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!
Nurse.
O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!
[Nurse goes.]
Julian.
I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!
SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot
Abbot.
'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
Enter STEPHEN.
Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
Stephen.
I did, my lord.
Abbot.
How would you do it, Stephen?
Stephen.
Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
I'll find him out.
Abbot.
Stephen, you're just the man
I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.
SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching
Julian.
I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
My heart is beating as if it would spend
Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
And well it may, for there is more of life
In one such moment than in many years!
Pure life is measured by intensity,
Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
The window-blind? or is it but a band
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself,
Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—
Lilia
(half-asleep, wildly).
If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!—
Julian! Julian!
[Half-rising.]
Julian
(forgetting his caution, and going up to her).
I am here, my Lilia.
Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,
A terrible dream. Gone now—is it not?
[She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on the pillow. He leaves her.]
How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!
But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long
She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead
In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,
And
