Sir Peter Harpdon's End

Of those three prisoners, that before you cameWe 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.

So—.What are their names?

Why, Jacques Aquadent,And Peter Plombiere, but—

What colour'd hairHas Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

Why, sir, you jest—what matters Jacques' hair,Or Peter's legs to us?

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.

Shall I call the guardTo 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.

To think a man should have a lump like thatFor 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!

At your good service, sir.

Come now, and talkThis weighty matter out; there—we've no stoneTo mend our walls with,—neither brick nor stone.

We are not strong enough to send ten menTen miles to fetch us stone enough to build,In three hours' time they would be taken or slain,The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.

Alas! 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 shakeAt sound of English names; our captains fadeFrom off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridgeI dare say you may even yet see the holeThat Chandos beat in dying; far in SpainPembroke 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 underneath the ground,Edward the king is dead, at WestminsterThe 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 heartOf all the deeds we have done here in France—And yet may do? So God will have your soul,Whoever has your body.

Why, sir, IWill fight till the last moment, until thenWill do whate'er you tell me. Now I seeWe must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhapsThey're stronger than I think for; pity, though!For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.

Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well,I doubt them.

Truly, sir, I will watch well. [Goes.

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, justAn hour's steady work with pickaxes,

Then a great noise—some dozen swords and glaivesA-playing on my basnet all at once,And little more cross purposes on earthFor 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,'T was but their hammer, hammer in her ears.Of "how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac bridge:"And "how he was grown moody 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 sob, looks grave,Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks,Straightway I kneel down there on both my kneesAnd say: "O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight?That still you ever let me walk aloneIn the rose garden, that you sing no songs

When I am by, that ever in the danceYou 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 meWhat 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 meWhen I was in such peril."I should say:"I am like Balen, all things turn to blame—I did not come to you? At BergerathThe constable 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 allTo 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 downMy foolish head; she kiss'd me all aboutMy face, and through the tangles of my beardHer little fingers crept!O! God, my Alice,Not this good way: my lord but sent and saidThat Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth,Therefore that day I was to start, and keepThis hold against the French; and I am here,—[Looks out of the window.A sprawling lonely gard 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 ringsOn 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 trumpet sounds.That's for a herald;I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.

What says the herald of our cousin, sir?

So please you, sir, concerning your estate,He has good will to talk with you.

Outside,I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives.Is he unarm'd?

Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gownWith 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 axe?I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade?And I will carry it inside my sleeve,Good to be ready always—you, John, goAnd bid them set up many suits of arms,Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, andYourself, from the south postern setting out,With twenty men, be ready to break throughTheir unguarded rear when I cry out "St. George!"

How, sir! will you attack him unawares,And slay him unarm'd?

Trust me, John, I knowThe reason why he comes here with sleeved gown,

Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go.[They go.

And if I choose to take the losing sideStill, does it hurt you?

O! no hurt to me;I see you sneering, "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 ruleAs such a house should: cousin, you're too wiseTo feed your hope up fat, that this fair FranceWill ever draw two ways again; this sideThe French, wrong-headed, all a-jarWith envious longings; and the other sideThe order'd English, orderly led onBy those two Edwards through all wrong and right.And muddling right and wrong to a thick brothWith that long stick, their strength. This is all changed,The true French win, on either side you haveCool-headed men, good at a tilting match,And good at setting battles in array,And good at squeezing taxes at due time;Therefore by nature we French being hereUpon our own big land—[Sir Peter laughs aloud.Well, Peter! well!What makes you laugh?

Hearing you sweat to proveAll this I know so well; but you have readThe siege of Troy?

There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be;For, as I think, they found it such delightTo 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 manThat 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 noteHow almost all men, reading that sad siege,Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least,Thought Hector the best knight a long way:NowWhy 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 clungTo what he thought the right; of how he died,

Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deedFew men would care do now, and this is gainTo me, as ease and money is to you.Moreover, too, I like the straining gameOf striving well to hold up things that fall;So one becomes great; see you! in good timesAll 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 bliss.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.

If your side were right,You might be, though you lost ; but if I said,"You are a traitor, being, as you are,Born Frenchman." What are Edwards unto you,Or Richards?

Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold!For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm,Don't call me traitor.

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.

They lied—and you lie, not for the first time.What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve,A stolen purse?

Nay, liar in your teeth!Dead liar too: St. Dennis and St. Lambert![Strikes at Sir Peter with a dagger.

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 layYour spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!

Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.

Why put them all to ransom, those that canPay anything, but not too light though, John,Seeing we have them on the hip: for thoseThat have no money, that being certified,Why turn them out of doors before they spy;But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.

I do not wish to kill him,Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd,By all the saints, though!

Now, Sir Lambert, now!What sort of death do you expect to get,Being taken this way?

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 crownsOf ransom than the king would!

Well, stand back,And do not touch me! No, you shall not die,Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, causeSome carpenters to build a scaffold, high,Outside the gate; when it is built, sound outTo 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 dayIs my high day of triumph; is it not,Sir Lambert?

Ah! on your own blood,Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,With hands and fame thus sullied, to go backAnd take the Lady Alice—

Say her nameAgain, and you are dead, slain here by me.Why should I talk with you, I'm master here,And do not want your schooling; is it notMy mercy that you are not dangling deadThere in the gateway with a broken neck?

Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?To die is nothing; but to live that allMay point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.

Why, will it make you any uglier manTo lose your ears? they're much too big for you,You ugly Judas!

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;