ROSAMUND. Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father. Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper crept That thou wouldst excommunicate the King. I could not eat, sleep, pray: I had with me The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower: I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it. I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once, I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop; 'Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I pass'd From house to house. In one a son stone-blind Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother, Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine, Cried out against the cruelty of the King. I said it was the King's courts, not the King; But she would not believe me, and she wish'd The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once, So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father. BECKET. Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King, I fear I was as cruel as the King. ROSAMUND. Cruel? Oh, no--it is the law, not he; The customs of the realm. BECKET. The customs! customs! ROSAMUND. My lord, you have not excommunicated him? Oh, if you have, absolve him! BECKET. Daughter, daughter, Deal not with things you know not. ROSAMUND. I know _him_. Then you have done it, and I call _you_ cruel. JOHN OF SALISBURY. No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop; For once in France the King had been so harsh, He thought to excommunicate him--Thomas, You could not--old affection master'd you, You falter'd into tears. ROSAMUND. God bless him for it. BECKET. Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury, Nor make me traitor to my holy office. Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle, 'The King is sick and almost unto death.' How could I excommunicate him then? ROSAMUND. And wilt thou excommunicate him now? BECKET. Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it. And were it longer--well--I should not do it. ROSAMUND. Thanks in this life, and in the life to come. BECKET. Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste; Let this be thy last trespass. But one question-- How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey? No fever, cough, croup, sickness? ROSAMUND. No, but saved From all that by our solitude. The plagues That smite the city spare the solitudes. BECKET. God save him from all sickness of the soul! Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, May that save thee! Doth he remember me? ROSAMUND. I warrant him. BECKET. He is marvellously like thee. ROSAMUND. Liker the King. BECKET. No, daughter. ROSAMUND. Ay, but wait Till his nose rises; he will be very king. BECKET. Ev'n so: but think not of the King: farewell! ROSAMUND. My lord, the city is full of armed men. BECKET, Ev'n so: farewell!