Scene
A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo’s Castle
HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD.
Luke:When the dawn was breaking,Came a faint sound, wakingHubert and myself; we hurried to the door,Found the stranger lyingAt the threshold, dying.Somewhere have I seen a face like his before.
Hugo:Harold he is hight.Only yester-nightFrom our gates he wander’d, in the driving hail;Well his face I know,Both as friend and foe;Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale.
Luke:Few the words he said,Faint the signs he made,Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, “Thou hast sinn’d.This is retribution,Seek for absolution;Answer me—then cast thy sorrows to the wind.Do their voices reach thee,Friends who failed to teach thee,In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong?Charges ’gainst thee cited,Cares all unrequited,Counsels spurned and slighted—do they press and throng?”But he shook his head.“’Tis not so,” he said;“They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore.If their counsels good,Rashly I withstood;Having suffered longer, I have suffered more.”
“Do their curses stun thee?Foes who failed to shun thee,Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career,As the barbed arrowCleaveth bone and marrow,From those chambers narrow—do they pierce thine ear?”And he made reply,Laughing bitterly,“Did I fear them living—shall I fear them dead?Blood that I have spiltLeaveth little guilt;On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head.”
“Is there one whom thouMay’st have wronged ere now,Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart?By some saint in heaven,Sanctified and shriven,Would’st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?”Not a word he said,But he bowed his headTill his temples rested on the chilly sodsAnd we heard him groan—“Ah! mine own, mine own!If I had thy pardon I might ask for God’s.”
Hubert raised him slowly,Sunrise, faint and holy,Lit the dead face, placid as a child’s might be.May the troubled spirit,Through Christ’s saving merit,Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee.
Hugo:God o’erruleth fate.I had cause for hate;In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong,Joined by priestly vows,He became the spouseOf my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong.And he wrought her woe,Making me his foe;Not alone unfaithful—brutal, too, was he.She had scarce been deadThree months, ere he fledWith Count Baldwin’s daughter, then betrothed to me.Fortune straight forsook him,Vengeance overtook him;Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment.All his strength was shatter’d,Even his wits were scatter’d,Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went.We are unforgivingWhile our foes are living;Yet his retribution weigh’d so heavilyThat I feel remorse,Gazing on his corpse,For my rudeness when he left our gates to die.And his grave shall be’Neath the chestnut tree,Where he met my sister many years ago;Leave that tress of hairOn his bosom there—Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go.