should not I?  What darkling light is this
That burns and broods and lightens in thine eyes,
Queen?

ROSAMUND.

Hildegard it was not.

ALMACHILDES.

Art not thou—
Or am not I—sun-smitten through the brain
By this mad might of midsummer?  Who was it
That slept or slept not with me while the night
Was more than noon and more than heaven?  What name
Was hers who made me godlike?

ROSAMUND.

Rosamund.

ALMACHILDES.

Thine? was it thou?  It was not.

ROSAMUND.

It was I.

ALMACHILDES.

Does the sun stand in heaven?  Or stands it fast
As when God bade it halt on high?  My life
Is broken in me.

ROSAMUND.

Nay, fair sir, not yet.
Thy life is now mine—as the ring I wear
That seals my hand a wife’s.  Die thou shalt not,
But slay, and live.

ALMACHILDES.

Slay whom?

ROSAMUND.

Thy lord and mine.

ALMACHILDES.

I had rather go down quick to hell.

ROSAMUND.

I know it.
I leave thee not the choice.  Keep thou thy hand
Bloodless, and Hildegard, whom yet I love,
Dies, and in fire, the harlot’s death of shame.
Last night she lured thee hither.  Hate of me,
Because of late I smote her, being in wrath
Forgetful of her noble maidenhood,
Stung her for shame’s sake to take hands with shame.
This if I swear, may she unswear it?  Thou
Canst not but say she bade thee seek her.  She
Lives while I will, as Albovine and thou
Live by my grace and mercy.  Live, or die.
But live thou shalt not longer than her death,
Her death by burning, if thou slay not him.
I see my death shine in thine eyes: I see
My present death inflame them.  That were not
Her surety, Almachildes.  Thou shouldst know me
Now.  Though thou slay me, this may save not her.
My lines are laid about her life, and may not
By breach of mine be broken.

ALMACHILDES.

God must be
Dead.  Such a thing as thou could never else
Live.

ROSAMUND.

That concerns not thee nor me.  Be thou
Sure that my will and power to serve it live.
Lift now thine eyes to look upon thy lord.

Re-enter Albovine.

ALBOVINE.

By this time hath he thanked thee not enough?

ROSAMUND.

More hath he given than thanks.

ALBOVINE.

What more may be?

ROSAMUND.

His plighted faith to heal the wrong he wrought
Faithfully.

ALBOVINE.

Boy, strike then thy hand in mine.
Thou art loyal as I knew thee.

ALMACHILDES.

King, I may not
Touch hands with thee.

ALBOVINE.

Thou art false, then, ha?  Thou hast lied?

ALMACHILDES.

King, till the wrong I have wrought be wreaked or healed
I clasp not hands with honour.  Nay, and then
Perchance I may not.

ALBOVINE.

Boy I called thee: child
I call thee now.  But, boy, the child thou art
Is noble as our sires.

ALMACHILDES.

Would God it were!

[Exit.

ALBOVINE.

What ails him?

ROSAMUND.

Love and shame.

ALBOVINE.

No more than these?

ROSAMUND.

Enough are they to darken death and life.

ALBOVINE.

Thou art less than gentle towards his love and him.

ROSAMUND.

I would not speak ungently.  Her I love,
Poor child, and him I hate not.

ALBOVINE.

Thou shalt live
To love him too.

ROSAMUND.

This heaviness of heat
Kills love and hate and life in me.  I know not
Aught lovesome save the sweet brief death of sleep.

ALBOVINE.

I am weary as thou.  Good night we may not say—
Good noon I bid thee.  Sleep shall heal us.

ROSAMUND.

Ay;
No healing and no help for life on earth
Hath God or man found out save death and sleep.

[Exeunt.