Char. There's one
Has cause for doubt. 'Twas I who slew in rage
Earl Oswald's father.
Ard. You? These hands?
Char. These hands.
Ber. I've heard 'twas so.
Ard. You've heard?
Char. 'Tis thirty years
Since Oswald, with his father, John of Clyffe,
Marched in Red Giles' crusade. You know of that?
Ber. My grandsire captained there.
Char. I served not Christ,
At least as they, with pillage, fire and rape.
But there were some among the English youths
Who took my heart, and Oswald was my choice
Of all who camped before the holy gates.
Ard. That man!
Char. I, too, was young ... and I was wed.
Not to my Ardia's mother, but to her
Whose heart yet boldly beats in my two sons.
In her strange beauty John of Clyffe found death.
He sought her, and I slew him. When his blood
Ran at my feet, I fled,—not from the swords
Hot on my path, but from that stream of blood.