SCENE I.--(_A fortress near Milan, where_ GREGORY _is in exile. Enter

MARGARET, _crazed, with her dead babe in her arms_.)

_Marg._ They would have stopped me, but my love’s good cunning Did cheat them all. O, my sweet, waxen Babe, The Holy Father, he will tell me true, An’ make thee smile agen, thou art not dead, They lie who say thou’rt dead. Here cometh one

_Enter_ HILD. _much older looking, accompanied by_ PETER.

Who hath a holy face, he’ll speak for me Unto the Pope to make thee smile agen.

_Hild._ Nay, Peter, they may rail and rail at me, Strip all my wealth and make them fifty Popes, They will not shake me.

_Pet._ Gregory, Gregory, ponder well thine answer, Remember, if thou art the real Pope, Thou art not in Rome.

_Hild._ Wherever I am, Rome is! They may drive Me into farthest banishment, they but put God’s holiness from out their precincts. I am Rome!

_Marg._ Good Father.

_Pet._ Woman, what wantest thou here?

_Hild._ Drive her not out, Peter, see, her reason Like me from my high Papacy, is exiled From her poor body. I would speak with her. Sorrow and defeat make men more kindly. (_To_ MARGARET.) Daughter, wouldst thou speak a word with me?

_Marg._ Sir, I would see the Pope, but his attendants Would drive me out, an’ my sweet baby here. They say he’s dead an’ he will smile no more, ’Tis but because that terrible Pope had laid His curse on us my babe will never smile.

_Hild._ Poor Girl, thy child is dead.

_Marg._ Nay, nay, ’tis only this dread awful curse. You are a kind old man, you’ll go with me, And plead with me unto that terrible Pope, And make him take this curse from off our lives, An’ make my baby smile.

_Hild._ What curse, my daughter?

_Marg._ Take me but to him, I will tell it all, But here my mind forsakes me, someone said I was his daughter, but they must have lied. God would not make a father so unkind To curse his only daughter, kill her joy, And make her baby like my baby here.

_Hild._ O God, O God, it cannot, cannot be! A mist seems growing up before mine eyes! Peter, Peter, this is mine own daughter.

_Pet._ Yea, she is distract. These women ever Do come betwixt us and our sight of heaven.

_Hild._ My Daughter, know thy father. I am the Pope.

_Marg._ Nay, nay, but thou art kindly, hast no heart To lay a winter like is laid on me?

_Hild._ Nay, Daughter, I am he, that awful man, I am Pope Gregory.

_Marg._ Then if you be, take off this hideous curse, Make my babe laugh and crow and stuff his hands In rosy mouth, and speak his father’s name, And he will come. They say thou hast God’s ear, And He will do it.

_Hild._ O Peter, Peter, this would break my heart Were I but human.

_Pet._ Send her away. Thou canst do her no good, The child is dead, and she hath lost her reason. Much must be suffered here that good may come. Send her away.

_Hild._ Nay, Peter, I have worked full o’er enough For Holy Church, this much God asked of me, He did not make me butcher to my child. Hildebrand in sorrow finds a heart. Out, out thou cruel man, for one short hour Let me forget the Pope and be a father. [_Exit_ PETER.

_Marg._ Holy Father, make my baby smile, And God will thank thee by a mother’s heart.

_Hild._ Daughter, God will make thy baby smile, When thou and I and others like us smile, And we have put aside this earthly dross That weights our spirits down, in His Great Judgment.

_Marg._ O, Father, thou art kind, and thou wilt do it, Thou hast all power, all heaven-given strength, To bless, to ban, to slay, to make alive: O bring my baby back to me again.

_Hild._ Daughter, I am but a weak, despised old man, One poor enough in even this life’s powers To make him jealous o’ yon sweet, sleeping babe Whom the angel of death makes waxen in thine arms.

_Marg._ O Father, tell me not that he is dead.

_Hild._ Margaret, Margaret, this is not thy babe, But some sweet marbled mould of what he was. I know a bank where we will plant this blossom, And water it anew with our poor tears. Could I as easy bury my black griefs, And all the storm cloud passions of this life, God knows, I’d make me sexton to them all. Come, let us out. [_Exit both._

_Enter_ PETER _and a_ Bishop.

_Pet._ He hath gone out with some mad woman but now, He gets more in his dotage day by day. I cannot move him, thou canst try thy power.

_Bish._ If he would only come to terms with Henry, And patch this foolish quarrel, the Church is safe, And if not then--

_Pet._ Then what?

_Bish._ He must be brought to make his deposition.

_Pet._ He’d die first ere he would do either, Here he comes.

_Enter_ HILDEBRAND _bearing the dead body of_ MARGARET.

’Tis the mad woman.

_Hild._ Come help me to lay her here. She was my daughter.

_Bish._ Is his Holiness mad, that he uttereth thus, Such scandal ’gainst the Church’s dignity?

_Hild._ Nay, rather found his reason for an hour, Like other men through earth’s humanities. Mine arrogance did dream I was above Men’s humble sorrows. See my soul rebuked. She bore it Peter till the first clod fell Upon yon little blossom, then she shook, And when it passed from sight her soul passed too. I fear me much we blunder out God’s truths, And mar His angels with our brutal laws, And change His temple to a prison house. She was a blossom, Peter, so like her mother, I’ll bury her out there beside her babe, And when the winds shake and the roses blow, They’ll know each other as their angels know Each other in Heaven. Would I were sleeping too! Dost know mine age, Peter? I am over sixty.

_Pet._ Your holiness forgets. The bishop would speak with you.

_Hild._ Forgive me bishop, aye, ’tis thou Brunelli, What is thy business?

_Brunelli._ Your Holiness must pardon my intrusion On this o’er sad occasion, important matters Must be their own excuse. I will speak plainly;-- One by one your party leaves you, soon You will be desolate. Our only chance is now.

_Hild._ Ha! now? And now!

_Brunelli._ You must meet Henry.

_Hild._ Never!

_Brunelli._ Then Peter, tell him for I cannot.

_Pet._ The matter, Gregory, is in short thou must Plant empery upon bold Henry’s head Or lose thy tiara.

_Hild._ Never, as I am Pope, I will do neither! Though I am wasted, agéd, worn and weak, Deserted by false friends and hireling hounds, I still am Gregory. Never hand but mine Can dare uncrown me. Let him dread my curse Who’d force me to it. Yea, that hand will shrivel Ere it uncrowns me. People the world with Popes, There’s but one Peter. Look on this my sorrow Embittering with its pangs mine olden age, And know what I have done for Holy Church. By that sweet face that lieth there in death, A martyr, if ever was one, to God’s great cause, I bid you go and tell proud Henry, yea, And all those false, foul prelates of the church, That Hildebrand who crushed out his own heart, To keep the right will die as he hath lived.

[_Curtain._