Eld. O, my lady, up all night, and now 'tis barely day you must be going!
Gla. My good Eldra, you would teach my shadow constancy, for you follow me without let or leave from the sun.
Eld. I follow not you but my orders, mistress. Sir Roland says that I must not leave you.
Gla. The gates are all locked. Does he think me a bird to fly over the walls?
Eld. That he does! The bonniest bird that ever sang in Greenot woods. Isn't Sir Roland a man, my lady?
Gla. By his cap and feather, I should not doubt it.
Eld. But a man you may look at, my lady!
Gla. Pray God I may, madam, for 'tis sad to be young and blind.
Eld. Ay, but when I look at Sir Roland I could sing again the song that got me a husband.
Gla. What song? I think you got him with your fair face and honest mind, and he took the song by way of grace with meat.
Eld. True, mistress, I was a fair, canny lass over the border.
Gla. And a fair, canny dame you are now, Eldra. But what was the song?
Eld. It was back summat ten jaunts o' the sun from Lammas to Lammas. I was standing on the rock hills over Logan frith wi' the green woods behind me an' lookin' out to sea. The waves were runnin' high, and the brine in my face gave me such a spirit that in a minute my bonnet was off and I was singing at the top of my voice—
It's a long ballad, but it's out o' my mind now, and who should come up behind me but my man that was to be, and 'twas set then and there we must go to the kirk come Sunday. Ay, it got me a husband, but never a son, for only six months away he was drowned at sea—the very sea that I'd sung so brave t-to——
Gla. Don't cry. He will come sailing back some day with a fortune in his pocket. I don't believe he was drowned.
Eld. I care not what's in his pocket, ma'am, if he bring me love in his heart.
Gla. That he will, I am sure. Where is Orson?
Eld. Bathing his knees in gooseoil, my lady. You kept him at prayers all night for Sir Hubert.
Gla. Why, did we not share his watch?
Eld. Yes, mistress, but when you fell asleep we had not the heart to wake you.
Gla. O, ho! I fell asleep, did I?
Eld. I should hope you did, my lady. For my part I winked but once, and when I woke up you were——
Gla. Asleep?
Eld. No, but you were praying so chipper that I knew you were just at it.
Gla. O, false woman! Do you think I could sleep when Hubert is on the sea? Call Orson to me.
Eld. Orson! Orson!
[Enter Orson, walking stiffly]
Gla. Why, Orson, you carry as much dignity as a watchman that has just let in a duke.
Ors. Mock not affliction got in your service, my lady.
Gla. My service? When did I tell you to sleep all night on your knees?
Ors. Sleep? Sleep, lady?
Gla. Ay, sleep. You are a knave. Bring me my lute.
Ors. Muttering] Sleep! There's thanks for you! [Exit]
Eld. Mistress, you must not play your lute here. The king's men are not like Sir Hubert's, and your voice will quick tell 'em there's a bird in the bower.
Gla. I am not afraid. What are men but creatures like ourselves?
Eld. Like ourselves? La, my lady!
Gla. There's no harm in them. You are a foolish dame.
[Re-enter Orson]
[Taking lute] Good Orson, I am sorry if your knees are stiff. You may have the unguent that Sir Roland brought me from Palestine. Go, Eldra, and get it for him.
Eld. [Aside] An I give him not gooseoil with a dash of cinnamon, I'm no good servant to my mistress. [Exeunt Eldra and Orson]
Gla. I do not like this castle with Hubert away. Sir Roland makes it a prison. If I could get out I should try to find my way to Greenot woods. The doves are nesting now, and the little brown fawns are specked with snow. [Plays lute and sings]
Eld. Dear man, you can't deny it! 'Twas you saved my mistress. But for my good man drowned at sea I'd love you, sweeting.
Ste. And if you love me it must be by way of kiss and part, for my good wife is still in the world, I've reason to think, and some day I shall run plumb into her bonny white arms. But a kiss, my lass, with a penny to the priest, can do a soldier no harm, and you'll always find me obliging in everything except matrimony.
Eld. Out! Away! You old father Longbeard! You Johnny Hump-back!
Ste. Hump! 'Tis the squint in your eye, my dearie! I'm as straight as a poplar in the king's court.
Eld. Squint, sir? May be so, for I'm thinkin' o' my braw handsome man, an' 'twould make a straight eye squint to see you standin' in his place, it would.
Ste. An' I'm thinkin' o' my bonny little girl, as plump and tender as a partridge at her first nest, and out upon you, my fine, fat waddler!
Eld. An my man were here you'd drop to your fours and go like a beast for shame, you would. The prettiest figure 'tween here and Jerusalem! He had an arm! He could sling a sword! And such a leg! Dick Lion-heart never shaped a trimmer stocking. Hair like a raven fannin' the wind! An eye like Sallydeen's! For all the world a black coal with a fire in the middle. No watery peepers like present company's. An his eyes were stars in heaven I could point 'em out!
Ste. O, my sweet wench that's a waitin' for me! When shall I see her comin' with her head up like a highland doe, an' cheeks as red as my grandam's nightcap? I think o' her now as she stood on the high rocks over Logan's frith singin' the song that made the sugar-water start in my heart. And straight I must gallop wi' her to the kirk— Hey, what's the matter, old lady?
Eld. Nothin'—nothin', sir,—just one o' my qualms.
Ste. Do you have 'em ordinary? A pity now. My lass, an she lived a thousand years, would not he qualmsy.
Eld. [Aside] 'Tis Stephen, my own man! And he doesn't know me! O, I am changed from his ain lassie! He despises me! Waddler! O!
Ste. Chirk up, old duck. When I find my lass——
[Re-enter Orson]
Ors. Mistress Eldra, what do you gabbling here and my lady calling you?
[Exit Eldra with Orson]
Ste. Eldra? By Pharo's ghost! Let me see—ten years. It might be—yes—her very complexion—the pert eye—the little foot—the canny twitch to her lips—and her man drowned at sea. Well, I'm pickled. She has built up such a Solomon's glory picture o' me that plain Stephen Godfrey will never get another chance. He had an arm! Ha! Did I? An eye like Sallydeen! A leg like Lion-heart! Ha! [Struts up and down] But now I'm father Longbeard. Well, I'll shave off this weeping willow tree anyhow.
[Re-enter Eldra]
Eld. Good sir, are you here yet?
Ste. [Aside] Good sir! Methinks I grow in favor. Ay, sweet madam.
Eld. [Aside] He's lookin' softer now. Well a day, this is a world. Here they brought me and the lady Glaia to make sure we would be safe, and now they're taking us back for the same reason. Ay me, and a lonely, dreary place it is we're goin' to, with never a civil gentleman like yourself to sit out the night wi' a stoop o' ale an' cakes o' my own raisin'.
Ste. My good madam, if you will give me the tip o' the road, I'll not be a slow traveller when the business of war will let an honest soldier course to his liking.
Eld. O, 'tis secret, sir. My lady is hid away for some reason of God or the devil, and I'll not be so false as to let a stranger on the track.
Ste. Am I a stranger, madam? Did not my good arm no more than an hour ago procure me warrant for better treatment? Come! As you say, there'll be lonely times, and a discreet companion who knows how to keep his tongue behind his teeth will not come amiss on a rainy day.
Eld. [Aside] How can it be harm to tell my own man when the good priest said we were one flesh? 'Twill only be tellin' my own ears. Well, sir, if you'll swear by St. Peter's thumb and the crucifix you'll never let anybody know——
Ste. By St. Peter's thumb and the crucifix—and your black eyes, too—I swear!
Eld. Then take the straight road to—O, I'm afraid!
Ste. Courage, my pretty! There's not a cricket to hear you.
Eld. The straight road to Greenot woods, and two miles in the forest where the brook crosses, ride up the stream half a mile to a tall red ash standin' alone, and three miles by the path to the right brings you to the place you'll find me. Now I've done it! No, don't thank me for bein' a fool.
Ste. Nay, a woman, dearie.
Eld. I must run to my mistress.
[Exit Eldra, Stephen following]