BECKET. I do believe thee, then. I am the man. And yet I seem appall'd--on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King. I served our Theobald well when I was with him; I served King Henry well as Chancellor; I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. This Canterbury is only less than Rome, And all my doubts I fling from me like dust, Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind, And all the puissance of the warrior, And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, And all the heap'd experiences of life, I cast upon the side of Canterbury-- Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro' The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms, And goodly acres--we will make her whole; Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, These ancient Royal customs--they _are_ Royal, Not of the Church--and let them be anathema, And all that speak for them anathema. HERBERT. Thomas, thou art moved too much. BECKET. O Herbert, here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief To show the scar for ever--his, a hate Not ever to be heal'd. _Enter_ ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, _flying from_ SIR REGINALD FITZURSE. _Drops her veil_. BECKET. Rosamund de Clifford! ROSAMUND. Save me, father, hide me--they follow me-- and I must not be known. BECKET. Pass in with Herbert there. [_Exeunt_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT _by side door_. _Enter_ FITZURSE. FITZURSE. The Archbishop! BECKET. Ay! what wouldst thou, Reginald? FITZURSE. Why--why, my lord, I follow'd--follow'd one-- BECKET. And then what follows? Let me follow thee. FITZURSE. It much imports me I should know her name. BECKET. What her? FITZURSE. The woman that I follow'd hither. BECKET. Perhaps it may import her all as much Not to be known. FITZURSE. And what care I for that? Come, come, my lord Archbishop; I saw that door Close even now upon the woman. BECKET. Well? FITZURSE (_making for the door_). Nay, let me pass, my lord, for I must know. BECKET. Back, man! FITZURSE. Then tell me who and what she is. BECKET. Art thou so sure thou followedst anything? Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for thine eyes Glare stupid--wild with wine. FITZURSE (_making to the door_). I must and will. I care not for thy new archbishoprick. BECKET. Back, man, I tell thee! What! Shall I forget my new archbishoprick And smite thee with my crozier on the skull? 'Fore God, I am a mightier man than thou. FlTZURSE. It well befits thy new archbishoprick To take the vagabond woman of the street Into thine arms! BECKET. O drunken ribaldry! Out, beast! out, bear! FlTZURSE. I shall remember this.