

ALMACHILDES.

Am I thy king?

ALBOVINE.

My thrall thou knowest thou art not, or thy tongue
Durst challenge not mine anger.

ROSAMUND.

Thrall and free,
Woman and man, yea, queen and king, are born
More wide apart than earth or hell and heaven.
Sirs, let no wrangling breath distune the peace
That shines and glows about us, and discerns
A banquet from a battle.  Thou, my lord,
Hast bidden away the dust of death which fell
Between us at thy bidding, and is now
Nothing—a dream blown out at waking.  Thou,
My lord’s young chosen of warriors, be not wroth,
Albeit thy wrath be noble, though my lord
See fit to try my love as gold is tried
By fire: it burns not thee.  Strike hand in hand:
Ye have done so after battle.

ALBOVINE.

Drink again.
I pledge thee, boy.

ALMACHILDES.

I pledge thee, king.

ROSAMUND.

My lord,
I am weary at heart, and fain would sleep.  Forgive me
That I can sit no more.

ALBOVINE.

What ails thee?

ROSAMUND.

Nought.
The hot and heavy time of year has bound
About my brows a band of iron.  Sire,
Thou wouldst not see me sink aswoon, and mar
The raptures of thy revel.

ALBOVINE.

Get thee hence.
Go.  God be with thee.

ROSAMUND.

God abide with thee.

[Exit with attendants.

ALBOVINE.

This is no feast: I will no more of it.  Boy,
Take note, and tempt not so thy bride, albeit
She tempt thee to the trial.

ALMACHILDES.

I shall not, king,

ALBOVINE.

She will not.  Sirs, good night—if night may be
Good.  Hardly may the day be, here.  And yet
For you it may be—Hildegard and thee.
God give you joy.

ALMACHILDES.

God give thee comfort, king.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

A room in the Queen’s apartments.

Enter Rosamund.

ROSAMUND.

I am yet alive to question if I live
And wonder what may ever bid me die.
But live I will, being yet not dead with thee,
Father.  Thou knowest in Paradise my heart.
I feel thy kisses breathing on my lips,
Whereto the dead cold relic of thy face
Was pressed at bidding of thy slayer last night,
And yet they were not withered: nay, they are red
As blood is—blood but newly spilt—not thine.
How good thou wast and sweet of spirit—how dear,
Father!  None lives that knew thee now save one,
And none loves me but thou nor thee but I,
That was till yesternight thy daughter: now
That very name is tainted, and my tongue
Tastes poison as I speak it.  There is nought
Left in the range and record of the world
For me that is not poisoned: even my heart
Is all envenomed in me.  Death is life,
Or priesthood lies that swears it: then I give
The man my husband and thy homicide
Life, if I slay him—the life he gave thee.

Enter Hildegard.

Girl,
I sent for thee, I think: stand near me.  Child,
Thou art fairer than thou knowest, I doubt: thou art fair
As the awless maidenhood of morning: truth
Should live upon thy lips, though truth were dead
On all men’s tongues and women’s born save thine.
Dawn lies not when it laughs on us.  Thy queen
I am not now: thy friend I would be.  Tell
Thy friend if love sleep or awake in thee
Toward any man.  Thou art silent.  Tell me this,
Dost thou not think, where thought scarce knows itself—
Think in the subtle sense too deep for thought—
That Almachildes loves thee?

HILDEGARD.

More than I
Love Almachildes.

ROSAMUND.

Thus a maid should speak.
Dost thou love me?

HILDEGARD.

Thou knowest it, queen.

ROSAMUND.

It lies
Now in thy power to show me more of love
Than ever yet hath man or woman.  Swear,
If thou dost love me, thou wilt show it.

HILDEGARD.

I swear.

ROSAMUND.

By all our fathers’ great forsaken gods
Who smiled on all their battles, and by him
Who clomb or crept or leapt upon their throne
And signed us Christian, swear it, then.

HILDEGARD.

I swear.

ROSAMUND.

What if I bid thee give thyself to shame—
Yield up thy soul and body—play such parts
As shameless fame records of women crowned
Imperial in the tale of lust and Rome?

HILDEGARD.

Thou couldst not bid me do it.

ROSAMUND.

Thou hast sworn.

HILDEGARD.

I have sworn.
Queen, I would do it, and die.

ROSAMUND.

Thou shalt not.  Yet
This must thou do, and live.  Thou shalt not be
Shamed.  Thou shalt bid thine Almachildes come
And speak with thee by nightfall.  Say, the queen
Will give not up the maiden so beloved
—And truth it is, I love thee—willingly
To the arms of one her husband loves: but were it
Shame, utter shame, that he should wed not her,
The shamefast queen could choose not.  Then shall he
Plead.  Then shalt thou turn gentler than the snow
That softens at the strong sun’s kiss, and yield.
But needs must night be close about your love
And darkness whet your kisses.  Light were death.
Hast thou no heart to guess now?  Fear not then.
Not thou but I must put on shame.  I lack
A hand for mine to grasp and strike with.  His
I have chosen.

HILDEGARD.

I see but as by lightning.  Queen,
What should I do but warn the king—or him?

ROSAMUND.

Thou hast sworn.  I hold thee by thy