Rosamund | Page 6

men's tongues and women's born save thine. Dawn lies not when it laughs on us. Thy queen I am not now: thy friend I would be. Tell Thy friend if love sleep or awake in thee Toward any man. Thou art silent. Tell me this, Dost thou not think, where thought scarce knows itself - Think in the subtle sense too deep for thought - That Almachildes loves thee?
HILDEGARD.
More than I Love Almachildes.
ROSAMUND.
Thus a maid should speak. Dost thou love me?
HILDEGARD.
Thou knowest it, queen.
ROSAMUND.
It lies Now in thy power to show me more of love Than ever yet hath man or woman. Swear, If thou dost love me, thou wilt show it.
HILDEGARD.
I swear.
ROSAMUND.
By all our fathers' great forsaken gods Who smiled on all their battles, and by him Who clomb or crept or leapt upon their throne And signed us Christian, swear it, then.
HILDEGARD.
I swear.
ROSAMUND.
What if I bid thee give thyself to shame - Yield up thy soul and body--play such parts As shameless fame records of women crowned Imperial in the tale of lust and Rome?
HILDEGARD.
Thou couldst not bid me do it.
ROSAMUND.
Thou hast sworn.
HILDEGARD.
I have sworn. Queen, I would do it, and die.
ROSAMUND.
Thou shalt not. Yet This must thou do, and live. Thou shalt not be Shamed. Thou shalt bid thine Almachildes come And speak with thee by nightfall. Say, the queen Will give not up the maiden so beloved - And truth it is, I love thee--willingly To the arms of one her husband loves: but were it Shame, utter shame, that he should wed not her, The shamefast queen could choose not. Then shall he Plead. Then shalt thou turn gentler than the snow That softens at the strong sun's kiss, and yield. But needs must night be close about your love And darkness whet your kisses. Light were death. Hast thou no heart to guess now? Fear not then. Not thou but I must put on shame. I lack A hand for mine to grasp and strike with. His I have chosen.
HILDEGARD.
I see but as by lightning. Queen, What should I do but warn the king--or him?
ROSAMUND.
Thou hast sworn. I hold thee by thy word.
HILDEGARD.
My Christ, Help me!
ROSAMUND.
No God can break thine oath in twain And leave thee less than perjured. Thou must bid him Make thee to-night his bride.
HILDEGARD.
I could not say it.
ROSAMUND.
Thou shalt, or God shall smite thee down to hell. What, art thou godless?
HILDEGARD.
Art not thou?
ROSAMUND.
Not I. I find him just and gracious, girl: he gives me My right by might set fast on thine and thee.
HILDEGARD.
For love of mercy, queen--for honour's sake, Bid me not shame myself before a man - The man I love--who gives me back at least Honour, if love he gives not.
ROSAMUND.
Ay, my maid? And yet he loves thee, or thy maiden thought Errs with no gracious error, more than thou Him?
HILDEGARD.
Art thou woman born, to cast me back My maiden shame for shame upon my face? I would not say I loved him more than man Loved ever woman since the light of love Lit them alive together. Let us be.
ROSAMUND.
I will not. Mine are both by God's own gift. I will not cast it from me. Ye may live Hereafter happy: never now shall I.
HILDEGARD.
Have mercy. Nay, I cannot do it. And thou, Albeit thine heart be hot with hate as hell, Couldst say not, nor fold round with fairer speech, Those foul three words the Egyptian woman said Who tempted and could tempt not Joseph.
ROSAMUND.
No. He would not hearken. Joseph loved not her More than thine Almachildes me. But thou Shalt. Now no more may I debate with thee. Go.
HILDEGARD.
God requite thee!
ROSAMUND.
That shall he and I, Not thou, make proof of. If I plead with him, I crave of God but wrong's requital. Go.
[Exit HILDEGARD.
And yet, God help me! Can I do it? God's will May no man thwart, or leave his righteousness Baffled. I would not say, 'My will be done,' Were God's will not for righteousness as mine, If right be righteous, wrong be wrong, must be. How else may God work wrong's requital? I Must be or none may be his minister. And yet what righteousness is his to cast Athwart my way toward right this wrong to me, A sin against the soul and honour? Why Must this vile word of YET cross all my thought Always, a drifting doom or doubt that still Strikes up and floats against my purpose? God, Help me to know it! This weapon chosen of me, This Almachildes, were his face not fair, Were not his fame bright--were his aspect foul, His name dishonourable, his line through life A loathing and a spitting-stock for scorn, Could I do this? Am I then even as they Who queened it once in Rome's abhorrent face An empress