_The sleeping-chamber of the King: a candle burns dimly by the curtained
bed. The arras parts, and two slaves enter with daggers. A storm of
wind rages without._
FIRST SLAVE: He sleeps.
SECOND SLAVE: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse
To dread unsleeping in another world.
FIRST SLAVE: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful,
As if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives!
SECOND SLAVE: Yea, we have crouched so close in quaking dark
I scarce can lift my sword-arm: strike you first.
FIRST SLAVE: The heavy waiting hours have crushed my strength;
The hate that burst to such an eager flame
Within my heart has smouldered to dull ash,
Which pity breathes to scatter.
SECOND SLAVE: Knows he pity?
FIRST SLAVE: Nay, he is throned above his slaughtered kin,
A reeking sword his sceptre. He has broken,
As one across the knee a faggot snaps,
Strong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition;
Yet shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him
For whom kings sweat like slaves?
SECOND SLAVE: Yea, at the stroke
One slave lies dead--a hundred kings are born;
For every man that breathes will be a king;
Vast empires, beaten-dust beneath his feet,
Will rise again and teem with kingly men,
When he, their death, is dead
FIRST SLAVE: How still he sleeps!
The tempest shrieks to wake him, yet he slumbers.
As seas that foam against unyielding scars,
The mad wind storms the castle, wall and tower,
And is not spent. Hark, it has found a breach--
Some latch unloosed--the house is full of wind;
It rushes, wailing, down the corridor;
It seeks the King; it cries on him to waken;
Now 'tis without, and shakes the rattling bolt;
Lo, it has broken in, in little gusts,
I feel it in my hair; 'twill lay cold fingers
Upon his lips, and start him from his sleep.
See, it has whipt the yellow flame to smoke.
SECOND SLAVE: And now it fails; the heavy, hanging gold
That shelters him from night is all unstirred.
FIRST SLAVE: Even the wind must pause.
SECOND SLAVE: 'Twas but a breeze
To blow our sinking courage to clear fire.
Too long we loiter; soon the approaching day
Will take us, slaves who grasp the arms of men
Yet dare not plunge them save in our own breasts.
Come, let us strike!
(_They approach the bed and draw aside the curtain._)
FIRST SLAVE: The King--how still he sleeps!
Can majesty in such calm slumber lie?
SECOND SLAVE: Come, falter not, strike home!
FIRST SLAVE: Hold, hold your hand,
For death has stolen a march upon our hate;
He does not breathe.
SECOND SLAVE: The stars have wrought for us,
And we are conquerors with unbloodied hands.
FIRST SLAVE: Nay, nay, for in our thoughts his life was spilt;
While yet our bodies lagged in fettered fear,
Our shafted breath sped on and stabbed his sleep.
Oh, red for all the world, across our brows,
Our murderous thoughts have burned the brand of Cain.
See, through the window stares the pitiless day!