(Pointing with his sword down the street.)
God lifts the curtain and the Play is on,
Whose last act shall unfold above the clouds
With Tempest and with Earthquake that shall shake
Hell to the very bottom. Seize him.
No, no! The boy has done no— (Coughing.)
Shall bloody daggers drip on our gray hairs,
And chase us through the deep? Shall they? Come on!
(The line swings off.)
Until her towers, stormed by angels' wings,
Shall bow like Acre to the Son of God.
This is the worst I ever did hear. (Looking about him while
Oswald coughs with great distress.) Men,—
(Seeing that all the men have gone, he shouts after them.)
(He goes toward the church.)
Father! Father! (He falls upon his knees.)
Father Benedict—A burnt offering. (Oswald rises quickly, his face full of horror, and flees in the direction of the Abbey, coughing violently.)
If Benedict, whose "joy is in the chase,"
Shall "chase the deer with hounds as hunters do,"
Perhaps this devil that goes up in smoke
Will drop somewhere upon the mountain paths
And pluck your haunches from the talbot's teeth.
Pray God he may, when Benedict turns hound.
(He enters the church and closes the door.)
SCENE FIVE—The same street, projected to the outskirts of the village. On the right, is a wagon bridge built of logs. Some slabs, left over from the building of the bridge years ago, lie in a pile at the roadside. Farther back, across the river the course of which is marked by a line of sycamores, the mountain rises abrupt and green, with here and there patches of bare rocks and trees thickening as it extends back and up. Away to the center and left, a stretch of bottom land with cultivated fields. One gets a nearer view of the snow-capped peaks seen from the mountain side in the first Scene and from the courtyard of the abbey in the second. In the foreground at the roadside, is a large olive tree with its dark shadow lying directly beneath it, for over the landscape is a clear light as of a noonday sun shining from a cloudless sky.
Under the tree, with several willow baskets strung together lying upon the ground beside him, sits the dwarf, Sigurd, polishing Oswald's silver crucifix upon his knee. He holds it out in a bit of sunshine that falls through the leaves and, after flashing the light about, resumes rubbing it upon his trousers.
Close in, men! Close in!
(The dwarf rises to his knees and looks in the direction of the town. Then, hiding the crucifix in his bosom, he comes out in the road and looks in the opposite direction as though trying to discover who it is they are after. Stones strike in the road and go clattering across the bridge. A moment later Jardin and his men come rushing in.)
across the river.) We've got him!
(He makes for the pile of slabs. Several of the men follow him.)
(They load themselves with slabs. Jardin, who with the dwarf is in the center of the crowd, suddenly holds aloft the silver crucifix.)
Look out! Look out!
(The men carrying slabs glance back, then throw their loads down and go fleeing toward the village.)
(The crowd flees, leaving Jardin holding the dwarf by the collar standing in the road.)
Heathen,
Between us is a grave. (He lays his hand upon his sword.)
With Christ in one hand, and in the other this.
(Canzler draws his sword, and a duel ensues. The Bailiff, protected by his armor which Canzler has twice struck and failed to pierce, lays his blows on as though he would end it all at once. Canzler deliberately draws back into the shade of the tree. Lunging madly, Jardin follows him. The villagers reappear with stones in their hands, and try to get where they will not hit Jardin when they throw.)
(Canzler has parried the thrust, and his sword has passed through the chain hauberk deep into the Bailiff's breast. The latter staggers back, his astonishment that steel armor should be pierced by mortal sword giving way to a look of chagrin, and after endeavoring to steady himself with the blade of his sword, falls flat, his armor clanking on the road. The villagers drop their stones and flee terror-stricken. Canzler stands for a moment, wipes the perspiration from his brow, then reaches down and takes up the Bailiff's sword by the point.)
(Swinging it around his head and hurling it toward the village.)
(He goes back under the tree and gets the baskets and comes out into the road. The dwarf stoops to pick up the crucifix that lies in the dirt about a yard from the Bailiff's hand.)
(He takes the boy by the hand and they return across the bridge. The Bailiff stirs, lifts himself to his elbow, and stretches his hand toward the crucifix. He cannot reach it and falls back and lies still.)
ACT FOUR.
SCENE ONE—In the cavern, as in Scene two of the second act. The spinning wheel stands against the wall and above it from a peg hangs a heavy skein of black wool. The baskets lie upon the floor. To the right of the low fire, a heap of chips, pine cones, and broken limbs. The cave is quite dark.
From the left the gnomes enter stealthily, one after another.
TIME—The same night.
(Gimel enters and, after him, Suk. Kilo crosses the cave and stands listening.)
(Gimel puts out his hand, palm back, warningly. Suk stops. Suddenly, to the left, a sound of whistling is heard.)
It's a frog booming on the river bank.
"Ave! Ave!" and hurry to the church
And take their pennies to the Priest. Curse them!
(While the rest snoop about the cave in search of food, Kilo puts some kindling upon the fire, and getting down upon his knees, blows it into a flame. He then stretches himself out upon the floor, and proping his head upon his elbow, begins to poke in the ashes with a stick.)
(Zip goes out right on tiptoe.)
I found a cricket down among the stones
Still numb with winter's cold.
Gimel, if the monk was sleeping there
On Granny's couch and you had Loki's sledge,
Think you could kill him?
(Kilo sits up.)
It's going to storm. The clouds are scudding fast
And thick and dark, brushing the mountain tops.
(Kilo lies down. The other gnomes, as if fearing the entrance of the witch, walk, left.)
You see these baskets here? To-night at dusk
The boy crept tiptoe to the entrance there
And threw them in. I holloed at him: "Hey!
You'd better run! Granny's been looking for you."
(Kilo rakes a coal from the fire and blows the ashes from it.)
There's not a leaf of Odin's helmet here.
A rat and a cat and a cat and a mouse.
Before she put the cauldron on again.
When Loki's hammers are soft as lead,
When her charms all fail wherever we turn,
When blight won't gather and murrain won't spread?
How can we toil when there's not a Nix
But turns to stone at a crucifix?
(From the left, Zory enters.)
Often as here by the coals she's sat
Crunching her pignuts and stroking her cat,
Many a time I've heard her say
That Thor's arm shriveled that April day
When out of a cloud in a thunder shower
He threw his bolt at the tall gray tower.
It shivered a poplar tree near by.
The church stood sound with its cursed crest,
While the god went bellowing down the sky,
Clutching his shoulder in terrible pain.
Now he rides to the east and he rides to the west—So
Granny says—and he's never seen
Lashing his goats through the driving rain.
Dark and fireless the clouds drift round;
Their waters fall without any sound.
It's Hoder that drives them now, I ween.
She'd left a slip of the Devil's herb,
(Skipping to the right.)
I'd straddle the moon and ride her down.
(Zory goes out.)
Every hour you can hear them call
From forest and bracken and water-fall.
Even at midday, when I've been clearing
Ore from the mountains and stood a peering
Through cracks in the cliff, I have seen them at play
Catching the drops of silvery spray,
Running with emeralds and amethysts
To the stones where the purple iris rests.
With hands to their mouths, from the mossy ledge,
They boom to the bittern far down in the sedge
On the river bank. They are in the air.
Woodland and water—everywhere.
No matter how dark, but that elves are found
Whispering and prying, their little eyes
Darting and glancing like fireflies.
Sleeping he lay on the ground one night—
He had guzzled his fill of Granny's brew—
When, thinking he heard his bellows blow,
He opened his eyes and spied the glow
Of flames on his forge, the sparks a leaping,
And a score of elves—-they thought him sleeping—
On trough and anvil and on the ground
Clapping their hands as they fell around.
Then he stirred, when lo! there was not a spark;
The bellows was still, the stithy was dark.
The tale is as true as the master's steel.
Here on the stones I lay that night,
Curled like a cat in the fire-light,
While there by the wall with a whirring sound
Granny's old spinning wheel went round.
It whirred and it whirred so I could not sleep,
So I lay and yawned and began to peep
And nudge the fire, for the night was cool.
Around the big wheel the wether's wool
Ran black, the dame's foot under her skirt
Paddling the pedal for Sigurd's shirt.
The wheel stopped a moment, and during the hush
I had dropped to a doze, when there came a rush
Of the coldest air that ever warped skin,
And Loki, frightened, dashed up and in
From the rift in the rocks. (He rises to one knee.)
His face was white
And the smut upon it showed black as night
And his limbs were so weak that he almost fell.
When he got his breath he began to tell
How, roused from his sleep by a noise in his shop—
Then Granny spied me and nudged him to stop,
And the two went out. I leaped to the ledge
And peered through the crack. Far up on the edge
Of the cliff where the hazel bushes grow,
The pines were glossing; the gnomes, I trow,
Were choking the caves to get in the ground
And hide in the dark lest they should be found
When Balder should roll his bright wheel on high.
Already his lances waved in the sky
Bedabbled with blood. The heavens were pale
And the peaks were bright with his burning mail.
I lost not a trice. As quick as a wink
I rushed to the roots and out through the chink
With the Devil's herb I followed the pair.
Darting invisible through the air,
I squatted toad-like on the turf and heard
Them babble their plans, heard every word,
Heard Granny wheeze and the master say—As
they rose from the rock and turned away—"We
must nag on the gnomes or the cross will rise.
They must take the monk's life or put out his—"
(He dashes out, left, followed by the other gnomes. From the right, the witch enters. In her right hand she holds a big black owl by the wing; in her left, a large club. She is tall, raw-boned, and weasened. Her hair is of a stringy gray, and a skein of it hangs upon her cheek. Her breath comes short, and there is a wheeze in her voice.)
Sigurd! Ay, ay!
You'd better hide, you lazy, crooked dwarf.
You'll pay for this.
(She throws the owl down, and taking the sticks from the fire, beats the flames out upon the floor.)
You'll gladly sleep upon the coldest stones,
But you'll not close an eye. You'll moan all night,
Dragging your red-puffed soles across the floor,
And beg the gnomes for snow. I'll teach you how
To burn my kindling up. Here I must trudge
Up to the blasted cliffs day after day,
Strip bark, drag brush, break limbs, and gather cones
Among the pines, the bait of all the winds,
And barely get enough to heat my brew,
And here you'll lie roasting your wretched bones.
I'll warm your cursed shanks. I'll put your feet
To blister on the red-hot coals again
And flog you limping up the rocks for wood.
(Hanging up the baskets.)
Flapping their wings and gaggling at the moon
To call the Christians down. You'll keep their necks!
You'll swear by father Thor you fetched them up
And penned them in the lot. I'll beat you, though;
I'll whale you with these rods until you're sore.
(She piles her wood against the wall.)
You'll find it scarce, I vow. There's not a day
You're by the stream. You're up among the crags,
Beating the eagles from the new-dropped kids.
You feed the woodman's ewes. You hunt the hills
For sorrel-grass to see the lambkins eat.
You never drain an udder for my sop,
Or bring me honey from the gum. Sneezeweed
You never dig or nightshade from the marsh.
You play among the logs. My nuts and corn
You steal to feed the striped chipmunks with.
All day you're in the wood or on the slope,
Listening to hear the noisy Christian bells.
You love the damned sound. You love the monks.
You fetch them pine knots from the big green ridge
To singe the gnomes and light their altar fires.
You've learned to fumble buckeyes on your breast.
I'll teach you how to pray. Ay, ay! You hear?
I'll weave my dwarf a cowl. Ha, ha! You hear?
Sigurd! I'll get you in the morning.
(A rumble of thunder.)
(Thunder again.)
(Shouting.)
Zip! Gimel! Kilo! Lazy broth-suckers!
Here's work for you, you knaves!
Work and broth!
(Louder.) Broth, I said! You hear?
Zory, you scamp!
(Feeling about her dress.)
Kilo! Suk! Gimel! Here's broth for you!
(In an underbreath.)
You don't, I'll lamn you, you toads.
(Shouting.)
Ay, peak about! peak about!
Thor wants you.
(The gnomes enter timidly, half-afraid.)
I'm hungry.
Out in the air with you, then!
Suck the lightning's dugs! Guzzle in the rain!
(Low muttering thunder.)
Ay, ay, Thor!
(As the thunder dies away, the gnomes rush wildly toward the witch.)
Out with you now, every last one of you!
Up with you! (Zip disappears.)
Kilo! There you go!
(Kilo disappears.)
(The gnomes, taking the slips, disappear.)
Pluck up the pines and knock the steeples down!
Me too, Granny!
Bark now!
Skedaddle in the air!
(He disappears.)
Ay, straddle her! Ride her through the clouds!
There they are, Thor.
Now for my dwarf. (Picking up her club.)
I'll bruise him a little. (Shouting.)
Sigurd!
I'll get you. (She goes out, left.)
SCENE TWO—The scriptorium in the dormitory of the abbey. The walls are of stone. In the left wall, near the corner, a door opens into a hall that leads thence to the courtyard. Near it, forward, an enormous chest with metal trimmings and handles of embossed stags' heads, the antlers gradually disappearing into the panel. Upon the chest, as though thrown there carelessly, lies a heavy cloak. About ten feet from the door, against the rear wall, stands a small priedieu covered with a rich altar-cloth interwoven with the figure—seen in old arras—of St. Giles sitting upon a rock with the deer resting its head in his lap. Behind the deer is a clump of brambles. The kneeling piece, which projects from under the folds of the altar-cloth, is of dark wood highly polished. Upon it is a scarlet cushion. A little above the priedieu, in a semicircular niche in the wall, is set a bronze crucifix some ten inches in height. Before it burns a small taper. Farther to the right, a second door leading into a corridor which connects with the sleeping apartments. Between this door and the priedieu are shelves filled with books and old manuscripts. Beyond the door, which swings in and is partly open, an old buckler hangs upon the wall, and beneath it, upon two iron spikes, a long spear. Between the spear and buckler is fixed a parchment cut mitriform and bearing in large illumined letters the inscriptions Hugh de Buillon cum deo et cum godefrido nicaeis antiochiis hierosolymis mil nonag sept oct nov. Farther to the right, in the corner, a Saracen coat-of-mail filled with spears which, converging center and spread out above and below, look like a sheaf of steel. Across the breast of the coat-of-mail is a strip of parchment with the inscription illumined as before: A MOHAMED FILIO SATAN CHRISTO FILIO DEI. In the right wall are apertures of two deep-set windows, near which are three carrels, each with an old manuscript spread out upon it and ink-pots and other copying and illuminating materials. Hanging beside them are finger rags smeared with various colored stains. On one of the carrels lies a sprig of flowering mountain laurel. Near the center of the room, a few feet to the right, stands a long table running parallel with the side walls. It is overstrewn with old manuscripts, some of them discolored and half unrolled; others, near the forward end, piled in the form of a miniature pyramid. Farther back, a small brass lamp, pitcher-shaped and with a wick protruding from its spout, burns with a yellow flame. The room is but dimly lighted, as a large room would be, with a single lamp burning upon the table and a little taper winking in the niche in the wall.
To the right of the table, in a square, high-backed chair with animal-feet, sits the Abbot in a black gown, bareheaded. His feet, which are under the table, are cased in slippers of sheep-skin with the white fleece still upon it. From his right hand, which hangs beside his chair, a scroll of parchment trails upon the floor. Farther back, upon the opposite side of the table, stands the Priest, his left hand resting upon the back of a chair the front legs of which are raised a few inches from the floor. At the further end of the table Oswald is standing with his finger wiping away the tears that trinkle down his cheeks.
Thunder is heard intermittently, and from time to time the windows are shaken by the violence of the wind.
Endorse this, Father?
Causa cur perirent. Let him explain.
spread here, (With a wave toward the manuscripts.)
And Christ thrust yonder in the little niche?
Not while I have in mind the first Psalm.
You seem to have forgotten what αγαπαω means,
As found in that third chapter of St. John.
(He lays his parchment upon the table and reaches over and takes a book from the pile at his right.)
To act unchristlike?
Just now you did confess—
Spoke as hunters—
Be circumspect, lest in your anger you
Bay at him and turn that which you do scorn.
Popped at me. As though all the saints in heaven
Bowed down to him because the other night—
(Turning away.)
Wisdom doth bid you keep an open ear
And leave the scroll of judgment still unsealed.
For how shall Mercy find the iron leaf?
Will Heaven's book be open if we close
Ours? When men cry to us, if we shut our ears,
We shut out Heaven's whispers. Oh, nothing—Of
all the deeds men do that vex the sky—Nothing
so rankles in the heart of God
As to see lips, fresh come from prayer for grace,
Refusing justice.