WALTER MAP. Nay, my lord, take heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, the Pope let you down again; and tho' you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope will not leave them in suspense, for the Pope himself is always in suspense, like Mahound's coffin hung between heaven and earth--always in suspense, like the scales, till the weight of Germany or the gold of England brings one of them down to the dust--always in suspense, like the tail of the horologe--to and fro--tick-tack--we make the time, we keep the time, ay, and we serve the time; for I have heard say that if you boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you might stagger him, but he would pocket the purse. No saying of mine--Jocelyn of Salisbury. But the King hath bought half the College of Red-hats. He warmed to you to-day, and you have chilled him again. Yet you both love God. Agree with him quickly again, even for the sake of the Church. My one grain of good counsel which you will not swallow. I hate a split between old friendships as I hate the dirty gap in the face of a Cistercian monk, that will swallow anything. Farewell. [_Exit_. BECKET. Map scoffs at Rome. I all but hold with Map. Save for myself no Rome were left in England, All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome, Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ, Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the right? Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege, Which even Peter had not dared? condemn The blameless exile?-- HERBERT. Thee, thou holy Thomas! I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father. BECKET. I would have done my most to keep Rome holy, I would have made Rome know she still is Rome-- Who stands aghast at her eternal self And shakes at mortal kings--her vacillation, Avarice, craft--O God, how many an innocent Has left his bones upon the way to Rome Unwept, uncared for. Yea--on mine own self The King had had no power except for Rome. 'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile, But Rome, Rome, Rome! HERBERT. My lord, I see this Louis Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm. BECKET. He said as much before. Thou art no prophet, Nor yet a prophet's son. HERBERT. Whatever he say, Deny not thou God's honour for a king. The King looks troubled. _Re-enter_ KING LOUIS. LOUIS. My dear lord Archbishop, I learn but now that those poor Poitevins, That in thy cause were stirr'd against King Henry, Have been, despite his kingly promise given To our own self of pardon, evilly used And put to pain. I have lost all trust in him. The Church alone hath eyes--and now I see That I was blind--suffer the phrase--surrendering God's honour to the pleasure of a man. Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. [_Kneels_. BECKET. Son, I absolve thee in the name of God.