ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Palace of the Cæsars.

NICEPHORUS.

Nicephorus. Priests are even all but kings, and would be kings,

But that the diadem disdains bald crowns.

That snake engendered amid Rome's green ruins,
The inheritor of Satan's pomp and pride,
At whose fierce hiss the royal Henry shook
An emperor excommunicate, and bow'd
His haughty spirit, after three days' fast,
To walk barefooted to Canusio's gates
Most abject in submission-that proud priest
Is imitated here: but I can spurn

Their interdicts, and call my crown my own,
Seeing their schism doth comminute their power.
Have I no servants ?-what! no slaves ?-not one?
Ho! Corius! Lazer!

Enter Attendant.

Comes not our reverend lord the patriarch yet?
Attendant. Not yet, my liege.

Nicephorus. Ha! what hast got beneath thine upper vest?

Here, here; 'tis steel!

Attendant.

The star you bade me wear. Nicephorus. Ay, true-the star-thou hast deserved it well.

The patriarch, as I think, is past his hour;

The moon should rise at eight, and we should see her, But that the horizon's cloudy ;-yon 's her light.

Go look at the Persian water-clock; 't will tell Within a trifle- -What! thou hast been forthThere's dust upon thy sandals! where hast been? Attendant. You sent me for my lord the patriarch, sire.

Nicephorus. Ay, true, 't was thou; thou art a trusty knave.

What's doing in the streets?

Attendant.

Sire, here and there

The people gather, and shout out the name
Of Count Comnenus, and reproach his house
For all the ills they suffer.

Nicephorus.

Why so let them.
What, saw'st thou nought of the other faction, ha ?
Attendant. My liege, there's none can see them;
they're so few

And cowardly they dare not venture forth.
Nicephorus. Well let me know the hour.

[Exit Attendant.

There never was a kingdom but comprised
Some thousands of bold men who hate the king,

And in some kingdoms there are none who love him;
And of these thousands one life sacrificed

In killing of this king would quench the hate,

The smouldering hate which burns these bosoms black.
Now it is strange, that men hang, burn, and drown
For love, religion, pride, I know not what,-
Cast away life for very wantonness,-

Yet of these thousands you shall not find one
Will dare an instant death, and slay the king.
And through the lack of this one instrument,
Innocuous malice lies a coiled-up snake
Through life till toothless age. Now, I am one,
Not hated like some kings-my only haters

Are the suppress'd, who would have ris'n too high;
And they are

Attendant.

What's the matter?

Enter Attendant.

The Patriarch has arrived.

Please my liege,

At last.

Nicephorus.
Admit him.
-And they are yet more hated than they hate;
Careless withal, incautious, eating, drinking,
Sporting, and sleeping, like a Goth or Frank
After a victory. Then wherefore fear them?
The church willing too to bear my burden;

And kings should never seem to be men's foes,
There being always some to take that part

Whose malice, seeming to be bridled in,

Is spurred the while, and chafes with neck high-arched, Till, once let go, it gallops to its goal,

And hath the scandal for its guerdon fair.

Thus with this headstrong priest, in extreme age
Fiercer and fierier-

Enter Patriarch.

Most reverend lord,

May the host

We give you hearty welcome.

Patriarch.

Of heaven in all good thoughts preserve the king! Nicephorus. I sent for thee through pressure of some

ills

That weigh but heavily on ourself and state.
How is 't, my lord, that in our sovereign seat
We cannot rest in peace for slaves and monks
Careering through the streets from morn to night?
Patriarch. How is it, say you, sire? Why thus it is,
Yea, thus it is. The sovereign arm is weak,
The sovereign heart is palsied, and the church,
Reft of her strength thereby, is trampled down.
How is it? look abroad-Time, crippled sore,
Hath lost his footing, and slid back three ages.
I tell thee, the spirit of Isaurian Leo,
Accursed Heresiarch! is forth and fighting.

Nicephorus. My lord, I know the church doth ever cry
That heresies are growing; yet she thrives
From age to age, till crowns but hang on crosiers.
Patriarch. Yea, doth she thrive? and from her very
walls

The images of her most glorious saints

Down shiver'd into shards, her earthly ministers
By every uncommunicating slave

Laugh'd unto scorn! yea, thriving call you this?
Then take thou heed, for by the bones of Basil
The empire and the church shall thrive alike.
Nicephorus. Be temperate, priest.

Patriarch. I tell thee, monarch, when the crosier bends,

The sceptre breaks; and I will tell thee more,
"Twere better for thy temples to have worn
The iron crown in Lombardy, than here
Thy golden diadem and tarnish'd thus.

Nicephorus. What would'st thou have? I sent for thee to aid,

Not to upbraid me. Seek I not an end
To all these evils, or did I begin them?
Or can I with a heartier will consult

For compassing their cure?

Patriarch.

'Tis well, my liege;

The church shall aid with her maternal arm,
Propping her aged servant at his task.

I am gone in years, my liege, am very old,

Coreless and sapless, weak, and needs must crave
Support of secular force, else had this sore

Not grown upon us thus. It is not well

When that the Church and State divide their power,
And carp upon the difference. In my youth
I can remember, old as I may be,

I sojourn'd at the convent of St. Anne
In the Hercynian Forest; and one night
Being there was a storm abroad, I walked
Abroad along with it, when in the wood
I saw an aged oak, which groan'd and creak'd
And flung its arms aloft, whereof the nearest
Ground each into the other till both fell,
Sawn thoro' sheer; and this I likened then
To Nebuchadnezzar's tree of Monarchy-
But I am wandering; 'tis mine age's weakness.
Nicephorus. I grant you, holy Father, that for us
To be at strife, is but for each to waste

The strength that each hath need of. But the Church,
The Church it is Count Isaac hath offended,
And if her Champions strike not, how should I?
Patriarch. Speak but the word at once, the blow
shall follow.

I will abet your Majesty in all,

So it be sudden.

Whatsoe'er is fear'd

In states is dangerous. The man is bold,

His friends are many; and it were not safe
To warn him retribution is at hand.

Nicephorus. That is my fear: for he is not like all. There is a desperate carelessness of life

In him which oft secures it when most menaced. Patriarch. His friends are not as he is. Him removed,

They straight are nothing.

Nicephorus. How canst thou divide them?

Patriarch. My liege, 'twere easy, as I said, if sudden. But let a rumour of our aim go forth,

And him made desperate at the head of friends
Whom he knows well the art, when at their head,
To keep as firm as rocks, whom else each wind
Would shake adrift like waves-this suffered, sire,
I answer not for what might then betide.

Nicephorus. What would'st thou counsel-exile ? interdict?

Patriarch. Commit him to the power of Mother Church.

Call we a Synod, cite we the Count forthwith

To answer for his sacrilege.

Nicephorus.

What now?

Patriarch. Now, now, I say; the time is fitting; thus Surprise shall bar resistance or escape.

The measure of his wickedness fill'd full,

We take him in the surfeit of his sins.

Nicephorus. 'Tis sudden, but I think it may be safest. I will adopt thy counsel.

Patriarch.

May God speed it!

Despatch a guard to seize him: I meanwhile

Will summon here the Synod.