Enter ATHUlf. ATHULF. Save you, good friends! How far may 't be to Kingston? FORESTER. An hour, my lord, or little more. Or 'Tis late, you might take the road by Warlewood chase: 'Tis some mile shorter. ATHULF. Being so, my friend, The lateness should be called a reason more. FORESTER. True, sir; but it should lead you near the spot Where Father Dunstan for these three weeks past ATHULF. For myself I heed not that. Howbeit, that way wending, You'll find your monasteries emptied out Under your nose, my Lord, at Sheen and Sion It passes me to guess. ODO. The Abbot, Sir, The Abbot listens to no mortal voice Except his mother's; and old Cynethryth Is fearful of divisions; for in her youth The splitting of the realm within itself Was wont to sound a summons to the Dane, And fetch him o'er the seas. HARCATHER. An old wife's tale. ODO. I'll bring you to the King, and testify That what you charge on Athulf and his House HARCATHER. Ruold, mark, I will thee not to loiter thus at Court. Get thee again to Chester, son. Farewell. [Exeunt ODO and HARCATHER. RUOLD. Father, farewell! and then farewell the Court ! Is raised against them. Wherefore, fare you well, Enter LEOLF and ATHULF. LEOLF. Fair shines the hour, and friendly to my spirit, [Exit. That brings thee back. Welcome once more to Kingston! I would have said to Court; but, by my faith! Far leifer would I to a cottage bid thee, Than such a Court as this. ATHULF. Court, cot, or camp, Hut, hovel, let it be, or blasted heath, In shine or storm, well met! What ails the Court? LEOLF. Its old disorder; complex and compounded Of many ills in even shares partaken. Ambition's fever, envy's jaundiced eye, Suspicion's wasting pale insomnolence, With hatred's canker. ATHULF. To which add, no doubt, Monks for physicians. LEOLF. There you touch a theme For large and leisurely discourse. At present I will but say, the boldest of bold hearts Is hither come in season. Come cowl and crosier! ATHULF. Say you so ? With a cap of steel And battle-axe in hand, we will not fly. But softly for a season! In what current Runs the blood-royal? Are we where we were? LEOLF. O'er the Queen-Mother's mean and meagre soul Hath monkery triumphed; taking for allies Her past misdeeds and ever-present fears. And stain her pleasant purity of spirit. ATHULF. But still the King is staunch? LEOLF. Young, young and warm ; Prompt in defiance, too precipitate; For we must have him crowned, or it be safe To cross them. But the passion which in youth How found you the mid-counties? Raving of Dunstan. ATHULF. Oh! Monk-ridden, LEOLF. 'Tis a raving time: |