Char. Whether the earl of Clyffe sang then to woo,
As I believe, or for the love of song,
As you do say, my lord,—his death was sin,
And he who wrought that woe shed tears enough
To clear his stain, if tears may whiten souls.
Osw. A murderer's tears! But what of mine, the son's?
Ber. Your oath—your honor, sir! Where is the love
You swore should cleanse your shield?
Osw. Safe in my heart.
And burning for my father.
Ber. God of pity!
Osw. That was the love I spoke of.
Ber. All be deaf
But hell!
Osw. Hear the full tale, my friends. I swear
The earl of Clyffe died for no more offence
Than I have here set out,—and I, his only son,
Kissed his red wounds and from his breast unbound
This bloody scarf— [taking scarf from his bosom] that then was crimson, now
In age-grown black bemourns my step that comes
So sluggish to revenge. For thirty years
Had passed ere I beheld his murderer,
Then face to face we stood ... and face to face
We stand ... for this is he, this Charilus
Of Kidmir—peace-lipped Cain—gray hypocrite,
Whose blood is honey in his veins, whose eyes
Stare on the world as he were some bland god
Who made it and said "good."
Char. Sir, I would send
My daughter to her brothers. Grant me this.
And I am ready for what death you please.
Ard. I will not go. One sword shall strike us both.
[Turns to Oswald]
But first a word to you. When Charilus falls,
Say farewell to your son. He pledged his life
To my two brothers for our father's safety,
And you, who know him least, yet know he'll keep
That pledge.