The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 7

What a night For a soul to go out of doors! G.o.d in heaven!

[_Approaches the lady within_.]

Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope It will not pa.s.s too soon. It is not far To the half-hidden door in my own fence, And that is well. If I step carefully, Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.

What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think!

Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me.

That's awkward now.

[_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.]

Pardon me, dear lady;

[_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.]

'Tis not to save my blood I would defile Even your handkerchief.

[_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.]

I am pleased to think Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.

[_Looking out of the window on the landing_.]

For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.

[_He goes down the stair_]

SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse.

_Julian_.

Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.

You have put your charge to bed?

_Nurse_.

Yes, my dear lord.

_Julian_.

And has she spoken yet?

_Nurse_.

After you left, Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once: _Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me, And her eyes wandered over all my face, Till half in comfort, half in weariness, They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is As feeble as a child.

_Julian_.

Under your care She'll soon be well again. Let no one know She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her.

_Nurse_.

Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.

_Julian_.

That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.

Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.

_Nurse_.

Leave?

_Julian_.

Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again Over the earth and sea. She must not know I have been here. You must contrive to keep My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.

She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her; Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.

Let her on no pretense guess where she is, Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.

When she is well and wishes to be gone, Then write to this address--but under cover

[_Writing_.]

To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I Will see to all the rest. But let her know Her father is set free; a.s.suredly, Ere you can say it is, it will be so.

_Nurse_.

How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?

_Julian_.

I have thought of that. There's a deserted room In the old west wing, at the further end Of the oak gallery.

_Nurse_.

Not deserted quite.

I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.

_Julian_.

You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: I found a sliding panel, and a door Into a room behind. I'll show it you.

You'll find some musty traces of me yet, When you go in. Now take her to your room, But get the other ready. Light a fire, And keep it burning well for several days.

Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, Take everything to make it comfortable; Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, Bind her to be as secret as yourself.

Then put her there. I'll let her father know She is in safety.--I must change attire, And be far off or ever morning break.

[Nurse _goes_.]

My treasure-room! how little then I thought, Glad in my secret, one day it would hold A treasure unto which I dared not come.

Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!-- But not with even a heavenly gift would I Go begging love; that should be free as light, Cleaving unto myself even for myself.

I have enough to brood on, joy to turn Over and over in my secret heart:-- She lives, and is the better that I live!

_Re-enter_ Nurse.

_Nurse_.

My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; She's in a dreadful fever. We must send To Arli for the doctor, else her life Will be in danger.

_Julian_ (_rising disturbed_).

Go and fetch your daughter.

Between you, take her to my room, yours now.

I'll see her there. I think you can together!