Scene
The Castle Hall
THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart.
Thurston:Who is that stranger, dark and tall,On the wooden settle next to the wall—Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard?
Eustace:To define his calling is somewhat hard;Lady Thora has taken him by the handBecause he has come from the Holy Land.Pilgrims and palmers are all the rageWith her, since she shared in that pilgrimageWith Hugo. The stranger came yesterday,And would have gone on, but she bade him stay.Besides, he sings in the Danish tongueThe songs she has heard in her childhood sung.That’s all I know of him, good or bad;In my own opinion he’s somewhat mad.You must raise your voice if you speak with him,And he answers as though his senses were dim.
Thurston (to Harold):Good-morrow, sir stranger.
Harold: Good-morrow, friend.
Thurston:Where do you come from? and whither wend?
Harold:I have travelled of late with the setting sunAt my back; and as soon as my task is doneI purpose to turn my face to the north—Yet we know not what a day may bring forth.
Thurston:Indeed we don’t.
(To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him nowBy that ugly scar that crosses his brow;And the less we say to him the better.Your judgment is right to the very letter—The man is mad.
Eustace: But harmless, I think;He eats but little, eschews strong drink,And only speaks when spoken to first.
Thurston:Harmless or not, he was once the worstAnd bitterest foe Lord Hugo had;And yet his story is somewhat sad.
Eustace:May I hear it?
Thurston: Nay, I never revealWhat concerns me not. Our lord may concealOr divulge at pleasure his own affairs,—Not even his comrade Eric sharesHis secrets; though Eric thinks him wise,Which is more than I do, for I despiseThat foolish science he learnt in Rome.He dreams and mopes when he sits at home,And now he’s not much better abroad;’Tis hard to follow so tame a lord.‘Twixt us two, he won’t be worth a rushIf he will persist in his studies—
Eustace: Hush!Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing.
Thurston:I have known the day when his voice would ringTill the rafters echoed.
Eustace: ’Tis pleasant still,Though far too feeble this hall to fill.
Harold (sings):On the current, where the wideWindings of the riverEddy to the North Sea tide,Shall I in my shallop glide,As I have done at her side?Never! never! never!
In the forest, where the firs,Pines, and larches quiverTo the northern breeze that stirs,Shall my lips be press’d to hers,As they were in by-gone years?Never! never! never!
In the battle on the plain,Where the lance-shafts shiver,And the sword-strokes fall like rain,Shall I bear her scarf againAs I have done—not in vain?Never! never! never!
In a fairer, brighter land,Where the saints rest ever,Shall I once more see her stand,White, amidst a white-robed band,Harp and palm-branch in her hand?Never! never! never!