BECKET. Do, and begone! [_Exit_ FITZURSE. [_Going to the door, sees_ DE TRACY.] Tracy, what dost thou here? DE TRACY. My lord, I follow'd Reginald Fitzurse. BECKET. Follow him out! DE TRACY. I shall remember this Discourtesy. [_Exit_. BECKET. Do. These be those baron-brutes That havock'd all the land in Stephen's day. Rosamund de Clifford. _Re-enter_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT. ROSAMUND. Here am I. BECKET. Why here? We gave thee to the charge of John of Salisbury. To pass thee to thy secret bower to-morrow. Wast thou not told to keep thyself from sight? ROSAMUND. Poor bird of passage! so I was; but, father, They say that you are wise in winged things, And know the ways of Nature. Bar the bird From following the fled summer--a chink--he's out, Gone! And there stole into the city a breath Full of the meadows, and it minded me Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the walks Where I could move at pleasure, and I thought Lo! I must out or die. BECKET. Or out _and_ die. And what hast thou to do with this Fitzurse? ROSAMUND. Nothing. He sued my hand. I shook at him. He found me once alone. Nay--nay--I cannot Tell you: my father drove him and his friends, De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle. I was but fourteen and an April then. I heard him swear revenge. BECKET. Why will you court it By self-exposure? flutter out at night? Make it so hard to save a moth from the fire? ROSAMUND. I have saved many of 'em. You catch 'em, so, Softly, and fling them out to the free air. They burn themselves _within_-door. BECKET. Our good John Must speed you to your bower at once. The child Is there already. ROSAMUND. Yes--the child--the child-- O rare, a whole long day of open field. BECKET. Ay, but you go disguised. ROSAMUND. O rare again! We'll baffle them, I warrant. What shall it be? I'll go as a nun. BECKET. No. ROSAMUND. What, not good enough Even to play at nun? BECKET. Dan John with a nun, That Map, and these new railers at the Church May plaister his clean name with scurrilous rhymes! No! Go like a monk, cowling and clouding up That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the squint Of lust and glare of malice. Good night! good night! ROSAMUND. Father, I am so tender to all hardness! Nay, father, first thy blessing. BECKET. Wedded? ROSAMUND. Father! BECKET. Well, well! I ask no more. Heaven bless thee! hence! ROSAMUND. O, holy father, when thou seest him next, Commend me to thy friend. BECKET. What friend? ROSAMUND. The King.