[_Exuent Etta, door centre; Albert door left.... Charles stares round moodily. A knock is heard._]
Who raps? Can I The Emperor, Augustus, not have some hours Alone to toy with grief?
[_Enter Hildebold, left, closing the door after him._]
_Hildebold._ My gracious Lord, You sent for me?
_Charles._ And you have tarried long. The judgment's given. Leave me here in peace.
_Hildebold._ If peace reigned here, I'd gladly go. Methinks A wounded soul awaits my help. I missed You, Sire, at mass.
_Charles._ I had excuse. You may Have heard. Respect my sorrow. Leave me now.
_Hildebold._ [_Sitting down._] One time, long since, you rode with Eginhardt; Nor stayed for pomp of retinue, your wish Was speed, to reach a mother's side; who gasped Your name while breath still lingered. Not a word You spoke; but peered the gloom, as on you raced 'Gainst death itself. The night was dark and still, The thudding horses woke strange echoes, hark! That tinkling bell betokens mass, though dawn Has scarcely greyed the sky. A mother's blessing Depends on haste and yet God's call was heeded. You turned aside to find the forest church, My dear, first charge; and there you humbly knelt. At that same hour, you later heard, the Queen, Your Mother's breath came evenly. She smiled And seemed content to wait. Three days of sweet Communing God allowed his servants ere The parting came.—You raced 'gainst death that night And won. To-day, I fear, God's face is turned, His help rejected.
_Charles._ [_Wearily._] My Lord Archbishop, I Have scarcely followed, have indeed no will To argue; granting all your premises, Pray leave me now.
_Hildebold._ Your rank and mine we'll set Aside. Consider me that Hildebold Whom you have raised to be your chosen friend, Who comes to offer——
_Charles._ Not the golden coins This time but useless words. O would that you Had kept my largess then, nor parted with Humility.
_Hildebold._ [_Reminiscently._] And how surprised I was To see those gulden left by seeming huntsmen. I felt such gold might burn a simple monk; Besides our chapel needed nought and so I hailed you back and asked instead a doeskin, Soft and pliable, to bind my mass-book, That time had sadly ragged.
_Charles._ Your modesty Appealed. I sent you one deep-purple dyed And limned with gold—'twas not enough; a ring, A staff, a bishopric were further added, And so a mentor saddles me. Pray take The hint, begone!