Sir Peter Harpdon’s End
In an English Castle in Poictou.
Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight1 in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant2.
JOHN CURZON.
Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John’s hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.
SIR PETER.
So:
What are their names?
JOHN CURZON.
Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but,
SIR PETER.
What colour’d hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?
JOHN CURZON.
Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques’ hair,
Or Peter’s legs to us?
SIR PETER.
O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason’s tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; They’re no good,
We shall not build, man.
JOHN CURZON (going).
Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We’d better keep them still; sir, fare you well.
[Muttering as he goes.
What have I done that he should jape at me?
And why not build? the walls are weak enough,
And we’ve two masons and a heap of tools.
[Goes, still muttering.
SIR PETER.
To think a man should have a lump like that
For his lieutenant! I must call him back,
Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,
He’ll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!
JOHN CURZON.
At your good service, sir.
SIR PETER.
Come now, and talk
This weighty matter out; there, we’ve no stone
To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.
JOHN CURZON.
There is a quarry3, sir, some ten miles off.
SIR PETER.
We are not strong enough to send ten men
Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.
In three hours’ time they would be taken or slain4,
The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.
JOHN CURZON.
But we can send some villaynes to get stone.
SIR PETER.
Alas5! John, that we cannot bring them back,
They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere,
And tell them we were weak in walls and men,
Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed,
And now no longer does the country shake
At sound of English names; our captains fade
From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge
I daresay you may even yet see the hole
That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain
Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here;
Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse;
Oliver Clisson turn’d these years agone;
The Captal died in prison; and, over all,
Edward the prince lies underneath6 the ground,
Edward the king is dead, at Westminster
The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.
Everything goes to rack — eh! and we too.
Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French,
Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?
A man can die but once, will you die then,
Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart
Of all the deeds we have done here in France —
And yet may do? So God will have your soul,
Whoever has your body.
JOHN CURZON.
Why, sir, I
Will fight till the last moment, until then
Will do whate’er you tell me. Now I see
We must e’en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps
They’re stronger than I think for; pity, though!
For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.
SIR PETER.
Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well,
I doubt them.
JOHN CURZON.
Truly, sir, I will watch well. [Goes.
SIR PETER.
Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said,
’Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes;
Some dozen stones from his petrariae,
And, under shelter of his crossbows, just
An hour’s steady work with pickaxes,
Then a great noise — some dozen swords and glaives
A-playing on my basnet all at once,
And little more cross purposes on earth
For me.
Now this is hard: a month ago,
And a few minutes’ talk had set things right
‘Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt,
As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had,
’Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears,
Of how Sir Peter fail’d at Lusac Bridge:
And how he was grown moody8 of late days;
And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend,
His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess
That Peter’s talk tended towards the French,
Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of,
Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side.
Well,
If I could but have seen her on that day,
Then, when they sent me off!
I like to think,
Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what,
If I had seen her, what I should have said,
What she, my darling, would have said and done.
As thus perchance.
To find her sitting there,
In the window-seat, not looking well at all,
Crying perhaps, and I say quietly:
Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob10, looks grave,
Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks,
Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees,
And say: O lady, have I sinn’d, your knight?
That still you ever let me walk alone
In the rose garden, that you sing no songs
When I am by, that ever in the dance
You quietly walk away when I come near?
Now that I have you, will you go, think you?
Ere she could answer I would speak again,
Still kneeling there.
What! they have frighted you,
By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets,
Round my good name; but afterwards, my love,
I will say what this means; this moment, see!
Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea:
For she would put her hands upon my face:
Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed?
And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips!
And afterwards as I sat there would say:
Please a poor silly girl by telling me
What all those things they talk of really were,
For it is true you did not help Chandos,
And true, poor love! you could not come to me
I should say:
I am like Balen, all things turn to blame.
I did not come to you? At Bergerath
The constable13 had held us close shut up,
If from the barriers I had made three steps,
I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too,
We struggled in a marish half the day,
And came too late at last: you know, my love,
How heavy men and horses are all arm’d.
All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix’d,
Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love.
She, holding tight my hand as we sat there,
Started a little at Sir Lambert’s name,
But otherwise she listen’d scarce at all
To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes,
And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak,
She said: I love you.
Other words were few,
The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth’d down
My foolish head; she kiss’d me all about
My face, and through the tangles14 of my beard
Her little fingers crept!
O God, my Alice,
Not this good way: my lord but sent and said
That Lambert’s sayings were taken at their worth,
Therefore that day I was to start, and keep
This hold against the French; and I am here:
[Looks out of the window.
A sprawling15 lonely garde with rotten walls,
And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes,
Or any other.
There’s a pennon now!
At last.
But not the constable’s: whose arms,
I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings
On a red ground; my cousin’s by the rood!
Well, I should like to kill him, certainly,
But to be kill’d by him: [A trumpet16 sounds.
I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.
Enter John Curzon.
What says the herald of our cousin, sir?
JOHN CURZON.
So please you, sir, concerning your estate,
He has good will to talk with you.
SIR PETER.
Outside,
I’ll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives.
Is he unarm’d?
JOHN CURZON.
Yea, sir, in a long gown.
SIR PETER.
Then bid them bring me hither my furr’d gown
With the long sleeves, and under it I’ll wear,
By Lambert’s leave, a secret coat of mail;
And will you lend me, John, your little axe7?
I mean the one with Paul wrought18 on the blade?
And I will carry it inside my sleeve,
Good to be ready always; you, John, go
And bid them set up many suits of arms,
Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and
Yourself, from the south postern setting out,
With twenty men, be ready to break through
Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George!
JOHN CURZON.
How, sir! will you attack him unawares,
And slay19 him unarm’d?
SIR PETER.
Trust me, John, I know
The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown,
Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [They go.
Outside the castle by the great gate; Sir Lambert and Sir Peter seated; guards attending each, the rest of Sir Lambert’s men drawn20 up about a furlong off.
SIR PETER.
And if I choose to take the losing side
Still, does it hurt you?
SIR LAMBERT.
O! no hurt to me;
I see you sneering21, Why take trouble then,
Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house
(Which, taken altogether, I love much)
Had better be upon the right side now,
If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule
As such a house should: cousin, you’re too wise
To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France
Will ever draw two ways again; this side
The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar
With envious22 longings23; and the other side
The order’d English, orderly led on
By those two Edwards through all wrong and right,
And muddling24 right and wrong to a thick broth25
With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed,
The true French win, on either side you have
Cool-headed men, good at a tilting27 match,
And good at setting battles in array,
And good at squeezing taxes at due time;
Therefore by nature we French being here
Upon our own big land: [Sir Peter laughs aloud.
Well, Peter! well!
What makes you laugh?
SIR PETER.
Hearing you sweat to prove
All this I know so well; but you have read
The siege of Troy?
SIR LAMBERT.
O! yea, I know it well.
SIR PETER.
There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be
For, as I think, they found it such delight
To see fair Helen going through their town;
Yea, any little common thing she did
(As stooping to pick a flower) seem’d so strange,
So new in its great beauty, that they said:
Here we will keep her living in this town,
Till all burns up together. And so, fought,
In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong;
Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man
That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands,
Over some great height, did they struggle sore,
Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note
How almost all men, reading that sad siege,
Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least,
Thought Hector the best knight a long way:
Now
Why should I not do this thing that I think;
For even when I come to count the gains,
I have them my side: men will talk, you know
(We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,)
When I am dead, of how this Peter clung
To what he thought the right; of how he died,
Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed
Few men would care do now, and this is gain
To me, as ease and money is to you.
Moreover, too, I like the straining game
Of striving well to hold up things that fall;
So one becomes great. See you! in good times
All men live well together, and you, too,
Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick,
Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up?
Why then, but just to fight as I do now,
A halter round my neck, would be great bliss28.
O! I am well off. [Aside.
Talk, and talk, and talk,
I know this man has come to murder me,
And yet I talk still.
SIR LAMBERT.
If your side were right,
You might be, though you lost; but if I said,
‘You are a traitor29, being, as you are,
Born Frenchman.’ What are Edwards unto you,
Or Richards?
SIR PETER.
Nay30, hold there, my Lambert, hold!
For fear your zeal31 should bring you to some harm,
Don’t call me traitor.
SIR LAMBERT.
Furthermore, my knight,
Men call you slippery on your losing side,
When at Bordeaux I was ambassador,
I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay.
[He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises.
SIR PETER, rising.
They lied: and you lie, not for the first time.
What have you got there, fumbling32 up your sleeve,
A stolen purse?
SIR LAMBERT.
Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert!
[Strikes at Sir Peter with a dagger34.
SIR PETER, striking him flatlings with his axe.
How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there,
St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan!
You French, you are but dead, unless you lay
Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!
Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.
In the Castle.
JOHN CURZON.
What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir?
SIR PETER.
Why, put them all to ransom35, those that can
Pay anything, but not too light though, John,
Seeing we have them on the hip36: for those
That have no money, that being certified37,
Why, turn them out of doors before they spy;
But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.
JOHN CURZON.
I will, fair sir. [He goes.
SIR PETER.
I do not wish to kill him,
Although I think I ought; he shall go mark’d,
By all the saints, though!
Enter Lambert guarded.
Now, Sir Lambert, now!
What sort of death do you expect to get,
Being taken this way?
SIR LAMBERT.
Cousin! cousin! think!
I am your own blood; may God pardon me!
I am not fit to die; if you knew all,
All I have done since I was young and good.
O! you would give me yet another chance,
As God would, that I might wash all clear out,
By serving you and Him. Let me go now!
And I will pay you down more golden crowns
Of ransom than the king would!
SIR PETER.
Well, stand back,
And do not touch me! No, you shall not die,
Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause
Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high,
Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out
To all good folks, ‘Come, see a traitor punish’d!’
Take me my knight, and set him up thereon,
And let the hangman shave his head quite clean,
And cut his ears off close up to the head;
And cause the minstrels all the while to play
Soft music, and good singing; for this day
Is my high day of triumph; is it not,
Sir Lambert?
SIR LAMBERT.
Ah! on your own blood,
Own name, you heap this foul38 disgrace? you dare,
With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back
And take the lady Alice?
SIR PETER.
Say her name
Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.
Why should I talk with you? I’m master here,
And do not want your schooling40; is it not
My mercy that you are not dangling41 dead
There in the gateway42 with a broken neck?
SIR LAMBERT.
Such mercy! why not kill me then outright43?
To die is nothing; but to live that all
May point their fingers! yea, I’d rather die.
JOHN CURZON.
Why, will it make you any uglier man
To lose your ears? they’re much too big for you,
You ugly Judas!
SIR PETER.
Hold, John! [To Lambert.
That’s your choice,
To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine,
I thank you now for choosing this so well,
It saves me much perplexity and doubt;
Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count
This sparing traitors44 is an ill deed.
Well,
Lambert, die bravely, and we’re almost friends.
SIR LAMBERT, grovelling45.
O God! this is a fiend and not a man;
Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!
I will not die.
SIR PETER.
Why, what is this I see?
A man who is a knight, and bandied words
So well just now with me, is lying down,
Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought
You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.
I should have guess’d this from a man like you.
Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin,
Yea, all a man can have for simple life,
And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this,
Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell
Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk,
‘Would rather die,’ all that. Now sir, get up!
And choose again: shall it be head sans ears,
Or trunk sans head?
John Curzon, pull him up!
What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.
Lambert, I hope that never on this earth
We meet again; that you’ll turn out a monk46,
And mend the life I give you, so farewell,
I’m sorry you’re a rascal47. John, despatch48.
In the French camp before the Castle.
Sir Peter prisoner, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert.
SIR PETER.
So now is come the ending of my life;
If I could clear this sickening lump away
That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word,
Guesclin might listen.
GUESCLIN.
Tell me, fair sir knight,
If you have been clean liver before God,
And then you need not fear much; as for me,
I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath,
And cousin Lambert’s ears here clench50 the thing.
SIR PETER.
I knew you could not hate me, therefore I
Am bold to pray for life; ’twill harm your cause
To hang knights51 of good name, harms here in France
I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter
Men will remember you another way
Than I should care to be remember’d, ah!
Although hot lead runs through me for my blood,
All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords,
See how young I am,
Do you care altogether more for France,
Say rather one French faction53, than for all
The state of Christendom? a gallant54 knight,
As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth
Than many castles; will you bring this death,
For a mere55 act of justice, on my head?
Think how it ends all, death! all other things
Can somehow be retrieved56, yea, send me forth57
Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here;
Then somehow will I get me other clothes,
And somehow will I get me some poor horse,
And, somehow clad in poor old rusty58 arms,
Will ride and smite59 among the serried60 glaives,
Fear not death so; for I can tilt26 right well,
Let me not say I could; I know all tricks,
That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you,
You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days
Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind,
How in the trodden corn by Chartres town,
When you were nearly swooning from the back
Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once
From off my sword’s edge; pray for me, my lord!
CLISSON.
Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die.
My Lord the Constable, I pray you note
That you are losing some few thousand crowns
By slaying61 this man; also think: his lands
Along the Garonne river lie for leagues,
And are right rich, a many mills he has,
Three abbeys of grey monks62 do hold of him:
Though wishing well for Clement63, as we do,
I know the next heir, his old uncle, well,
Who does not care two deniers for the knight
As things go now, but slay him, and then see,
How he will bristle64 up like any perch9,
With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord,
You’ll get the money, this man saved my life,
And I will buy him for two thousand crowns;
Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then,
Ten thousand crowns?
GUESCLIN.
My sweet lord, much I grieve
I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve
This knight must die, as verily he must;
For I have sworn it, so men take him out,
Use him not roughly.
SIR LAMBERT, coming forward.
Music, do you know,
Music will suit you well, I think, because
You look so mild, like Laurence being grill’d;
Or perhaps music soft and slow, because
This is high day of triumph unto me,
Is it not, Peter?
You are frighten’d, though,
Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much,
Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine,
You ruin’d wretch65! Men mock me in the streets,
Only in whispers loud, because I am
Friend of the constable; will this please you,
Unhappy Peter? once a-going home,
Without my servants, and a little drunk,
At midnight through the lone11 dim lamp-lit streets.
A whore came up and spat49 into my eyes,
Rather to blind me than to make me see,
But she was very drunk, and tottering66 back,
Even in the middle of her laughter fell
And cut her head against the pointed67 stones,
While I lean’d on my staff, and look’d at her,
And cried, being drunk.
Girls would not spit at you.
You are so handsome, I think verily
Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes,
And yet you will be hung like a cur dog
Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face,
And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad.
Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now,
With Guesclin getting ready to play chess,
And Clisson doing something with his sword,
I can’t see what, talking to Guesclin though,
I don’t know what about, perhaps of you.
But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard,
Let me say this, I’d like to tell you now
That your life hung upon a game of chess,
That if, say, my squire68 Robert here should beat,
Why you should live, but hang if I beat him;
Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then:
Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let
My squire Robert beat me, then you would think
That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all,
But I should keep you three days in some hold,
Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind,
Considering the tax there is on salt;
And afterwards should let you go, perhaps?
No I should not, but I should hang you, sir,
With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope.
But I forgot, you have not told me yet
If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus,
Instead of drinking wine while you are hang’d?
You are not quick at guessing, give it up.
This is the reason; here I hold your hand,
And watch you growing paler, see you writhe69
And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear,
I cannot by all striving tell you how
I love it, nor I think, good man, would you
Quite understand my great delight therein;
You, when you had me underneath you once,
Spat as it were, and said, ‘Go take him out,’
That they might do that thing to me whereat,
E’en now this long time off I could well shriek70,
And then you tried forget I ever lived,
And sunk your hating into other things;
While I: St. Denis! though, I think you’ll faint,
Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless
You let it out and weep like a hurt child;
Hurrah71! you do now. Do not go just yet,
For I am Alice, am right like her now,
Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love?
CLISSON.
You filthy72 beast, stand back and let him go,
Or by God’s eyes I’ll choke you!
[Kneeling to Sir Peter.
Fair sir knight
I kneel upon my knees and pray to you
That you would pardon me for this your death;
God knows how much I wish you still alive,
Also how heartily73 I strove to save
Your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well,
(I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would,
If it were possible, give up my life
Upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although,
He knowing all things knows this thing too, well,
Yet when you see his face some short time hence,
Tell him I tried to save you.
SIR PETER.
O! my lord,
I cannot say this is as good as life,
But yet it makes me feel far happier now,
And if at all, after a thousand years,
I see God’s face, I will speak loud and bold,
And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself;
Sir, may God bless you!
Did you note how I
Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think
That Lambert’s taunts74 did this, I hardly heard
The base things that he said, being deep in thought
Of all things that have happen’d since I was
A little child; and so at last I thought
Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem’d
No longer gone than yesterday, that this
Was the sole reason God let me be born
Twenty-five years ago, that I might love
Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her;
This seem’d so yesterday, today death comes,
And is so bitter strong, I cannot see
Why I was born.
But as a last request,
I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man,
Some good man, mind you, to say how I died,
And take my last love to her: fare-you-well,
And may God keep you; I must go now, lest
I grow too sick with thinking on these things;
Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth,
From whence I shall be lifted upright soon.
[As he goes.
Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death;
And yet not so, I only wept because
There was no beautiful lady to kiss me
Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed
From her dear lips. O for some lady, though
I saw her ne’er before; Alice, my love,
I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind,
If he had been a woman, I should die
Without this sickness: but I am all wrong,
So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die.
There, I will go.
My God! how sick I am,
If only she could come and kiss me now.
The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux.
The Lady Alice de la Barde looking out of a window into the street.
No news yet! surely, still he holds his own:
That garde stands well; I mind me passing it
Some months ago; God grant the walls are strong!
I heard some knights say something yestereve,
I tried hard to forget: words far apart
Struck on my heart something like this; one said:
What eh! a Gascon with an English name,
Harpdon? then nought75, but afterwards: Poictou.
As one who answers to a question ask’d,
Then carelessly regretful came: No, no.
Whereto in answer loud and eagerly,
One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play!
And went off angrily; and while thenceforth
I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard:
Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson.
My heart misgives76 me it is all in vain
I send these succours; and in good time there
Their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights,
God up in Heaven keep you.
If they come
And find him prisoner, for I can’t believe
Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm.
The last horse turns the corner.
God in Heaven!
What have I got to thinking of at last!
That thief I will not name is with Guesclin,
Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love!
O, if I lose you after all the past,
What shall I do?
I cannot bear the noise
And light street out there, with this thought alive,
Like any curling snake within my brain;
Let me just hide my head within these soft
Deep cushions, there to try and think it out.
[Lying in the window-seat.
I cannot hear much noise now, and I think
That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim
And faint, and I shall soon forget most things;
Yea, almost that I am alive and here;
It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel
On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway,
And soft and slow it rises and it falls,
Lying so, one kiss,
And I should be in Avalon asleep,
Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers;
And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread
Far out among the stems; soft mice and small
Eating and creeping all about my feet,
Red shod and tired; and the flies should come
Creeping o’er my broad eyelids78 unafraid;
And there should be a noise of water going,
Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates79,
Likewise the flies should creep: God’s eyes! God help!
A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown
The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs80 fight.
Ah!
I was half dreaming, but the trumpet’s true;
He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms?
Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart,
And be quite gentle till he is gone out;
And afterwards: but he is still alive,
He must be still alive.
Enter a Squire of Clisson’s.
Good day, fair sir,
I give you welcome, knowing whence you come.
SQUIRE.
My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come
From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty81 lord,
Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope
You will not count me villain82, even if
They wring83 your heart, nor hold me still in hate;
For I am but a mouthpiece after all,
A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well
To you and your’s.
ALICE.
Can you talk faster, sir,
Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes
On mine, I pray you, and whate’er you see,
Still go on talking fast, unless I fall,
Or bid you stop.
SQUIRE.
I pray your pardon then,
And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say
I am unhappy that your knight is dead.
Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all.
We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms,
And scant84 five hundred had he in that hold:
His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain,
And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit;
Yet for three days about the barrier there
The deadly glaives were gather’d, laid across,
And push’d and pull’d; the fourth our engines came;
But still amid the crash of falling walls,
And roar of lombards, rattle85 of hard bolts,
The steady bow-strings flash’d, and still stream’d out
St. George’s banner, and the seven swords,
And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until
Their walls were flat as Jericho’s of old,
And our rush came, and cut them from the keep.
ALICE.
Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew86 him then,
And where he died, if you can really mean
That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead?
SQUIRE.
Fair lady, in the base-court:
ALICE.
What base-court?
What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on;
’Twas only something gone within my head:
Do you not know, one turns one’s head round quick,
And something cracks there with sore pain? go on,
And still look at my eyes.
SQUIRE.
Almost alone,
There in the base-court fought he with his sword,
Using his left hand much, more than the wont87
Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back,
For wheresoever he hit a downright blow,
Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold
Against the sway of body and great arm;
Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I,
I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!)
Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees,
And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost;
Many fell on him, crying out their cries,
Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and:
ALICE.
Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live,
Fair God, so let me die!
You have done well,
Done all your message gently, pray you go,
Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take
This bag of franks for your expenses.
[The Squire kneels.
But
You do not go; still looking at my face,
You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then?
You need not tell me who has set you on,
But tell me only, ’tis a made-up tale.
You are some lover may-be or his friend;
Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved,
Think, is it not enough that I kneel down
And kiss your feet? your jest will be right good
If you give in now; carry it too far,
And ’twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep
Almost, as though you loved me; love me then,
And go to Heaven by telling all your sport,
And I will kiss you then with all my heart,
Upon the mouth: O! what can I do then
To move you?
SQUIRE.
Lady fair, forgive me still!
You know I am so sorry, but my tale
Is not yet finish’d:
So they bound his hands,
And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin’s tent,
Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand,
And ponder’d somewhile, afterwards, looking up:
Fair dame88, what shall I say?
ALICE.
Yea, I know now,
Good squire, you may go now with my thanks.
SQUIRE.
Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this,
Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson’s sake.
When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,
Within a while he lifted up his head
And spoke89 for his own life; not crouching90, though,
As abjectly91 afraid to die, nor yet
Sullenly92 brave as many a thief will die,
Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:
Few words he spoke; not so much what he said
Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played
Strange tenderness from that big soldier there
About his pleading; eagerness to live
Because folk loved him, and he loved them back,
And many gallant plans unfinish’d now
For ever. Clisson’s heart, which may God bless!
Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;
Wherefore I bring this message:
That he waits,
Still loving you, within the little church
Whose windows, with the one eye of the light
Over the altar, every night behold93
The great dim broken walls he strove to keep!
There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.
Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest!
ALICE.
Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!
And now to keep myself from going mad.
Christ! I have been a many times to church,
And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,
Have used them daily, but today I wish
To pray another way; come face to face,
O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray
I know not what; at any rate come now
From one of many places where you are,
Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings,
Or sitting on the altar strange with gems94,
Or high up in the duskness of the apse;
Let us go, You and I, a long way off,
To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church.
While you sit on the coffin95 in the dark,
Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone
Between your feet, and chatter96 anything
I have heard long ago. What matters it
So I may keep you there, your solemn face
And long hair even-flowing on each side,
Until you love me well enough to speak,
And give me comfort? yea, till o’er your chin,
And cloven red beard the great tears roll down
In pity for my misery97, and I die,
Kissed over by you.
Eh Guesclin! if I were
Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss’d the knight,
Across the salt sea come to fight for her:
Ah! just to go about with many knights,
Wherever you went, and somehow on one day,
In a thick wood to catch you off your guard,
Let you find, you and your some fifty friends,
Nothing but arrows wheresoe’er you turn’d,
Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them;
And so, between a lane of my true men,
To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with
My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith,
And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin;
And then: alas! alas! when all is said,
What could I do but let you go again,
Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge,
Whatever happens; and I get no comfort:
I am but weak, and cannot move my feet,
But as men bid me.
Strange I do not die.
Suppose this has not happen’d after all?
I will lean out again and watch for news.
I wonder how long I can still feel thus,
As though I watch’d for news, feel as I did
Just half-an-hour ago, before this news.
How all the street is humming, some men sing,
And some men talk; some look up at the house,
Then lay their heads together and look grave:
Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart;
Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round:
Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing?
Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death:
They ought to sing of him who was as wight
As Launcelot or Wade98, and yet avail’d
Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail,
And so at last to die and leave me here,
Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will,
When many years are past, make songs of us:
God help me, though, truly I never thought
That I should make a story in this way,
A story that his eyes can never see.
[One sings from outside.]
Therefore be it believed
Whatsoever99 he grieved,
When his horse was relieved,
This Launcelot,
Beat down on his knee,
God’s body to see,
Though he saw it not.
Right valiant to move,
But for his sad love
The high God above
Yet so he was glad
That his son, Lord Galahad,
That high joyaunce had
All his life-days.
Sing we therefore then
Launcelot’s praise again,
If he wan not twelve.
To his death from his birth
He was mickle of worth,
Lay him in the cold earth,
Omnes homines benedicite!
This last fitte ye may see,
All men pray for me
Who made this history
Cunning and fairly.
收听单词发音 |
1
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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7
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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8
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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9
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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10
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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11
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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12
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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13
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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14
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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16
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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17
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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18
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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19
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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20
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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21
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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22
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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23
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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24
muddling
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的现在分词 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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25
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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26
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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27
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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28
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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29
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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30
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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31
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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32
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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33
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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34
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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35
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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36
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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37
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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38
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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39
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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40
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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41
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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42
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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43
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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44
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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45
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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46
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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47
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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48
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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49
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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50
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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51
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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52
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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53
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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54
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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59
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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60
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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61
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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62
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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63
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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64
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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65
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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66
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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67
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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69
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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70
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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71
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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72
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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73
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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74
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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75
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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76
misgives
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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78
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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79
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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80
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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83
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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84
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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85
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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86
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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87
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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88
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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89
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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90
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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91
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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92
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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95
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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96
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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97
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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98
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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99
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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100
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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101
stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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102
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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