You will pursue your triumphs many a year,
And victory shall wait upon your steps

As heretofore, and death be distant far.

Take back those words; I cannot bear them; no,
They hang upon my heart too heavily,

Tell me you're sure to conquer, as you are.

ARTEVELDE.

So, loveliest, let us hope. It may be so.

I'll swear it shall be, so you'll swear in turn

To give me up your

heart.

ELENA.

I cannot-
-no-

I cannot give you what you've had so long;
Nor need I tell you what you know so well.

I want to be alone-let me retire

Dear Artevelde, for God's love let me go!

ARTEVELDE (after a pause).

The night is far advanced upon the morrow,

[Exit.

And but for that conglomerated mass

Of cloud with ragged edges, like a mound

Or black pine-forest on a mountain's top,
Wherein the light lies ambushed, dawn were near.—
Yes, I have wasted half a summer's night.
Was it well spent? Successfully it was.
How little flattering is a woman's love!—
Worth to the heart, come how it may, a world;
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts,
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing.
The few hours left are precious-who is there?
Ho! Nieuverkerchen-when we think upon it,
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest
And propped with most advantage; outward grace
Nor inward light is needful; day by day,
Men wanting both are mated with the best

And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,

And ridicules the very name of choice.

Ho! Nieuverkerchen!-what, then, do we sleep?
Are none of you awake?—and as for me,

The world says Philip is a famous man—

What is there women will not love, so taught?

Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.

Enter an OFFICER.

Have me a gallows built upon the mount,
And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day.
No news of Bulsen, or Van Muck?

OFFICER.

My lord,

Bulsen is taken; but Van Muck, we fear,

Has got clear off.

ARTEVELDE.

Let Bulsen, too, be hung

At break of day. Let there be priests to shrive them. Who guards the knight, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée ?

OFFICER.

Sasbout, my lord, and Tuning.

ARTEVElde.

Very well.

Mount me a messenger; I shall have letters
To send to Van den Bosch upon the Lis.
Let Grebber wait upon me here. Go thou

Upon thine errands. [Exit OFFICER.]-So, Van Muck

escaped!

And Ypres will receive its invitation.

I think, then, Van den Bosch must spare a force

To strengthen us at Ypres for a season.

I'll send him orders. And Van Muck the traitor!

Stupidity is seldom soundly honest ;—

I should have known him better. Live and learn!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

The interior of a Tent. SIR FLEUREANT OF HeurLÉE is seated at a table, on which wine and refreshments are placed. Guards are seen without, walking backwards and forwards before the doors of the Tent.

SIR FLEUREANT.

I oft before have clomb to tickle places,
But this will be the last of all my climbing.
Were it to do again, ten thousand dukes,

With all their wants of wit and wealth of folly,

Should tempt me not to such fool-hardihood.

Here is the end of Fleureant of Heurlée !
I know it; for my heart is dead already—
An omen that did cross me ne'er before
In any jeopardy of life.

CECILE enters with a FRIAR,

This wind

Is cold, methinks, that comes through yonder door. I thought I had a cloak.

CECILE.

The friar, sir.

SIR FLEUREANT.

Well, this is strange ;—I surely had a cloak.

CECILE.

Sir, would you see the friar?

SIR FLEUREANT.

The friar, sir.

Eh? what? who?

CECILE.

SIR FLEUREANT.

What friar?-oh, your pardon

What? is it time?