SCENE.--_A wooded lawn before the gate of a castle. In an arbour_ LADY
FLERIDA _and_ NURSE _at their handiwork._
NURSE. The dews will soon be falling, Flerida.
Come in, sweet lady.
FLERIDA. Hush! 'T is early yet.
NURSE. 'T is time, methinks, to say the rosary.
FLERIDA. See the sun hanging o'er the darkened hills
Bright as the Host above the multitude
Of bending worshippers! Tell thy beads here,
The congregation of these rustling leaves
Will answer all thy _Aves_ patiently.
NURSE. I 've dropped a stitch. I cannot see to work
'Neath trellises. These gentlefolk are mad.
The mistress of a castle sits without,
Like a poor homeless beggar!
FLERIDA. Nay, go in
And burn thy rush-light while the sun is shining,
Or, by the casement squinting, knit thy hose
While in these gilded clouds the seraphim
Are singing Glory. Go, I follow thee.
NURSE [_getting up to go_].
Alack, this rheum. Young bones will brave the cold
Till the twitch comes.--Trust me, 't is hazardous,
Sweet child, to tarry here beyond the moat
Alone, when evening falls. Once at thy age
My mother sent me on a night like this
To good old Prior Bennet, at Saint Giles.
He was her uncle and a saintly man--
How well do I remember his grey beard!--
She went to him for shrift, and on that day
She had a fainting turn: she had them oft
Till in the last, poor sainted soul, she died.
I needs must run and fetch him, for to die
Unreconciled was all my mother feared,
And but for that, she had so hard a life
She would have changed it any day for heaven,
And on the way ('t was scarce a rood from home)
An idle foul young lout that sauntered by
Griped at my frock--I tremble at it still--
Thank God, the Virgin willed that at the trice
Friar Peter (he was porter all that month)
Opened the gate to let two pilgrims out,
Bound, as they told us, for Jerusalem.
Else Heaven knows what had become of me,
Or whether I had ever had the face
To cheat my husband, as most wenches do,
Without confessing aught: for I am honest
If ever woman was.
FLERIDA. Go in, go in.
NURSE. Seest thou not I go? Can I make haste
With these poor aching joints? Thou think'st thee safe?
Remember Ulric in his dungeon plans
Vengeance upon you, and his friends abroad
Hatch plans for his deliverance. Thou a maid,
An orphan, friendless, with these ill-paid men
Guarding thy walls, what dost thou fading here?
Who knows but he is dead, thy pretty knight?
His time is up. Were he alive and true
He had spurred home, hearing thy father's death,
To claim thee and make good his heritage.
Fie on this fondness, girl! It had been wiser
To yield to Ulric. Was it not his place
To guard thee? Led he not thy father's men?
Ah, better be his wife, rich, safe, and loved,
Than wait for ever among enemies
For what will never come.
FLERIDA. Poor soul, go in.
The five years are not passed, and if they were
And I had ocular proof that he was dead,
Ulric should not be master in these walls.
But I should open arches in the tower
For bells to swing in, and the grass should grow
Upon the buried hinges of the draw.
Veiled we should walk within the garden-close,
And in the dimmed hall chant our psalmodies
With the frail voice of nuns. So get thee gone,
And summon better counsel to thy heart
Than quavers on thy lips. Go light thy taper,
And pray for the safe-coming of thy liege.
NURSE. I go. But thou, sweet lady, linger not.
The victuals will grow cold, as many a night
They have, since summer makes the twilight long
And thou com'st late to supper.--Ah, poor bones!
[_Exit._