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. 65Little 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. 66

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, 67Our 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. 68

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 69It 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 70And 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. 71

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 72No 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 73And 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? 74

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."]

75"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 76Has 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.] 77

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. 78Ya 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.