BULSEN.

Never fear, Van Muck;

If any such should break upon our meeting
We'd parley with them first, and see what good
Might come of fighting or of speaking fair.

SIR FLEUREANT.

Where is the danger? you are dreaming, friends! Let me explain the matter I've in hand.

VAN KORTZ.

metal?

Come, come, Sir Hurly-Burly! where's your
Write us the matter down in white and yellow.
No danger! but I say there shall be danger-
Out with this money-what if the Regent knew-
Are men like us to be entrapp'd and sold
And see no money down, Sir Hurly-Burly?
You are a knight and we are vile crossbow-men,
But steel is steel, and flesh is still but flesh,
So let us see your chinkers.

SIR FLEUREANT (to VAN MUCK).

Sure he's drunk?

Why brought you me a drunken knave like this?

VAN MUCK.

He is not drunk, sir; better that he were;

If they are for foul play, so am not I,

Nor did I mean it.

SIR FLEUREANT.

Aye, is that their game?

Sirs, ye mistook our honest friend, Van Muck;
I could not in hard money bring you here
More than a moiety of the sums you'll earn

By carrying of my letters; it is thus:

So much I'll pay you now, and as much more
You will receive in France from Hetz St. Croix,
King Charles's master of accompt. The king
Gave orders for the payments.

BULSEN.

It is well;

We will convey your letters, sir, with speed.

VAN KORTZ.

We'll trust to meet you afterward at court
To see us justly paid.

SIR FLEUREANT.

Enquire for me

When you

arrive at Senlis or at Lisle,

Or wheresoe'er the court may then abide.
Here are the letters and the skins of gold

I give with each. The word is now 'Despatch!'
Speak not, nor eat nor drink with friend or foe,
But each man take his wallet on his back,
And steal away. No lack of Frenchmen's friends
You'll find at Bruges or Ypres, and these letters
Will bring you to their knowledge; and at Ghent
Though France may find less favour with the many,
Still there are some that will befriend you. Hence !
What noise is that?

This head is worth the value of a potsherd.

Speed is my best safe-conduct, then, to France.

SCENE II.-The Pavilion, as in Scene III. of Act II.—ARTEVELDE and ELENA. CECILE attending in the background.

ELENA.

On your way hither, then, you passed through Ghent, The city which you saved. How sweet a pleasure, Revisiting a place which owes to you

All that it hath of glory or of ease!

ARTEVELDE.

Verily yes, it should have overjoyed me.
How diverse, how contrarious is man!

I know not wherefore, but I scarce was pleased
To see that town now wallowing in wealth,
Which last I saw, and saw with hearty courage,
Pinched like a beggar wintering at death's door.
Now, both the mart was full, and church; road, bridge,
River, and street, were populous and busy,

And money bags were toss'd from hand to hand

Of men more thriftless than a miser's heir.

I liked it not; my task, it seem'd, was done;
The arrow sped, the bow unbent, the cord
Soundless and slack. I came away ill-pleased.

ELENA.

Perhaps you suffer'd losses in the siege?

ARTEVELDE.

Not in the siege; but I have suffer'd something.
There is a gate in Ghent-I pass'd beside it—
A threshold there, worn of my frequent feet,

Which I shall cross no more.

Divert me from my

But wherefore thus

drift? Look round; look on;

Think once again upon the proffer'd choice

Of French protection. Though my army wear
This hour an aspect of security,

A battle must be fought ere many days.

ELENA.

You have been very kind to me, my lord,
And in the bounty of your noble nature,
Despite those ineradicable stains

That streak my life, have used me with respect.
I will not quit your camp,—unless you wish it.

ARTEVELDE.

Am I in life's embellishments so rich,

In pleasures so redundant, as to wish
The chiefest one away? No, fairest friend;
Mine eyes have travell❜d this horizon round,
Ending where they began; and they have roved
The boundless empyrean up and down,
And 'mid the undistinguish'd tumbling host
Of the black clouds, have lighted on a soft
And solitary spot of azure sky

Whereon they love to dwell.

The clouds close in,

And soon may shut it from my searching sight;

But let me still behold it whilst I may.

ELENA.

You are so busy all day long, I fear'd
A woman's company and trifling talk
Would only importune you.

ARTEVELDE.

Think not so.

The sweets of converse and society

Are sweetest when they're snatch'd; the often-comer,
The boon companion of a thousand feasts,
Whose eye has grown familiar with the fair,
Whose tutor❜d tongue, by practice perfect made,
Is tamely talkative, he never knows

That truest, rarest light of social joy
Which gleams upon the man of many cares.

ELENA.

It is not every one could push aside
A country's weight so lightly.

ARTEVELDE.

By your leave,

There are but few that on so grave a theme
Continuously could ponder unrelieved.
The heart of man, walk it which way it will,
Sequester'd or frequented, smooth or rough,
Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks,
Or 'mid the clang of trumpets and the march
Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt,
Its hour of truce, its instant of repose,

Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek
The food of its affections-still must slake
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure
And pleasant to behold.

ELENA.

Το you that thirst,

Despite inebriating draughts of glory,

Despite ambition, power, and strife, remains;
But great men mostly lose the taste of joy
Save from such things as make their greatness greater :