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                       THE ROMANCE OF A PRINCESS
                                A COMEDY
                                  AND
                              OTHER POEMS


                                   BY

                          AMY REDPATH RODDICK

                  Author of "The Flag and Other Poems"
                    "The Armistice and Other Poems"
                 "The Seekers, and Indian Mystery Play"
       "The Birth of Montreal, a Chronicle Play, and Other Poems"


                        (_All Rights Reserved_)


                               =Montreal=
                           JOHN DOUGALL & SON
                                  1922




                                CONTENTS


                 THE ROMANCE OF A PRINCESS, A Comedy  1

                 THE TALL PALMETTO                   83

                 CHARLESTON                          87

                 LAKE GEORGE                         89

                 THE EVENING STAR                    90




                      _THE ROMANCE OF A PRINCESS_
                              _A Comedy._


This play is the outcome of many happy walks in the forests that border
Charlemagne's ancient capital. The writer and her husband would often
pause to view some beauty-spot; at times she would read aloud the rare
legends collected by Joseph Muller.

She has now tried to catch some of the interest and joy of those gone by
summers to pass on to relatives and friends. If she has failed it is not
the fault of the theme.

Let none throw doubt on Emma's reality. Who lives in myth, lives for all
time.

                                                                  A.R.R.

Montreal
Christmas, 1922.




                              CHARACTERS.


 Emma                                             _A Daughter of Charles_
 Etta                                                 _Her Waiting-woman_
 Charles (Charlemagne)                                     _King-Emperor_
 Eginhardt                       _Secretary and Director of Public Works_
 Albert                                             _Count of the Palace_
 Hildebold                                                   _Archbishop_
 Ernst                                                _A Charcoal-burner_
 Guta                                                          _His Wife_
 David                                                 _A Precocious Boy_
 Audulf   }
 Herbert  }                                                   _Courtiers_
 Courtiers, Wish-maidens, Elves.

             Time: The beginning of the ninth century.

             Place: Aquisgranum, the Capital of Frankland.




                                 ACT I.


 _Scene.—Emma's boudoir. A door on the left leads to the palace
     courtyard; another, centre back, opens into private apartments,
     which have no other entrance. The room is furnished befitting the
     dignity of a princess. Emma, in gala-attire, has just returned from
     a great function in honour of the Calif Haroun-al-Rashid's
     ambassadors. Etta helps remove her cloak. The princess then throws
     herself on a couch, while Etta stands before her admiringly._

   _Emma._    A moment's rest to gather memories
 Of what this day has meant; those swarthy Eastern
 Ambassadors! the gifts their king has sent.

   _Etta._    How beautiful you are! In Frankland, who
 Approaches you in mind or character?
 That's what the scholars say. The people though
 Dwell on your loveliness. What plaudits when
 You rode that bulky beast! the contrast! a Princess,
 Alive with happiness.

   _Emma._                'Twas wonderful
 To mount so high, an elephant for steed,
 To feel that heavy, ambling gait, to know
 Such strength for mischief could be chained to work
 Man's will. How kind of great Haroun to give
 The King, my Father, this unwieldy proof
 Of his affection; to teach such animals
 Are real, not fabled monsters, as some of us
 Have whispered! 'Twas tremulous that ride, up-perched
 Above the marvelling throng; to feel myself,
 A Frankish maid, upon that leathery
 Ungainliness. An elephant in Europe!
 Who'd have thought to see the day? But now
 Unbind my hair. [_In a low voice._] I think he will not come
 Tonight. [_A knocking is heard._] 'Tis he! but no, my Father's knock,
 So tender yet so masterful. Thou may'st
 Retire. I'll wait upon his royal pleasure,
 Will then disrobe myself.

                              [_Etta opens door on the left.
          Enter Charles in ceremonial robes, wearing his crown.
          Exit Etta through the door at the centre back after
          making deep obeisance._]

                          You come attired
 In majesty. [_Courtesying._] I must acclaim you King,
 Not Father.

   _Charles._ [_Pressing her against his breast._] Nay, nay, my
 birdling! nestle here;
 My dear Fastrada's legacy; a father's
 Sweet solace; the Esther of our court. I could
 Deny thee nought, unless a lover should
 Address thine ears: avaunt the thought! The well
 Of our fair intercourse is clear, undimmed.
 As cloudless skies of sun-blessed Eastern lands.

   _Emma._    O Father! what dread shapes may lurk beneath
 Those Eastern skies! each soul has got some stain,
 Some hidden mystery.

   _Charles._ This day's excitement
 Has tired, provoked reaction. Once a Bishop
 Complained to me that nuns need long confessing.
 Imagined sins are culled for penitence;
 In baser lives these specks would pass unnoticed.
 We'll rid such faults as thine with kisses; perchance
 A wayward thought when Holy Words were spoken.
 And now uncrown the King, then help remove
 This cumbrous mantle.—Cautiously! I've something
 Of great import.

   _Emma._    But not as great as that
 Great beast, the elephant!

   _Charles._             Far weightier,
 As Heaven outvies the earth, as souls are more
 Than flesh. See here, my birdling, what I've brought.

   _Emma._    Some ragged silk, a joke!—It cannot be—

   _Charles._ Thine eyes have guessed; the sacred coverings!
 O to-day how all have gaped, and cheered
 That elephant, at most a curious
 Phenomenon, distracting from rich gifts
 Of sober worth. In truth now royalty
 Resides in this new Western Rome, a fairer
 Than earthly crown implies. Haroun, my brother,
 Has raised and honoured us.

   _Emma._                Among the Scholars
 I've heard some doubts expressed.

   _Charles._             Most ill-advised.
 Rank heresy, as well doubt Holy Church
 Herself. The proofs are clear; nor flaw, nor break.
 These hallowed relics, damped with tears by him
 Of Arimathaea, held in sacred trust
 By his descendants, traced each step till now
 They rest within our great Basilica,
 Are here to stay, to gratify, as long
 As Franks are true and strong. See! see! my birdling,
 This rosy silk was round the cloth that held,
 One time, St. John, the Baptist's bleeding head;
 This white encased the Virgin's dress; this yellow,
 The precious Infant's swaddling clothes; and this
 That's dyed with scarlet pomp has clasped within
 Its folds the loin-cloth, garment of the cross.
 Yes! yes! my lips have pressed those objects, I
 Am nearer God.

   _Emma._    This silk?

   _Charles._             The holy relics
 Are wrapped afresh in lustrous lengths of rare
 Brocade, a further gift brought by Haroun's
 Ambassadors—the Church's treasury
 Holds them in state. This tattered silk that age
 Unfits for service still retains great virtue
 From sacredness long stored. And who is pure
 Enough to shelter it? I know of none
 But thee, Fastrada's living image!

   _Emma._                A father's
 Affectionate regard has blinded thee.
 O take that stuff! 'Twould shrink to powdered dust
 Did I but handle it.

   _Charles._             Nay, nay, my Emma,
 There is a point where modesty doth lose
 Its charm and gives affront. That point is reached;
 So fetch my cloak and fasten its jeweled clasp.
 Now crown the Emperor, he prays that angels
 May watch thy bed. [_He kisses Emma. Exit left._]

   _Emma._                That silk! how can I keep it?
 Its folds have touched what once hath touched God's Prophet,
 His Mother, His very Self. O some one come
 And take it hence.—Or—or is't possible
 To make me worthy? e'en though hearts be crushed.

                                             [_A light knock is heard._]

              And so the test approaches! May I be strengthened.

          [_Emma opens the door on the left. Enter Eginhardt._]

   _Eginhardt._ It promises a blustery night. Wait Love,
 Until I brush these flakes, a sudden swirl
 Of snow; but here there's warmth and comfort. [_Extending his arms._]
 My Emma—

   _Emma._    Not yours, a Princess speaks, a gulf has widened
 Since last we met. You recognize that silk?
 It heals the secret breach I've made within
 A Father's confidence, it warns that you
 Must leave me now and instantly. You are
 The King, my Father's trusted friend.

   _Eginhardt._             O Emma!
 Thy words bite deep—and yet not deep enough
 To overthrow the airy castles hewn
 From glowing hope. And see what thing has winged
 My steps, has brought me here to-night.

   _Emma._                A ring!
 It seems to draw my hand; but no, 'tis for
 Some humble maid, who'll taste the happiness
 My rank denies.

   _Eginhardt._ Who else can wear this ring
 That Queen Fastrada prized?

   _Emma._    [_Taking the ring._] My Mother's ring!
 How came it here?

   _Eginhardt._ [_Sitting on the couch._] Thou know'st the
 story?

   _Emma._    [_Sitting on a stool near him._]            A rumor,
 Unmeant to reach the King, my Father's ears,
 And so 'twas crushed. But now the ring I hold
 Demands the truth. O Eginhardt, tell all,
 Omitting nought, e'en though the listening hurts.

   _Eginhardt._ A lesser soul might rather seek relief
 From words unsaid; but thou, with thy clear eyes,
 Need'st probe beneath like—

   _Emma._                Like that Father; whose
 Sweet confidence has been outwitted.

   _Eginhardt._             Rather
 Betrayed unwittingly, a force outside
 Ourselves.

   _Emma._    That can be crushed; but first we'll hear
 Thy story. O Eginhardt, how easily
 The dear familiar "thy" slips mouthwards. Let
 It be, until the story's told; or as
 A master, well-beloved, thou mayest speak;
 Whilst I sit here, a mindful pupil.

   _Eginhardt._             Thou hast
 Thy Mother's grace, her wit and understanding,
 Thy soul surpasses hers. I but repeat
 Archbishop Turpin's words.

   _Emma._                I thought at times
 She lacked a something, a mother's tenderness;
 But then her smile would reassure.

   _Eginhardt._             Her bright
 Intelligence, her merry laughter, her fresh
 And dazzling beauty so enthralled the King;
 If she but raised her little finger, he,
 The Lord of millions, hastened to obey.
 And thus it went; although her wishes might
 Disturb a court, a city or a kingdom;
 The erst so pious Charles exalted one;
 Who should have grovelled at his feet.

   _Emma._                You speak
 About my Mother?

   _Eginhardt._ Whose beauty is thy dower;
 Whose baser parts are long forgotten. Death
 Came stealthily—the King refused belief.
 For days and nights he knelt beside the couch,
 His arms supporting one whose soul had fled.
 "She is not dead," he cried, "She sweetly slumbers."
 He waved aside, as thou rememberest,
 All food and drink, became well-nigh demented,
 Completely losing that serene composure,
 That seemed as much himself as kingly might.
 "She is not dead;" his eyes blazed wrathfully,
 While honeyed murmurs passed his lips: "Thou wilt
 Awaken, little one." None dared suggest
 The funeral plans, nor place of burial.
 At last his life seemed doomed with hers. A vague
 Uneasiness had turned to fear. 'Twas whispered
 His death would loosen war and misery,
 The century's near-close would end Earth's cycle.
 Lamenting moans were heard within the Church
 And prayers of intercession. All this thou knowest.
 But not what follows, the fruit of supplication.
 The good Archbishop Turpin saw, one night,
 Amid the Queen's long-braided tresses, the glint
 Of hidden gold that shimmered through his dreams.
 When daylight broke he stole beside the King
 And softly slipped his hand beneath the dead
 Fastrada's hair. He drew the visioned ring;
 Whose magic power had slaved the mighty Charles.
 Relieved, the King looked round in wonderment.
 He recognized his loss—and God consoled.

   _Emma._    He never afterwards remembered, nor knew
 About the ring, although the story, much
 Disguised, had somewhat leaked. Please tell me further.

   _Eginhardt._ The kind Archbishop, ever the King's most trusted
 Adviser, now became his closest friend.
 He used his influence for good; but Saints
 Become discredited when fortune strews
 Her favours. Tongues wagged ill-naturedly, until
 Such wordy mud was stirred the Prelate felt
 Its spatterings and realized the cause—
 The fatal talisman. He stood beside
 Those stringing ponds that rim so pleasantly
 The new-built hunting lodge. A sudden splash
 The ring had vanished.

   _Emma._                My Father often sits
 And broods beside the larger pond.

   _Eginhardt._             I've noticed;
 So had it searched most carefully. Last night
 The ring was found. Conceal it 'mid thy pearls,
 Then tell the King thou lov'st his servant. He will
 Refuse thee nought.

   _Emma._                Can we buy happiness
 At such a price? win lasting peace and true,
 Sustaining joy? [_She moves and, unnoticing,
     brushes the silk from the table._] O see! the silk has
     fallen.
 I cannot leave it crumpled there, nor can
 I touch it, while I touch this charm. I pray thee,
 Take it. [_She hands him the ring, then sobbing gathers
 up the silk and smooths it._] 'Tis not like thee, my Eginhardt,
 To tempt with specious words. Return that ring
 To watery depths. May skies reflected cleanse;
 May lovers, bending o'er the forest pool,
 Gain bliss that's unalloyed with earth-born slime.

   _Eginhardt._ How oft have we exchanged love's vows beside
 That selfsame pool, shall we no more, my Emma,
 Though others may?

   _Emma._                Suppose I took that ring;
 The King, my Father, gave consent; the Church,
 Reluctant blessing; how long would'st thou escape
 The soot that smudged my Mother's fame, the good
 Archbishop? Suppose, without that slender circlet,
 We begged the King, my Father; would he not banish
 Whom he calls foster-son?—his minister
 Of public works, his faithful secretary,
 His youngest councillor, and, summing all,
 His poet-friend and mine. My fate would be
 A convent cell, to meditate on mischief
 That can be pushed aside. Dear Eginhardt,
 Bid me adieu and when we meet thou'lt be
 My teacher, who recites a nation's songs;
 But dwells not on his own, nor hers who sends
 Him forth.

   _Eginhardt._ O Emma, pray God that I have strength.
 Our secret meetings gave fresh life, all else,
 Methinks, is death.

   _Emma._    [_holding her finger up._] Hark!

               [_Distant singing is faintly heard.... Emma
               opens door, left. Eginhardt throws a cloak
               over her. They stand looking out._]

   _A watchman sings without._

                   Here are lodged the sacred clothes;
                     Bow your heads and stainless be.
                   Earth is draped with glistening snows,
                     Garbed anew with purity.

                   Let each soul be undefiled,
                   God and man be reconciled.
                   Let each soul be undefiled,
                   God and man be reconciled.——

   _Emma._    The watchman's song has drifted from his tower.
 He steps within. O seize the moment, fly!

   _Eginhardt._ [_He makes a movement, then stops._] But Emma! that
 snow—unspotted—

   _Emma._                That glitters 'neath
 The moon! It seems a miracle. The day
 Was pleasant, almost summer-like, then came
 A sudden wind with flurries, and, though scarce
 Ten minutes since thou cam'st, the court is now
 Completely carpeted and all so still—
 So cold—but beautiful.

   _Eginhardt._             A miracle
 Whose cost will be my life and thine mayhap.

   _Emma._    Thy words must have some meaning?

   _Eginhardt._             A woeful one.
 If I should dare the lightest step, that snow
 Would hold its trace, would witness 'gainst this night's
 Adventure; and death must be the penalty.
 Death!—The chill of winter. Shut it out.
 I'll spend my last few hours in warmth by thee.

   _Emma._    I can't believe——let us but think, we'll find
 A passage, some how, some where.

   _Eginhardt._             But where? that is
 The only path as blocked as though with walls
 Of solid masonry.

   _Emma._                A loophole glints,
 Nay, now a streaming light. A woman's print
 Might track the court and back, 'twould raise no comment.
 The Princess Emma's maid has gone betimes
 Some errand, has then returned.

   _Eginhardt._             And what of that?

   _Emma._    Hast thou no inkling? Dearest Eginhardt,
 I'll carry thee across the court.

   _Eginhardt._             Thou must
 Be crazed, suggesting such a thought, an angel
 To masquerade as beast of burden.

   _Emma._                But 'tis
 Our only chance; remembering, if we
 Should fail, the King, my Father, who must pass judgment,
 Would suffer consequence as we. We'll seize
 The chance!

   _Eginhardt._ O Emma, my sweetheart, beloved Princess,
 What ills may happen thee if we should fail.
 We'll take the chance.

   _Emma._                Then quickly.

   _Eginhardt._             But art thou strong
 Enough to bear my weight so far? wilt thou
 Not suffer strain?

   _Emma._                Must I, a Frankish maid,
 Explain my strength? Have I not heroes' blood
 Within my veins? Are not my sinews those
 That show descent from mighty warriors, prompt
 In action, swift of purpose? Would I not shame
 Such lineage, did I permit myself
 To slip or falter? Besides 'tis nought but child's play—
 My friend, thou hast a scholar's frame. Now take
 A breath! then place thine arms around my neck.
 I'll bear thee as a peasant's load upon
 My back.

                 [_She totters for a second beneath Eginhardt's
          weight._]

   _Eginhardt._ Thou stagger'st?

   _Emma._                Nay,—but breathe a prayer,
 Twill help. [_She straightens herself._]

            [_Exit Emma with Eginhardt on her back. After a
            time she returns, panting, and closes the door._]

   _Emma._    I've left him by the courtyard-gate
 And none have seen. And O I feel such strange
 Relief that dims the parting pang. Deceit
 Is ended. I've freed myself to guard this silk.
 May God protect!

        [_She takes up a crucifix and kneels before the silk._]




                                ACT II.


 _Scene.—The same as Act I. The following morning. Emma, in her gala
     attire, lies asleep on the couch, a mantle over her feet. Etta
     enters abruptly through centre door. She notices the Princess and
     seems relieved._

              _Etta._ Why there she lies and fast asleep. I had
 Such fright to find her bed untenanted.
 The day's excitement must have tired and then
 The King's late visit. I should have stayed or sent
 A waiting-maid; but she insists at times
 On privacy, the privilege of being
 As lesser folk. I have a shrewd suspicion!
 Well let it be! Her virtue's proof 'gainst fire
 Itself and Master Eginhardt is old
 In wisdom. Their talk is but of grammar-rules,
 Of ancient days and poetry. They have
 My sympathy; though scarce my understanding.
 Frivolity would seem more natural,
 Would better suit their youthfulness; but learning
 Has set its seal on courtly fashion, till even
 The cooks and pantry men discuss in terms
 Of rhetoric. Well, well the King attends
 The palace school and comprehends; while others,
 Of weaker wit, absorb the jargon, failing
 To delve for sense.——How sweet my Princess looks,
 Dear soul; her dimpling smile disarms all envy,
 Else might one say 'tis most unfair that she
 Should have so much; while houseless beggars crowd
 Our narrow streets. Pretence may smirk and strut
 And poverty may wince and crawl but here
 There's restfulness. A knock!

                                     [_The door, left, is pushed
        open.... Enter Albert._]

                          Hist, hist, you must
 Not enter. The Princess is asleep. She's there—
 Lies there upon that couch. Please slip away.
 Go quietly.

   _Albert._  I have a message. You
 Must waken her.

   _Etta._                Your tone is somewhat rude,
 My Lord; the Princess wakens when she pleases;
 And not before.

   _Albert._              The message that I bear
 Forbids delay. 'Tis from the King himself,
 Of utmost urgency.

   _Etta._                If you but say
 The Princess sleeps, the King will pardon us.
 He would not wish his bird disturbed.

   _Albert._              His bird
 Must wake and spread her wings. The other bird
 Has flown. An unexpected play was staged
 Last night—I would that I had witnessed it—
 The King alone was privileged. He liked
 It not. Deep creases line his face, his eyes
 Flash steel. The Princess must be wakened, yet
 I dread to mar that prettiness with grief.
 O why will maids forget the beauty-sleep
 That wards away next morning's tears. She fell
 Asleep—too late, alas!

       [_Emma wakes up, seems surprised to see her visitors, sits
       up and listens unnoticed by them._]

   _Etta._                My Lord, your head
 Is turned. I left her here last night 'tis true,
 But with the King. To her sweet care he must
 Have lent the holy silk, see there it lies
 And shimmers trustfully. You have an answer.
 'Twill satisfy the King.

   _Albert._              But Charles himself
 Was witness. Listen! last night another came.
 Where were your eyes and ears? The King retired
 Alone, he practised Greek; when suddenly
 A knavish moonbeam danced its mischief through
 A chink and blurred the alpha-beta. The King
 Threw wide the casement hangings, and sought to wrest
 An ode, a monody from night's allurement,
 When lo! 'twas farce that greeted him, a farce
 That failed to tap his laughter.

   _Etta._                A chill has knifed
 My heart. Speak on!

   _Albert._              He clearly saw two forms
 That peered; they seemed to shrink beneath the moon's
 Cold gaze and then from out this very room
 There came a restless prancing jennet, that stayed
 Its curveting, that slid and well-nigh stumbled
 Beneath the slender weight of whom indeed?
 But solemn Master Eginhardt.

   _Etta._                The Princess
 Has so demeaned herself! has so abused
 Her rank and sex! I'll not believe a word
 Of it, e'en though her pretty lips give their
 Consent.

   _Emma._    He speaks the truth, dear Etta! 'Twas not
 In wanton play! 'twas dire distress. We hoped
 To hide our secret from the telltale snow.
 But now, that all's discovered; give me the worst,
 My Lord. What punishment is meted him
 I love?

   _Albert._  'Tis not so heavy, ease yourself.

   _Emma._    Not death?

   _Albert._              No, no—

   _Emma._                Then tell me all.

   _Albert._              The King
 Has seen——

   _Emma._    Of that you've said enough; but after?

   _Albert._  To-day the court has stirred betimes. A King,
 Who spent a sleepless night, would not respect
 Another's rest. His messengers flew back
 And forth, while rumors faster sped. A council
 At such unseemly hour! portending what?
 And few but nurse some covert guilt. The King
 Was grey with wrath—and fear disturbed. But when
 He spoke, recounting all, faint titters rose
 Unbidden, soon quelled beneath his iron glance.
 And then, with icy voice, he hurled the question:
 What judgment should be meted one who so
 Forgot—I pray your pardon—her royal rank?
 The councillors gazed mournfully at one
 Another and then, as though a signal prompted,
 They chimed together: "In love affairs we crave
 Indulgence." Scarce heeding them the King continued:
 "What punishment deserves that man, whom I
 Have favoured? who brings my house to shame." Again
 The answer came: "In love affairs we crave
 Indulgence." But one dissentient voice: "Our laws
 Proclaim a speedy death." 'Twas Eginhardt,
 The youngest councillor, who spoke.

   _Emma._                You said—

   _Albert._  That death was not the penalty; Ay! listen!
 The King replied: "My youngest councillor
 Gives wiser judgment. Yes he understands
 How stain can spread. Such doings, if left unpunished,
 Might influence court customs, Frankish habits;
 Deserving death, I pass a lighter sentence:
 'Tis banishment without repeal. Now go,
 Nor trouble more mine eyes!" The King had finished,
 A quivering silence reigned. Then slowly rose
 The one proscribed, nor made obeisance, nor bade
 Adieu, unless his footsteps echoed it.
 The air was chill as though a wraith had passed.

   _Emma._    None offered him a kindly word? none gave
 A friendly glance?

   _Albert._  Before the angered King,
 Was't possible? Besides a favorite,
 That's fallen from regard, must needs incite
 A wonder seldom damped with pity's dew.

   _Emma._    Mayhap the gateman has inquired which way
 He went. Etta! go question him.

   _Albert._              He spoke
 To none; but strode along, nor visited
 His rooms. His writing tools alone he carried,
 Unless a book or so that bulged his wallet.

   _Emma._    You may depart, my Lord. Your story's told.

   _Albert._  I would it were. Why are you still? can you
 Not ease the telling? Question me. Take you
 No interest in your fate?

   _Emma._    'Tis blank to-day.

   _Albert._  Then woe must color it and I must speak
 Unhelped. Prepare yourself for grevious change.
 When heavy steps had ceased to echo, all
 Within the Council-Hall seemed moulded there
 By frost of death. Then spoke the King: "My daughter"—
 A moment's pause till words swelled through emotion.
 They thickly came as waters that soak their way
 From out a sodden, leaf-strewn ridge. "My daughter,
 Let her fare forth. The fault's the same and so
 The punishment!" and then he turned toward me.
 His words now sharply fell as waters freed
 That clang 'mid stones. "Go tell the Princess Emma,
 Mine eyes must dwell on her no more. Let her
 Leave home and friends, henceforth a wanderer.
 Bid her begone at once, nor moan her fate
 With others. Let her depart for presently
 I come to seal a tomb that holds the corpse
 Of erstwhile loving memory." His words
 Sank deep like waters pooled, his eyelids closed
 To stay the signs of grief. He blinked them back,
 Then called for state affairs. I hastened here,
 You may believe, unwillingly.

   _Emma._                So, finis.
 I've heard your message, listened patiently.
 Tell the King 'twas well delivered. Now
 I pray your absence, go!

   _Albert._              To take with me
 Your promise of obedience. Nay rather
 To beg a Father's clemency, to wake
 His fond indulgence, haply some excuse.

   _Emma._    Did Eginhardt reply? went he not forth
 In silence? go!

                                                        [_Exit Albert._]

   _Etta._    My dear, sweet Princess. O
 How has it happened? where's the cure?

   _Emma._                The "how"
 Is past, a vain inquiry! where's the cure?
 The outlet from this coil? I see it not.

   _Etta._    Then haste! gain entrance to the Council-Hall,
 Implore the King—not with that stony look.
 Let tears entreat and fervent promises.
 Speak loving words; those little, winging words,
 That search a Father's heart. Let beauty plead,
 With clinging arms; till soft embrace wears wrath
 Away. My Princess! run, beg mercy! conjure
 With woman's art, insist! O pray arouse
 Yourself, throw off this bleak November mood,
 Weep April drops, and then come singing back,
 A lightsome smiling May.

   _Emma._                Impossible,
 When Eginhardt has gone. Besides what would
 The masses think did he, the new Augustus,
 Show weakness, bend beneath a daughter's pleadings.
 No Etta, the King is law, its fountain head;
 If it be questioned, the nations totter. Yes
 'Tis harvest month and I have harvested.
 Unfasten the stringing pearls that bind my hair,
 Then help me loose this festive frock, 'tis stiff
 With woven gold. A homespun hunting gown
 Will better serve the time's occasion. Bring
 The russet; 'twas worn that day my ankle twisted.

         [_Exit Etta, centre door.... She soon returns with the
         gown. Sighing and shaking her head she helps Emma
         make the change._]

   _Etta._    'Tis torn and stained.

   _Emma._                I know, nor would I part
 With it, nor have it mended. The rent will suit
 My shifted fortune. Eginhardt went forth
 With student's ware. I'll take my bow and arrows,
 My spear and ah, this silk, 'twas given me
 Last night to guard and am I different?
 My place in life may be; but not myself.
 So fare thee well, dear Etta, I find no words
 For messages. [_She opens the door left._]

   _Etta._    But stay! You cannot go
 Like this alone, to face a thieving world.

   _Emma._    What have I here to tempt?

   _Etta._                Those spangled pins,
 What's more, your beauty.

   _Emma._                Pull the pins, now let
 My hair fall loose; divided o'er each shoulder
 It ripples to my feet. Am I not like
 The strange wild-women habiting the hills?
 I may draw glances; none will venture near.

   _Etta._    Then fairy-folk will seize you trespassing.

   _Emma._    O plague me not with fancied fears; but let
 Remembrance follow me and now and then
 A whispered prayer. [_A dove flies into the room and lights
     on Emma's arm._] What's this? my dear, pet dove.
 It nestles faithfully, yet I must part
 With it, alas! O guard it, nurture it.

         [_She hands the dove to Etta. Exit, left, hastily. Etta
         makes a movement to follow her, then stops and soothes
         the bird._]

   _Etta._    Poor fluttering thing that shares unhappiness.
 How far doth sorrow spread? and can I stay
 Its murky flow? I'll importune the King,
 The Royal family. There must be some
 Recourse.

                                                [_Enter, left, Albert._]

   _Albert._  And has the Princess gone?

   _Etta._                But now.
 Where is the King?

   _Albert._              He comes this way. He wishes
 An empty cage, nor view of hapless bird.

   _Etta._    And I've one here that may remind.

         [_Exit, left, Albert. Etta seeks to soothe the bird.
         Enter Charles, in ordinary Frankish attire, attended by
         Albert. Etta kneels imploringly._]

                          O Sire!
 I beg for her. Where are the tears that flowed
 Beside her Mother's bier? Do they not force
 Forgiveness, if indeed what's pure requires
 Such word. O send for her lest harm may come
 To one so gently nurtured.

   _Charles._ [_Sitting down heavily._] Harm has come.
 If more ensues it scarce can blacken what's
 Already black. Begone. I've said enough.

               [_The dove escapes through doorway, left._]

   _Etta._    [_Rising._] The bird! O Sire, the bird!

   _Charles._             What's that?

   _Etta._                Her dove.
 She treasured it.

   _Charles._             Then let it follow her.
 Sir Count, remove the woman. Fail not to give
 My message. None must speak the words proscribed,
 Nor hint we had such daughter.

                                     [_Exuent Etta, door centre;
        Albert door left.... Charles stares round moodily. A
        knock is heard._]

                          Who raps? Can I
 The Emperor, Augustus, not have some hours
 Alone to toy with grief?

                                [_Enter Hildebold, left, closing the
     door after him._]

   _Hildebold._             My gracious Lord,
 You sent for me?

   _Charles._             And you have tarried long.
 The judgment's given. Leave me here in peace.

   _Hildebold._ If peace reigned here, I'd gladly go. Methinks
 A wounded soul awaits my help. I missed
 You, Sire, at mass.

   _Charles._             I had excuse. You may
 Have heard. Respect my sorrow. Leave me now.

   _Hildebold._ [_Sitting down._] One time, long since, you rode with
 Eginhardt;
 Nor stayed for pomp of retinue, your wish
 Was speed, to reach a mother's side; who gasped
 Your name while breath still lingered. Not a word
 You spoke; but peered the gloom, as on you raced
 'Gainst death itself. The night was dark and still,
 The thudding horses woke strange echoes, hark!
 That tinkling bell betokens mass, though dawn
 Has scarcely greyed the sky. A mother's blessing
 Depends on haste and yet God's call was heeded.
 You turned aside to find the forest church,
 My dear, first charge; and there you humbly knelt.
 At that same hour, you later heard, the Queen,
 Your Mother's breath came evenly. She smiled
 And seemed content to wait. Three days of sweet
 Communing God allowed his servants ere
 The parting came.—You raced 'gainst death that night
 And won. To-day, I fear, God's face is turned,
 His help rejected.

   _Charles._ [_Wearily._] My Lord Archbishop, I
 Have scarcely followed, have indeed no will
 To argue; granting all your premises,
 Pray leave me now.

   _Hildebold._             Your rank and mine we'll set
 Aside. Consider me that Hildebold
 Whom you have raised to be your chosen friend,
 Who comes to offer——

   _Charles._             Not the golden coins
 This time but useless words. O would that you
 Had kept my largess then, nor parted with
 Humility.

   _Hildebold._ [_Reminiscently._] And how surprised I was
 To see those gulden left by seeming huntsmen.
 I felt such gold might burn a simple monk;
 Besides our chapel needed nought and so
 I hailed you back and asked instead a doeskin,
 Soft and pliable, to bind my mass-book,
 That time had sadly ragged.

   _Charles._             Your modesty
 Appealed. I sent you one deep-purple dyed
 And limned with gold—'twas not enough; a ring,
 A staff, a bishopric were further added,
 And so a mentor saddles me. Pray take
 The hint, begone!

                    [_He leans on the table and sinks his head
                    on his arms, oblivious to everything. Hildebold
                    advances as though to touch him, then steps back and
                    sits down, casting pitying glances at him. After a
                    while Charles looks up._]

                          My hints are lost, well stay;
 A humbled man may wish an audience.
 O yesterday what glory streaked my life.
 Those blessed relics brought uplift, a sense
 That I, above all others, was indeed
 God's chosen vessel, Emperor and Chief
 Of millions. Yes, I had a deeper sense
 Of His abiding grace and awesome trust
 Than even on that Christmas morn when vast
 St. Peter's thundered forth the ancient plaudits:
 "Long life and victory to Charles, the pious
 Augustus, crowned by God, the great, pacific
 Emperor!" while on my head there rested
 The precious diadem. Ah, then I felt
 Some fear, a dread that I perchance usurped
 A mighty privilege. But yesterday
 'Twas peace, as though the all-pervading God
 Communed with me, not as man talks with man;
 But as the angels gain instruction, thought
 That comes unvoiced, yet glows with warmth of knowledge.
 And so, deluded, I kissed goodnight. Outside
 'Twas bleak, rough winds assailed, snow flurries pricked.
 Within my chamber's solitude I sought
 Relief through study; tossed my books aside;
 Revulsion gripped my soul. What had I done
 With power? Some cruel acts grew large and then
 The future glowed uncertain. Everywhere
 Dissensions rise; they say the brazen cock
 That crowns our palace points the spot, so swift
 Comes punishment; but age may weaken, have
 My sons the force that pushes me? I see
 The Northmen's snake-like galleys nosing, feel
 The Saracens' sharp sword; to meet them warriors
 With discipline relaxed, disordered laws,
 False judges, ignorance, a church debased.

   _Hildebold._ Hold, hold, my Son, mirage is in your eyes
 To-day, transforming faults to giant-size.

   _Charles._ And then I pulled the curtain back and saw
 God's eye of night, the lustrous moon, that stared
 Suggestive quiet. Prophet of storms, it failed
 To prophesy; but shed meek rays along
 Fresh-fallen, smirch-less snow, ay spotless! spotless!
 My thoughts now strayed to her, my youngest daughter,
 Her baby hands that clutched my beard, her soul
 Developing; her proud, young ways and later
 Her matchless maidenhood, her sweet accord
 With all my moods, her soothing charm, ah then
 A door was opened furtively, I saw—

                  [_Covering his face with his hands._]

              Are we God's care or Devil's sport?

   _Hildebold._             My Son,
 You saw not far enough; but thus it is
 And God is blamed. Was't love of justice made
 You banish her; or jealousy, or fret
 That things went not to please your wishes?

   _Charles._             You'd
 Excuse such conduct?

   _Hildebold._ I'd seek its cause and seek
 The cure. The cause, those two so thrown together;
 The cure to separate or sanction.

   _Charles._             Let winds
 Draw them apart or close. They blow without.
 I've said my say. And now give orders that
 This room be sealed, a memory that's ended.
 My Lord Archbishop, take the silk, I know
 Of none else worthy.

                                                [_Exit, left, hastily._]

   _Hildebold._             Take the silk? I see
 It not. Poor Princess! Poor Emperor! [_He opens centre
     door, against which Etta has evidently been leaning._] But Etta,
 Thou stumblest! Is't sympathy that holds thee near?
 Well let it be. Thy reddened eyes do penance.
 Now beg the Palace Count to seal this room,
 That none may enter. Would the deed were done
 With lowered head and lips that move in prayer.
 But give me first the sacred silk.

   _Etta._                The Princess
 Has taken it.

   _Hildebold._ That proves her innocence.
 'Twas but a youthful prank. I'll follow her.
 A convent wall will guard her charm until
 The King relents.

                                                         [_Exit, left._]

   _Etta._    I fear his mind is set.
 And what can change whom all obey?—who has
 So changed himself.




                                ACT III.


 _Scene.—A clearing in the forest near Aquisgranum. At the back, amid
     trees, a charcoal-burner's hut and a kiln. On the left a linden and
     copse leading to a grove once sacred to heathen deities; but now
     feared and shunned. On the right a barricade of logs and fallen
     trees so placed in one part to form steps. Ernst advances from his
     kiln, looks over the barricade as though expecting some one. He is
     joined by Guta who comes out of the hut._

              _Ernst._ 'Tis mild for harvest-moon and yet the wind's
 Unsettled, portending what? How strange the snow
 That came so suddenly then disappeared
 As some night wraith that fears clear-visioned day.

   _Guta._    The Devil must have pinched his wife she dropped
 Such frozen tears. 'Tis most unfair that when
 She's disciplined poor folk should feel so oft
 The dripping moisture of her grief; 'tis bad
 For rheumatism.

   _Ernst._               And good for forest trees.
 The witch deserves to spill some tears, she has
 So often damaged them; what branches crunch
 And fall, when she, amount her broomstick, rides
 A gale through serpent-hissing, midnight skies.

   _Guta._    And so thou'rt in the skies and never wilt
 Thou heed my limping gait, that cries a life
 In town, some gaiety before a coffin
 Completes this stiffening.

   _Ernst._               And leave our home?

   _Guta._    That hovel!

   _Ernst._               What could I do?

   _Guta._                Thou might'st instruct
 The palace school, save Master Eginhardt
 These many visits here.

   _Ernst._               If I had been
 A cleric, had learnt to read and write, maybe,
 May be—

   _Guta._    Thou hast a head well stacked with knowledge.
 Do books all boast as much? 'Tis odd that thou,
 A peasant, hast such stuff within, that courtiers
 Must come to pump it out then serve it for
 The King.

   _Ernst._   The King loves ancient hero-tales.
 A proper King! a proper Emperor!
 What's more, a proper man. I wonder why
 Good Master Eginhardt delays; I promised
 Some verse, it quivers on my lips. That's just
 The way, he comes when I am disinclined
 And now he dallies.

   _Guta._                Last night I dreamt of death,
 Royal mourners wailed. In fright I woke. The wind
 Blew fluted dirge-like notes; but dreams are ay
 Contrariwise. Most like 'twas wedding bells.
 I wish good Master Eginhardt would come;
 I thirst to hear Court gossip, e'en the bits
 He doles with grudging tongue. And he could tell
 Us of the long-nosed beast with dragon skin
 That I so dread, yet wish to see.

   _Ernst._               A crackling!
 Hist! but not our scholar's steed, nor yet
 A wandering huntsman's. Such a footfall, quiet
 And even, forewarns at least a Bishop's palfrey.
 As I'm alive 'tis Father Hildebold;
 Who now dismounts and ties his horse. [_He mounts the
     barricade and stoops to help Hildebold up._] The steps
 Are steep so have a care. We welcome you.

                      [_Enter Hildebold, appearing over the barricade._]

   _Hildebold._ Thou bar'st thy citadel, good friend.

   _Ernst._               Against
 Four-footed beasts, not two. Step gingerly.
 I beg your Lordship's pardon. Come Guta, kneel
 And kiss the ring. Our old Confessor climbs
 Too high for peasant jokes; so let us help
 Him down.

          [_After helping him, the peasants kneel to receive a
          blessing._]

   _Hildebold._ My children, it pleases me to greet
 Old friends. Receive God's blessing.—Tell me now
 Has Master Eginhardt been lately here?
 Or Princess Emma?

   _Ernst._               The Princess once was here,
 While hunting with the King; who has himself
 Broke fast with me and stayed awhile to rest.
 He talked of Master Eginhardt, whom both
 Call foster-son, which makes a kind of sweet
 Relationship between our Lord, the King,
 And me, his servant.

   _Hildebold._             And dost thou soon expect
 This gifted foster-son?

   _Ernst._               Ay, surely, unless
 He fails to come.

   _Hildebold._ Hark then! If he should come
 Or Princess Emma, use a kind detention,
 Some artifice, then steal away and bring
 Me news or send a trusty messenger.
 Remember as thou valuest salvation.—
 Is there no easier exit? well, thy hand.
 Remember! and beg thy wife to curb her tongue.

            [_Exit with Ernst who soon returns. Guta mutters
            to herself._]

   _Guta._    'Tis always thus, a woman's tongue, a woman's—
 Depend upon it, some ill has chanced; my dream,
 The winds have prophesied; but what indeed?
 Why should the Princess visit us? There is
 No reason; nor that Master Eginhardt
 Should be detained; for that is what, through love
 Of company, we ever strive; nor is
 Their reason to inform 'gainst her or him
 Or them. Canst thou, good man, make ought of this?

   _Ernst._   Why puzzle, when time brings plain solution.
 Let time
 Then bear the brunt and weight of ravelling riddles,
 Nor goad ourselves with useless questionings.

      [_A cry for help is heard. It dies down, then comes again._]

              But hark, that erie cry! or is't the wind?
 Hark! Some poor soul has missed her path and dreads
 The forest loneliness. I'll succour her.

   _Guta._    Thou must not go, that cry is not from tongue
 Made true through taste of Holy Sacrament.
 Such shrilling gentleness is not the moan
 Of fagot-picker in distress. 'Tis like
 The dirge of last night's dream. I recognize;
 'Tis some wild woman of the woods that seeks
 To lure a Christian soul—Nay husband, stay!
 I warn thee. [_Clutching his coat, then wringing her hands.
     Exit Ernst, by the steps. He soon returns supporting
     Emma._] O the foolish man and worse
 Than foolish—what will come of this? He brings
 Her here, alas! our happiness has flown.

   _Ernst._   Quick Guta, fetch some water, haste, she faints.

   _Guta._    Then let her lie; but no; discourtesy
 Might bring revenge. They say 'tis best to flatter,
 To wheedle with fair words and deeds. [_She goes into the hut
     and brings out some water in a horn mug._] My pretty!
 A sip will freshen thee; another! See
 Thy colour comes and delicate as that
 Pink robe that's bundled 'neath thy mantle, frayed
 And torn most like in some uproarious
 Fandango, some brawling midnight junketing,
 Some screech-owl revels.

   _Emma._    [_Reviving._] Thou dost forget thyself
 To so address—I had forgot!—but this
 Is holy silk.

   _Guta._    If I should contradict
 'Twould be for sake of bickering. The holes
 Are plain enough. Thou seem'st to treasure them,
 And yet the hole thou comest from is lined
 With gold, they say.

   _Emma._                The woman's mad!

   _Ernst._               Thou talk'st
 Too much, my wife.

   _Guta._    [_Addressing Emma._] 'Tis true. Take no affront.
 But if I may not talk, who will? a silence
 Is often more discourteous than words
 And gives the Devil chance—

                                             [_The noise of some one
                                                 approaching is heard._]

   _Ernst._               To show his horns.
 And thou hast said it! hush! hush—

                                                    [_Enter Eginhardt._]

   _Emma._                Eginhardt!
 O Eginhardt!

   _Guta._    The devil in disguise!
 Or is't our friend in troth? I know not friend
 From enemy.

   _Eginhardt._ [_Embracing Emma._] My sweetheart, how cam'st thou here?
 Alone? without a following? thy hair
 Unbound, a rivulet of gold! Or art
 Thou but a bloodless figment, a fancy born
 Of seething thought? Nay, nay, 'tis Paradise
 My lagging steps have mounted unawares
 And thou'rt my angel guide.

   _Emma._    [_Sinking in his arms._] O Eginhardt,
 'Tis peace at last!

   _Ernst._   [_Addressing Guta._] She seeks a younger prey
 Than us old folk and one, methinks, that's more
 Susceptible; but we must warn—

   _Guta._                Let us
 Away, advise good Father Hildebold.
 He'll exorcise with book and candle.

   _Ernst._               And while
 Our backs are turned what harm may come. I'll pluck
 His sleeve and warn. Dear Master Eginhardt,
 I'd speak with you.

   _Eginhardt._ [_Testily._] Well! well!

   _Ernst._               Not here, but step
 Aside; one moment! pray.

   _Eginhardt._             Think'st thou I'd tempt
 The winds? All day they've strangely whirled. But now
 The air is still, this precious burden rests
 With me. If I should loose my grasp might not
 Some mischievous air-current spirit her
 Afar.

   _Ernst._   If only such could happen!

   _Eginhardt._             Man,
 Thou must be mad to e'en suggest the thought.
 Has dotage crept thus suddenly? Begone,
 Let thy old wife coax reason back.

   _Emma._                A poor
 Instructor! She's mad as he.

   _Guta._                O Master, you
 Alone are crazed. Quick cross yourself, break loose,
 Use Latin words, delve deep within your learning;
 From useless lumber pluck some magic art;
 Whose strength will free from love's bewitching power,
 From spectral glamour.

   _Eginhardt._             Break loose from love? O Guta;
 Each golden hair, that showers its wealth about
 This yielding form, holds me in closer bondage
 Than shackling chains of adamant. Break loose
 From love? this head, that leans its gentle weight,
 Impresses more than all the rolling skies
 That bowed great-shouldered Atlas, steadying.
 Break loose from love? 'Twould be a harsher fall,
 Than Satan's fierce descent from Heaven's peace
 To Hell's contentious flame. Break loose from love?
 Not while there's breath to seal its troth, to pledge
 Its honour. [_He kisses Emma._]

   _Guta._    [_Addressing Ernst._]            Pray come! let us obey! seek
 help
 From Father Hildebold, lest worse should follow.
 If that most sober scholar is thus enmeshed
 By magic wile, what hope is there for thee?
 Who spinnest love tales as others gossip. Come!
 A lengthy walk!

   _Ernst._   And leave the youth? O youth!
 First love! sweet raptures, mine no more—no more—

   _Guta._    Come, come away; thou moonstruck fool! white hairs
 Are no safe shielding 'gainst man's foolish bent.

          [_Ernst and Guta mount the steps but as they descend
          the other side they pause and look round unnoticed by
          Emma and Eginhardt._]

   _Emma._    They speak of Father Hildebold, most like
 The Bishop. Would that he or some poor monk
 Were here to give God's blessing.

   _Eginhardt._             My Lord Archbishop
 Would give such duteous advice that we,
 In following, might find ourselves constrained
 To cloistered cells; to hold, apart, sad vigils,
 Remembering the happiness that's ours
 To grasp. But I, like thee, would have God's blessing.
 See Love! two lengthy sticks! we'll form them crosswise;
 So notched, this silken cord will serve. [_He gathers two heavy sticks
 to make a cross, using some string that bound the silk._] I'll plant
 The longest end; how easily it slides!
 And firm as though God truly wished it here.
 And now we'll drape with this most blessed silk.
 See Love, 'tis woman's work.

             [_Emma drapes the cross with the white silk._]

   _Ernst._   [_Whispering to Guta._]            A solemn rite,
 And e'en a pious, stay! 'tis worth the watching.

   _Guta._    Nay, let us fly! 'tis impious, a wild
 Hill-woman to hide the sign of Christendom
 'Neath tattered rags of vile debauchery.
 A worn ball gown that's torn in lengths.

   _Ernst._               Whist! Silence!

             [_Some leaves of the linden rustle slightly._]

   _Emma._    A sound, a fluttering sound, and voices! no,
 All's quiet. O would that we had witnesses,
 Those mad-brained peasants if none else and yet
 We're kindly rid of them.—The forest hush
 Breathes thoughts of God. This mellowed silk was once
 Around the Virgin's dress and now it decks
 The marriage cross. O we have audience.

         [_Emma and Eginhardt kneel before the cross and repeat
         together._]

              O Lord! be witness to our mutual vow.

   _Emma._    My husband!

   _Eginhardt._             My treasured wife!

   _Together._             Whom none may part.

           [_They kneel in silent prayer. Suddenly from the
           linden tree a dove flits down and lights on Emma's
           shoulder._]

   _Emma._    My dove, my own pet dove. O God has sent
 This sign.

   _Ernst._   [_Whispering to Guta._] It seems like some strange
 miracle;
 Yet what it is I fail to grasp; yes, yes,
 We'll go to Father Hildebold. He'll straight
 This tangle, if any can.

                                              [_Exuent Ernst and Guta._]

   _Emma._    [_Resting with Eginhardt against a log._] O Eginhardt,
 To think the bird has followed us! It links
 The past and present, soothes the sting, and brings
 A sweet assurance. Soft, wee nestler! a bit
 Of pampered yesterday; that tears with us
 The veiling morrow, fearing nought for love
 Encompasses. O husband of my dreams,
 Thou art reality. No tempest can
 Disturb—And see, look round, 'twas here those dreams
 Grew strong from sudden birth. Incredible
 That chance has drifted us to this same spot.
 A higher agency methinks has forced
 Our steps. They say this world is evil, 'tis but
 A tottery stepping stone; I say 'tis wrought
 Of solid bliss; whence beauty springs and all
 That holds and satisfies.

   _Eginhardt._             Thou speak'st the truth,
 My Emma, the world is passing good; whate'er
 Its slips and fallacies some moments since.
 Ay, here it was that Love surprised. Unasked
 The lusty teaser flashed his bolt, exciting
 The carmine to thy cheeks, a shining moist
 To soft thine eyes, a shrinking tenderness
 Through all thy being.

   _Emma._                But thou wert bold, my friend.

   _Eginhardt._ So saved a nasty fall. I see thee now
 As then. Thou stood'st upon that fallen oak
 In this same garb methinks. Thy hair neat-tucked
 Within a huntsman's cap, some tendrils though
 Fell gently loose, thy lips were curved to smile.
 Asudden there came a stir from out the black
 Of those deep woods that yonder lie, a stag
 Brushed by, sprang lightly forward; ere the dogs
 Caught scent or vision, an arrow whirred; thy sister,
 The Princess Bertha's aim was good, beside
 Thee lay the struggling beast. To end its pain
 Thou raisedst thy hunting spear, but stumbling would
 Have wrenched I know not what of this most dear
 Anatomy, had I not seized thine arm
 And righted thee. In that same flash of time
 Two lives were changed, our eyes had met. Pray God
 The ill averted may not lead to worse.

   _Emma._    Who speaks of ill upon his wedding day
 Deserves the same. Fie, shame, my Eginhardt.
 Must we not fashion plans together, "together."
 Ay, a precious word! what matters else?
 "Together; together"—Hark! a stir! are we
 Repeating history? Another stag!
 Quick! my bow. [_She shoots toward the copse, a heavy
     animal falls at its entrance. She and Eginhardt walk
     over and examine it._] I've brought him down. There is
 No need to spear. He's dead, quite dead. See here
 An ancient wound that's scabbed and healed. Indeed
 The very stag. He must have 'scaped that day
 But we, enamoured, had no thought to spare.
 What ages since that hunting party; so
 It seems, my sister's merry laughter, the King,
 My Father's kind solicitude.—And now
 This cruel break—but Eginhardt, I'll wink
 Salt drops away, lest one should fall to splash
 Our luck, to mar our wedding-day. Why is't
 When joy is keenest, there lurks beneath a pool
 Of woe? Well, well 'tis far beneath, we'll lid
 It with a stern forgetfulness. "Together;"
 That's the word, "together;" and now we'll plan
 To make a wild and beautiful adventure.

   _Eginhardt._ Brave Heart, together, yes together we'll stem
 The tide; but 'tis for thee I fear, for one
 So gently nurtured.

   _Emma._                Remember, Eginhardt,
 My ancestors: the Pepin of Landen, the Pepin
 Of Herestal; iron-handed Charles who cowed
 The Saracen; his son who trembled not
 From royal power; and his, in turn, my Father,
 Who scaled fresh heights and slipped not back when offered
 Imperial pomp and dignity. Each rose
 To circumstance. Shall I, who boast such race,
 Grow pale, show fear, lay down my arms before
 So slight a foe as seeming poverty.
 For poverty, what is't? but just a nought,
 A nothingness and I have thee so I
 Am rich.

   _Eginhardt._ And I far richer! So let us shape
 Our future. This stag will nourish us and more
 Whence it has come. For shelter here's a hut
 With fire, utensils—poor but clean.

   _Emma._                Could we
 Not further go from those old folk? I liked
 Them not! A something calls me toward the thickets,
 As though the inky depth they fringe held safe
 Asylum. There must be entrance where the stag
 Came forth. Let us push through the coppice, search
 What lies beyond.

   _Eginhardt._ 'Tis mystery, unsafe
 To penetrate. The peasants say that dwarfs
 Dwell there, that wild hill-women dance. They say
 Some few of mortal birth have forced a way;
 But what they saw none know, for none have since
 Returned.

   _Emma._    Ay, peasants' talk; but e'en if true—
 St. Augustine, I've heard, hath not denied
 There may be other hidden agencies
 Than those of scriptural warrant—yet this silk
 Will serve as amulet. I have no fear.
 Hast thou?

   _Eginhardt._ I'd be ashamed to so confess
 And once indeed I peeped.

   _Emma._                And saw?

   _Eginhardt._             We'll let
 It be for now. Thou'rt weak and famished. Rest
 Thee here. I'll do some foraging.

                                           [_Exit through door of hut._]

   _Emma._    [_After a pause, gathering up the silk._] Yes, yes
 We must go further then. A call from out
 Those tangled depths comes loud, insistent. There
 Solution lies. But first this precious silk
 Must he repacked, the cross unwound. What's here?
 A shimmering droplet, a gem that must have slipped
 Its setting. Eginhardt! please come!

                                             [_Enter Eginhardt
           with some hunks of bread and a mug of milk._]

               A jewel
 Has fallen from its royal resting place.
 Last night I handled the King, my Father's crown.
 It lay beside the holy silk, whose folds
 Have not disdained earth's wealth though they were used
 To fairer things. The sun gives warmth; but this
 Pale imitation chills my hand, what shall
 We do with it? and how return?

   _Eginhardt._             Now eat
 This bread, and drink; then we'll consider.

                       [_They both eat hastily._]

   _Emma._                Listen!
 For our adventure in those mazy woods,
 For go we must, we need some wherewithal,
 Some first provisions, some household stuff. We'll leave
 This gem, and in its place take our requirements;
 Reward, that's offered, would more than pay for such
 Poor odds and ends as we may choose to plunder.

   _Eginhardt._ Thou'st said the word. If thou'rt refreshed, we'll make
 A kindly start before the day grows late;
 But I must bear this stag, so wilt thou help
 As would a peasant woman?

   _Emma._                With joyous heart!
 My life has seemingly begun—so free.
 I'll take deep breaths.

              [_They go into the hut and come out laden._]

   _Eginhardt._ [_Laughing._]            Dost think we have enough?

   _Emma._    Enough and e'en to spare! 'Tis laughable
 The troubles ta'en preparing 'gainst one's wedding;
 The puckered brow, the oft vexatious thought,
 The wondering if this or that becomes
 One most; what furnishings are suitable;
 What friends invited. Well, we're saved some burdens.
 Compared, this sack is light; but canst thou manage?
 Then sling the stag upon thy back. Now let
 Us venture? Where's my dove? Ah here still perched
 Upon my shoulder, our only wedding guest;
 Who shows the confidence we feel.

   _Eginhardt._             I would
 'Twere better witnessed.

   _Emma._                Tush, Eginhardt, lead on.

   _Eginhardt._ Then bend thy head, protect the bird, protect
 Our confidence against recoiling twigs.
 'Twas by this linden tree I one time found
 A path; but thou must stoop, be careful! Love.

                 [_Exuent, the trees closing on them._]




                                ACT IV.


 _Scene.—The same as Act III, six years later. It has a more deserted
     appearance. Some smoke escapes the kiln. The steps of the barricade
     are broken down, leaving a narrow passage, through which enter
     Charles in hunting attire and Albert, whose court finery is
     somewhat dishevelled._

              _Charles._ Why, Albert, see, there's smoke, haste thee!
 Inquire!

   _Albert._  [_Looks into the hut._] No sign of life within the hut, my
 Lord.
 Nor little else. An emptiness that weighs
 Like what's inside my belt. Will you not blow
 Your horn, my Lord, that baskets may be brought.

   _Charles._ My courtiers think of food, of clothes; thou'rt dressed
 As for a festival and so the rest.
 Indeed 'twould shock our simple ancestors
 Could they but see the follies prevalent
 To-day, the love of luxury, the splurge,
 The flaunt of silk and jewels, the rich-piled velvets,
 The pranking plumes, the strut and swagger. Yet
 Methinks, on closer view, thy feathers have
 A languid droop, thy coat has lost its vain
 Bravado, thy ribboned finery agrees
 But ill with huntsman's sport.

   _Albert._              My Lord, if I
 Am privileged to speak, we dressed prepared
 For Council work; but you withdrew, changed plans,
 Made call for dogs and horses, spears and bows;
 Gave us no time to change.

   _Charles._             Do I want fops
 For Councillors? Grave work needs grave attire.
 Ye came arrayed for dance and spectacle
 So I was forced to holiday. The chase
 Has made some spectacles, I trow. [_Laughing._] Nay stay
 Thy sulks, seek now thy friends, beg them retain
 This morning's lesson; hark! and come not back
 Until my horn wakes echoes.

   _Albert._  [_Turns to go, then stops._] But is it wise
 To leave you here alone, my Lord; this place
 Is ill reputed.

   _Charles._ See that rustic cross,
 Some pious pilgrim's work. Six years ago
 'Twas noticed first; since then long winters have
 Unloaded snow and whipped the biting blast,
 Yet there it stands assuringly. How oft,
 When unsought vigils have distressed, my mind
 Has flown to this same spot, has tried to pierce
 Its mystery, has lingered round those branchlets,
 Gleaned a strange relief; and now again
 Smoke floats above the charcoal kiln. All haste,
 Count Albert, comb the woods, make nearby search,
 Discover him who caused that smoke, who stirs
 A smouldering hope; but still my heart! the flame
 May yet die down as has so oft occurred.
 Haste, haste Count Albert, I would know the worst
 Or best.

       [_Albert starts to go. Enter Ernst who collides with him._]

   _Ernst._   Dost wish to murder me? a bandit!
 Ho! Help!

   _Albert._  [_Holding Ernst by his collar._] Didst thou cause yonder
 smoke?

   _Ernst._               And if
 I did, where is the crime? the kiln is mine,
 Though long deserted. Unhand me pray.

   _Albert._              The King
 Desires thy presence.

   _Ernst._               A fitter one I'd show,
 Didst thou remove thy knuckles; though, in truth,
 Thou flatterest. To hold me so presumes that I
 Have still the nerve and mettle of rash youth,
 His racing-wind, his wiry limbs unfettered
 By time's harsh reckoning. Ay, that is better,
 I breathe again. A nobleman! it seems.
 I must have dreamt a cutthroat throttled me,
 But, by our Lady, thy dress belongs to neither.
 Gentility cast-off and mired. May be
 Thou art some actor who practises his part.

   _Albert._  Thou shouldst have studied thine. Servility
 Becomes a peasant's tongue.

   _Charles._             Polite to whom?
 To dainty nobles who presume on birth
 And wide possessions, whose love of play and sport
 Bids them forget the useful arts, the work
 That makes life passable, their Emperor's
 Renown, the safety of the realm? No, no.
 My love is for the striving man whate'er
 His station be. Is not the peasants' wisdom,
 His industry, the backbone of our nation?
 Ah woe the day when he forgets his high
 Estate and seeks to ape his so-called betters.

   _Ernst._   Great King, I kneel to you, the peasants' friend.

   _Charles._ And thou art truly Ernst whom we have sought
 These many years. Tell me, where is my daughter,
 The Princess Emma? My foster-son? whom we
 In sport called "ours."

   _Ernst._               How should I know?

   _Charles._             Why did'st
 Thou disappear?

   _Ernst._               My Guta was afraid.

   _Charles._ Afraid? Speak on! Impatience frets, afraid
 Of what?

   _Ernst._   Of telling tales.

   _Charles._             Thy trade of yore;
 But now I ask the simple truth unvarnished.

   _Ernst._   My Lord, 'twas truth we feared; when witchcraft plays,
 A silent tongue is safest. We had seen
 Too much. We slipped away. And now, alas!
 Poor Guta! [_He weeps._]

   _Charles._ If she be dead I pity thee.
 'Tis heartfelt! I have drained the bitter cup.
 I understand. A worthy woman! a dear
 Companion! Friend Ernst thou hast my sympathy,
 But grief with thee is indexed, chapter and verse,
 Each last sad smile, each parting word. Thou mayst
 Read slowly this remembrance, skip the next,
 Avoid what is most harassing. It can't
 Be changed, the book is writ; but mine is blank.
 Where is my daughter? write the lines for me.

   _Ernst._   My Lord, why ask a charcoal-burner? If she
 Be missing, those of higher rank will know,
 Not I.

   _Charles._ But thou hast just confessed a knowledge.
 Shall I stand longer here and wheedle words,
 Or shall I blow my horn? Let torture bring
 Some sense.

   _Ernst._   My Lord, have mercy!

   _Charles._             Then out with it!
 Why did'st thou fly six years ago? nor bring
 The Lord Archbishop news.

   _Ernst._               My Lord, that is
 A simple question, simple as thin ice,
 That skins the depth, yet holds till rudely struck.
 Let us reach shallows far from here before
 We test its brittleness.

   _Charles._             Nay speak, and promptly.

   _Ernst._   Then take the onus, Sire, I've warned. For me
 Nought matters now, my Guta's dead. Besides
 A king's hot temper may extrude more sparks
 Than witch's fell bedevilment. So listen!
 Six years ago a semblance, a strange wild woman,
 Not of mortal birth, escaped the hills,
 Came moaning here, cast amorous glances, trapping
 With beauty's mesh the soul of our dear friend,
 Our foster-son. Before this feeble cross,
 Whose magic keeps it firm spite time's decay,
 An awesome rite took place; those two exchanged
 The marriage oath, scarce said the words, when skies
 Blew open, a bird descended, 'twas like a dove;
 But well we knew 'twas come from Odin's shoulder
 To perch upon the smiling hag.

   _Charles._             Thou darest
 So call my child, insulting her as me.
 It was the Princess Emma.

   _Ernst._               Nay, my Lord,
 Although methinks there was some likeness, still
 She came without attendants, her hair dishevelled,
 Her garments torn; besides I've proof. But patience!
 We sought good Father Hildebold, mistook
 The way, took council, agreed 'twas well to wait
 Developments, so found an ancient friend
 And visited the elephant, a beast
 Of weirdest size, whose arm-like nose, whose trunk,
 Was sucking from a bucket, then mouthwards curved
 And poured the flow until we heard the water
 Gushing through his mighty stomach. O—

   _Charles._ Away with rounding O's. Keep straight thy tale.

   _Ernst._   'Twas late one night when we crept back, the place
 Was still, no movement, deserted; ay and more;
 The hut was vacant, our belongings gone.
 A light though strangely gleamed, a moon ray or—
 We plucked it, troth a goblin stone; 'twas left
 As pay; but could it pay for goods endeared
 By use? No, no, a thousand times. We wept;
 So passed the hours till ruthless day affirmed
 Our loss. Provisions, tools, utensils, all
 Were gone, and e'en some garnered seeds. If such
 Could happen, why not worse? Our lives? We'd find
 A safe asylum, work elsewhere, poor Guta!
 And now my proofs: the goblin stone, this bit
 Of beldame finery, a scrap, the cross
 Had kept. [_He unwraps his treasures._]

   _Charles._ Why Ernst, thou hast a royal stone.
 'Tis worth a noble's ransom, and thou dost cry
 For peasant chattels, a royal stone indeed!
 It must have slipped my crown that night six years
 Ago. What corners have been swept for it.
 What countries searched for them; who left it here.
 And this frayed scrap is holy silk; I feel
 Its texture. Where? O where can they have gone?

   _Ernst._   Those thickets yonder hide the secret. Fierce
 Carousing, banqueting from golden plate
 Or grave-yard bones, who knows? No mortal has
 Retraced his steps though more than they have dared
 The bosky growth. Far, far within are dwarfs,
 Wild women of the hills and mystic stags
 That lure to doom. O Sire, return! it is
 Not safe to meddle, nor speak where trees have ears.

                 [_A rustling is heard 'mid the trees._]

              What's that? a rustling breath that warns.

   _Charles._             More like
 A prying zephyr. The woodman's axe will fell
 This mystery. I'll give prompt orders—yet
 A pause—to think, prepare myself for what?
 Hope fanned afresh? or chilled to ash? So leave me
 Ernst, and thou Count Albert, a moment's rest
 Before we prize the lock. I would be strong.

   _Albert._  'Tis injudicious, most unsafe, my Lord.
 We've heard enough to fright the staunchest saint
 Of Holy Church.

   _Charles._ And thou art far from that.
 Well cross thyself, tell beads, or what thou wilt;
 But leave me here. Go, quiet the horses. Hark!
 They champ impatience. I must curb myself.
 If kingdoms fell would I be so disturbed?

   _Albert._  Come Ernst, we'll tarry near, thou must know more,
 I'd hear it all.

                                            [_Exuent Albert and Ernst._]

   _Charles._ I'm strangely tired, this bank
 Affords repose, though peace is far.

        [_He falls asleep. The scene grows perfectly dark. After
        a time the twinkling light of candles gradually discloses
        three mushroom-shaped tables, on which the candles stand
        among golden goblets and dishes. Around each table sits
        a group of three Wish-maidens, aethereally dressed, with
        long flowing locks._]

   _Wish-maidens._

              Sisters, we quaff to the past,
            When forests were thick and daylight dim.
              Sisters, we quaff to the past.
            Once sacred this grove, here heard Woden's hymn.
              Sisters, we quaff to the past.
              The past! the past! [_They drink deeply._]

            Wind-spirits are we, wild women called,
              Substance of water and air,
            Of fabric whence breathed the ancient scald
              Verses that seize and ensnare.

            Through tempests we ride, upheaval's din,
              Light as a figment of dreams,
            And sometimes we flash a visioned sin,
              Sometimes a virtue that gleams.

            The bubbles of thought we puff at night
              Enter the soul that is cursed,
            Awaking a shameless appetite,
              Perfidy, shuffling, war-thirst.

            The bubbles of thought we throw from light
              Enter the soul that is blessed,
            Like dust of the rainbow, pearled and bright,
              Singing of hope and of quest.

            But Sisters the future stores for us
              Obloquy, exile, and wrong;
            Already the signs grow ominous,
              Seldom man hearkens to song.

            So spill from our cups—earth honouring,
              Earth that will triumph one day;
            Let earth play the tune round faery ring,
              Twanging the strings we obey.

        [_Where the wine is spilt on the ground dwarfs spring up,
        each clad in green and bearing a golden harp._]

               Clear tables away, come dwarfs, come elves
                 Harp for us, harp long and loud!
               Let fingers that grasp the golden helves
                 Work strings with music endowed.

        [_The tables are pushed back. In front sit the dwarfs
        who first play slow dance music, gradually quickening the
        time. The Wish-maidens dance in three groups. From a
        slow gliding step they arrive at a dizzy whirl. Then
        suddenly they stop, break up their groups and sing
        while making steps and motions to imitate weaving._]

               We dance to the past while weaving tales,
                 Rosy with mist of the dawn,
               Astir with the mood of wilful gales,
                 Lightsome as leap of a fawn.

               We dance to the present, weaving fears.
                 Daylight strews shadows behind;
               The dazzle of noon dissolves in tears,
                 Man is the sport of the wind.

               We dance to the future, weaving death,
                 Purpled with evening sky;
               A knowledge has come with failing breath,
                 The courts of Valhalla on high.

               So round and around we faster spin,
                 Straightening the tangles of time;
               We dance to the earth, find spirit within,
                 Hark! to the music sublime.

      [_They stand prettily poised listening, each with the right
      forefinger raised. The scene grows quite dark again
      while delightful strains of heavenly music are heard.
      After a time they die away. The scene lightens, Charles is
      discovered still sleeping. All trace of Wish-maidens, tables
      and dwarfs have disappeared unless it be David, a little
      green-clad figure, who enters from the copse, losing his
      hat on a thornbush. He looks round wonderingly, then
      comes and examines Charles._]

   _David._   Goliath as my name is David, Giant
 Goliath. Indeed I've found adventure. Yet
 I have no sling. Might I not steal his sword,
 To carry home a giant's head, would not
 The ancients envy me? My Father, though
 A mighty hunter, has never brought such game.
 Soft, soft, he sleeps. I'll lightly pull. The sword
 Slips loose from out its sheath, a bolder tug;
 Ah now it comes.

          [_Enter Ernst. He sees David and stands transfixed._]

   _Charles._ [_Waking._] What's that? who drags my sword.
 Am I asleep? do I still dream? a dwarf,
 A tiny green-clad man like those who harped
 The magic tune. Have pagan times returned?
 My Lord Archbishop warned me 'gainst the tales
 Of ancient days. An old man's mind should steep
 Itself in gospel truth; what troubles have
 I brewed? And yet the sky seems natural,
 The sun and trees. What art thou? elf or child?
 Of goblin birth or Christian ancestry?

   David.     [_Singing._]

                            Pass the loving cup,
                              Kling, klang, klung.
                            Let us brightly sup,
                              Ting, tang, tung.

                            What's disturbed by light,
                              Ting, tang, tung.
                            Let us mend at night,
                              Kling, klang, klung.

   _Ernst._   That song has answered you. My mother heard
 It in her youth and hers before and alway
 A little man like this made music. See,
 Thorn-caught, there hangs the hat that blurs and hides
 Its goblin wearer. Never have I seen
 Such mannikin until to-day; though oft
 On winter nights annoyed by raps and creaks;
 Strange pranks they play, themselves invisible.

   _David._   'Tis true, my hat was flicked away. This sword
 Will help recovery. Alack the tear!
 A nasty rent.

   _Charles._ Before thou fad'st in space,
 Return my sword.

   _David._               Nay, nay, Goliath, we'll
 Consult my mother.

   _Charles._             Thy Mother?

   _David._               Ay, my Mother.
 Her favoured stag, the one she trained and petted,
 Came flagging home to die, a pool of blood
 Around.

   _Charles._ A wounded stag but lately 'scaped
 Our dogs.

   _David._   I knew thou wert the culprit, Giant
 Goliath. If thou hadst not waked, I would
 Have sawed thy neck as Father saws great logs,
 Then carried home thy gory head, that long
 White beard would serve as handle. Instead I'll take
 Thee prisoner! so follow, march. They call
 Me David, a name that strikes some fear.

   _Charles._             Indeed,
 My little man, it does, and some have called
 Me David too and some have shrunk from me.
 But I will follow thee. Lead on!

   _David._               If thou'lt
 Play fair, will promise not to snatch the sword,
 I'll lend my help, hold back the twigs that else
 Might blind; but thou must make a giant's promise.

   _Charles._ I promise!

   _David._   And I can trust thy word for giants
 Like dwarfs and elves must speak what's in their hearts.
 They are all through as clear as bright spring-water.
 'Tis otherwise with man, my Father says,
 His lips may smile the softest "yes" while "no"
 Is boring through his heart. There's one who plucks
 Thy coat. He has a baneful eye. Come shake
 Him off, I wait.

   _Ernst._   [_Holding Charles' coat._] My Lord, consider, I pray you.
 Remember your high station. You are the Star;
 Whose rays shed peace on countless millions. O
 Imperil not the light of Christendom!
 My voice may crack and quiver from the strain
 Of time. It carries though authority,
 Thy peoples' need!

   _Charles._ [_Shaking Ernst off._] Back Ernst, my mind is set.
 I'll sift the matter through, take consequence.
 Lead on my boy; let briars, thorns and nettles
 Prick doubt to shreds. Lead on! Give me that peace
 My humblest subject craves.

   _David._   [_Parting the shrubs by the linden._] Then stoop, Goliath,
 Stoop. Here is the secret entrance. Canst thou
 Bend low enough?

   _Charles._ [_Stooping._] Ay low enough, God knows,
 May He protect!

                               [_As Charles disappears, following David,
                                   enter Albert._]

   _Albert._  The King?

   _Ernst._               Enticed away
 Like Master Eginhardt. Those woods have closed
 On Majesty, ah woe the day!

   _Albert._              Ah woe
 Indeed! where shall we turn? Old man, come steer
 My course; the ship is rudderless, the captain
 Has gone.

   _Ernst._   And so you call on me, a peasant;
 Forgetting noble birth and heritage!
 Go search your prized gentility, your schooling,
 Your war-time prowess, your hunting skill, your pride,
 Vain-glory, your anything. Leave me. I have
 A friend—another friend, to mourn. When one
 Is old and poorly circumstanced, good friends
 Are sadly missed, alas!

   _Albert._  Thou weep'st a friend—
 The surging ocean 'broils the land and thou
 Dost cower above a puddle! A friend, nay, nay;
 A King, an Emperor, the one strong man.

   _Ernst._   Did I not plead?—but grief digs as it will.

   _Albert._  And thou art right. Have I not cause for fear?
 Who is responsible? will I be blamed?
 Old man dry up thy tears, give thought, help break
 This hush that tantalizes. Hark! a rumble!
 The clash of horses; our friends arrive. Ho there!
 Come help!—The King is lost.

                  [_Enter Audulf, Herbert and other courtiers scrambling
                  over the barricade. Their rich attire, like Albert's,
                  has suffered somewhat from the chase._]

   _Audulf._              Is lost? How can
 That be when you Lord Count are found? Ay hang
 Your head, 'twill need explaining. Is lost? but here's
 His hunting-spear. You jest, Lord Count, he can't
 Be far. Is this a game?

   _Albert._              I would it were!

   _Audulf._              Then let us search; which way went he?

   _Ernst._               Where ways
 Are none, whence none have yet returned.

   _Audulf._              Thou mean'st
 The King is dead. Impossible!

   _Ernst._               See there
 That tanglement. Could you alone, unweaponed
 Pierce far? And yet those branches swung apart
 As once the Red Sea waves, then swiftly closed
 Upon our Charles as surged the swelling tide
 O'er Egypt's host. Alas! no fiery pillar
 Has guided him; there skipped before a dwarf,
 Green-hued, a morsel from the nether world,
 A thievish imp, an elf-enchanter.

   _Albert._              It seemed
 As though the King stooped low, 'twas here he went.

   _Audulf._              I see no passage.

   _Herbert._             Let us break through with swords
 And spears.

   _Ernst._   Take heed for magic dwells within.
 'Twere pity to impair those silken fabrics;
 Though somewhat rent and smeared, still maids might find
 Some trimmings. Your lives no doubt concern yourselves.
 Who else would grieve?

   _Albert._              If we were lost or dead
 Would majesty let fall a scalding tear?
 The King has oft rebuked. This morning too
 He led a wilful chase. Indeed our clothes
 Can testify. Have we not cause for quarrel?
 Upbraiding us forsooth because times change
 And fashions too. Is he not Emperor?
 Why prate of ancient days? of meek, out-worn,
 Out-lived simplicity? Instead should we
 Not rival Eastern Courts in luxury,
 In pomp and ease? the trappings of success—
 Success! and there's the jolt, has he not paved
 Its way? whate'er his faults he must be found
 And that right speedily. Will none suggest?
 If we but had a charm of Baltic amber,
 A phial of spittal, at least some pungent herbs.
 There's Ernst, whose mind is stored with peasant-tales
 Who tunes the old heroic sagas; who
 Pretends a knowledge of those deities
 That cradled our great race. Does he not know
 Some runic sign, some spell, some heathen rite
 To drown this vile uncertainty? If age
 Has not undone thy wit, give us some nostrum,
 Some countenance from out the crafty past.

   _Ernst._   My Lord, you sport with words, have you not said
 Times change and fashions too? Has daily Mass,
 The Palace School left you thus weaponless?
 Must you, of this ninth century, turn back
 To pagan thought to fight the power of ill?
 O fie! fie! fie! a peasant must accoutre,
 Must offer arms to noblemen? If help
 There be, 'tis by that cross. Fall on your knees
 In humble supplication, tell your beads,
 Make Christian vows, invoke the Saints, wake Heaven
 With moans and pleading sobs. But he, whose horse
 Outstrips the rest, must foam its mouth and froth
 Its flanks until good Father Hildebold
 Be traced,—our Lord Archbishop. Say to him
 That Ernst has sent—six years may be too late.

            [_Exit Audulf. The rest kneel round the cross._]




                                 ACT V.


 _Scene—The interior of a log hut. The walls are draped with rare skins
     and decorated with horns and heads. The furniture is covered with
     skins. There are interesting collections of curios, dried grasses
     and ferns; and everywhere freshly gathered asters in horn mugs. The
     whole presents a most artistic appearance. Emma sits on a couch
     beside a cradle, crooning a slumber song to the infant in her arms.
     Beside her sits Eginhardt, attaching feathers to his arrows.
     Through the door, centre back, fruit trees are seen. Six years have
     greatly changed Emma and Eginhardt. The latter has a long black
     beard; both are tanned and seem stouter._

   _Emma._

                    Little one, close fast thine eyes,
                    Thy guardian angel near thee flies;
                    Close thy rosebud-mouth, thine ears
                    To all want and needless fears.

                    Little one, lie still and rest,
                    Mother holds thee at her breast,
                    Like a flower by lover plucked,
                    Kissed and in maid's kerchief tucked.

                    Little one, thou'rt sweeter far
                    Than any petal-textured star,
                    Sweeter than a lover's gift;
                    Thou art joy that God hath whiffed.

                    Little one, keep pure and true,
                    Let no taint thy heart bedew.
                    Mother's prayer is spent for thee,
                    Now and through eternity.

                    Little one, if dreams should come,
                    Hurt, or aught that's troublesome,
                    Put thy trust in God above
                    As now thou lean'st on mother-love.

                    Little one, thy cradle's here,
                    Mother stays and watches near.
                    Swansdown-pillowed, slumber long,
                    Mother ends her drowsy song.

      [_Emma gently rocks the cradle in which she has laid the
                                                 sleeping child._]

   _Emma._    O Eginhardt, he's fast asleep, nought will
 Disturb. I never knew so good a child.
 He's like his father, his dumpy nose upturned;
 A smile that lingers through his sleep as though
 His spirit babbled angel-talk.

   _Eginhardt._             Thou may'st
 Revile my nose, in troth it doth admit
 Plebeian birth; but what of that? when thou,
 Who own'st the straightest nose in Christendom,
 Art well content with it. As for my smile,
 I must demur, has it not character,
 When thou art cause? and yet thou liken'st it
 To that which flushes this wee bit of soft Inanity.

   _Emma._    Away with thee, rude scoffer.
 Nay, look again. Admire as we have done
 These hundred times, the long, black silky lashes,
 That fringe so restfully; a modish damsel
 Would give her soul for such possession. Ay
 'Tis true the smile resembles thine, the same
 Calm confidence, a hint of humour, yes,
 A tryst with higher things that leaves me far
 Behind. Now David's smile is like the King,
 My Father's, a flash of wit or merriment
 Or tender love, or pleased concern that fades
 As graver thoughts come uppermost. 'Tis strange
 Of late my Father's face has haunted me.
 It bears a wistful look. Dost think he grieves
 For us?

   _Eginhardt._ Six years should act as poppy balm,
 Besides his Jove-like mind has such to grapple,
 That private woes are soon reduced to pricks,
 Scarce felt and then forgotten. If thou had'st kept
 The magic ring—but that is long ago.
 I see it now upon the frozen pond.
 I could not sleep that night and so stole forth—
 A walk might ease my pain. Unrealized
 The hunting-lodge was reached and I had thrown
 The ring. It glittered 'neath the moon, then I
 Would have it back; but suddenly, a crack;
 It disappeared, black water bubbled—my dream
 Seemed over.

   _Emma._    To begin! dear Eginhardt!
 If we, through magic, had secured the king's
 Affection; courtly pomp, its undercurrents
 Of jealousy and constant bickerings
 Had swallowed us and what we hold most dear,
 Our liberty and close companionship.
 How free we are! how happy! this wondrous home
 With nought superfluous to hamper; but just
 Enough for daily needs—a little more
 To please one's sense of beauty, and all has grown
 With married life. There's not a skin that decks
 Those walls; but 'tis the fruit of hardy chase,
 No graceful antler, but thou hast bent the bow;
 Each has its story. As for curios,
 Have I not helped discover them? and David
 Has rooted well. The mountain-dwarfs must scatter
 Rarities to satisfy the lad,
 To hear his piping notes of childish triumph,
 His chubby hand tight-clutching some gay stone,
 Or weathered fossil, spotted egg, or fern,
 Or tufted grass for drying, or rusty lichen;
 Each a worthwhile specimen. 'Tis strange
 That blindfold avarice should grope in towns,
 While forests are thus generous with gifts.

   _Eginhardt._ True, true, the forest is man's natural home,
 And yet at times ambition stirs. Was I
 Not once great Charles' youngest councillor?
 Have I not planned his palaces? laid out
 His gardens? supervised his public works?
 The ever-famed basilica; have I
 Not felt his love? He called me foster-son.

                   [_He drops his head in his hands._]

   _Emma._    Weep not, dear Eginhardt, we are content.

   _Eginhardt._ Ay wife, we are content and happiness
 Doth flood; still far beneath strange eddies surge,
 Nay rather purl; but there they are—a vague
 Uneasiness—

   _Emma._                Thou frighten'st me.

   _Eginhardt._             Then lay
 Thy cheek 'gainst mine and smile, the mood has passed.
 But let us talk of him whose towering genius
 Projects such sparks that lesser minds are fired,
 A galaxy illumes the sky, great deeds
 Are done!—and we stay trifling here. The mood
 I said had passed—and we are quite content.
 But still we'll talk of him, our Charles, whose fame
 Will ring throughout the centuries while we,
 Dear Emma, are forgot or sunk to myth.
 His age we've known, when fires are somewhat dimmed,
 What must his ardent youth have been! surpassing
 Hannibal, yea Caesar, in art of war;
 Manoeuvering, until a tiny force,
 Thrown here and there, has downed a mighty host.
 Persistency through good, through evil fortune,
 Till restive Europe feels the curb of peace,
 Acknowledging its blessing. The Saxon idol
 Has crumbled, the Arab-crescent stays its distance;
 The Northman dares not venture. One man, one mind
 Accomplishing so much! and now he seeks
 To cleanse the Church, to make a roadway 'mid
 The brambles of divergent laws, to wake
 A nation's pride, reviving tales, rude songs
 Of hero-ancestry. With pause, he would
 Himself have ventured more than playful verse.
 There is that vibrant hymn he wrote, asserting
 The Holy Ghost comes from the Son as Father.
 In truth he hath a poet's soul and that
 Maybe explains! An autocrat and yet
 The servant of his people; fathoming
 Their needs, to satisfy or wisely guide.

   _Emma._    Some say he hath worked miracles, thou know'st
 The story of the flowers.

   _Eginhardt._             Ay, but let
 It fall again from thy sweet lips.

   _Emma._                The King,
 My Father, had shamed the Saracen; but O
 At what a cost! Archbishop Turpin, brave Roland,
 And many another paladin returned
 No more. O war, it is a ghastly thing!
 The victor suffers as the vanquished, though pride
 May not acknowledge it. Our hardy troops,
 Who struggled past the Pyrenees, brought plague,
 That Southern ill. It spread through Rhenish towns,
 Death stalked from house to house, all nostrums failed.
 The learned Doctors could but shake their heads,
 Fear seized each heart—and then man turned to God.
 He fasted, prayed and promised. The King, my Father,
 Nor slept, nor eat, imploring constantly,
 Until celestial voices spoke: "The Lord
 Hath heard thy prayer. The meadow holds reply;
 Ride forth, His name upon thy lips, then string
 Thy bow and upward shoot." The King arose,
 Nor felt the chilling dawn, a silent figure,
 Upon his great black charger, he passed the gate;
 His lips were mumbling prayer and so he went.
 The open reached, they say, a wondrous light
 Passed o'er his face as looking heavenward,
 He sprung the bow. High winged the shaft as though
 To pierce the firmament, then wavering fell,
 And lo its blunted end had crushed the stem
 Of that small golden flower, whose thistle-bloom
 Has since been called "carlina," bearing thus
 The King, my Father's name to blazon through
 The centuries how God lent heed to prayer.
 The arrow-head was damped with juice, so found
 The remedy. Again was laughter heard,
 As eager children gathered plants; a flush
 Returned to pallid cheeks, the light of hope
 To sunken eyes. And so the plague was stayed
 And death slunk off disconsolate.—But where's
 Our David? and this his special tale, why at
 This point he likes to thrust his wooden sword
 As though to stab a threatening foe. Ay youth
 Can combat death; but what of age?

   _Eginhardt._             Talk'st thou
 Of age? whose cheeks are soft and round. I will
 Admit thou hast enough of woman's wisdom
 To delve some crisscross lines or tiny crows-feet.
 But none I see, not one wee crease and that
 Reflects some credit on thy husband's care;
 Six years! and lovers still! was ever known
 Such foolish pair. [_He kisses her._]

   _Emma._                Was ever? Eginhardt.
 But not of self I thought, a father's face!
 That may have deeper lines because of us.
 Ah, 'tis ever so, that face obtrudes—
 But where has David gone? I now remember,
 He asked to gather acorns—and oaks are near
 The zigzag path that leads—that leads beyond
 The realms of happiness, O let us search
 And quickly, if harm should come—

   _David._   [_Without._]            Ting, tang!

   _Emma._                His voice,
 Thank God, his clear shrill treble.

                                                        [_Enter David._]

                          O David, thou
 Hast frightened me!

   _David._   [_Twirling the sword._] That's nought but play-pretence;
 But now thy hair shall stand on end, see what
 I brandish here.

   _Emma._                My son, pray heed, take care!
 A real sword! and one of consequence?
 It is, it is—

   _David._               A giant's sword! O Mother!
 Thy son's a dauntless hero, as those thou sing'st
 About.

   _Eginhardt._ A naughty vagabond, more like,
 Where hast thou been? Give me the sword.

   _David._   [_Handing the sword to Emma._]            Nay, nay!
 'Tis mother's; but I've outrun the prisoner,
 An honest giant, although he killed our stag.
 Hi there! Goliath!

                       [_Enter Charles, who stoops to pass the
           doorway. He does not recognize his hosts._]

                          See Mother the captive I
 Have taken. Now proudly smile and call me hero.

   _Charles._ This door was never built for captive giants
 But gladly I'll acknowledge, dame, thou hast
 A stalwart hero! a splendid boy!

   _David._   [_Clapping his hands and dancing round._] There! there!
 I said as much, a hero! a hero! a hero!

   _Emma._

       [_Who, with Eginhardt, recognizes Charles, laying
       her hand on her heart as though to still its throbbings._]

               Quiet boy! let others sing thy praise.
 I welcome you, my Lord, your face, this weapon
 Proclaim nobility; we are unused
 To strangers here. Forgive a trembling voice.

   _Charles._ [_Looking round._] But not a peasant's voice, I swear, and
 this
 No peasant's hovel: such skins, so well arranged,
 Such forest wealth would grace our hunting lodge.
 I've never seen a room so strangely decked,
 Nor one that suits me better. If magic's here,
 Then let it be, I'm well content.

                                       [_He sits by the central table._]

   _David._               Without
 Thy sword, Goliath?

   _Charles._ [_Receiving his sword._] Ay, without my sword,
 And yet I'd handle it. Joyeuse! thy title
 Becomes thee well to-day. Dear blade; a sweet
 Adventure has wiped thee clean. Thy name is freed
 From irony. Joyeuse! Joyeuse! Joyeuse—
 A happy languor steals.

   _David._               O Mother, Goliath
 Seems quite at home. His head is nodding sleep;
 'Tis well I did not sever it. A tame,
 Old giant for playmate, how the boys in tales
 Would envy me! We'll feed and treat him well.
 O Mother! Father! say that I may keep
 My prisoner.

   _Emma._    Indeed my son thou mayst.
 If there be strength in human love, 'twill hold
 Him close. [_David jumps delight._] But softly boy, thou must be more
 Polite, more circumspect. O Eginhardt!
 He looks so peaceful. Think you that mood will change,
 That passion will distort his brow when he
 Discovers?

   _Eginhardt._ He has not realized and yet
 Has felt thy soothing presence. O 'twould be
 Impossible to meet thy tender gaze
 And then to break from it. Ay love will hold
 Him here; but let the truth come leaking out,
 Lest joy disturb his age.

   _Emma._                Thou hast more hope
 Than I, who am his daughter.

   _David._               The giant's daughter?

   _Eginhardt._ Hush David, help bring the dishes, not one word
 Until I give consent. [_Addressing Emma._] Hast thou prepared
 The venison?

   _Emma._    The way he likes it, ay,
 Well seasoned, with relish and proper garnishings
 That blend with forest wine. I've but to serve.

   _Eginhardt._ Then haste thee, Wife, while I make search within
 This precious book, "God's City," to find the place
 Left off six years ago, when last I read
 At meal-time. Ah, 'tis here; a tiny mark
 Bears witness, blurred with tears, with frequent handling.

          [_While Emma places the venison on the table, David,
          who has his eyes on Charles, drops a dish, waking the
          latter._]

   _Charles._ By all the Saints, a feast! the table set
 As at the palace e'en though wood and horn
 Replace our silver ware. And venison
 That smells like roasted meat, not boiled to shreds
 As my dull doctors have prescribed. I smell
 An old time flavour. Surely, Dame, thou hast
 Not been at court?

   _Emma._    My Lord, some years ago
 I served as kitchen-wench. The Princess Emma—

   _Charles._ Talk not of her—unless thou knowest aught.

   _Emma._    My Lord, you come from court; why question then
 My ignorance? But see the venison
 Awaits, we wish a kind report; we trust
 Our cheer will strengthen you.

   _Charles._             Then sit ye here
 And eat. Consider me a humble guest.
 My lad, canst thou say grace?

   _David._               Indeed, Sir Giant,
 A Latin Ave too.

                      [_He mumbles an Ave Maria while all cross
          themselves and sit down. Emma carves the venison,
          Eginhardt opens his book. Charles stares wonderingly
          round._]

   _Charles._ Such culture so far removed from influence,
 In this unknown retreat is surely most
 Uncommon, an element of mystery
 That suits me well. I feel a living part
 Of it—untrammelled, so much at home. Good people!
 Ye practise kindly spells, weave on! weave on!
 Nor let me wake.

   _Eginhardt._ Then taste our venison,
 My Lord. [_Addressing Emma._] A goodly helping! whilst I do read
 A passage as our custom—once—

         [_He reads from Chapter XII. of the Nineteenth Book of
         "The City of God."_]

              "For joy and peace are desired alike of all men. The
 warrior would but conquer: war's aim is nothing but a glorious peace;
 what is victory but a suppression of resistants, which being done,
 peace follows? So that peace is war's purpose, the scope of all
 military discipline, and the limit at which all just contentions level.
 All men seek peace by war, but none seek war by peace. For they that
 perturb the peace they live in, do it not for hate of it, but to show
 their power in alteration of it. They would not disannul it; but they
 would have it as they like;"—

   _Charles._ "As they like;"—and so they suffer! but that
 Is past. O Eginhardt, 'tis thee! thy voice!
 Thy gesture! and Emma, my daughter Emma, I know
 Thee now. Come let me feel, make certain, my dear,
 Dear child, ay, ay; 'tis not a dream. O God
 Is good to my old age. My pet, lean here.
 These arms have ached for thee. O dearest one,
 Why hast thou been so cruel? nor understood
 A father's love, when time elapsed, would conquer
 A moment's ire.—To hide from me, it was
 Not kind, not Emma-like. My child! my child—

   _Emma._    Then Father thou dost love me still? but what
 Of him who kneels imploringly, yet not
 Repenting, for am I not his wife?

   _Charles._             If I
 Have missed him once, 'twas every day, for six
 Long years and is there more to say? The earth
 Was combed for him and thee, our agents sent
 To foreign courts, to seats of learning; alway
 A "no" came back that pierced my heart with stabs
 Of pain! 'Tis easier to face the slaps
 Of life when punishment is undeserved;
 When one can say at least: "'twas not my fault;"
 But O the lingering torture, when one's own act
 Has brought fell consequence. If only one
 Could backwards turn, how different! Emma!
 Eginhardt! help kill the memory
 Of those six years, make glad the few that stretch
 Before me. Ah my children! dear children! dear children!

   _David._   Goliath! hast thou forgotten me?

   _Charles._             Nay, nay
 Brave lad. [_The baby cries._] but hark! a cry.

   _Emma._    [_Takes the baby from the cradle._] Our youngest son
 Awakes, bids welcome, completes our happy group.

   _Charles._ 'Twould test an artist's brush to paint such bliss;
 But let me look, a healthy child, well-formed,
 Most promising; but not a David! I
 Have never seen a finer lad, a braver!
 Pray God, court life will keep him so, and that
 Reminds there is a court and etiquette
 And problems, eternal problems! well, so be!
 If duty weighs, good Eginhardt, we'll lean
 On younger arms; so take my horn and blow
 A lusty blast, we have the heart to work;
 And God will aid.

         [_Eginhardt blows the horn, while Charles turns to his
         venison and Emma quiets the baby. An answering call
         comes faint, then louder._]

   _Eginhardt._ Run David, run, and point
 The way. [_Exit David._] I'll go a step to greet old friends,
 Prepare their minds.

                                                               [_Exit._]

   _Emma._    [_Laying the baby in his cradle._] Hush, hush—

                  [_She pours some wine for Charles._]

   _Charles._ [_Drinking._] Thy health, dear Emma.

   _Emma._    [_Pointing to the holy silk that drapes an altar._]
 Perhaps this holy silk has helped with thought
 Beyond our daily round. See Father, I
 Have guarded it—no harm has come to us
 In this old pagan grove.

   _Charles._             Nor will it come,
 While simple faith dwells here. I tell thee, Emma,
 We'll build a castle round this shrine-like home,
 Protecting it and all that love has reared
 Within and here, at times, we'll seek respite.

   _Emma._    And laughter too! O Father, those first few nights.
 How silently we stole without and emptied
 The charcoal-burner's deserted hut; the jewel
 We left reward enough for paltry stuff—
 The wedding dower of Princess Emma—but hark!

           [_After a pause enter Hildebold, Eginhardt, David,
           Albert, Ernst and Courtiers._]

   _Charles._ What Hildebold! our dear disheveled court,
 And old man Ernst and none afraid to venture!
 My Lord Archbishop, the Church has proved its strength
 To lead through lanes of mystery and soon
 My children here will ask its further blessing.
 But later, when we are more composed and now
 A hunting song to make all seem more real.

   _Courtiers._

                  Ya ho! ya ho! let Frankland ring
                    With daring deeds, with battles won;
                  Great Lords submit to Charles, our King,
                    As stars that fear the rising sun.

                  Ya ho! ya ho! for Victory!
                    Now Frankland's voice is heard afar,
                  It trumpets peace o'er land and sea,
                    The War God lists and stays his car.

                  Ya ho! ya ho! for huntsman's horn
                    Awakes once more the forest glade,
                  With mirth and joy that put to scorn
                    The battle scar, the murky blade.

                  Ya ho! ya ho! the quarry's traced,
                    Six years of search have ended now,
                  The fairest doe that ere was chased,
                    To her we make a lowly bow.

              [_The courtiers all make obeisance to Emma._]

   _Emma._    And I do thank you, friends; my husband,
 The King permitting, will speak for me.

   _Charles._             Nay I
 Myself will speak. Good people, listen all,
 I oft have chided, seeking the City of God
 On earth, an Empire as St. Augustine
 Once visioned—I have failed—but in this home,
 I clearly see the germ.




                           THE TALL PALMETTO
                                  and
                              OTHER POEMS




                           THE TALL PALMETTO


          The dense live-oaks were swept with wrath,
            The rubber trees swung roots in mire,
          A fine-leafed cedar tittered spite,
            Magnolias were flushed with ire.

          Alone within the garden pale
            A tall palmetto gently swayed,
          Serenely straight its feathered head
            Above all else had skywards strayed,

          To catch the first, faint blush of dawn,
            To linger long with sunset's glow,
          To trace the moon's illusive course
            From orange disc to silvery bow.

          So strove the palm and was content
            To glimpse at times a furtive clue,
          To pierce the haze of mystery,
            Emerging thence with leaflet new.

          And as the leaf, fanlike, unfurled,
            Its green was showered with radiance,
          Eternal truth had shed fresh light,
            Another phaze! another glance.

          And so the palm in stature grew,
            In lofty thought and vision wide,
          Unmindful of a carping world,
            Outdistancing the trees beside.

          Nor hearkened to their small-leafed tones,
            The rustling of close-quartered boughs,
          Nor dreamt of murky depths beneath
            Whose dark no errant sunbeam ploughs.

          An ancient oak, misshapen, knarled,
            Whose prideful age man's care had crutched,
          Whose groaning branches bent toward earth
            Until the barren soil was touched,

          Spoke low with mirthless muttering:
            "A scrub palmetto! cabbage palm!
          A worthless sprout but yesterday
            Disdaining us with saucy calm!"

          The rubber tree now sputtered back
            While dropping rootlets scratched the dirt:
          "The palm makes bold to grasp the clouds,
            With gauzy forms it seeks to flirt."

          The rounded cedar, clipped and dwarfed,
            Agreed with snickers scarce-repressed:
          "A slender form might tempt the clouds,
            But never earthlings verdure dressed."

          The richly decked magnolias,
            Who boasted cultured lineage
          And garden-birth in foreign climes,
            Made inward flutterings of rage.

          A country yokel! cabbage palm!
            To air itself in heaven's blue!
          So far above their august heads,
            What was this new world coming to?

          The slim palmetto gave no sign
            And yet at last these murmurings
          Had forced attention, drawn its thoughts
            From godly height to baser things.

          It sought the reason, paused awhile;
            Though skies had greyed there pearled some light;
          Then flashed the truth, itself could see;
            Those other trees had vision slight.

          And then the palm began to talk
            And told of dawn and afterglow.
          How skies touched earth with brilliancy,
            It traced the seven-coloured bow.

          It spoke of rifts in frothy clouds,
            Of silent lakes illumed with stars,
          Of earth-mirage in misty air,
            Of spirit force that light unbars.

          The trees were still and hearkened now;
            But shallow cups hold little draught
          And soon the weary listeners tired,
            Some curled their leaves, while others laughed.

          Then beauty spilled and fell to earth
            Where tiny flowers sucked up the drops.
          No single thought had gone awaste,
            From some there came rich harvest crops.

          Long afterward, when death had chilled,
            A fallen log lay swathed in vine,
          Whence sword-like cacti pushed their blades
            And orchids peered 'mid tufted pine.

          Such beauteous decay still blessed
            As once the wishful, dreamy palm
          And trees, that erst reviled, made boast
            That they had heard its twilight psalm.

          And little flowers that humbly trail,
            Content to star unseen, unsought,
          'Neath grass to spread their milky-way,
            Remember what the palm once taught.

Florida,
  January, 1922.




                              CHARLESTON.


                                  I.

      An ancient house, thrice tiered its galleries
        And sideways placed, its gardens tucked behind
        High walls and iron gates, with taste designed,
      Whence peeps are caught of palms and mossy trees;
      The passion-flamed poinsettia at ease
        With quiet pansy bloom, and jonquils lined
        In stiff array, and rose that holds enshrined
      Man's love, and English ivy trailing these.

      Within the stately home such tales unfold
        As flowers and weathered brick have writ without:
          Adventure, proud success, war's agony,
      And now the gentle calm that cloaks the old,
        That stills the heart and gives a sense devout;
          So, Charleston, thou reveal'st thyself to me.

                                 II.

      I've wandered much through Charleston's cobbled streets
        And found each corner's turn a fresh delight;
        Old churches, with their memories, invite,
      Their yards, grave-strewn, suggestive, calm retreats.
      A court, with one-time slave annex, completes
        The tale of life gone by, while gardens bright
        Make known a Southern town; whose homes unite
      This land with charm of English country seats.

      Gay cavaliers imprint their rank and mirth
        And courage proven well; sad [1]Huguenots
          Bequeath the virtue tried by terror's reign;
      And Charleston folk are proud to trace their birth,
        When forefathers such gracious gifts bestow;
          Through changing times the days long past remain.

                                III.

      Now hark! those slow-drawled cries: "Fine chucks, pecans!"
        "Crabs, crabs!—live crabs!" then, "Cabage, cabagees!"
        "Yes ma-am! raw shrimps, yes ma-am." Still further pleas:
      "Sweet potats. I-rish´ potats!" "Banans."
      And so each passing vendor stays and scans
        Some friendly gate, whose ancient hinges wheeze;
        There's soft-voiced bargaining 'neath spiky trees;
      The turbaned cook and tempter—Africans.

      Africans! nay, nay, Americans!
        Their comeliness well suits this smiling clime;
          Unwilling captives once, now citizens,
      Whose hearts hold scarce a trace of savage clans;
        If childlike still, so be! the hand of time
          Is stretched past legacies to shape and cleanse.

Footnote 1:

  _Pronounced as in French._




                              LAKE GEORGE.


       Where cedars taper, there's a lake beyond;
         Once visioned from the hill, it beckons me;
         Soft-hazed with heat's grey, slumbrous canopy,
       Or bright with glittering dust of diamond,
       Or calmed when waning day wafts glances fond,
         Or freighted with the moon's pale poesy,
         Or blown till sobbing wavelets plash the lea,
       Or sunk in starless night like fabled pond.

       Whate'er thy mood, O dream-kissed, mountain lake;
         It lingers still, my inmost self replies;
           But where's the song that plumbs the depth of thought?
       The lyre has lost its strings, the words forsake.
         What Art's so high; but Nature far outvies?
           In silent wonderment, God's voice is caught.




                           THE EVENING STAR.


    Beneath a weight of glistening snow each bough was bent,
      Ice-glued the crystal cushions took strange form,
    Like ghosts of prehistoric ferns whose palour blent
      With earth and sky—the aftermath of storm.

    The splattering rain had stayed its noisy, windblown course
      And now the padding flakes had ceased to come.
    A silent world that stilled all passion and remorse,
      Heart-throbbings, grief, thoughts dull and burthensome.

    And in the shanty's warmth a child lay stretched at rest,
      As delicate as winter tracery.
    A mother's eyes sought hers in anxious, tender quest,
      Then turned with prayerful light toward western sky,

    As though to wrest the secret of the universe
      From silver drapery and peeps beyond,
    As though one added effort would avail to pierce
      The cloaking space, that something must respond.

    A something e'en more wonderful than branchlets sprayed
      In weird fantastic tire 'gainst heaven's deep;
    And lo the mystic blush of evening gently rayed,
      Wee cloudlets strayed from mist like flocks of sheep.

    A wind! or was't a cry? The infant gasped for breath.
      Belike soft bleating lambs had wakened her,
    Belike the new-born soul was lured toward lanes of death,
      The rosy flush had held a messenger.

    Ah woe that Mother's heart as close she pressed her child;
      Poor quivering nameless thing and O so frail
    To penetrate that void—her thoughts grew fierce and wild.
      An infant unbaptised, what fears assail?

    An erie wind had risen; hark its shrilling cry I
      A flickering candle loosed deep shadows round
    That emphasized despair and cruel misery;
      The night had come, a sullen night that frowned.

    And nought remained but burning love for help was far,
      Nor remedies; and grief had surged and ebbed.
    Again the Mother sought the sky and lo a star
      Had forced the clouds; it peered through boughs close-webbed.

    A bright and steadfast star that shot its friendly rays.
      "O Evening Star," the woman softly sobbed,
    "Be sponsor, shed celestial light through trackless haze."
      Asudden within her heart the answer throbbed,

    Or winds had drifted: "Innocence." She hearkened, yes
      "Innocence," the Star had sanctioned it:
    Her baby's name! Upon its brow with fond caress
      And moistened touch the crossing sign was writ.

    And Innocence looked up and smiled and caught the light
      That streamed from Evening Star and breathed a sigh
    That held content; a faint, sweet sigh that put to flight
      A mother's fear, that hushed anxiety.

    And so the Babe was named and Innocence still cheered
      The lonely hut. A father heard the tale;
    How Evening Star had given aid as he had steered
      Through her his homeward course, obscured by gale.

    And oft at sunset hour the parents sat and watched
      Receding day with grave expectancy,
    At times through lattice work of branches gaunt and notched,
      At times through leafy boughs that swathed the sky.

    And when the rosy prelude, orchestra of tint,
      Had dimmed; with deep, upwelling thought that strives
    And gladsome awe, they faced the Evening Star; whose print
      Was on their baby's brow, had marked their lives.

    Then Innocence would laugh and stretch her hands and prayer
      Half-breathed would rise that happiness remain.
    The Evening Star flung beams of trust and through the air
      Oft "Innocence" was voiced by winds again.

    And Innocence grew tall as passed the years; but frail
      At times she seemed, still more when strangers neared.
    Ah then she'd seek some ferny haunt, 'mid flowerlets pale
      She'd cower, nor knew what dreaded ill she feared.

    A lily-maid in homespun garb of softest white,
      Her winter coat of silky rabbit skin
    Or ermine brought by Indian guide. Her cheeks as white
      Unless the flush to evening skies akin.

    And so time passed, the nearby settlement became
      A village, then a boastful town and road
    And searching railway broke the still and helped defame
      Sequestered charm that God, through Grace, bestowed.

    And Innocence would shrink from noise and close her eyes
      When drifting smoke showed progress near, like plant
    That's sensitive, that shrivels from man's touch and lies
      So piteous with tremulous leaves aslant.

    Too weak for woodland stroll, a hammock-couch was strung
      'Neath lofty pines and there the young girl lay
    And watched a robin's second brood, or chipmunk swung
      On sapling bent, or butterflies at play.

    One heavy night she stayed without, till Evening Star
      Had blown a kiss, then dipped beneath some clouds.
    A silence crept, scarce broke by owlet's hoot afar,
      While mists arose like ghosts in flaunting shrouds.

    A rustling sound! but Innocence had dropped asleep;
      Within her hand a dangling lily stem,
    Whose cool, white bud unfolded tales that willows weep
      Where broad green leaves and starry petals gem,

    Where waters pause from maddened rush to catch the calm
      That slips through foliage, to rest awhile
    In reedy bays as man fatigued might search for calm
      'Neath roofing church, immunity from guile.

    A rustling sound, a stealthy tread, some broken twigs,
      And Guilt peeped low through scrubby briar growth,
    Then pushed his ruthless way, nor cared that tender sprigs
      Refused to bloom, once heard his muttered oath.

    He plucked a burr that pulled his coat askew, then brushed
      Aside some pollen dust, some larva-thread;
    His outward garb so sleek and glossed, with step that hushed
      He fast approached—above dark clouds had spread;

    But through the gloom, the lily bud was visible,
      The pallid curve of maiden's cheek; one stride,
    He stood befogged, a something stayed against his will.
      A something childlike, Godlike that defied.

    For Innocence had wakened now and unabashed,
      Unharmed she gazed at Guilt and pity lay
    Within her eyes, a pity blent with pain that lashed,
      Till Guilt one blinding moment felt its play.

    He sank to earth beseeching what? He scarcely knew.
      Respite? was pardon past? He felt a touch
    As light as though from highest Heaven a Seraph blew
      A kiss that floated downwards bringing much.

    And on his heart he pressed the flower that Innocence
      Had proferred him, the lily bud that erst
    Had lain on waters cool and clear. It brought from thence
      Some mirrored truth that Nature's self had nursed.

    But Innocence had breathed her last, one gasp, 'twas all,
      While Guilt affright, scarce pausing, fled; once more
    The Evening Star shone forth, winds sobbed a lingering call,
      The parents listened—useless to implore.

    The grave awoke with crimson flowers; new birth attained,
      The Evening Star had guided faithfully;
    For ever since no grovelling soul has been so stained
      But moments come that give some chance to free.

    'Twas long ago, in our old Province of Quebec,
      This tale at evenfall was whispered me.
    One spoke—and was that one alive? or but a speck
      Of spirit-world, of God's Eternity?

                                THE END.




                          TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
    errors.
 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Romance of a Princess, by Amy Redpath Roddick