Lewis. My saint! but what if I bid theeTo be my seneschal, and here with prayers,With sober thrift, and noble bounty shine,Alone and peerless? And suppose—nay, start not—I only said suppose—the war was long,Our camps far off, and that some winter, love,Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where nowJoys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass,Alike, yet ever new.—What would’st thou do, love?

Eliz. A year? A year! A cold, blank, widowed year!Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with fear—This is no hall of doom,No impious Soldan’s feast of old,Where o’er the madness of the foaming gold,A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled.Yet by thy wild words raised,In Love’s most careless revel,Looms through the future’s fog a shade of evil,And all my heart is glazed.—Alas! What would I do?I would lie down and weep, and weep,Till the salt current of my tears should sweepMy soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep,A lingering half-night through.Then when the mocking bells did wakeMy hollow eyes to twilight gray,I would address my spiritless limbs to pray,And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary day,And labour for thy sake.Until by vigils, fasts, and tears,The flesh was grown so spare and light,That I could slip its mesh, and flit by nightO’er sleeping sea and land to thee—or Christ—till morning light.Peace! Why these fears?Life is too short for mean anxieties:Soul! thou must work, though blindfold.Come, beloved,I must turn robber.—I have begged of lateSo soft, I fear to ask.—Give me thy purse.

Lewis. No, not my purse:—stay—Where is all that goldI gave you, when the Jews came here from Köln?

Eliz. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all next dayOn a new chapel on the Eisenthal;There were no choristers but nightingales—No teachers there save bees: how long is this?Have you turned niggard?

Lewis. Nay; go ask my steward—Take what you will—this purse I want myself.

Eliz. Ah! now I guess. You have some trinket for me—You promised late to buy no more such baubles—And now you are ashamed.—Nay, I must see—

[Snatches his purse. Lewis hides his face.]

Ah, God! what’s here? A new crusader’s cross?Whose? Nay, nay—turn not from me; I guess all—You need not tell me; it is very well—According to the meed of my deserts:Yes—very well.

Lewis. Ah, love!—look not so calm—

Eliz. Fear not—I shall weep soon.How long is it since you vowed?

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