SCENE—A Room in the Convent.THURSTON seated near a small fire.
Enter EUSTACE.Eustace:We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch.Thurston:And without us, I fancy, they have a full batchOf sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'dWill soon put our soundest on terms with our worst.Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown,Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down.Where's Ethelwolf?Eustace: Dying.Thurston: And Reginald?Eustace: Dead.And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped.He may last till midnight—not longer. Nor Tyrrel,Nor Brian will ever see sunrise.Thurston: That Cyril,The monk, is a very respectable fighter.Eustace:Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighterHad he and his fellows thrown open the gateA little more quickly. And now, spite of fate,With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather,But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together.[Enter Ursula.]Thurston:Here she comes.Ursula: Can I speak with your lord?Eustace: 'Tis too late,He was dead when we carried him in at the gate.Thurston:Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself;But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf.Ursula:Alas! is he dead, then?Thurston: As dead as St. Paul.And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all,Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds.I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words:"How heavy the night hangs—how wild the waves dash;Say a mass for my soul—and give Rollo a mash."Ursula:Nay, Thurston, thou jestest.Thurston: Ask Eric. I swearWe listened and caught every syllable clear.Eustace:Why, his horse was slain, too.Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey,Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away;He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gateTo-morrow—though to-morrow for us is too late.Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead—if you like—Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike.Eustace:Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see.Ursula:But we may hold the walls till to-morrow.Thurston: Not we.In an hour or less, having rallied their force,They'll storm your old building—and take it, of course,Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd,One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd.Ursula:Art thou hurt?Thurston: At present I feel well enough,But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough;Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I,Let us gaily give battle and merrily die.[Enter Eric, with arm in sling.]Eric:Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe!To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe!The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight!At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight,Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall.Thurston:Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all.
SCENE—The Chapel of the Convent.
Dirge of the Monks:Earth to earth, and dust to dust,Ashes unto ashes go.Judge not. He who judgeth just,Judgeth merciful also.Earthly penitence hath fled,Earthly sin hath ceased to be;Pile the sods on heart and head,Miserere Domine!Hominum et angelorum,Domine! precamur teUt immemor sis malorum—Miserere Domine!(Miserere!)Will the fruits of life brought forth,Pride and greed, and wrath and lust,Profit in the day of wrath,When the dust returns to dust?Evil flower and thorny fruitLoad the wild and worthless tree.Lo! the axe is at the root,Miserere Domine!Spes, fidesque, caritasque,Frustra fatigant per se,Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque,Miserere Domine!(Miserere!)Fair without and foul within,When the honey'd husks are reftFrom the bitter sweets of sin,Bitterness alone is left;Yet the wayward soul hath strivenMostly hell's ally to be,In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven,Miserere Domine!Heu! heu! herba latet anguis—Caro herba—carni vae—Solum purgat, Christi sanguis,Miserere Domine!(Miserere!)Pray that in the doubtful fightMan may win through sore distress,By His goodness infinite,And His mercy fathomless.Pray for one more of the weary,Head bow'd down and bended knee,Swell the requiem, Miserere!Miserere Domine!Bonum, malum, qui fecistiMali imploramus te,Salve fratrem, causa Christi,Miserere Domine!(Miserere!)
[End of Ashtaroth.]
1 (return)[ The extension of the tramways has necessitated the removal of this statue to Spring-street.]