SCENE 3. _A room in the earl of Albemarle's palace. A friar, and

the king in friar's dress, but uncowled, waiting._

_Hen._ This is a fitting room for Death's cold jest; So proudly hung, and filled with comfort's chattels, As though its owner hoped long respite from A clayey bed. Where is the tenant, father?

_Friar._ She'll enter presently,--ah, even now.

[_Henry puts on cowl. Enter lady Albemarle, bearing a small box which she holds to her bosom_]

_La. Alb._ Father, hast brought the holy man? The saint Whose prayer may save the soul already damned.

_Fr._ Good daughter----

_La. Alb._ Ha! Good devil! That were better! He's here? Well, send him back. I've changed my mind. I will not see him,--no, nor you!

_Fr._ Farewell.

_La. Alb._ Nay, do not go! Wouldst leave a soul in hell For humor of the tongue? [_Friar returns to her_] My soul? Pah, sir! You think a priest can save it? I want not Your prayers, but your good service to set right A wrong. Don't mumble over me! I speak Because I'm dying. Had I hope to live, Then right might shift for itself. And you call this Repentance! Pah! Who can keep mum when death Turns the last screw? You know the earl of Kent? My brother?

_Fr._ Yes, my daughter.

_La. Alb._ I know that Will make his peace with Henry--foolish king! I must go back to tell you--years and years. [_Turns away as if musing_]

_Fr._ Speak, lady, in God's name.

_La. Alb._ I'll tell you all. But I'll not kneel. I've lived too much on knees. ... See? Albemarle! He has as many bodies As he has wishes to keep spy on me. ... He's gone, and did not speak. He never speaks, But there's a sort of beast sits in his heart That growls and I do hear it.

_Fr._ Peace, good lady.

_La. Alb._ Ah, good again. Foul, foul and villainous! Come here, thou holy man. To you I'll speak. Dost think that ever I was beautiful, And these long locks once bound a king to me?

_Hen._ A king?

_La. Alb._ Ay, royal John. A king indeed! Angel to me though devil to the world. None loved him but his Eleanor,--none, none! The rest were mistresses unto his throne. I gave my heart, he took me up to his. Ah, father, do you think that is my sin? That is my joy, my glory, my one pride. I'll ne'er repent it until I repent That e'er I smiled or felt myself alive. Repent? Nay, father, not till I believe That marble women are more dear to God Than we whose hearts are warm with the same love That beat in His when worlds leapt from His joy. Come back, O golden summer, when there dwelt Two happy beings in a magic wood, Treading not earth but soft enchantment's air, Until the beast came! There, do you not see him? Away, black Albemarle! O, mercy, Heaven! ... Then there was Glaia, bud of our true love----

_Hen._ Glaia!

_La. Alb._ O, happy I, when he my king Bent over me and said, "Sweet, she is ours!"

_Hen._ My sister!

_La. Alb._ What dost say? Thy sister? Ha! Base monk, I tell thee that her blood was royal As Henry's own! Ay, nobler! Who shall say My spirit leapt not o'er pale Isabel's?

[_Retreats to couch by which is a small table. Puts box on table and lays her head upon it, weeping_]

_Hen._ Then Glaia was my sister. Did you hear?

_Fr._ I heard what I well knew before By my heart's guess, but had no proof of it.

_La. Alb._ [_Starting up_] Hear, father! You've heard nothing yet. Last night I killed her. Do you hear? I killed her.

_Hen._ O!

_La. Alb._ You hear? Ay, for you gasp and mutter prayers. I thought to go and watch her while she slept, And walked a devil with me who held close A dagger--Hubert's--that's my brother, monk. Still, still, ye swirling fiends that in my brain Keep your hot dance! Be still!... She lay asleep, Pain in her heart and beauty on her brow; Her curls--her father's curls--around her face. One fell upon my wrist--and see, a burn, As though its gold were fire. She turned to me, And murmured as her father did in sleep; Then, in my hand the knife arose, and fell, And as my brain rocked sick I heard him say, My lover, bending o'er me, "She is ours." [_Pauses_]

_Hen._ And then?

_La. Alb._ What next I know not, but I think Some cunning led me to conceal the deed And make escape. I left the dagger there. 'Twas Hubert's. You had best be quick, or harm Will come to him. The world is such a fool! But wait--O, wait till I am dead! I am A coward born, and life has bred me such. Hark! Albemarle is coming! Lock the door! [_Runs to the table and takes up the box_] Look--in this box--my lover's letters--see! I have the key. I'll give it to the devil, And Albemarle may look for it in hell. O, I am dying! Hide them for me, priest. My letters from my king. I'll burn them all. Nay, nay, sweet, pretty words, lie down with me. Together we'll grow cold. Ye'd fire enough, God wot! [_Lies on couch_] Glaia is dead. Be quiet now. Hast heard I was her mother? There's a secret-- No--no--I must not speak it--but 'twill out By doomsgate, so they say. You are a priest; Canst tell how far 'tis from the grave to hell? You think they'll let me lie a little first And see how 'tis to sleep? 'Tis a long walk, I'll lie quite still, and give no trouble--none. [_Dies_]

_Hen._ Help! Something to revive her.

_Fr._ It were vain. Earth has not such restorative.

_Hen._ Not dead?

_Fr._ The heavenly amaranth alone can dew Her brow with life.

_Hen._ O, Hubert! What am I? Let me crawl to thy feet, cast off my crown As I cast off this cowl, and lie in dust Before thee! O, too late! [_To friar_] 'Tis as you guessed. And each confessed in sacrificial love Hoping to save the other. Tell me now Who plays the angel here?

_Fr._ My liege, one who Would not be here but that he fears no death. [_Removes his cowl_]

_Hen._ Roland!

_Wynne._ My king!

_Hen._ Not king, but friend, And equal in this woe. Rise! 'Tis no time To kneel. What must we do? Now Margaret Is safe--but Hubert? Even now they doom him. Barons and church are leagued to prove him guilty, Nor have I power against their proof to pardon And keep my throne.

_Wynne._ Take courage. Thou art king.

_Hen._ To th' tower then. If majesty is yet A word of might, we'll dare them all.

_Wynne._ Now speaks Yourself.

_Hen._ I'll be the king!

_Wynne._ You fill my heart With singing prophecies.

_Hen._ But first we'll give An order for the noble burial Of this poor woman. Glaia's mother, Roland. She called me brother, and would have it so. Ah, little sister, did the angels tell you? You lived so much with them.... 'Twas I who killed her. My very hand, and not this poor mad woman's. I slew them both. Oh, oh, oh!

_Wynne._ Dear my lord, Leave grief unto the grave, that it best decks; The living call us now.

_Hen._ You talk so, sir, Who did not love her.

_Wynne._ O, my lord!

_Hen._ You did. Forgive me, friend, that I forgot your heart.

_Wynne._ If constancy past sacrifice of hope Is love, I loved her, sire. If to be true To every wish that rises from her grave Is love, I love her still. But you, my liege, Cloud your fidelity, wasting in tears The moments now devoted by the stars To rescue one she loved.

_Hen._ Shame me no more. We'll give an order here, then to the tower!

[_Exeunt_]