Chapter 14
a flight of steps leading to the Choir, another flight on the left, leading to the North Aisle. Winter afternoon slowly darkening. Low thunder now and then of an approaching storm_. MONKS _heard chanting the service_. ROSAMUND _kneeling_.
ROSAMUND. O blessed saint, O glorious Benedict,-- These arm'd men in the city, these fierce faces-- Thy holy follower founded Canterbury-- Save that dear head which now is Canterbury, Save him, he saved my life, he saved my child, Save him, his blood would darken Henry's name; Save him till all as saintly as thyself He miss the searching flame of purgatory, And pass at once perfect to Paradise. [_Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters_. Hark! Is it they? Coming! He is not here-- Not yet, thank heaven. O save him! [_Goes up steps leading to choir_.
BECKET (_entering, forced along by_ JOHN OF SALISBURY _and_ GRIM). No, I tell you! I cannot bear a hand upon my person, Why do you force me thus against my will?
GRIM. My lord, we force you from your enemies.
BECKET. As you would force a king from being crown'd.
JOHN OF SALISBURY. We must not force the crown of martyrdom.
[_Service stops_. MONKS _come down from the stairs that lead to the choir_.
MONKS. Here is the great Archbishop! He lives! he lives! Die with him, and be glorified together.
BECKET. Together?... get you back! go on with the office.
MONKS. Come, then, with us to vespers.
BECKET. How can I come When you so block the entry? Back, I say! Go on with the office. Shall not Heaven be served Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the minster-bells, And the great deeps were broken up again, And hiss'd against the sun? [_Noise in the cloisters_.
MONKS. The murderers, hark! Let us hide! let us hide!
BECKET. What do these people fear?
MONKS. Those arm'd men in the cloister.
BECKET. Be not such cravens! I will go out and meet them.
GRIM _and others_. Shut the doors! We will not have him slain before our face. [_They close the doors of the transept. Knocking_. Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors! [_Knocking_.
BECKET. Why, these are our own monks who follow'd us! And will you bolt them out, and have _them_ slain? Undo the doors: the church is not a castle: Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf? What, have I lost authority among you? Stand by, make way! [_Opens the doors. Enter_ MONKS _from cloister_. Come in, my friends, come in! Nay, faster, faster!
MONKS. Oh, my lord Archbishop, A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes-- To the choir, to the choir!
[_Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the right, part by those on the left. The rush of these last bears_ BECKET _along with them some way up the steps, where he is left standing alone_.
BECKET. Shall I too pass to the choir, And die upon the Patriarchal throne Of all my predecessors?
JOHN OF SALISBURY. No, to the crypt! Twenty steps down. Stumble not in the darkness, Lest they should seize thee.
GRIM. To the crypt? no--no, To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the roof!
JOHN OF SALISBURY (_pointing upward and downward_). That way, or this! Save thyself either way.
BECKET. Oh, no, not either way, nor any way Save by that way which leads thro' night to light. Not twenty steps, but one. And fear not I should stumble in the darkness, Not tho' it be their hour, the power of darkness, But my hour too, the power of light in darkness! I am not in the darkness but the light, Seen by the Church in Heaven, the Church on earth-- The power of life in death to make her free!
[_Enter the four_ KNIGHTS. JOHN OF SALISBURY _flies to the altar of St. Benedict_.
FITZURSE. Here, here, King's men! [Catches hold of the last flying MONK. Where is the traitor Becket?
MONK. I am not he! I am not he, my lord. I am not he indeed!
FITZURSE. Hence to the fiend! [_Pushes him away_. Where is this treble traitor to the King?
DE TRACY. Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket?
BECKET. Here. No traitor to the King, but Priest of God, Primate of England. [_Descending into the transept_. I am he ye seek. What would ye have of me?
FlTZURSE. Your life.
DE TRACY. Your life.
DE MORVILLE. Save that you will absolve the bishops.
BECKET. Never,-- Except they make submission to the Church. You had my answer to that cry before.
DE MORVILLE. Why, then you are a dead man; flee!
BECKET. I will not. I am readier to be slain, than thou to slay. Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a heart To bathe this sacred pavement with my blood. God pardon thee and these, but God's full curse Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm One of my flock!
FITZURSE. Was not the great gate shut? They are thronging in to vespers--half the town. We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him! Come with us--nay--thou art our prisoner--come!
DE MORVILLE. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man.
[FITZURSE _lays hold of the_ ARCHBISHOP'S _pall_.
BECKET. Touch me not!
DE BRITO. How the good priest gods himself! He is not yet ascended to the Father.
FITZURSE. I will not only touch, but drag thee hence.
BECKET. Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away! [_Flings him off till he reels, almost to falling_.
DE TRACY (_lays hold of the pall_). Come; as he said, thou art our prisoner.
BECKET. Down! [_Throws him headlong_.
FITZURSE (_advances with drawn sword_). I told thee that I should remember thee!
BECKET. Profligate pander!
FITZURSE. Do you hear that? strike, strike.
[_Strikes off the_ ARCHBISHOP'S _mitre, and wounds him in the forehead_.
BECKET (_covers his eyes with his hand_). I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin, St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England, And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. [GRIM _wraps his arms about the_ ARCHBISHOP. Spare this defence, dear brother.
[TRACY _has arisen, and approaches, hesitatingly, with his sword raised_.
FITZURSE. Strike him, Tracy!
ROSAMUND (_rushing down steps from the choir)_. No, No, No, No!
FlTZURSE. This wanton here. De Morville, Hold her away.
DE MORVILLE. I hold her.
ROSAMUND (_held back by_ DE MORVILLE, _and stretching out her arms)_. Mercy, mercy, As you would hope for mercy.
FlTZURSE. Strike, I say.
GRIM. O God, O noble knights, O sacrilege! Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral! The Pope, the King, will curse you--the whole world Abhor you; ye will die the death of dogs! Nay, nay, good Tracy. [_Lifts his arm_.
FlTZURSE. Answer not, but strike.
DE TRACY. There is my answer then.
[_Sword falls on_ GRIM'S _arm, and glances from it, wounding_ BECKET.
GRIM. Mine arm is sever'd. I can no more--fight out the good fight--die Conqueror. [_Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict_.
BECKET (_falling on his knees_). At the right hand of Power-- Power and great glory--for thy Church, O Lord-- Into Thy hands, O Lord--into Thy hands!---- [_Sinks prone_.
DE BRITO. This last to rid thee of a world of brawls! (_Kills him_.) The traitor's dead, and will arise no more.
FITZURSE. Nay, have we still'd him? What! the great Archbishop! Does he breathe? No?
DE TRACY. No, Reginald, he is dead.
(_Storm bursts_.) [Footnote: _A tremendous thunderstorm actually broke over the Cathedral as the murderers were leaving it.]
DE MORVILLE. Will the earth gape and swallow us?
DE BRITO. The deed's done-- Away!
[DE BRITO, DE TRACY, FITZURSE. _rush out, crying 'King's men!'_ DE MORVILLE _follows slowly. Flashes of lightning thro' the Cathedral_. ROSAMUND _seen kneeling by the body of_ BECKET.
THE CUP
A TRAGEDY
_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_.
GALATIANS.
SYNORIX, _an ex-Tetrarch_. SINNATUS, _a Tetrarch_. _Attendant_. _Boy_. _Maid_. PHOEBE. CAMMA, _wife of Sinnatus, afterwards Priestess in the Temple of Artemis_.
ROMANS.
ANTONIUS, _a Roman General_. PUBLIUS. _Nobleman_. _Messenger_.
THE CUP.