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 AT «>i» - - - V 
 
 
 
 
 V-o^ 
 
 
 
The Strolling Player Speaks 
 
 Here in the Market-PIace our plays 
 
 we show 
 Among the busy crowds that come 
 
 and go. 
 If there be naught in what we shall 
 
 portray 
 That speaketh to your spirit, go your 
 
 way; 
 Somewhere along the road, there 
 
 waits your need 
 The Voice whose tone ye cannot 
 
 choose but heed* 
 But if your hearts be tuned with ours, 
 
 draw near. 
 It is an old, old message ye shall hear 
 That first was sounded when our 
 
 race began, — 
 At once as ancient and as new as Man. 
 Beneath these garments of a bygone 
 
 form 
 The pulses of today beat swift and 
 
 warm. 
 Take to your souls what we shall 
 
 strive to show, 
 And pray for us, your brethren, as 
 
 ye go. 
 
PLAYS IN THE 
 MARKET-PLACE 
 BY AMELIA J. 
 BURR ^ ^ di ^ 
 
 The hillside PRESS, 
 ENGLEWOOD, NEW 
 JERSEY ^ M-CM-X 
 
 
T 
 
 
 /I/ 
 
 p.- 
 
 COPYRIGHTED, J9J0 
 
 By AMELIA J. BURR 
 
 o^/ir rights rese/bed 
 
The flcywers Hve plucked together 
 I bring to you today ^ 
 Who U'hed by simple nature 
 All I have striven to say* 
 
 So natural, so simple^ 
 Dear heart, you nel>er kne^ 
 Yourself a king more royal 
 Than aught my fancy dre'tD. 
 
 Smiling, you stoop to take them 
 As in the happy past — 
 These floJi)ers *ive plucked together ^ 
 Nor thought they 'were the last. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 "BY THE "DEAD WATERS , "Page 7 
 
 IN THE miST 20 
 
 THE THRONE-ROOM 39 
 
 THE WALLED GARDEN . ... 51 
 THE SHRINE 65 
 
Plays in the Market Place 
 
 I 
 
 BY THE DEAD WATERS 
 
 'iStAt the back of the stage is a stagnant pool sur- 
 rounded by moss-hung trees* ^et^ween the trunks 
 is dimly seen a figure like an exhalation from the 
 ^waters o'i?er <which it hovers, clothed as l^ith the 
 slime of the pool and glowing Ji>ith a greenish light 
 A VOICE FROM THE POOL. 
 Why stand you waiting there? G)me down to us 
 and give us yet more wondrous dreams. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS. 
 
 I wait 
 for what shall come to me; ere night has closed 
 shall the King's Daughter sink into the sleep 
 that holds you all. The dead leaves even now 
 herald her straying feet. Lie still and dream: 
 are you not well content ? 
 VOICES, drowsily. 
 
 We are content. 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Will the King's Daughter sleep as sound as we ? 
 We would not be awakened from our dreams. 
 
THE SPIRIT. 
 
 You shall not be awakened; have no fear. 
 Nothing in earth or heaven can waken you 
 henceforth, forever. Silence — to your dreams. 
 She comes. 
 A VOICE FROM THE POOL. 
 
 I dream of deeds I might have done 
 had not the strong been leagued against me. 
 ANOTHER VOICE. 
 
 I. 
 
 of love I might have given, had the world 
 
 been kind to me. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 And I of wealth and power 
 
 I might have won, had fortune smiled on me. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 And I of songs I might have sung, had men 
 
 listened and praised me. 
 
 A HEAVY VOICE. 
 
 Time was when I dreamed 
 
 of all these things ; but now I only sleep. 
 
 The voices die into confused sighs as the King's 
 Daughter enters, iveary and disheJ^elled. She 
 stops and looks about her uncertainly, not per- 
 ceil^ing the spirit, 
 
 8 
 
THE KJNG^S DAUGHTER, 
 
 I am so weary! And the night draws on, 
 
 I must make haste — where is the Lonely Shrine ? 
 
 I thought I knew the way; now I recall 
 
 they told me somewhat as I left the palace — 
 
 I think it was warning, but I did not heed. 
 
 I know the way — and should I go amiss 
 
 the Prince would speedily come seek for me 
 
 and lead me home. He would have had me pray 
 
 blessings on this my last of maidenhood 
 
 in the dim homely church that christened me — 
 
 but crowds of beggars knelt about me there 
 
 till I was sick at heart with their disease 
 
 and chose the Lonely Shrine. They are so poor 
 
 and sick and ignorant, my people! Oh, 
 
 the dreams I have for them! I dream and dream 
 
 and no one understands me, no, not one, 
 
 even of those my nearest. All is vain. 
 
 Strange languor hangs upon me, and I thirst 
 
 I see a shine of water through the trees. 
 
 She approaches the pool, then recoils* 
 This is no clear brown merry-throated brook, — 
 What water can this be? I am afraid — 
 Now I remember what they said to me : 
 *^ Beware of the Dead Waters^* — at the time 
 I did not heed. The air breathes cold on me 
 
and yet I feel no wind. I will go home 
 and pray in the Cathedral — 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Tarry thou, 
 King^s Daughter. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Who is this that speaks to me ? 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 The Spirit of the Waters, and your friend. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 Of the Dead Waters? 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 They who call them so 
 are blind of heart and cannot understand. 
 Come closer and look down into the depths 
 and tell me then if they be dead or no. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 I am afraid ; they say that you are evil. 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 And who are they that so reported me ? 
 The King your father and the Queen your mother, 
 the Prince your bridegroom, — and who else ? 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 None else 
 has told me aught of you ; even your name 
 never had touched my ears before today. 
 
 10 
 
THE SPIRIT, 
 
 You judge me hastily — but let that pass* 
 
 Your hair is tangled by the antic boughs ; 
 
 where is the crown that was upon your head ? 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 After I left my father^s door behind 
 
 I met an old blind beggar in the street 
 
 who cried to me for bread* What could I do ? 
 
 I dropped my crown into his outstretched hand 
 
 and hastened on* 
 
 THE SPIRIT* 
 
 Ah, that was nobly done ! 
 What will the King your father say of that ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER* 
 He will not say that it was nobly done, 
 but chide me for my folly ; he will say 
 I should have led the beggar to our hall 
 and fed him there. 
 THE SPIRIT* 
 
 So blind, so blind of soul ! 
 And he it is who spoke you ill of me ! 
 Your feet are tarnished with the wayside dust 
 and bleeding from the roughness of the road* 
 Where are the sandals that were on your feet ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER* 
 Just as I passed beyond the city gate 
 
 U 
 
I met a wandering woman of the road 
 
 with bare brown feet ; she limped ; to her I gave 
 
 my sandals* 
 
 THE SPIRIT, 
 
 That again was nobly done ; 
 What will the Queen your mother say of that ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER 
 She will not say that it was nobly done ; 
 she will but say those travel-hardened feet 
 were stronger than my foolish silken shoes 
 and I go bleeding vainly ; she will say 
 I should have led her to the cobbler^s house 
 and given her stout sandals for the road, 
 THE SPIRIT, 
 
 Is she your mother and so blind of soul ? 
 And she it is who spoke you ill of me I 
 What of the third — what of the Prince your bride- 
 groom ? 
 Surely he knows the treasure he has won 
 and values it aright — it must be so. 
 Why do you hide your face, that grows so white ? 
 Where is the ring he set upon your hand ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER, 
 Upon the brushy fringes of the wood 
 I met a child whose mother was afield 
 and who was tired and lonely — and he cried, 
 
 12 
 
\ 
 
 cried for a toy. My heart went out to him. 
 
 I stooped and kissed him — as he stared at me, 
 
 suddenly I drew off my ring and closed 
 
 the little hand upon it, and went on* 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Oh nobly and most nobly done of all ! 
 
 What will the Prince your bridegroom say of that ? 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 He will say nothing — that is the worst of all. 
 
 He will but look on me with troubled eyes 
 
 and little lines of care about his mouth, 
 
 silent as if I were a wilful child 
 
 too young to beat, too foolish to reprove. 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Blind, blind, and triply blind 1 They cannot see 
 
 that soul of yours — they cannot understand 
 
 its hidden fineness, who would make of you 
 
 a mere material comfort of their house — 
 
 you who were meant for those high mysteries 
 
 wherein we walk, the children of the gods. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Your voice is like my dreams made audible. 
 
 I know it well. 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 If you have ever felt 
 the chafing of a lofty discontent 
 
 J3 
 
with others* pettiness that hooped and cramped 
 the growing glory of your own high soul, 
 that was my voice* If you have ever felt 
 contempt for those who crawled where you could 
 
 soar, 
 that was my voice. If you have ever felt 
 a passionate fervour of exalted joy 
 that cut you off from baser humankind 
 and set you on a pinnacle apart 
 whence you could look into a paradise 
 whose angels wore the semblance of yourself, — 
 that was my voice. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Oft have I heard you call. 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Now do you understand why they should say 
 that I am evil — they who fain would keep 
 the plaything of their ease? 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I understand; 
 you drew me, and I left them all behind. 
 Now tell me what it is that I must do. 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 There is too much of doing in the world. 
 Yours is a higher call — it shall be yours 
 to dream the Kingdom rich and wise and sound, 
 
 14 
 
THE KING^S DAUGHTER* 
 
 The task you give me, I have striven to do 
 
 long years, alone* 
 
 THE SPIRIT* 
 
 As in the lavishness 
 of your great soul you gave away your crown 
 so now to me shall you give up your mind 
 and I will fill it with transcendent dreams. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER* 
 To dream the Kingdom rich and wise and sound — 
 so shall I do what sages long have striven 
 and failed to do — ay, ever since the days 
 of the Great King, whose doings are a tale 
 for babes to hear. 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Come closer to the pool — 
 
 look in; are these dead waters? 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 No — they live — 
 
 c/i sigh as of many sleepers rises from the pooL 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 Look not too long; lift up your face to me. 
 
 It touches her eyes* 
 I seal your eyes to all but dreams forever. 
 
 The King's Daughter sinks back overcome 
 
 <ivith sleep; The Spirit disappears in the pool 
 
 ivith a IcHV sound of laughter. 
 
 15 
 
THE KING^S DAUGHTER, in sleep. 
 
 Oh joy — oh wonder! He who is to come — 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT, from the pool 
 
 Hush, never speak of sacred mysteries 
 
 lest you disturb the sleepers here below. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 May I not tell the glory that I see? 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Lock it within your lips as I am locked 
 
 within my pool; the loftier the vision, 
 
 the closer to be hoarded. 
 
 Sighs arise from the pool; as the Spirit^ s 'boice 
 dies aivay, the King's Daughter in her sleep 
 shoius grooving rapture. Suddenly she frowns 
 and moves restlessly as in pain* 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Spirit! I hear a weeping far away — 
 
 It breaks upon my dream. 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Forget the world 
 
 and all that's there; what is it now to you? 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I thought I heard the voices of those three, — 
 
 those three who would have kept me from you. Now 
 
 I can hear nothing — now I dream — and see — 
 She is silent* A pause* 
 
 16 
 
A CHILD'S VOICE, far aJ^ay. 
 Mother! Mother! 
 
 The King's Daughter buries her head in her 
 
 arms to shut out the sound* 
 Mother! Mother! 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 Spirit, silence that voice! 
 THE SPIRIT, faintly and drol^sily. 
 
 There is no voice — 
 THE CHILD, more insistently* 
 Mother! Mother! 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 I have left the world behind — I will not hear. 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 I am not of the world — you needs must hear. 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 I have no child — your call is not to me. 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 I am the child God would have given you. 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 Go back to Godj I have a higher task. 
 I lie beside the waters of long sleep 
 dreaming the Kingdom rich and wise and sound. 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 I am your dream that clamours to come true. 
 Hid in the heart of the Great King, I wait 
 
till you shall give me substance to bring back 
 the glory of his reign. Till I am born 
 the Kingdom shall lie bound as now it lies 
 in pain and ignorance and poverty. 
 Come to me — come to me! 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER, 
 
 I thought to do 
 this work by my own dreams. What place is mine 
 in this your Kingdom? 
 
 THE CHILD, 
 
 You shall suffer much, 
 and shall lay down your life in bearing me, 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER, 
 Shall all the people give me praise for this? 
 THE CHILD, 
 
 From all the people you shall only have 
 forgetfulness, 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 To suffer and to die 
 without reward — 
 THE CHILD, farther a^ay. 
 
 I only can be born 
 of one who can set suffering at naught, 
 yea, deem it joy, for me, and find reward 
 for her sore travail in the hope of me. 
 Mother— Mother — 
 
 The Voice dies aivay* 
 
 18 
 
THE KING'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 rising to her knees l^ith outstretched groping 
 
 hands* 
 I cannot bear the silence, having heard 
 your voice that called me Mother. Let me die 
 and pass forgotten — I shall be content 
 finding the blossom of my life in you. 
 But call me ; for I know not where I am. 
 THE CHILD. 
 I shall never lose my way. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER, struggling to her feet. 
 Call to me, call to me ! My limbs are weak 
 and shake as if Death clung about my knees. 
 THE CHILD. 
 I shall leap for joy. 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 taking an uncertain step forJiJard ivith open 
 
 sightless eyes* 
 Call to me, call to me ! My world is night, 
 your voice my only guide, for I am blind. 
 THE CHILD. 
 I shall see. 
 
 With lifted listening face, the King's Daughter 
 goes out feeling her l^ay* 
 
 \9 
 
II 
 
 IN THE MIST 
 
 18^ The battlements of a tower. The Princess in a 
 
 coarse 'white robe stands on the steps leading to the 
 
 raised platform containing the iron basket of the 
 
 beacon* The scene is veiled in driving mist, 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 All day the driving mist has drenched the land 
 
 with bitter blindness^ and between the gusts 
 
 the headlands went and came till it grew dark* 
 
 Now far below, unseen imperious waves 
 
 call me with rhythmic mutterings — to what doom, 
 
 I dare not think* Why must the very sea 
 
 that sounded in my ears when I was born 
 
 here in these halls, echo a stranger's voice — 
 
 his voice who slew my father ! — Nay, for that 
 
 why should I call him foe ? I would give thanks 
 
 to any kindly hand that dealt me death 
 
 and shut on me the portals of long sleep 
 
 against these rending thoughts* The living wrong 
 
 he lays upon my people like a scourge — 
 
 20 
 
Peace^ waves I why do you moan ? He does not moan — 
 
 't is we who whimper at his tyranny, 
 
 too weak to cast it off* No — he is strong — 
 
 His eyes are blue as waters in the shade — 
 
 his hair is ruddy like the crags at dawn* 
 
 Still moaning ? Nay, but that is not the sea — 
 
 that is a human voice* 
 
 <A WOMAN rushes in, recoiling at the steps as she 
 
 confronts the Princess. 
 
 THE WOMAN* 
 
 Oh stay me not 
 while I dare die ! There is a loosened stone 
 there on the tower — I found it yesterday — 
 A touch, and it will drag me down with it 
 though at the last my courage fail — 
 
 THE PRINCESS* 
 
 Why seek 
 
 such desperate aid ? Is it so hard to die ? 
 THE WOMAN* 
 
 The water is so distant and so cold — 
 and I was happy once* 
 
 THE PRINCESS* 
 
 And still you keep 
 
 beaten and shamed and broken as you are, 
 
 enough of hidden hope that once again 
 
 you may be happy, thus to cling to life ? 
 
 2\ 
 
Live then — leave death to those that pray to death 
 as to the gods — in vain. 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 I dare not live — 
 You know what life is now, within these walls. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 I know. 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 Then let me pass — you are a woman — 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 Do you not know me ? 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 You — the Princess — here ? 
 Is there then hope ? Where is your brother ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Hid 
 
 among the caves below. This hour should bring 
 
 the signal that he only waits my word 
 
 to storm the castle and to set you free. 
 
 The sudden scream of a sea-gulL After a pause 
 she ansivers the cry t^hich is then thrice repeated* 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 That is the signal j all that now is left 
 
 is mine to do. 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 Princess I 
 
 22 
 
THE PRINCESS. 
 
 To kill the man 
 who cafls himself the King. 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 You dare? 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 For that 
 I came within these wafls. Shorn of his strength 
 how could his men resist us for an hour ? 
 With him their power is slain. 
 
 THE WOMAN, looking do7i?n a loophole. 
 
 What sound is that ? 
 One climbs the beetling wall. 
 
 THE PRINCESS, to herself. 
 
 What need of this ? 
 Did I not answer as we had agreed ? 
 Why should I fear — what should I fear — and yet — 
 
 Aloud. 
 You know the secret door upon the cliff ? 
 THE WOMAN. 
 I know. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Go, set it open ; by that door 
 shall life return to you. 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 To me, who thought 
 
 to pass death^s portal but a moment since — 
 
 23 
 
THE PRINCESS. 
 
 That door still waits for other feet to find* 
 
 The Woman kisses the hand of The Princess 
 and goes out; after a moment A man climbs 
 over the parapet, 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 What need of this ? Did I not answer you ? 
 
 THE MESSENGER, 
 
 I would make sure you understand* 
 
 THE PRINCESS* 
 
 Be sure 
 I understand. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 And you will slay him ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Now, 
 as he stands laughing to the brimming horn, 
 the shroud is round his face* 
 
 THE MESSENGER* 
 
 What moves you so? 
 
 THE PRINCESS, coldly. 
 
 The sorrows of my people. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 Are you sure 
 that we can trust you to fulfil this task? 
 THE PRINCESS, laughing harshly. 
 What, fear you for my strength ? You need not fear. 
 
 24 
 
I have not lolled on cushions, curtained close 
 in scented twilights quivering with music ; 
 the winter storms that hurl the boulders down 
 and crush the screaming waves against the crags 
 were my rough playfellows. My arms arc strong 
 as yours, trained to the battle-axe. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 I know — 
 and yet — he is a man men fear to face 
 while you are but a woman — 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 And because 
 I am a woman, therefore will I be 
 more merciless ; have I not more to lose 
 than has a warrior who need fear but death ? 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 Ay — more to lose ; but — he is beautiful 
 as some strange god, so tall, so white, so strong. 
 What if the loss might come to seem a gain ? 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 You speak to me, your Princess. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 In the arms 
 of such a man, a Princess is a woman. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 They chose but ill their messenger to me — 
 
 25 
 
Nay, if my brother knew the foolish doubt 
 wherewith you soil me — 
 
 THE MESSENGER 
 
 If your brother knew ! 
 'T was he who spoke more plainly, and *t was I 
 who made my faith the warrant for your own. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 He spoke more plainly ? When ? 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 Last night, in council. 
 He and the wise men. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Truly you do well 
 to tell me this — 
 TPiE MESSENGER. 
 
 But then I made no sign 
 of doubt or fear ; no, I defended you — 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 Sorely was I in need of such defence, 
 being a weakling, fashioned but to be 
 the plaything of men^s passions and my own. 
 Such must I be, since in the council^s face 
 my brother had no shame to brand me thus. 
 They honour me too highly who would lay 
 upon a thing of naught, a task so great 
 they fear to undertake it in their strength — 
 
 26 
 
THE MESSENGER, 
 
 Nay, be not wroth ; their case was but as mine — 
 
 Love looks with jealous eyes — 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 What has your tongue 
 to do with such a word ? 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 It is my right 
 to speak for you in council ; for my sake, 
 the tyrant overthrown, you shall forego 
 your wild proud loneliness, to follow me, 
 and on your golden girdle^s clasp at last 
 a master^s hand shall fall. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I must suppose 
 this is my brother's promise, for I know 
 I gave no such. 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 He binds me thus to him 
 in brotherhood. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Belike he purchased so 
 his messenger ; too trivial your price 
 if he can buy you with so cheap a gift. 
 What, am I his or yours or any man's 
 to take or fling away ? Oh, I am sicker 
 
 27 
 
than at the reek of battle ! Is it thus 
 
 you traffic in the creature you have stained 
 
 with your foul whisperings — you valiant men 
 
 who send me out to face a foe from whom 
 
 you cower in cover ? I am done with you, — 
 
 I cast you off. Do your own work alone. 
 
 Are you not one our islanders call brave ? 
 
 Stay then — and when he comes whom you would kill 
 
 making his nightly circuit of the walls, 
 
 deal you the blow. Look, here I hide the blade 
 
 that should have done it ; when I girt my robe, 
 
 I laughed to feel the edge against my flesh, 
 
 as I had laughed in masterless young pride 
 
 feeling my golden girdle^s links press warm 
 
 against my side — so dear were both to me, 
 
 my country^s freedom and my maidenhood. 
 
 What have I left ? — Only myself. My people 
 
 now cast I from me as I cast this knife 
 
 into the sea. Do you their work alone. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 You are distraught — you cannot cast aside 
 
 your people so. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I am no more my people^s — 
 I am mine own, and with mine own I do 
 what is my wilL 
 
 28 
 
THE MESSENGER 
 
 You must not fail us now — 
 What can we do without you ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 So you fear 
 to face this man ? Ay, that were somewhat hard — 
 words to a woman are an easy thing. 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 Remember, it was I who spoke for you. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 You spoke for me because you thought me yours, 
 and not from any faith in me. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 I said 
 love looks with jealous eyes. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Again that word ? 
 
 THE MESSENGER, controlling himself. 
 
 There will be time enough to speak of that 
 
 when they have drawn the curtains and have left us 
 
 alone together — time enough ; but now 
 
 there* s work to do. You must not play us false. 
 
 What could I do against him ? He is strong 
 
 as three of us, unless at unawares 
 
 he be surprised, as only woman's craft 
 
 could compass — 
 
 29 
 
THE PRINCESS, 
 
 Hear him, gods ! This is the hound 
 who thinks to call himself my master ! What, 
 and should I greet him with a wanton^s guile 
 and hang about his neck to drive the knife 
 the deeper in his breast ? It seems to me 
 I were less base if I were what you feared. 
 I strike not so. 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 Strike as you will, but strike, 
 for your own people's sake. Despite your wrath 
 their blood is hot in you and cries aloud ; 
 you needs must hear it — for the fields laid waste, 
 the ravished women and the slaughtered men — 
 have you not seen ? — the children — 
 
 She checks him by a gesture, and after a pause 
 speaks *ivith effort, her face turned from him* 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Within these walls, 
 these very walls, have I not seen and heard 
 what stole the woman-softness from my breast 
 and made it hard like stone ! To you and those 
 who sent you — one I called my brother, once — 
 now I owe nothing. But go back content — 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 Princess ! 
 
 30 
 
THE PRINCESS, in a voice oft^eary despair* 
 
 Not so — I am no Princess now, 
 only a woman of my people. Go — 
 make ready to attack within the hour* 
 You know the secret door — it shall be open. 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 What signal will you give when — it is done ? 
 The mist muffles the eye. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 But not the ear. 
 That loosened stone upon the parapet — 
 when you shall hear it fall, the work is done. 
 THE MESSENGER, climbing dber. 
 We shall be waiting. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Go — I seem to hear 
 one coming, far away — 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 When the stone fafls 1 
 Will you not take my dagger ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 What I do 
 I do not for your sake nor by your help. 
 
 He loiters himself and disappears ; she stands 
 
 listening* 
 It is himself who comes — I know his step. 
 
 3J 
 
There 's lordship in the very ring of it. 
 
 Had it been he — oh, I must put aside 
 
 such thoughts as this 1 My desperate people's peace 
 
 lies only in his death — and he must die. 
 
 A mans voice is heard singing ; she goes up the 
 steps to the beacon and stands trying the loose 
 stone in the coping* 
 
 THE UNSEEN SINGER. 
 
 What is the meed of the heart of stone ? 
 
 In sullen silence to mould alone 
 
 Till an avalanche leaps from the unseen steeps — 
 
 That is the end of the heart of stone. 
 
 What is the course of the heart of snow ? 
 To flutter and fear as the light winds blow — 
 To melt in the sun like a dream that ^s done — 
 That is the end of the heart of snow. 
 
 What is the fate of the heart of fire ? 
 The hilt in the hand and the world^s desire, 
 And a red, red spark that dies on the dark — 
 The last of a funeral pyre. 
 
 ^During the last lines The King appears on the 
 battlement* He sees The Princess and stops 
 suddenly, ^ A pause* 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Are you a goddess standing there so still, 
 
 or some weird lady of the Middle World ? 
 
 32 
 
THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I know you well ; here you are called the King. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 How do you know me ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Think you that it needs 
 a crown to mark you ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 What *s your will with me ? 
 Bring you a message from the gods ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS, bitterly. 
 
 The gods? 
 I know them not ; and if they ever looked 
 on me, they have forgotten long ago. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Nay, neither god nor man could look on you 
 and then forget. Are you that One who comes 
 to warn those of my house that death is near ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 And if I were that One ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 And if you were, 
 gladly would I fare forth on any road 
 wherein you led me. Oh, you are no spirit I 
 Across the silence comes your quickened breath 
 and the robe trembles on your bosom — speak — 
 whence do you come ? 
 
 33 
 
THE PRINCESS. 
 
 From wailing for my dead — 
 from wandering wet and cold upon the hills — 
 from troubled sleep in caves on beds of fern 
 ready to flee at rumour of your coming — 
 THE KING. 
 
 You are a woman of the conquered people ! 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 I am a woman of the wounded people 
 you think that you have conquered. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 You are bold 
 as you are beautiful. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I am not fair 
 beyond the other women of my people 
 whom you have given to your men at arms. 
 THE KING. 
 
 Nay, that is false. Of you I need not ask 
 if any call you slave — for if one did, 
 my hand should tear the lie hot from his throat. 
 You stand all tense as one who faces peril — 
 There is no need ; what should you fear from me ? 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 What other women fear. 
 
 34 
 
THE KING* 
 
 I would not lay 
 a hand upon your head unless you bowed 
 its beauty to my touch* What, do men pluck 
 the stars like lilies for an hour^s delight ? 
 Rather with hearts that hunger for the stars 
 their hands outstretched in impotent desire 
 close on the wayside flowers, then let them fall 
 crushed and forgotten* I know not who you are — 
 I only know that all my dreams are drawn 
 together in your beauty as the strands 
 of life into one thread that only death 
 can cut — I only know that when my soul 
 first blew like spindrift on the homeless wind 
 it sought for you — that when my body first 
 took substance, ere my mother felt me move, 
 my arms were hungry for the warmth of you, 
 my lips were thirsty for the breath of you — 
 
 THE PRINCESS* faintly. 
 
 No more — no more* What, is it with such words 
 
 you tame a slave ? 
 
 THE KING* 
 
 No — thus I claim a Queen, 
 
 You were not shaped for one wild hour, nor yet 
 
 for drudging years* The gods made quick your heart 
 
 to beat upon a King^s. Bid me come up, 
 
 or come you down to me* 
 
 35 
 
THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Fain would I come — 
 
 no, no — not nearer yet — fain would I come, 
 
 but I am hindered. Hands are on my robe — 
 
 hands of the men, my brothers — dead by you 
 
 or crying out on Death as on a friend. 
 
 How can I come to you ? They hold me back. 
 
 How could you come to me? Your feet would stumble, 
 
 stumble upon the little bleeding bodies 
 
 of children slain — how could you come to me ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 When you are mine, your people shall be mine. 
 
 How can I shed the blood that is my own ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 You will protect them ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 As I do yourself. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 True to my people — to myself — to you — 
 It comes upon me like a sudden wave — 
 say it again. 
 THE KING. 
 
 Your people shall be mine 
 while you are mine — I swear it. Come to me I 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 While I am yours — no, no — not nearer yet — 
 
 36 
 
let me think clearly. Oh, the years, the years 
 
 that hang upon this moment I 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Nay, what years ? 
 
 Be ours a little day of stormy joy. 
 
 To such as we, Death comes with sudden feet — 
 
 and better so. We shall not live to age 
 
 to drink our passion to the tasteless dregs. 
 
 We shall flare out upon the night together 
 
 ashes upon one pyre. My love, my Queen, 
 
 grasp we the present — let the future go ! 
 
 THE PRINCESS, 
 
 I ask no more for mine own part — but oh, 
 
 what of my people ? 
 
 THE KING, 
 
 What are they to me 
 
 apart from you ? You are my only thought, 
 
 THE PRINCESS, suddenly resolute. 
 
 With all my heart I give myself to you, 
 
 I am mine own, and with mine own I do 
 
 what is my will. Ay, now the way is clear — 
 
 come up to me. 
 
 She opens her arms ; The King leaps up the 
 steps and clasps her. Their figures are dimly 
 seen through the thickening mist near the edge 
 of the tower. 
 
 37 
 
THE KING. 
 
 The mist has hung us in 
 with bridal curtains. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Take your bride, my King. 
 THE KING. 
 We stand alone. 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 We two in all the world — 
 THE KING. 
 
 Earth falls away from me — helpless I reel 
 drunk with the wine of life upon your lips — 
 I drown with you in seas of whirling fire — 
 
 The mist hides them — their voices are heard 
 through it* 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 This fire shall make the darkness and the cold 
 brightness and warmth. Ah, closer ! kiss me now 
 as if this were the last. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Thus then — and thus — 
 
 So might we laugh at death — 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Ay — face to face. 
 
 Her voice siuells to a cry of triumph^ follcnved 
 by a groan. cA sudden ^nd sHveeps aside the 
 mist; the to^wer is empty* 
 
 38 
 
Ill 
 
 THE THRONE-ROOM 
 
 i^ The throne-room of the King, On the throne of 
 yetto'U) marble sits The Beggar-maid in scanty gray 
 ragst holding a bunch of faded flo'^ers. The King 
 sits on the steps at her feet, holding his cro<wn in his 
 hands. Two Choristers lean on the railing above 
 the throne* 
 A CHORISTER, singing. 
 
 She sits alone on the marble throne, 
 
 Shamed and cold in her gown of gray. 
 
 Like a dove in a cage her heart makes moan, 
 
 But who was she to say him nay ? 
 
 Warm to her feet was the sunny street, — 
 These shadowy floors are always chill* 
 The flame of his eyes she fears to meet, — 
 But who was she to thwart his will? 
 
 The wild-flowers fade in her hands, afraid 
 At the thought of the weight of his great gold ring ; 
 But she is only a beggar-maid. 
 And how should she deny the King ? 
 
 39 
 
She sits alone on the marble throne^ 
 Shamed and cold in her gown of gray. 
 Never again shall she see her own, — 
 But who was she to say him nay ? 
 
 The Beggar-maid hides her face in her handst 
 iveeping, 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Why do you weep, my child ? 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 I am unhappy, — 
 I am so cold. 
 
 THE KING, 
 
 loosening his cloak and holding it up to her, 
 ha.Y this about you. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 No, 
 it is too fine for me, — it would but make 
 my rags the uglier ; 't is too fine for me. 
 THE KING. 
 
 Scarce fine enough to fit my Queen ; — and yet 
 wear it. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 I dare not. Oh, I am unhappy 1 
 I fear this splendour. Would that I were back 
 under a hedge, plucking anemones. 
 
 40 
 
THE KING. 
 
 ^T was so I found you ; when I called to you 
 
 why did you come ? 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 I feared you* 
 THE KING. 
 
 Feared me ? Why ? 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Because when I went begging through the town 
 when folk refused me food, they always said 
 "It is the King, it is the cruel King 
 "who keeps us poor ; blame you the King, not us, 
 "if you go hungry.^^ 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 So you blamed the King. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 How should I else ? and then they pointed me 
 the gallows where three men swung horribly 
 and said, "Behold ! They sinned against the King, 
 "and so like pendulums they swing and swing, 
 "measuring out the moments of his wrath.^* 
 THE KING, <a}ith stern sadness* 
 And had they sinned against the King alone ? 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 None told me that. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 And so you were afraid. 
 
 4J 
 
THE BEGGAR* 
 
 I was afraid, and when you cafled to me 
 I quickly came, lest I too swing and swing; 
 and folk point finger at me. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 So *t was fear 
 
 brought you to me ; and now are you afraid ? 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 No — not afraid — but cold and very sad* 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 That is not strange to me ; here have I too 
 
 been often cold and often very sad. 
 
 If you are cold and sad, yet not afraid, 
 
 why linger here? 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 You sit upon the stair 
 and bar the way. 
 THE KING, rising and draiving aside* 
 
 See, — now the way is clear^ 
 Is it your will to go ? 
 THE BEGGAR, hesitating. 
 
 I had not known 
 kings could be cold or sad. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Cold with the cold 
 and sad with all the sadness of their people, 
 and lonely with their own deep loneliness. 
 
 42 
 
THE BEGGAR. 
 Are queens the same ? 
 THE KING, 
 
 Yes. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Must I then be Queen ? 
 THE KING. 
 That is for you to choose. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 For me to choose ? 
 You do not then command me? 
 THE KING. 
 
 No, — I wait 
 and hope. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Is it not hard to be a Queen ? 
 It means a crown ? 
 THE KING. 
 
 Yes. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Such a crown as that? 
 It is too heavy, — it has left a mark 
 upon your forehead. 
 THE KING. 
 
 Such a crown as that 
 a King must wear. 
 
 43 
 
THE BEGGAR, 
 
 Alas, and what beside ? 
 Raiment like that ? It is too wonderful, — 
 how could I run along the dusty road 
 weighed down with all that splendour ? 
 THE KING. 
 
 Yet such raiment 
 a Queen must wear* 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 How in such costly bonds 
 can one be free ? 
 THE KING. 
 
 A Queen cannot be free. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 Never ? 
 THE KING. 
 
 While still her soul for freedom chafes, 
 never. When she forgets that she is bond, 
 in all the world no creature is so free. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Alas, my lord, I do not understand. 
 
 She colters on the throne 'while The King looks 
 doJi>n at her <ivtth infinite tenderness* 
 
 THE CHORISTER, singing. 
 
 A crust of bread and a flower to hold. 
 And only the whim of the sky to heed. 
 A purple robe and a crown of gold, 
 And the ache of a peopIe^s need. 
 
 44 
 
A hollowed palm where the spring wefls up, 
 And a laughing health to the careless years. 
 Red, red wine in a crystal cup, 
 And the salt of a people's tears. 
 
 A pillow of hay for the drowsy head, 
 And never a dream till day again. 
 A broidered spread and a downy bed, 
 And the probe of a people's pain. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Is all that true ? I had not thought a Queen 
 
 could have so hard a lot. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 'T is easier 
 to be a beggar. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Yet, my lord, you chose 
 to be a King. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 No, — I was born a King. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Why did you call me, — me, to share your throne 
 
 Were there not many fairer, worthier, 
 
 more fit to rule ? I am not fit to rule, 
 
 and I was happy there beside the road, — 
 
 happy as I shall never be again. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I love you. 
 
 45 
 
THE BEGGAR 
 
 Ah, I do not understand 
 such love as yours* There was a Gypsy once 
 who spoke to me of love ; 't was midsummer. 
 His lips were red as poppies in the wheat, 
 and touching mine they burned. Then I was frightened 
 and fled from him. If you had known of that, 
 you never would have chosen me. 
 THE KING. 
 
 I knew. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 You knew, my lord ? Ah, but you did not know 
 of how when winter whitened all the ways 
 I met a yeoman rough and sturdy-spoken 
 who bade me come and be his wife, and rear 
 strong babes about his hearth. His eyes were kind, 
 and I was cold, — almost I went with him — 
 but when he kissed me on the mouth, my heart 
 cried suddenly for freedom, and I fled. 
 THE KING* 
 That too I knew. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 You knew, my lord ? 
 THE KING. 
 
 I knew. 
 
 46 
 
THE BEGGAR. 
 
 You knew I was a creature slight of spirit 
 
 and fickle as the dust upon the wind ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I knew you had not learned what love might be, 
 
 and when you knew, you could not turn away. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Ah, now I am afraid — I am afraid ! 
 
 This is a strange new terror that strikes cold 
 
 into my spirit. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Is it I you fear? 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 I am afraid of that which I have been, 
 but more afraid of what I dare not be. 
 I think for you I could do anything — 
 THE KING. 
 Save what I ask? 
 
 THE BEGGAR, desperately. 
 
 I cannot be a Queen, — 
 I am too weak — I am unworthy — 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 No,- 
 
 you are unwilling. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Ah, your eyes are sadl 
 
 47 
 
How terrible it is to be a King I 
 
 Why must you bear this burden evermore ? 
 
 Come with me, — come ! Come to the open road, — 
 
 the aimless joy of motion, the sweet wind 
 
 blown masterless across the blossoming world 
 
 breathing of orchards, — the long quiet sleep 
 
 on healthful herbs beneath the friendly stars. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 In the long night, I stand upon my tower, 
 
 and through the breathless hush hear heavily 
 
 the heartbeats of the sleepless. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Still your people ! 
 Why should you suffer for their sake ? They care 
 little for you, — they give you for your love 
 loathing and lies and blind ingratitude. 
 THE KING. 
 They are the more my children. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 And for such 
 shall I give up my freedom ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 And for me. 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 I cannot bear to leave you here alone. 
 
 48 
 
THE KING. 
 
 So must you leave me, if you cannot bear 
 
 to stay with me« 
 
 THE BEGGAR 
 
 It is too hard for me — 
 I dare not try, only to fail* Forgive me, 
 forgive me — nay, my lord, forgive me not* 
 I will not be to you as all the rest, 
 the more your child for my unworthiness* 
 Bar close your heart against me, oh my lord, 
 think of me harshly, shut me out forever, 
 but let me have a little place with you 
 that is my own, huddled against the threshold — 
 Farewell — 
 
 Her voice fails her* She goes slo'wly doJi?n the 
 stepSf bending as under a burden* 
 
 THE CHORISTER, singing* 
 
 The noonday sun is dim. 
 The gold of the world is gray, 
 To her who has looked on him 
 And turned away. 
 
 The beauty is hard to find 
 In the meadows of Paradise, 
 For her who has left behind — 
 
 At a gesture from the King the music stops* 
 The Beggar turns in the silence and meets his 
 eyes* With sudden firmness she goes back to 
 the steps of the throne* 
 
 49 
 
THE BEGGAR, returning. 
 
 I cannot go; the world is changed for me. 
 
 You, you are now my world* 
 
 THE KING, glorified. 
 
 You fear no longer ? 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 I am afraid, and yet I must abide, 
 
 I am unworthy, yet I must abide. 
 
 Wherever you may be, I must abide 
 
 since you, my lord, are all the world to me. 
 
 THE KING, 
 
 The crown is heavy, 
 
 THE BEGGAR, 
 
 Set it on my brow, 
 and let it mark my forehead like your own, — 
 and lay about me now the purple robe, 
 and seat me on your throne ; I take your service, 
 as I shall serve your people, for your sake, 
 THE KING, 
 
 Is it so terrible to be a Queen ? 
 THE BEGGAR, 
 
 Most terrible — but oh my lord, how sweet ! 
 THE CHORISTER, singing as the curtains close* 
 
 The pain and care that she feared to share. 
 
 Now she claims as a precious thing. 
 
 She has looked on the heart of Love laid bare, 
 
 And how should she deny the King ? 
 
 50 
 
IV 
 THE WALLED GARDEN 
 
 ^ic/1 garden enclosed by a high Hvall and roofed 
 t^ith golden glass* In the middle is a fount ain^. he- 
 side vjhich on a heap of soft gay cushions reclines a 
 young girU richly dressed^ hung luith ;e7i>els, and 
 Jifearing about her neck a slaT^e's collar of gold* 
 Reside her sits a mute^ playing a harp* s& As the 
 curtain rises, the young Slave lays her hand ivet 
 from the fountain on the strings of the harp* 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Hush — play no more* Your music all is old ; 
 long use has worn it thin. Have you no strain 
 that I have never heard ? 
 
 The Mute shakes her head* 
 You never stir 
 beyond these wafls. Why do you not go forth 
 and learn new music ? Surely in the street 
 people go singing all day long. 
 
 The Mute touches her oti)n collar, then that 
 of her mistress* 
 
 How now, 
 
 5J 
 
what would you say ? That neither you nor I 
 
 are free to go and come as we may will ? 
 
 I know *f but I am kept so secretly 
 
 because the master cherishes my beauty 
 
 till it be ripe to show me to the King, 
 
 Then I shall be the Queen of all the land — 
 
 oh, such a happy land ! Has he not told 
 
 a hundred times of all that is without ? 
 
 How all the folk go singing at their toil, 
 
 and laugh about the streets ; how in the gardens 
 
 the children crowned with flowers leap at play, — 
 
 and some day I shall see them, when the King 
 
 has chosen me to be the Queen, And yet 
 
 I cannot see why I must wait so long 
 
 only to see them — not to venture out, 
 
 only to peep I I know the walls are high, 
 
 but if you lifted me upon your shoulders — 
 
 Are you afraid ? Of whom ? The master ? Nay, 
 
 he never yet denied me anything 
 
 save leave to go into the world, a boon 
 
 I never asked. But now I long to look — 
 
 Soon I shall hear his key grate in the lock 
 
 and he will enter with a gift for me, 
 
 and praise my loveliness with smiling eyes. 
 
 Then will I pray a glimpse beyond the wall 
 
 and he will grant it me. Hark — what is that ? 
 
 Can it be thus they sing about their toil ? 
 
 52 
 
A MAN^S VOICE, singing without 
 
 Love is a little child — he stirs on a woman^s 
 
 breast 
 With a weakness of groping hands, with a 
 
 wonder of wide blank eyes, 
 And we swathe him in tender bonds lest he 
 
 rouse to a strong unrest, 
 For we fear lest he grow too wise* 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I cannot wait. I must look out and see 
 
 the countenance of that singer in the street. 
 
 As the song proceeds she searches for a cr^ice 
 in the 'wall, and finds a little <windo'^ masked 
 ivith vines and closed by rusty bars. She 
 struggles to open it in spite of the Mute'S 
 dissuasions* 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 Love is a mighty Lord — he crushes the hearts 
 
 of men; 
 Old, cold lore like a clod he breaks in his 
 
 eager hands. 
 And the wit of the world runs down from 
 
 the press of his fingers ten 
 Like a shiver of shifting sands. 
 
 Love is a God of gods ; he shatters the prison- 
 shrine 
 
 Where blindness has striven to bind his Spirit 
 with fretted stone. 
 
 53 
 
Treading its altars to shards, he drinketh the 
 world like wine, 
 
 And maketh mankind his own. 
 The Mute runs off in dismay cts <with a final 
 'wrench the Slave opens the ^ndo'U?. A pause 
 as she looks out* 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 He has gone by ; I cannot see him now. 
 Is this the world that was so beautiful ? 
 The sky is heavy with an ugly smoke — 
 is it the golden glass that makes my garden 
 so full of sunlight ? Where are all the people, — 
 the happy folk who sing about their toil? 
 Where are the children garlanded with flowers 
 leaping at play ? Oh — can that be a child, 
 that weary shrivelled morsel of mankind ? 
 Surely it is accursed for some sin — 
 nay, but there goes another and another 
 bent beneath grievous burdens. Can there be 
 so many wicked children ? Even so, 
 my heart is heavy for them. Little ones, 
 see, here is gold for you. 
 
 She thraivs out trinkets. They are flung back, 
 and as she recoils affrighted, a l^oman 's sivarthy 
 face appears at the 'windoli>. She 'wears a collar 
 like that of the Slave, but of iron* 
 
 54 
 
THE OTHER WOMAN, 
 
 And who are you 
 that I or mine should take an alms of you ? 
 THE SLAVE. 
 I shall be Queen some day* 
 THE OTHER, 
 
 You will be Queen, 
 you painted plaything ! Never of our King. 
 Perhaps of him who sits upon the throne, 
 but never of our King. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Is there a King 
 other than he who sits upon the throne ? 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 Heard you One singing in the street but now ? 
 That was the man whom we call King. 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 He passed 
 and saw your children so, and did not stay 
 to ease their laden shoulders ? 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 On his own 
 is bound a burden more than theirs or mine. 
 He can but share our load he cannot lift 
 till he be crowned at last in all men's sight. 
 THE SLAVE. 
 When shall that be? 
 
 55 
 
THE OTHER, cunningly. 
 
 I know — you question me 
 that you may tell your master ; then the scourge 
 that is the lot of those who dare to name 
 the Uncrowned King* 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Why do you look at me 
 with such a hating eye? You are too hard. 
 Trust me ! I pity you. See, take of me 
 my costliest jewels ; they will more than buy 
 your freedom and your children's. 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 And my trust ? 
 Keep your poor gauds — what know you of their cost? 
 How can you free me, you who are a slave 
 to the same master ? And you dare to say 
 you pity me — to hold your hands to me 
 heavy with jingling bounty ? Keep your pity 
 and keep your bounty ! See, that very chain 
 that twines about the softness of your arm 
 was fashioned by my toil, and wet with tears 
 of weariness I gave it to our master 
 who paid me with a blow. You pity me ? 
 Give me but justice and there were no need 
 for pity or for bounty. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 You made — this ? 
 
 56 
 
He paid you with a blow ? Had you then named 
 the Uncrowned King ? Why does he fear it so 
 and hate it so, that name ? 
 THE OTHER, whispering. 
 
 If it be true 
 that has been whispered, once a sorcerer 
 spoke to him thus : **When you shall hear the voice 
 **upon your threshold of the Uncrowned King, 
 "your strength shall all be shrivelled into dust 
 **and your embroidered raiment huddled fall 
 "about a pinch of ashes/* So he hates 
 the name of Him whose voice he dreads to hear, 
 and whoso speaks it feels the flaying scourge* 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 And he had always seemed so kind to me 1 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 Why not ? You are his pride and his delight, 
 you speak him fair and soothe him with your hands, 
 his willing chattel* He will buy with you 
 the favour of the throne, and you will be 
 the price without a murmur of dissent. 
 For all your golden collar is so thin, 
 you never strive to break it. Patiently 
 have I not chafed this strangling iron ring 
 against sharp stones that bit into my flesh 
 till scarce the metal holds ! When I am free, 
 
 57 
 
let him, our master, look to his own safety 
 
 and yours — aye, tell him that* 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Oh, how you hate me ! 
 
 THE OTHER, 
 
 follo7t>ing <iuith her eyes one 'who passes in the 
 street ivithout, and speaking in a changed voice* 
 
 See — did you see ? 
 
 THE SLAVE* 
 
 Nay, I saw nothing. 
 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 Then, 
 
 just as my heart spilled out its hate for you, 
 
 the King passed by, bending beneath his load, 
 
 and looked upon me. Oh, his eyes went home 
 
 into my heart I The grief, the speechless grief ! 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 He grieves for you — then he must hate me too. 
 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 No, no — he does not hate. He only loves. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Even our master? 
 
 THE OTHER. 
 
 Somehow, to his thought 
 
 our master seems no thing of flesh and blood, 
 
 only a pinch of ashes wrapped in silk, 
 
 58 
 
a flying cloud that slides across the sun, 
 
 the shadow of a sorrow that will pass. 
 
 Oh, my throat swells to think upon his eyes ! 
 
 THE SLAVE, 
 
 It strains the collar of your slavery — 
 
 the iron yields — 
 
 THE OTHER, teanng off the cotUr. 
 I am free I 
 
 THE SLAVE, 
 
 turning in terror ands^ivinging shut the ivindo^t)* 
 
 WhatshaHIdo? 
 
 My master's key is turning in the door — 
 
 how can I face him 1 
 
 THE OTHER, without, exultant. 
 
 Free! 
 
 THE SLAVE, 
 
 I fear, — I fear. 
 The Master enters* He is dressed in stately 
 robes 7i)ith a large turban, and carries a scourge 
 in his girdle* He advances smiling* 
 
 THE MASTER, 
 
 How is it that you greet me not today ? 
 
 THE SLAVE, 
 
 What need of greeting in your own abode ? 
 
 THE MASTER, 
 
 How now ? Where is the child who ran to me 
 
 59 
 
and hung on me for gifts, but yesterday ? 
 
 Do you not ask me what I bring to you ? 
 
 THE SLAVE, her eyes on the scourge* 
 
 I know already what today must bring. 
 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 Nay, but you could not guess its beauty ; see — 
 He holds up a string of je<wels* 
 
 G)me here and let me clasp it round your neck. 
 
 She comes slo')i>ly and stands passive as he 
 fastens the necklace *ivith a lingering touch. 
 He raises her face* 
 
 Child, child, but you are strangely beautiful . 
 
 What bred this sudden glow of deeping light 
 
 that makes your eyes cheapen the jewels ? 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Tears. 
 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 Why do you weep ? Is it because you long 
 
 to look upon the King ? The time is come 
 
 and you shall stand before the king today. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 What king? 
 
 THE MASTER, frowning* 
 
 Sweet little fool, there is but one — 
 he sits enthroned. Ah, he is keen of sight 
 for beauty richly decked. We three shall rule 
 
 60 
 
the whole wide land, for you shall rule the king 
 
 and I will rule you both* Come, call your Mute, 
 
 and bid her bathe your limbs with essences 
 
 and plait your hair with pearls, for you must come 
 
 before the king diffusing subtle sweet 
 
 like an unfolding flower dropping with dew. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I cannot go before that king today. 
 
 THE MASTER, 
 
 sits beside the fountain and drazus her to him* 
 You love too wen your garden — is it that ? 
 Ay, true enough we have been happy here, 
 but there are gardens in the palace too 
 where we may sit by softly bubbling springs 
 that drown our whispers in their melody 
 while the king sleeps — as thus — as thus — as thus. 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I cannot ever go before that king 
 because I crown another in my heart. 
 THE MASTER, 
 
 ivith a. Iot0 laugh of satisfaction. 
 Well do I read your riddle, little one, 
 the clearer since ^t is no new thought to me. 
 My care has been a father^s hitherto, 
 but now the bud has warmed into a rose 
 and all the drops I hung upon its petals 
 
 61 
 
roll back into my breast in golden rain. 
 Why do you keep your eyes from mine and sway 
 so shyly from me ? Fear you lest your love 
 unbidden, anger me ? You need not fear — 
 you please me well — truly, by all the gods 
 you please me well. Now hearken ; for my sake 
 shrink not from what we have so long designed* 
 Go you to meet the king today — the king I 
 ^T is a mere puppet — you can sway his will 
 with a drooped eyelash, and can laugh at him 
 clasped in my arms. I shall be always near — 
 always your master — 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I can bear no more. 
 Help me, thou Uncrowned King! 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 What words are these? 
 Where did you learn that name ? 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I will not tell 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 Whoever taught you this shall pay the full 
 in blood and groans. Who can have entered here ? 
 I hold the only key. 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 I will not go 
 before the man who sits upon the throne. 
 
 62 
 
Ah, master, set me free that I may serve 
 the Uncrowned King. 
 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 What would you profit me 
 hardened with toil ? You know not what you ask. 
 Beware lest you exhaust my patience ; what, 
 is this your gratitude ? 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 My gratitude? 
 Should I be grateful ? If it be your due, 
 I cannot give it. Take you all instead 
 that you have heaped on me — the gold, the gems, 
 the costly fabrics ; look, I am no more 
 without them than the slaves who fashioned them 
 and took their pay in blows. Let me go forth 
 to serve the Uncrowned King among the rest 
 whose sister now I am. 
 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 You make yourself 
 
 a slave as other slaves and you shall have 
 such usage as is theirs. The words you speak 
 I hate — behold my way to silence them. 
 
 He seizes the Slave by the golden collar* As 
 she ti)rithes under the scourge^ the band breaks 
 in his grasp and she rises to her knees* 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 Where art thou, O my King ? 
 
 63 
 
A VOICE AT THE DOOR 
 
 Thy King is here* 
 
 With a. hoarse cry the Master drops the scourge 
 and crumples to the floor in a formless heap of 
 drapery. The Other Slave enters^ burdenless 
 and triumphant, and raises the kneeling Slave 
 in her arms* 
 
 THE OTHER, 
 
 Come out, come out I Your King and mine is there. 
 
 He has no burden on his shoulders now 
 
 nor any shadow in his eyes* Ah, sister, 
 
 your flesh is torn even as mine, but now 
 
 we nevermore shall whimper to the scourge. 
 
 I hated you — forgive me — I was blind. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 We both were blind together ; now we walk 
 
 together, seeing. Let me cling to you, 
 
 for my limbs tremble — ay, and so do yours — 
 
 Lean you on me, my sister. 
 
 There is a sound of many 'boices chanting 
 "Love is a God of gods.^* 
 Oh, I hear 
 a sound of singing ! Slaves could never rise 
 to such full-throated joy ; it is the hymn 
 of a freed world, and floated on its waves 
 we two go hand in hand to meet the King. 
 
 64 
 
V 
 
 THE SHRINE 
 
 ;^ The interior of a small building in the form of a 
 temple* The door at the back is closed and the only 
 light comes from a little lamp burning before an 
 altar-like tomb on ti>hich lies the statue of a man in 
 royal robes. The tomb is heaped ivith flcnvers, 
 some long faded, some fresh. The King's Daughter 
 lies asleep on a couch to the right of the stage* 
 There is soft music from an aeolian harp ; across it 
 strikes heavily the distant clang of a harsh belL The 
 King's Daughter ^akes "with a start* 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 Father ! Father ! 
 
 She rises slol^ly* 
 No — I was dreaming* Ah, how long it is, 
 how long to wait I I thought he came to me 
 and took me in his arms, as long ago 
 he used to hold me, then a wondering babe 
 who reached for his clear eyes as for the stars. 
 Had he not promised that he would return 
 
 65 
 
hardly would I have had the heart to wait* 
 He died — I saw him die; and yet he said 
 he would come back — and in that word I hope* 
 
 She bends olyer the effigy* 
 Oh, sightless eyes, I hang above you now 
 as I have hung so long. When shall I see 
 your eyelids lift, and meet the gaze I knew ? 
 Oh, folded hands of marble, why so cold ? 
 I clasp you close, I warm you in my breast. 
 When shall I feel your stone soften to flesh ? 
 Oh calm set lips that taught me all I know, 
 see, once again I press my own to you 
 and bid you drink my living breath and live. 
 Cold, cold, all cold ! Alas, I too grow cold 
 and when I lay me on my couch at night 
 my limbs extend themselves as if they lay 
 in marble on my tomb. O Father, Father, 
 in all the world, who is there left but me 
 to honour you with memory ? Below 
 there in the clanging city I have known 
 only by rumour, and its distant bell 
 that calls at dawn the labourers to toil, 
 who thinks of you ? The poor ? They are too poor, 
 and brutish in their misery. The rich ? 
 They are too rich — why should they spare a thought 
 from their own pleasure to the King that was ? 
 
 66 
 
There in the silent country where you dwell 
 
 perchance this seems to you a little thing, 
 
 less than a shadowy stalk of asphodel 
 
 your drowsy hands let fall ; but when you wake — 
 
 ay, when you come again as you have said, 
 
 it shall go hard for their forgetfulness 
 
 with these your careless people. But for me — 
 
 what shall be mine, who hang upon your tomb 
 
 my days like garlands ? Nay, I ask no more 
 
 than once again to look upon your face. 
 
 She turns from the tomb and takes up a silver 
 mirror from the floor beside the couch* 
 
 What shall I read that day in your dear eyes ? 
 
 Joy in my beauty ? Nay, I am not fair 
 
 as in that other time ; my cheek is pale, 
 
 my eyes are ringed with vigils, and my brow 
 
 deep-scored by empty-handed, desperate thought 
 
 under the shadow of my whitening hair. 
 
 I have grown old — alas, I have grown old, 
 
 and when that high unhampered hero-soul 
 
 returns apparefled in unfading youth, 
 
 will he not seem no father, but my son ? 
 
 She drops the mirror and buries her face in her hands* 
 Somehow it seems to me that all my prayers, 
 my tears, my dreams, lie dead above the dead 
 even as these, even as these. Woe^s me, 
 
 67 
 
what have I done amiss, or left undone ? 
 
 A sick misgiving stifles all my soul 
 
 as on my face lies like a smothering veil 
 
 the fragrance of these flowers of yesterday — 
 
 She flings open the door and starts back as it 
 discloses a Stranger standing upon the thresh- 
 old, outlined against the daivn. The Stranger 
 is ^wrapped in a long cloak, the hood of <which 
 hides his face in its shadcnv* 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER 
 
 What do you here ? 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Long time I stood and knocked. 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I heard you not. 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 You heard me in your heart 
 
 and then you opened. 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Who and whence are you ? 
 THE STRANGER. 
 I am a common labourer of the town. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 The bell has rung that bids you to your work. 
 What do you here? 
 
 68 
 
THE STRANGER, 
 
 My work ; I bring to you 
 a message from your Father* 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 From my Father! 
 But — where is he ? 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Within his city. 
 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER 
 
 What, 
 my Father in the city ? Tell me, tell me, 
 when did he come? Whence did he come? Oh speak ! 
 I always thought the marble of his tomb 
 would house his homing spirit, and arise 
 in such a royal semblance as I knew — 
 and lo, I spent my soul upon a stone* 
 Why, why has he not come to me ? 
 
 THE STRANGER* 
 
 He waited 
 for you to come to him. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Ah cruel, cruel! 
 He must have known that I was ignorant 
 of his return. Has he then changed so much ? 
 THE STRANGER. 
 He is not changed, but all in all the same 
 as when you knew him. 
 
 69 
 
THE KING^S DAUGHTER, 
 
 But he loved me — then. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 He loves you now ; the change is in yourself. 
 You scarce would know him^ standing face to face 
 for you have pored so long upon the features 
 of his dead effigy, you have forgot 
 the living power of his countenance. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 What use, what use in these reproaches now ? 
 What ^s done is done; why stand I wrangling here? 
 Where is my Father ? Let me go to him ! 
 Where is my Father ? 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Can you find your way 
 into the city? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Nay, I scarcely know. 
 I have not left the shrine these many years. 
 Will you not lead me ? 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Always cloistered here 
 what can you know of your inheritance ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 I cannot fret my soul with things of state. 
 The Steward rules. 
 
 70 
 
THE STRANGER 
 
 As did your Father ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER 
 
 Nay, 
 who could do that ? He governs well enough — 
 What matter now ? Oh, make an end of words ! 
 Come, lead me to my Father, 
 THE STRONGER, 
 
 And your people? 
 A pause* 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER, slowly. 
 There must be misery ; *t was ever so, 
 THE STRANGER 
 Is it your impotence in face of this 
 that wrings away your youth ? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER, 
 
 I pity them — 
 my servants carry alms to those in need ; 
 what can I do beyond ? What is, must be. 
 Man, man, have you no pity ? *T is the ache 
 of longing and the thirst of vain desire 
 to look again upon my Father^s face 
 that makes me what I am. Nay but I ask 
 no more of you. You stand and mock at me 
 laughing with hidden eyes. I will go forth — 
 
 As she passes him impulsively, he steps t^ithin 
 
 1\ 
 
the dooTf and stands 'cvith his back to the audi- 
 ence as she turns in consternation and faces him 
 from the threshold* 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER 
 Is that the city — that black swirl of smoke 
 shot through with spurts of flame ? 
 THE STRANGER 
 
 That is the city, 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER* 
 The groaning of it twists my quaking heart 
 as with a hand of steel — hard, hard and cold — 
 THE STRANGER, 
 Your people dwell there always, 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 When the dawn 
 stands green upon the hills, how can they see ? 
 THE STRANGER, 
 
 At dawn they rise from heavy troubled sleep 
 with aching lids ; at noonday, when the sun 
 rides like a conqueror in golden mail 
 they only droop under the heat ; at eve 
 when the long shadows eastward cast themselves 
 as blinded by the sumptuous blaze of foy 
 wherewith the unseen skies receive their king, 
 your people only say — **'T is time to sleep,** 
 Did you not know of this ? 
 
 72 
 
THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I must have known, 
 but somehow it has seemed a tale to me, 
 and now it is the beating of my heart. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 The weariness that comes of honest toil — 
 that is the least of all your city^s woe. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 Tell me no more — I cannot bear to hear. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 Your Father dwells amid the misery 
 of which you cannot bear to hear the tale. 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 I cannot bear to hear it as a tale — 
 to hear and wring my impotent soft hands 
 here on the mountain ; lead me if you will, 
 or bide you here — there lies my only way. 
 I go to seek my Father in the city 
 and by his side to hear my people's woe 
 from their own lips and read it in their eyes* 
 THE STRANGER. 
 How will you find him in the multitude ? 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 In every face my eyes shall seek for his, 
 in every hand my hand shall seek for his, 
 in every heart my heart shall seek for his 
 
 73 
 
until at last he looks into my face 
 and takes me to his heart* 
 THE STRANGER 
 
 You do not fear 
 to go alone? 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And if I fear or no, 
 what does that matter ? Where my Father is, 
 there must I be. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 The sight of suffering — 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 Ay, face to face. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Wounds past your power to heal 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 Yet can I strive to ease them. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Weariness 
 such as you never knew. 
 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 But I can share 
 the burden's weight. 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 My daughter, look at me. 
 He raises the hood from his face, 
 
 74 
 
THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 Father ! 
 
 She sinks half-kneeling before him; he raises 
 
 her in his arms* 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Together, to our people — come. 
 As they go outt she leans joyously upon him, 
 looking up into his face» 
 
HERE ENDETH PLAYS IN THE MARKET 
 PLACE BY AMELL\ J, BURR VL SET UP 
 AND PRINTED FROM THE TYPE BY 
 FREDERIC M, BURR AT THE HILLSIDE 
 PRESS, ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY si si 
 PRESSWORK FINISHED IN THE MONTH 
 OF OCTOBER, M-CM-Xj|f BORDER OF THE 
 TITLE-PAGE DESIGNED BY MABEL H. 
 DUNCAN; SS^ HEAD-BANDS, PUBLISHER'S 
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