Ber. True to peace
Even in the camp of war, he lives withdrawn,
And so gives Rumor sweep for what she would,
While in her swollen report the earl conceals
His monkish son's true nature.
Char. I'll know this youth!
Ber. He keeps his tent by day, and steals at night
To forest glens, his armor but a cloak,
His sword a flute——
Ard. O, light from Heaven!
Ber. Sometimes
He farther goes, even far as Kidmir heights,
And at the feet of Charilus he learns
A love more true than fane and cloister taught,—
The love that made the houseless, barefoot Christ,
With open breast to all unbrothered woe,—
And now he kneels and of that gentlest love
Asks pardon.
Char. Bertrand, son of Oswald, rise.
There's no forgiving in the sinless star.
Ber. [Rising, to Ardia] And you?
Ard. Ah ... when I've breath!
Ber. What I have said,
My lord, makes way for what is yet to say.
To-day I waited by Avesta's gate
For this [taking out paper] my father's word, response to mine
Sent days ago to him. Here, sir, he says: [Reads]
"Son of my hope, your words are not more strange to me than these I write with my own hand. If Charilus will come to Suli Castle, the which my swords have taken while you sang and slept, my door shall open to him as Kidmir gates have opened unto you. By Christ, I swear the treatment that he gave my blood he shall have again from me. But if he come not down, then shall I reach him through Avesta's heart, and the love he now spurns will be cold in my sword. Despatch this, I pray you, for I would hasten to Jerusalem, leaving you my conquered princedom, whose head is Ilon and whose foot is the city of Ramoor. Thine as thy heart speaks, Oswald."