ROSAMUND (_rising_). I am a Clifford, My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I Would bow to such a baseness as would make me Most worthy of it: both of us will die, And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven, And shriek to all the saints among the stars: 'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England! Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, Whose doings are a horror to the east, A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle--nay, Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father-- Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen-- Strike! I challenge thee to meet me before God. Answer me there. ELEANOR (_raising the dagger_). This in thy bosom, fool, And after in thy bastard's! _Enter_ BECKET _from behind. Catches hold of her arm_. BECKET. Murderess! [_The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause_. ELEANOR. My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, But having now admired it long enough, We find that it is mightier than it seems-- At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it. BECKET. And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death To wail in deathless flame. ELEANOR. Nor you, nor I Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he Gainsays by next sunrising--often ready To tear himself for having said as much. My lord, Fitzurse-- BECKET. He too! what dost thou here? Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den? One downward plunge of his paw would rend away Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee. Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, And make thee a world's horror. FITZURSE. My lord, I shall Remember this. BECKET. I _do_ remember thee; Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. [_Exit_ FITZURSE. Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath. ELEANOR. Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me? But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. Well--well--too costly to be left or lost. [_Picks up the dagger_. I had it from an Arab soldan, who, When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at Our unfamiliar beauties of the west; But wonder'd more at my much constancy To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen, From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord, God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us. I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt. What excellent workmanship. In our poor west We cannot do it so well. BECKET. We can do worse. Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat; I heard your savage cry.