Julian.
Shall I go, Lilia?
Lilia.
Oh no, no, no, do not.—
I shall be better presently.
Julian.
You shrink
As from a murderer!
Lilia.
Oh no, I love you—
Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian;
But blood is terrible.
Julian
(drawing her close to him).
My own sweet Lilia,
'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine,
As it had been a tiger that I killed.
He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling;
His blood lies not on me, but on himself;
I do not feel its stain upon my conscience.
[A tap at the door.]
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. My lord, the steward waits on you below.
[JULIAN goes.]
You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!
Lie down a little. There!—I'll fetch you something.
SCENE XVI.—The Steward's room. JULIAN. The Steward
Julian.
Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect
To hear from you soon after my arrival.
Is the boat ready?
Steward.
Yes, my lord; afloat
Where you directed.
Julian.
A strange feeling haunts me,
As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.
Steward.
I will, directly.
[Goes.]
Julian.
How shall I manage it?
I have her father's leave, but have not dared
To tell her all; and she must know it first!
She fears me half, even now: what will she think
To see my shaven head? My heart is free—
I know that God absolves mistaken vows.
I looked for help in the high search from those
Who knew the secret place of the Most High.
If I had known, would I have bound myself
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds
Never a lark springs to salute the day?
The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best
Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!
It cannot be God's will I should be such.
But there was more: they virtually condemned
Me in my quest; would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her—she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.—
It may be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
