Britain ... - Blue-Lite

Scene III.] THE VARANGIAN. 409
As if the gentle winds of evening sung
The drowsy flowers to
sleep. Wouldst thou to me
Yield all thy ducal rights of Normandy,
I would accept far sooner death, than take
On such base terms thy gifts.
KING.
Why, haughty knave
HEREWARD.
Why, haughty Duke, think'st thou
The secrets of our Order, which I swore
Before the sacred oracles of God
Never to utter, Til reveal to thee ?
No from this bosom let ;
my heart be torn,
Ere to th 1
untaught its mysteries I betray !
But they are not, as thou and fools believe,
Secrets of blood and guilt. No : those bright deeds
We are enjoined to act, are deeds of love
And mercy to mankind. Our arts are not
Forbidden things of darkness, but those arts
And sciences which have on man bestowed,
Throughout all time, his best of earthly blessings ;
And Fame, as in her downward course she sweeps
On sun-surpassing pinion, flings abroad
Her scroll, emblazoned with th' eternal names
Of those we claim as brothers, whose renown
Transcends the warrior's glory.
KING.
HEREWARD.
Idle boast.
The warrior's pride, thou unbelieving Duke,
The spirit is of tyranny and blood ;
While our high Order stands the only bar
To lawless violence and ruthless power,