_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._]