Part 43 (2/2)

Those children of Odin fight well; And my ears are confused by the cras.h.i.+ng, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flas.h.i.+ng Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flas.h.i.+ng and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade!

While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted?

Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again!

Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may--face to face with the foe.

[She goes out.]

SCENE--A Room in the Convent.

THURSTON seated near a small fire.

Enter EUSTACE.

Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch.

Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst.

Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down.

Where's Ethelwolf?

Eustace: Dying.

Thurston: And Reginald?

Eustace: Dead.

And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped.

He may last till midnight--not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise.

Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter.

Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together.

[Enter Ursula.]

Thurston: Here she comes.

Ursula: Can I speak with your lord?

Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate.

Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf.

Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then?

Thurston: As dead as St. Paul.

And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds.

I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: ”How heavy the night hangs--how wild the waves dash; Say a ma.s.s for my soul--and give Rollo a mash.”

Ursula: Nay, Thurston, thou jestest.

Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear.

Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too.

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