_Eld._ Mistress, you must not play your lute here. The king's men are not like Sir Hubert's, and your voice will quick tell 'em there's a bird in the bower. _Gla._ I am not afraid. What are men but creatures like ourselves? _Eld._ Like ourselves? La, my lady! _Gla._ There's no harm in them. You are a foolish dame. [_Re-enter Orson_] [_Taking lute_] Good Orson, I am sorry if your knees are stiff. You may have the unguent that Sir Roland brought me from Palestine. Go, Eldra, and get it for him. _Eld._ [_Aside_] An I give him not gooseoil with a dash of cinnamon, I'm no good servant to my mistress. [_Exeunt Eldra and Orson_] _Gla._ I do not like this castle with Hubert away. Sir Roland makes it a prison. If I could get out I should try to find my way to Greenot woods. The doves are nesting now, and the little brown fawns are specked with snow. [_Plays lute and sings_] O, lady, let the roses blow In thy pale cheeks for this-- That I may to that garden go And pluck them with a kiss. My roses are all plucked, she said, No more shall ever grow, For cold is he and low his head Whose dear love made them blow. Then lay she down where slept her lord Upon the silver heather; Then sighed the knight, nor said he word, But left the twa together. [_Enter the king, dressed in black. He gazes at Glaia_] _Gla._ What is your name, boy? _Hen._ Henry. _Gla._ Henry? That is the king's name. Are you his soldier? _Hen._ I fight for him. _Gla._ Ah, me! _Hen._ Is it not brave to fight? _Gla._ But kings are wicked To buy their kingdoms with their subjects' lives. Two days ago they brought a noble knight Into the castle, bloody and quite dead, And when I cried, my Hubert whispered "Hush, 'Tis for the king." Hubert is now at sea-- Mayhap this moment dies--and for the king. And 'twas last night I heard Sir Roland say "We'll hold the castle till each man is down," All for the king. And now _you_ fight for him. I hate the king! _Hen._ O, do not say that. _Gla._ Why? _Hen._ Because he loves you. _Gla._ He has never seen me. You're merry, boy. _Hen._ But good kings love their subjects Before they know them. _Gla._ O! Is Henry good? _Hen._ He prays to be so. _Gla._ Let him pray, lest he Grow old in evil like his father, John. Who is your father, Henry? _Hen._ He is dead. _Gla._ Ah! But you have a mother. _Hen._ Far away, And one who loves me little. _Gla._ Now I'll sigh No more for parents, since I know that they May die, or prove unkind. I have no kin. But Hubert loves me. _Hen._ Lady----