LEOLF.

Mistake me not.

I would not be unjust. I have not been;
Now less than ever could I be, for now
A sacred and judicial calmness holds
Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed
The picture of the past presents itself
Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen
In his last moments by a drowning man.
Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf:
Time and the elements conspired its fall;
The worm hath eaten out the tenderer parts,
And left this curious anatomy

Distinct of structure-made so by decay.

So, at this moment, lies my life before me,—
In all its intricacies, all its errors—

And can I be unjust?

ELGIVA.

Oh, more than just,

Most merciful in judgment have you been,

And even in censure kind.

LEOLF.

Our lives were linked

By one misfortune and a double fault.

It was my folly to have fixed my hopes
Upon the fruitage of a budding heart.

It was your fault,—the lighter fault by far,—
Being the bud to seem to be the berry.
The first inconstancy of unripe years

Is Nature's error on the way to truth.

But, hark! another cry!

They call us hence.

Why come they not to us? Hark! Hist! again!

A clash of swords!

Our band then is beset.

Alas, Elgiva!

ELGIVA.

Leolf, we are lost.

Say, is it so I am not afraid.—But, oh!
Forgive me, Leolf, for I have wronged in you
The noblest of your kind. Oh, Edwin !....Leolf,
Tell him that I was true till death to him,

Though sometime false to you.

LEOLF.

Fly, fly, Elgiva!

Our horses are at hand-we still may fly.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

LEA IN CHESHIRE.

EDWIN. ATHULF. SIDROC.

SIDROC.

Neither of them, nor those that with them went,
Nor those that went to meet them, can I glean
One grain of tidings. Even lies are scarce,
And false reports arrive not.

ATHULF.

They are lost.

EDWIN.

Peace, Athulf! If thou wouldst not see me sink To cowardice now, when most I need my courage, Speak not that word again. They shall be found. Let us but march on Malpas.

SIDROC.

By the way

It

may be we shall meet them. But if news
Of them be wanting, of the Danes 'tis rife.
In Somerset, which now they leave behind,
Town, hamlet, monastery, church and grange,
Lie smoking, and at Glastonbury, Sweyne

Wasted the Abbot's lands, his treasure took,
And scared his bed-rid mother, that she fled,

Though seized with mortal sickness.

ATHULF.

Hurt to her

Strikes at the human corner of his heart.

SIDROC.

Upon him now, then, while his cheer is low.

ATHULF.

Oh, Sidroc! what is ours?

EDWIN.

Nay, hope the best.

Sidroc is right. We'll march at once on Malpas,
Sending the women to our friends in Wales.

SCENE IX.

MALPAS.

BRIDFERTH and RUOLD.

BRIDFERTH.

He is in much perplexity of mind.

You cannot see him. Since his Mother's death

[Exeunt.

He comes not from his chamber, save at night

When the sad Brethren of St. Benedict

Say masses for her soul.

RUOLD.

His Mother dead!

BRIDFERTH.

At Glastonbury she lay sick, and thence

Driven by the Dane, the terror of her flight,
Conspiring with her malady, put out

Her spark of life. To her great son she sent
Her dying charge that he, as best he might,
Should heal his country's wounds and give it peace,
And rescue from the Northmen's ravages

Its poor remains.

RUOLD.

Indeed!

His Mother dead!

Well, had he lost ten mothers ten times told,