The Mortal Gods and Other Plays Part 68

_Char._ I was not of the many who can kill And laugh again, nor yet of hermit-heart.

But for myself had made a gentle G.o.d Whom my soul served.

_Ber._ I know, my lord, that sweet Idolatry, and dream what thou didst suffer So shaken from it.

_Char._ Far as man knows the world I fled the scarlet stream that followed me, And on the skyward slope of Himalay, Between the white of snows and blue of heaven, Saw it no more.

_Ard._ [_Kissing his hands_] O, white, forgiven hands!

_Char._ There, near to G.o.d as man may come nor lose The body's mould, I saw in solvent thought That knows not time, a sinless star,--this earth That shall be. Back unto my world I came, And that my dream might live I lived my dream, Servant to love even where the slaves of hate Whet sword and knife.

_Ard._ O, true!

_Ber._ 'Tis sung of thee!

_Char._ Now am I old, but love does not deny me One service more. To-morrow I shall go To die at Oswald's feet----

_Ber._ [_Eagerly_] You will go down?

_Ard._ No, no! He shall not go! Prince Banissat Will save him! He has promised!

_Ber._ [_Gazing at Ardia_] Banissat?

So 'twas a bargain. Thou'rt fair goods to be On th' vender's table. [_Turns to Charilus_] You choose well, my lord.

_Ard._ What words!

_Ber._ I bring a message from th' earl.

_Ard._ From Oswald? [_Shrinking_] You know him?

_Ber._ If any man May know him,--but I better know his son.

_Ard._ The vicious Bertrand?

_Ber._ Vicious?

_Ard._ O, so foul He shuns the day, and walks on moonless nights Most like his soul!

_Ber._ You speak of Bertrand?

_Ard._ Ay!

More wolfish than his father,--beast whose sword Should be his body's part as tigers wear Their claws from birth!

_Ber._ A bold delusion this!

_Char._ She speaks untempered rumor. Slander, sir, Is out of breath with sporting Bertrand's name, And giveth way to winds that blow it past Belief's last border.

_Ard._ Slander?

_Ber._ What will shake These fancies from your heart?

_Ard._ A miracle.

Naught less.

_Ber._ Hard terms. [_Turns to Charilus_] I know this Bertrand well.

If any happy merit in myself Has won your love, bestow the same on him.

What I may share is his.

_Char._ Here's living hope!

_Ber._ He, like myself, was cloister-bred, and pa.s.sed Peaceful, uncounted days until the death Of his three brothers, slain in one mad hour.

Earl Oswald then bethought him of the son So early given to Christ. "I have no heir,"

He said, "but G.o.d lacks not for monks." And straight With power and gold bought full release for Bertrand, Save that release his soul and G.o.d might give.

_Char._ You make me love his story.

_Ber._ True to peace Even in the camp of war, he lives withdrawn, And so gives Rumor sweep for what she would, While in her swollen report the earl conceals His monkish son's true nature.

_Char._ I'll know this youth!

_Ber._ He keeps his tent by day, and steals at night To forest glens, his armor but a cloak, His sword a flute----

_Ard._ O, light from Heaven!

_Ber._ Sometimes He farther goes, even far as Kidmir heights, And at the feet of Charilus he learns A love more true than fane and cloister taught,-- The love that made the houseless, barefoot Christ, With open breast to all unbrothered woe,-- And now he kneels and of that gentlest love Asks pardon.

_Char._ Bertrand, son of Oswald, rise.

There's no forgiving in the sinless star.

_Ber._ [_Rising, to Ardia_] And you?

_Ard._ Ah ... when I've breath!

_Ber._ What I have said, My lord, makes way for what is yet to say.

To-day I waited by Avesta's gate For this [_taking out paper_] my father's word, response to mine Sent days ago to him. Here, sir, he says: [_Reads_]

"Son of my hope, your words are not more strange to me than these I write with my own hand. If Charilus will come to Suli Castle, the which my swords have taken while you sang and slept, my door shall open to him as Kidmir gates have opened unto you. By Christ, I swear the treatment that he gave my blood he shall have again from me. But if he come not down, then shall I reach him through Avesta's heart, and the love he now spurns will be cold in my sword. Despatch this, I pray you, for I would hasten to Jerusalem, leaving you my conquered princedom, whose head is Ilon and whose foot is the city of Ramoor. Thine as thy heart speaks, Oswald."

_Char._ Your father's hand?

_Ber._ Doubt flies from it, although The vein is alien, sir. It is his hand.

And, I do think, his heart, wherein, my lord, Your gentleness to me, like creeping rain, Has moistened love's dry root, whose pent-up bloom Is by that nurture freed, and magical Now glows before us.

_Char._ This I would believe. [_Starts off right_]

Vigard and Biondel must have this news From my slow lips, lest with the sudden truth They strike ablaze. They have their mother's fire.

Albanian Gartha was not one to die And leave her sons no part in her wild race. [_Exit_]

_Ber._ You are not Gartha's daughter?

_Ard._ No, my lord.