ACT V
Scene I. Morning. Sherwood Forest (as before). Little John and some of the Outlaws are gathered together talking. Occasionally they look anxiously toward the cave and at the approaches through the wood. Enter two Foresters, running and breathless.
Two troops of them, five hundred men in each
And more are following.
And quickly.
Along, at least five hundred men at arms;
And, to the north, along another line,
Bigger, I think; but not so near.
We must away at once!
Move him!
When he escaped last night from the Dark Tower.
He never spoke of it when first he reached us;
And, suddenly, he swooned. He is asleep
Now. He must not be wakened. They will take
Some time yet ere they thread our forest-maze.
A messenger to Kirklee Priory,
Where my old friend the Prioress hath store
Of balms and simples, and hath often helped
A wounded forester. Could we take him there,
Her skill would quickly heal him.
You must not rise! Your wound!
Better than on my greenwood throne of turf?
Friar, I heard them say they had some prisoners.
Bring them before me.
And they can wait.
That cannot wait, that die for want of food,
And then—the Norman gold will come too late,
Too late.
O master, you must rest.
Oh, help me,
Help me with him. Help me to lead him back.
When I have seen the prisoners, not before.
Or he will break his wound afresh.
Give me your word that you'll go back and rest,
When you have seen them.
But oh, the sunlight! Where better, sweet, than this?
Under the greenwood boughs! Oh, still to keep it,
One little glen of justice in the midst
Of multitudinous wrong. Who knows? We yet
May leaven the whole world.
You had some victims of the forest laws
That came to you for help. Bring them in, too,
And set them over against these lords of the earth!
We took him out of pity, and he has wronged
Our honour, sir; he has wronged a helpless woman
Entrusted to his guidance thro' the forest.
We fight for, those below, not those above!
Which of you will betray me to the King?
With "Master, is it I?" Hang not thy head!
What say'st thou to this charge?
Can answer for me. Do you think he cares
Less for a woman's lips than I?
Thou rotten radish? Nay, but a vast deal more!
God's three best gifts to man,—woman and song
And wine, what dost thou know of all their joy?
Thou lean pick-purse of kisses?
Friar, and let him pack his goods and go,
Whither he will. I trust the knave to thee
And thy good quarter-staff, for some five minutes
Before he says "Farewell."
Give him a quarter-staff, I'll thrash him roundly.
Of York!
One of the sufferers by the rule which gave
This portly Norman his fat priory
And his abundant lands. We heard him say
That he was helpless, had not one poor coin
To give her, not a scrap of bread! He wears
Purple beneath his cloak: his fine sleek palfrey
Flaunted an Emperor's trappings!
Must keep her dignity!
There is your dignity! And you must wear
Silk next your skin to show it. But there was one
You call your Master, and He had not where
To lay His head, save one of these same trees!
There are grave matters waiting. I am poor!
In all the world, no more. I'll give them to you!
Here's, at the least, a hundred marks in gold!
And then—of what remained—they gathered up
Twelve basketsful!
This miracle; wrought with the blood, anguish and sweat
Of toiling peasants, while the cobwebs clustered
Around your lordly cellars of red wine.
Give him his five and let him go.
Shall hear of this! The King will hunt you down!
Your wound will—
Another master of broad territories.
How many homes were burned to make you lord
Of half a shire? What hath he in his purse?
I need much more.
And yet, of what remained, they gathered up
Twelve basketsful. The bread of human kindness
Goes far! Oh, I begin to see new meanings
In that old miracle! How much? How much?
Starving! Their little children cry for bread!
One of those jewels on his baldric there
Would feed them all in plenty all their lives!
Five loaves—and yet—and yet—of what remained,
The fragments, mark you, twelve great basketsful!
When all is dark (we must have darkness, mind,
For deeds like this) blind creatures will creep out
With groping hands and gaping mouths, lean arms,
And shrivelled bodies, branded, fettered, lame,
Distorted, horrible; and they will weep
Great tears like gouts of blood upon our feet,
And we shall succour them and make them think
(That's if you have not mangled their poor souls
As well, or burned their children with their homes),
We'll try to make them think that some few roods
Of earth are not so bitter as hell might be.
Are you not glad to think of this? Nay—go—
Or else your face will haunt me when I die!
Take him quickly away. The next! The next!
O God!
The wound! The wound!
What, what hath happened?
To Kirklee. Our old friend the Prioress
Is there, and faithful! They've all balms and simples
To heal a wound.
We'll take him to the borders of the wood
All will be safe.
Where he can steal in easily, alone.
Till sundown, when the nuns are all in chapel.
How now? What's this? What's this?
Scene II. A room in Kirklee Priory. A window on the right overlooks a cloister leading up to the chapel door. The forest is seen in the distance, the sun beginning to set behind it. The Prioress and a Novice are sitting in a window-seat engaged in broidery work.
I long to see him. Father used to say
England had known none like him since the days
Of Hereward the Wake.
By vespers. You shall let him in. Who's that?
Can that be he? It is not sundown yet.
See who is there.
She is robed like any nun and yet she spoke
Like a great lady—one that is used to rule More than obey; and on her breast I saw
A ruby smouldering like a secret fire
Beneath her cloak. She bade me say she came
On Robin Hood's behest.
Quickly.
I am a friend of Robin Hood. I have heard—
One of his Foresters, this very noon
Brought me the news—that he is sorely wounded;
And purposes to seek your kindly help
At Kirklee Priory.
You must be a great friend, for this was kept
Most secret from all others.
He was my page some fifteen years ago,
And all his life I have watched over him
As if he were my son! I have come to beg
A favour—let me see him when he comes.
My husband was a soldier, and I am skilled
In wounds. In Palestine I saved his life
When every leech despaired of it, a wound
Caused by a poisoned arrow.
I have some skill myself in balms and simples,
But, in these deadlier matters I would fain
Trust to your wider knowledge.
Alone, you understand. His mind is fevered.
I have an influence over him. Do not say
That I am here, or aught that will excite him.
Better say nothing—lead him gently in,
And leave him. In my hands he is like a child.
In the poor workings of our mortal minds.
When I was out in Palestine.
They have great powers and magic remedies;
They can restore youth to the withered frame.
I am most glad to hear you say it, most glad
To know we think alike. That is most true—
Yes—yes—most true; for God alone, dear friend,
Can raise the dead!
With me?
Mother, I think 'tis he!
Leave me, I am but praying!
For healing. Pretty Marian cannot help you
With all her kisses.
That you were here. I did not ask your help.
I must go—Marian!
Both to yourself and me. You cannot go,
Rejecting the small help which I can give
As if I were a leper. Ah, come back.
Are you so unforgiving? God forgives!
Did you not see me praying for your sake?
Think, if you think not of yourself, oh, think
Of Marian—can you leave her clinging arms
Yet, for the cold grave, Robin? I have risked
Much, life itself, to bring you help this day!
I have some skill in wounds.
How slowly, how insidiously this death
Creeps, coil by tightening coil, around a man,
When he is weak as you are? Do you know
How the last subtle coil slips round your throat
And the flat snake-like head lifts up and peers
With cruel eyes of cold, keen inquisition,
Rivetting your own, until the blunt mouth sucks
Your breath out with one long, slow, poisonous kiss?
Ha! Ha! Your nerves are shaken; you are so weak! You cannot go! What! Fainting? Ah, rest here
Upon this couch.
To know if I could help in anything.
The pricking of a vein to make the heart
Beat, and the sluggish rivers flow. I have brought
A lance for it. I'll let a little blood.
Not over-much; enough, enough to set
The pulses throbbing.
She waits without and asks—
Near him till all is done. Let her not know
Anything, or the old fever will awake.
I'll lance his arm now!
That have kissed Marian—yet, she shall not boast
You kissed her last; for I will have you wake
To the fierce memory of this kiss in heaven
Or burn with it in hell;
Hush! Not a step further! Stay where you are! His life
Hangs on a thread.
Why do you stare upon me?
What have you done? What's this that trickles down—
King John will find you there.
O God, I cannot wake him! Robin! Robin!
Give me one word to take into the dark!
He will not wake! He will not wake! O God,
Help him!
The forest waits to help you! All the leaves
Are listening for your bugle. Ah, where is it?
Let but one echo sound and the wild flowers
Will break thro' these grey walls and the green sprays
Drag down these deadly towers. Wake, Robin, wake,
And let the forest drown the priest's grey song
With happy murmurs. Robin, the gates are open
For you and Marian! All I had to give
I have given to thrust them open, the dear gates
Of fairyland which I shall never pass
Again. I can no more, I am but a shadow,
Dying as mortals die! It is not I
That calls, not I, but Marian. Hear her voice!
Robin, awake!
O, master mine, farewell!
Why do you call me? I must go. What's this?
Help me, kind God, for I must say one word,
Only one word—good-bye—to Marian,
To Marian—Ah, too weak, too weak!
Hath played the butcher here? Quick, hunt them down,
They passed out yonder. Let them not outlive
Our murdered king and queen.
Who shot this bitter shaft into her breast?
Just one small word, one little loving word
Like those—do you remember?—you have breathed
So many a time and often, against my cheek, Under the boughs of Sherwood, in the dark
At night, with nothing but the boughs and stars
Between us and the dear God up in heaven!
O God, why does a man's heart take so long
To break? It would break sooner if you spoke
A word to me, a word, one small kind word.
Kind heart of Marian!
Marian, I follow quickly!
Shall burn for this!
O master, master, you shall be avenged!
We have lived our lives and God be thanked we go
Together thro' this darkness. We shall wake,
Please God, together. It is growing darker!
I cannot see your faces. Give me my bow
Quickly into my hands, for my strength fails
And I must shoot one last shaft on the trail
Of yonder setting sun, never to reach it! But where this last, last bolt of all my strength,
My hope, my love, shall fall, there bury us both,
Together, and tread the green turf over us!
The bow!
Dear Robin Hood, the poor man's friend, is dead.
The world begins again!
And O, the red of the roses,
And the rush of the healing rain!
The Princess wakes from sleep;
For the soft green keys of the wood-land
Have opened her donjon-keep!
Their grey walls hemmed us round;
But, under my greenwood oceans,
Their castles are trampled and drowned.
My green sprays climbed on high,
And the ivy laid hold on their turrets
And haled them down from the sky!
They were strong! They are overthrown!
For the little soft hands of the wild-flowers
Have broken them, stone by stone.
Though Robin lie dead, lie dead,
And the green turf by Kirklee
Lie light over Marian's head,
What bugle have you heard?
Was it only the peal of the blue-bells,
Was it only the call of a bird?
The rose o'er the fortalice floats!
My nightingales chant in their chapels,
My lilies have bridged their moats!
King Death, in the light of the sun,
Shrinks like an elfin shadow!
His reign is over and done!
My lovers, awake, awake,
Shake off the grass-green coverlet,
Glide, bare-foot, thro' the brake!
And, under the great green boughs,
I have found out a place for my lovers,
I have built them a beautiful house.
This gift by my death I give,—
They shall wander immortal thro' Sherwood!
In my great green house they shall live!
When the first wind blows from the South,
They shall meet by the Gates of Faërie!
She shall set her mouth to his mouth!
They shall pass thro' the Gates, they shall live!
For the Forest, the Forest has conquered!
This gift by my death I give!
The world awakes anew;
And O, the scent of the hawthorn,
And the drip of the healing dew!
Are opened by a mortal's kindly deed.
But Robin Hood and Marian now are driven
As we shall soon be driven, from the world
Of cruel mortals.
Oberon, what is death?
But these may dream their happy dreams in death
Before they wake to that new lovely life
Beyond the shadows; for poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf
Has given them this by love's eternal law
Of sacrifice, and they shall enter in
To dream their lover's dream in fairyland.
For ever?
We fairies have not known or heard
What waits for those who, like this wandering Fool,
Throw all away for love. But I have heard
There is a great King, out beyond the world,
Not Richard, who is dead, nor yet King John;
But a great King who one day will come home
Clothed with the clouds of heaven from His Crusade.
And the fairies lead them on, strewing their path
With ferns and moon-flowers. See, they have entered in!
For ever now. Hundreds of years may pass
Before another mortal gives his life
To help the poor and needy.
Where wouldst thou ride?
"Onward," I heard him say,
"Love, to thy side!"
"Stay, for I see
Death in the mask of love
Waiting for thee."
My King!
"I must ride on!"