Classic Poem

SCENE I

The scene is the hall of a small black stone castle in the North of Scotland. In the back wall are round-arched folding doors to the right, above which a large bell hangs; to the left is a narrow, tall, round-topped doorway of a staircase that curves upward out of sight. High above these doors an arcade of short thin pillars and small, round-topped arches runs from left to right. In the right wall toward the back, is a low doorway of a descending stair; along this wall, from front to back, stands a heavy table with accompanying benches. In the left wall is a stone fireplace with pillared cowl; a log fire burns on the hearth, and two lighted torches are set in rings that project from the wall above; there is a curtained recess between the fireplace and the back wall .
MORAG , the Lady of Fortingall, a gaunt old woman, sits in a great chair at the far side of the hearth, warming her hands and listening to DOMHNAL , her steward, an old man who stands near . CONAN , her son, the Thane of Fortingall, sits at the near side of the hearth in another chair, averted from her, whetting a bunting spear with a small stone. In front of the fire, but at some little distance from it , FERN , her daughter, sits on a stool, stitching at a heavy white robe covered with a meandering, close pattern in gold: the robe is long and ample and spreads over an empty stool that stands still further from the fire . DOMHNAL

The meat is killed: the veal is blooded: the trout are caught.
Lambs are too young to kill, so four were needed.
The mead-vats are well filled.
And now the women make ready to bake all night. . . . MORAG

Then stop such waste of fire: send to the village
And tell the bonders' wives that every house
Must send a basketful of loaves at dawn
For their lord's wedding-feast. What else is to do? DOMHNAL

Then stop such waste of fire: send to the village
And tell the bonders' wives that every house
Must send a basketful of loaves at dawn
For their lord's wedding-feast. What else is to do? DOMHNAL

Then stop such waste of fire: send to the village
And tell the bonders' wives that every house
Must send a basketful of loaves at dawn
For their lord's wedding-feast. What else is to do? DOMHNAL

The bridal chamber is arrayed and ready;
New rushes mixed with lavender are strewn there;
But Marget bids me say she waits to know
How many chambers for the morrow's guests
She must prepare, and when you will give out
The linen for the beds. MORAG

When there is April weather and a moon
Our neighbours will not think of sleeping here.
They will ride home. FERN

Mother, we shall be scorned in all the glens
If high-born women are sent out from our gate
To ride in festal clothes put on to grace us
Across Sithchallion on a frosty night,
Or the Black Mountain.
MORAG , to DOMHNAL .

Our guests will all ride home.
Bar the great door for the night when you go down.
DOMHNAL , hesitantly .

The Lady Gruach . . . MORAG

Is she still out? Then leave it.
DOMHNAL makes an obeisance and goes out by the low doorway in the right wall .

What kind of half man have I borne and suckled
Who lets his bride upon his wedding-eve
Go out alone and loiter in secret glades
And lonely uplands? Son, will you let your wife
Run wild before the wind of her will like this? CONAN

My cousin Gruach, when she first grew tall,
Forbade that I should follow her, or watch
Toward what refuges of forest and sky
Unbearable moods might take her; and she said
She needed that escape from kinsfolk's minds.
So why should I haunt her last free maiden night
More than any fine night of any Spring?
When a young woman much too long unmarried
Is wearied and burdened by the woman's delight
Of stitching her wedding-kirtle and with gold
Adding beauty to her daily aspect,
Will sight of a patient bridegroom bring her ease? FERN

She wrought all day, till, when the evening sun
Was in the elder tree and a thrush sang there,
She asked me if I could sit still for ever,
And said that she must go.
You are not wise, Mother, to marry her now:
Her thoughts are not with us, she is not ours.
Last night, soon after midnight, I awoke
To a sense of light, to a light held in the air:
She stood above me like a chill, pale pillar.
I sat up, but she did not notice me:
Her eyes were fixed on something above my brow.
" Will you not let me alone?" she said so softly
It drew my tears: " I am not yours' she said.
" I shall be taken from you if you persist;
I cannot think myself into your lives
For ever; I cannot breathe your little air.
Where is the door? There must be a way out:
Will you not shew it to me?"
That pitiful, unnatural gentleness
Changed her to something so unlike herself
I shivered and could not stop: and when she left me
I dared not follow or move, for I had heard
That if sleep-walkers are wakened they may die.
I found her lying uncovered on her bed
In the early morning; she knew not why, she said,
For she had never left it in the night.
Disquiet that thus lights up dark places of being
And parts the uneasy body from the mind
Is surely a dreadful force best left unstirred:
Is it not then a cause
That you should more examine what you are doing?
She never wandered in the night before.
MORAG , who has been counting intently on her fingers and gazing before her .

Can two young women of blood be afraid of marriage?
Her brooding and your shyness are too much fixed
On the occurrences of a single day.
Whatever joy or sorrow the morrow stirs,
The day after to-morrow there will return
This old still life of duty, and Gruach next
Will weep that nothing is changed. Her mother's lands
March with your father's: they must be joined again.
Her father was of dead King Kenneth's breed,
And though her line is dispossessed, she is yet
Royal in some men's minds, heiress of peril
But also of great chance; and this my son
Shall take and make his own. CONAN

Yes, mother. My cousin Gruach is my friend:
She knows I shall not be too stern or strict,
And that I understand her uneasy ways
And how to let her alone when she's unhappy.
Since all her hunted kindred were put down
And we have sheltered her, her fief and ours
Have been so fortunately governed as one
That this must be continued. And, sister Fern,
If her fair virginal life is in some danger
From men of the new king's house, is it not wise
She should be covered by our quieter name,
Disguised in our reputed loyalty?
You are too eager in your sympathy
To see my mother's wisdom. . . .
The great door opens from without . MORAG

Hush, Conan; she is here. Be short with her.
GRUACH enters and closes the door behind her. She is tall and large-framed, with firm, soft contours and features and a calm expression: she moves and speaks with unconscious deliberateness: her thick sleek yellow hair falls on each side of her face and is bunched at intervals with knots of green ribbon: she carries a great tangle of Spring wild flowers in the lap of her green gown caught up with one hand . MORAG continues .

Girl, you are out too late: look better to it.
Your kirtle is wet: your shoes are clean: you have been barefoot.
A barefoot bride is our shame. GRUACH

Will you still chide me? It is my last night.
Yes, yes, chide me once more, tell me my faults,
And satisfy your instinct; for to-morrow
I shall become a wedded woman like you,
And wedded women take each other's part. FERN

Supper-time is long past: we did not wait.
Tell Ferdan he may set your supper now.
Where have you been so long? GRUACH

I cannot eat to-night: let that pass too.
I went to lose myself; I found the Spring.
See, how a little sweetness has beguiled me:
These foolish things looked up at me. . . .
She spills her lap-ful of flowers over FERN'S embroidery . FERN

O, cousin, you hurt — your carelessness will not count
How much still love I have put into your gown.
Green sap and petal dust will stain it for ever.
The tissue was pure; look here, and here, and be sorry.
GRUACH , bitterly .

Ah, nothing can mar the gown of a happy bride.
I can only wear it once; it is fresh enough for that;
And yellow and yellow on gold will never show.
I hate all yellow things,
And most the yellowness of Springtide life —
Yellow and yellow, cowslip, crocus and primrose;
Daffodil and jasmine, yellow and yellow.
These commoners of Spring put me in mind
That now the darker flower which matches me
In loneliness, a purple hellebore,
Should also have returned to Glen of Shadows.
I came through Kestrel Wood and over the ridge,
Longing for it as I have longed for a friend;
But, though I have fostered it year after year,
At last it has not come to me with Spring. FERN

Will you never, never forget the dreadful flower
Which in our childhood made me sick with fear?
You loved it for that fear.
It is the very colour of poison and sin,
Of bruises and dead men's lips. Why will you seek it? GRUACH

For its sullen, angry beauty and evil intent.
I love to feel it would kill me if it could,
And that I need not let it unless I wish.
When a fierce bird is beautiful it is then
More beautiful by its fierceness; and that rare flower
Is thus more beautiful by its wickedness. MORAG

Come, bride in the bud, you are in my care to-night;
You must hasten to your chamber and change your skirts
That are wet half way to the knee, or the wife's new wisdom
Will not preserve you from too much fever to-morrow.
FERN , breaking the thread with which she has been stitching .

Stay, cousin. Your gown is finished; take it with you. GRUACH

Sweet cousin, I have been wayward and unkind
To leave you alone to labour on this monotony;
Let it remain a moment until I have changed,
I will finish my side as well. FERN

It is finished.
GRUACH , kneeling by FERN impulsively .

You darling workfellow and playfellow,
And motherkin and rosy bedfellow
Of long ago, pardon my little hard heart.
You take our frets and burdens on yourself,
And never tell us until we are too late
For everything except to be forgiven.
I wish you could so lighten all my task:
Your love brings strength, and it will be your love
That presses and nestles about me when I wear it.
When I have stript myself to-morrow night
It shall be cherished unblemished for your bridal. FERN

To-morrow I follow a bride for the third time;
And " Thrice a bridesmaid and never a bride" say gossips.
GRUACH starts abruptly to her feet, and, stuffing the golden gown into a tight bundle under her arm, goes to the staircase .

Wild thing, what have I said to grieve you now?
You are crushing it; you are cruel to crush it; cruel.
It will only look like dirty linen now.
GRUACH , turning at the foot of the stair .

It is too heavy: it is as heavy as fetters:
Its weight will sleek it when I put it on.
And none will want to wear it after me.
She disappears at the turn of the stair: presently she passes from left to right within the arcade above . FERN

I had better leave my door ajar to-night. MORAG

She will lie still to-night: she has tired herself.
It is over: she is spent: she will submit.
She can do nothing more before to-morrow;
And when to-morrow is here she must go forward
From station to station of hallowing and lost hopes,
Checked by the guests' cold eyes if she would double.
And no one will come here who would listen to her. FERN

She could only tell of me that I would love her.
And be her very sister. But no one will come.
The bell over the door sounds once, a deep sonorous note. The women look at each other. Again it sounds once . MORAG

Who rides so late? FERN

Surely wedding guests. CONAN

Nay, there is but one horse: I heard its feet
While Gruach was saying something just now.
DOMHNAL enters by the door on the right and opens the great door .
THE KING'S ENVOY , outside .

I ride in the King's name: in the King's name
I require men's service. Whose is this strong house? DOMHNAL

This is the house of the Thane of Fortingall. ENVOY

I ride in the King's name on an errand of weight:
I ask the Thane of Fortingall for a man
To find me the speediest road to Inverness. DOMHNAL

You are far from any road to Inverness. ENVOY

Then bring me to your lord.
DOMHNAL opens the door wider. There enters a handsome hawk-faced young man with a fighter's mouth and jaw. He wears a leathern riding-dress: in the front of his cap a purple flower is fastened .
DOMHNAL , approaching CONAN .

Sir, a man of the King's asks speech with you.
He goes out to the right as CONAN comes forward to meet the ENVOY . CONAN

You are belated, Sir:
Your horse has foundered, or you have missed your way? ENVOY

I am an Envoy, Thane, of my great kinsman
Duncan, the King of Scotland, of all Scotland,
To Thorfinn, the Jarl of Caithness, a threatening man.
I ought to be in Inverness with dawn,
But twilight overtook me in strange country. CONAN

You have ridden a county wide of your straight way;
But every Northerly track will take you there,
And the full moon will serve you many hours
If you push on at once. ENVOY

The wind has veered, good Thane, to the North again;
The mounting snow-packs clot in the steely sky;
Your moon is buried; young Spring will die of exposure.
This is no night to ride in, no light to ride in,
When the rider is lost already.
I must desire your courtesy and duty
To lodge my horse and me till morning comes. CONAN

I could have wished it so. . . . Yet on this eve. . . .
Our attention lies elsewhere. . . . There are other guests. . . .
The occasion is not common. . . .
MORAG , who has been watching the ENVOY anxiously .

My son forgets:
When the King asks, it is our right to give.
You come, young sir, on the edge of a bustling hour
Of some festivity, that already checks
Our poor ability and exercise
Of hospitality: at dawn more guests
Need undivided honour, but until then
What we can give is yours.
Is great news in the bud that you ride so hard?
Such urgency might mean some vile revolt
Threatens King Duncan's blessed, heart-easing peace? ENVOY

I go to tell Caithness that the King's wife
Has borne a son, and to require of him
An oath of loyalty to the child Malcolm.
His disaffection has not prospered lately,
He is bruised and in recoil, and it is thought
That if he is confirmed in what he holds
He will consent to grant to a helpless child
A word he is too sore to speak for a king. MORAG

Do you believe he will? ENVOY

Not I. MORAG

Nor I.
Yet this child's weight may hold the King's throne firm.
I trust our lady, the Queen, is well recovered. ENVOY

It is all men's grief that she is not recovered.
She lies most piteously indifferent
To life and child: she wastes, she is almost white:
She cannot mount the throne-steps. Her leech says
She cannot safely bear another child.
CONAN , softly to FERN , as she gathers together her embroidery implements .

Tell Gruach there's a King's man in the house:
Bid her keep to her chamber until he is gone. MORAG

I never saw her: she is not one of us.
Her foreign breed is plainly too light and poor
To make a Scotish mother: a Scotish King
Should wed in his own mountains, where the women
Are prideful and hard and quickened. I have heard
She has some beauty and birth; but can a stranger
Bear a right king for us? ENVOY

She is a most sweet lady,
So excellent in steadfastness and grace
That she is fit to be a Scotish woman
And Queen of Scotish men.
CONAN , softly to FERN Go: go.
ENVOY , continuing . She is tall,

And moves as if she walked in her own mountains:
She is gleaming pale, a daughter of snow-lipt seas,
A golden lady. . . .
He falters and pauses, his eyes fixed on the staircase arch, where GRUACH has appeared. She is wearing the white and gold gown; her hair is knotted up about her ears and covered with a narrow, white-flowered veil of gold tissue held in place by a flashing circlet and falling among the folds of her train. As she stands on the first step, her eyes fixed on the ENVOY , the gold of her gown flickers in the wavering torchlight, so that she seems to hover in a light of her own by contrast with the moving shadows of the gloomy hall and the sombre apparel of the others .
FERN , who has started to her feet at CONAN'S second bidding, meets her at the foot of the stair . FERN

Cousin, what have you done —
You have worn it too soon, you are fey;
You will bring ill-fortune on us. . . . ENVOY

Lady, I see that I must be unwelcome,
And that you are ready for friends, not strangers, now.
I am urged to this intrusion by my service,
Which is the King's, and the strict terms of it.
Your house-folk have received me; do not rebuke them —
I have laid the King's will heavily on them —
But add your kindness to their tolerance
Of my unpardoned coming. GRUACH

My lord, in that you are come, you are well come.
I am not mistress here until to-morrow;
Yet, if I may, I will add my share of grace
To greet you earnestly, as I should for a king. ENVOY

Lady, I thank you. I. . . . GRUACH

I am unfortunate to have missed your entrance:
I have not heard your name. ENVOY

I am nephew and next of kin to the Thane of Glamis,
Old Sinel, the King's cousin: Macbeth is my name.
GRUACH , to MORAG .

I knew there was a quality in this knight:
We are required to lodge it suitably.
The chamber-woman is idle and sluggish again;
There is not one guest-room swept or curtained yet,
Although my meinie of maidens should come soon
To change their gowns there. Would it not be well
To put him into the bridal-chamber to-night?
None other is ready, none is fragrant enough:
I have looked at it but now, it is strange and fair.
Marget shall deck it anew ere the feast is over;
And I'll array for church in my old cell.
MORAG , dryly, and bowing curtly to the ENVOY .

A bride must have her way.
CONAN , to the ENVOY

What have you done with your horse? Where is it now? ENVOY

At the ring in your outer gate. CONAN

I will send a man to stable it. ENVOY

Your pardon: I must go down to my patient friend;
Or his nut-brown eyes will not meet mine to-morrow,
Our journey will be longer. CONAN

I'll go with you: you do not know the stable
Mother, shall I unlock the oat-bin for him?
He takes the torch from one of the rings in the left wall .

I will go before you.
He opens the door .

Will you come with me now? ENVOY

I thank you, Thane, and follow.
They go out .
CONAN , outside .

A sudden frost and a hard.
The sweat in your horse's coat will be like chain-mail.
What kind of man are you,
To leave a good horse out in a night like this,
And call yourself his friend?
The great door closes behind them .
GRUACH has remained standing motionlessly, facing the place whence the ENVOY spoke to her, her eyes downcast, her face tranquil as if she is inwardly absorbed in an entrancing thought .
MORAG approaches her . MORAG

The wife of Fortingall will take her place,
Will she? But when she does she shall feel sharply
The wife of Fortingall must keep her place,
And leave her lord to welcome handsome strangers
And dangerous unknown farers in the dark.
A woman wears her wedding-gown but once,
And there's a fate in airing it too soon;
The mocking mischief of your changeling's heart
May well have wrought that when you strip to-night
You strip the pride of being the Lady of Fortingall.
Yet you must doff it now, on the instant: go:
Get you to bed and hide:
The stranger must not see those eyes again.
He does not hunt you, or suspect your birth;
But if he remembers you by seeing too long
Your noticeable clothing and keen gaze
He may ask questions about you. Go, I say.
Turning to FERN .

Daughter, tell Ferdan to bring food and mead —
Not the old mead — for the young knight's evening meal.
But, no; I must go myself or the kitchen-wenches
Will send up wedding-meats to save themselves
The grievance of late work.
She goes out by the low door to the right . FERN

Dear cousin, will you not retire
Before she can return?
GRUACH , quietly and unmoving.

Did you speak to me? FERN

My mother wishes us to go:
We are up too late even now.
Think of what the dawn will bring.
GRUACH , still quietly.

He is the most beautiful man I have seen in all my life. FERN

How can you say such a thing?
How wicked you must be: I am afraid of you.
Think what you owe to Conan: if Conan heard
He might forget the knight is his first guest.
GRUACH , raising her eyes, but still quietly.

Conan could not get near him: he would kill Conan. FERN

He is a noble man, and very fair.
I wish he would not go away so soon:
Something rejoices in me while I watch him. GRUACH

Well, then, grave gentle Fern, he shall not go.
I'll bid him to my marriage, and maybe
He shall hand you to church.
FERN , stooping.

Look, look; this little flower was in his cap
When he came in; he doffed it to you alone,
It must have fallen then: you never saw it.
GRUACH , suddenly alert.

His flower? It is my colour: give it to me.
FERN , kissing the flower she has picked up.

No.
I do what is asked of me each hour of life,
And you all take all I give, and never notice
That I am ever the one who must stand aside;
And in their turn your children will assume
I am the one who foregoes, who does not count:
I shall have nought of my own when I am old.
But I'll not give you this.
GRUACH , seizing FERN'S wrist and twisting it .

But I will have it. FERN

O, you hurt, you hurt:
Let me alone. GRUACH

Not till you throw it away. FERN

O! O! Oh! Oh . . . h! Soul of a wolf, take it.
She drops the flower: GRUACH releases her and stoops to it . FERN returns to her stool by the fire and seats herself with her back to GRUACH , chafing her injured wrist and pressing it to her, her shoulders twitching as if with insupportable pain .
GRUACH , kissing the flower.

Thou thing of tender substance and silent life,
The spirit of thy softness enters me
When surfaces of lips and fingers meet
Thy filmy stillnesses; I fear to press
My longing to thee lest I interrupt
The life I'ld fix for ever with my touch.
She fastens the flower in the lacing of her bodice below her throat .

Thou thing of tender substance and silent life,
The spirit of thy softness enters me
When surfaces of lips and fingers meet
Thy filmy stillnesses; I fear to press
My longing to thee lest I interrupt
The life I'ld fix for ever with my touch.
She fastens the flower in the lacing of her bodice below her throat .

The stable-knaves have waited for no moon:
The stalls are trimmed, the bracken is changed already.
FERN , recovering herself with difficulty.

Where is our guest? CONAN

He may come whenever he chooses.
The ENVOY enters by the great door and closes it behind him . GRUACH

My lord Macbeth, I trust my cousin has found
A lodging for your horse that is to your mind —
One worthy of a life that has your love
And bears a precious burden, a king's message.
Why do you gaze on me so steadfastly,
As if I am not here? ENVOY

It is your flower:
A spae-wife under a riven, star-lit fir
Gave one to me as I rode out from Scone:
She said it opened from a root of death,
And that it should bring to me some kind of fortune.
I flew it in my cap for death to see
And take a challenge from; and then forgot it
Somewhere upon my way. . . . GRUACH

I found it in the rushes on the floor.
Its colour spoke to my heart, I put it on:
But let me be your spae-wife and bring you fortune.
She loosens the flower . ENVOY

My flower has found its fortune: let it remain. GRUACH

I have no fortune; I come of a root of death,
Like would kill like; you must take your fortune from me.
CONAN has been watching uneasily for an opportunity to intervene . GRUACH holds out the flower to the ENVOY : as their hands meet and linger on it MORAG enters from the right, followed by a serving-man bearing a plate of food, utensils, a cup and a flagon .
MORAG , pointing to the table.

Put it down there: hasten your fellows to bed.
He obeys and goes out to the right . MORAG turns to the ENVOY .

It is late, young lord; my house and I are ashamed
You have stood so long in our gates without rest or food:
If you will partake such food as the hour affords,
It is set here for you to honour us.
You must pardon us that we do not sit with you:
A long and toilsome day of happiness
Begins for us ere daylight; and my slow hands
Must minister to the bride before she sleeps.
A bride who overslept would be a jest,
When more new things than a girl has had in a lifetime
Are there, to be had for the putting on; so now
We must withdraw too soon for courtesy.
Dear niece, go you before, and I will bring
My neck-chains, brooches and pins, the linen, the shoes,
And a cloak to outshine your gown. GRUACH

I give you good night, my lord.
I am to be made a bride to-morrow, my lord:
A bride claims happiness from every quarter,
And I shall be the happier
If you will tarry among my bridal guests,
And follow me to church, and return here.
My husband will go hunting after the service. . . . CONAN

Nay, cousin, the day after. GRUACH

I ask your pardon, my lord, the day after;
That is a day the better
If you abide with us and ride with him.
He has whetted his spears and paunchers all this day,
And offers them for the courtesy of your usage. . . . CONAN

Cousin, not the old spear with the bronze blade. GRUACH

If you can well endure our wilding pleasures. ENVOY

I could not slight the hospitality
Of such a day: I thank you for your leave
To ride with you to church.
I shall delay so far. . . .
A slight pause . GRUACH

You are good, my lord. Good-night. ENVOY

God find you a fair awakening.
GRUACH passes out of sight up the stair .
DOMHNAL enters from the right, fastens the great door, crosses at the back to the foot of the stair, and stands at the far side of it. He is followed by two serving-men, a boy, an old woman ( MARGET ), and two sturdy young women: they move quickly and ascend the stair in turn. When the last has disappeared a lanky girl enters in the wake of the others, moving awkwardly in slatternly outgrown clothes, rubbing her eyes, and snivelling . DOMHNAL motions to her to hasten: she stumbles up the stair. The whole train is seen to pass behind the high arcade from left to right . DOMHNAL turns to follow . MORAG

Steward, two hours before the first false light
The men must set the long hall-tables up,
The women must have the seething-pots in steam.
DOMHNAL , making a reverence.

Our lady's will shall be done.
He passes out of sight up the stair .
MORAG to the ENVOY .

A bride has privileges, lord Macbeth,
To be much considered, and even more indulged:
We should accept her wishes at this time,
And I am grieved there is no chamber arrayed
For any guest yet, and that there is no place
Unspoken for at the bride's board to-morrow.
We must, with true unwillingness, leave you here
Until the time for your going; the house is yours
In our intention; let not our imperfection —
That is of the hour, not of our hearts — obscure
Our watchful duty done to our King. ENVOY

I thank the Lady of Fortingall for much.
A chair by her hearth and my cloak about me will serve
Until I can take the road. If I have your leave
I will open both hall-door and stable-door,
Let down the drawbridge and ride out and away
Into the North by the moon, nor call your housefolk
Still earlier than your needs.
MORAG , at the stair-foot.

If your high duty sends you to horse so soon
We shall not see you again:
I trust your journey will prosper and be speedy.
She passes out of sight up the stair . FERN

The hall grows colder after the turn of midnight;
There are logs in the corner, and, if the frost should deepen,
You will find furs behind the curtain there.
May you rest well. ENVOY

I thank your gentle thought.
FERN passes out of sight up the stair . CONAN

Have you saddled a horse before in the King's yard?
Do you know the way of the bit? ENVOY

A noble woman is handed to you to-morrow:
No one need wish you joy, you receive its cause.
Such breeding as hers should never be shut up
In these harsh walls and mountains and hard cold minds:
If you will ride with your matchless wife to Scone
When I return, the King shall hear of you
And take you into his house;
There you shall savour unguessed wonders in life
And come to advancement too. CONAN

Will you return this way?
I cannot leave the justicing of my fiefs
That has lately come upon me:
The wolves beyond Sithchallion would increase
If they were left one season. ENVOY

Would you hunt wolves when you can hunt men, fierce men? CONAN

I thought that courtiers only hunted women. ENVOY

I am your guest, Thane, and would be your friend.
Have you no home to give a shrinking woman
Beside this threatening prison? CONAN

I have a hunting-lodge on the Black Mountain. ENVOY

Carry her thither from church, alone and free:
A woman does not wed to gain a mother,
Nor does a man to acquire another sister. CONAN

Are you a wedded man? ENVOY

No. CONAN

Then come to me
For good advice upon your wedding-eve,
And I will talk of what I know. Good-night.
He passes up the stair out of sight: when he reaches the arcade he puts out his head between two pillars, and watches the ENVOY a moment with a face of mistrust and dislike; then he withdraws and disappears .
The ENVOY goes to CONAN'S chair after watching him mount the stair, turns it away from the fire so that it commands doorway and staircase, and seats himself . ENVOY

Shall I return this way? I shall return,
As a ghost walks who has left a thing undone.
I shall eat this green oaf's salt and be his guest,
His comrade, his sworn friend, his counsellor,
And sack his bed for him.
The mother bee, that shall out-top her fellows,
Is straitened in a blind and deepy cell
As in this tower of darkness is this woman.
A spirit of power that shakes my mind is here
In this resourceful woman: she is as still
As the white heat of a straight, half wrought sword
That does not palpitate yet along its edge
Lives quiveringly; she can indeed conceive
Its sudden and brief concentration of anger
In icy tempering, by her sharp life here;
But stillness is her operative condition.
Nothing falters in her; nothing shrinks.
She came to me with her eyes as if she made
Decision, and her nearness of approach
Was more immediate than tenderness:
She came as close to me with her intention
As an unexpected and convincing thought.
If I could add her even force to mine
We could increase life's grasp.
He takes the flower from his jerkin .

Dark, unregarded bud of opening fate,
What is there now to do?
Bring to me no more fortune: all is here.
Deliver me from continuing chance: stand still
In thy unfolding.
Now is my fortune manifested; dissolve,
Turn thou to fire and spirit and permeation,
And fix it here for ever.
He kisses the flower, then drops it deliberately into the fire .
Dark tableau curtains fall, but remain closed only long enough for a brief orchestral nocturne to be played .