_Alb._ O sovereign merciful, we ask no more Than thus to prove us true. _Hen._ Now let this day Be given as we intended, to His praise Whose eye doth search the closet of the dark As freely as the dayplains of the sun, And reads the minds of men where kings must trust. [_Curtain_] LORDS AND LOVERS PART II _CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY_ HENRY III, _King of England_ EARL OF KENT EARL OF ALBEMARLE EARL OF PEMBROKE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY BISHOP OF WINCHESTER LORD WYNNE COUNT DE ROUILLET, _attending Adelais_ STEPHEN GODFREY, _a soldier_ ORSON, _a servant to Glaia_ ADELAIS, _a princess of France_ MARGARET, _wife of Kent_ ELEANOR, _wife of Albemarle_ GLAIA, _ward of Kent_ ELDRA, _servant to Glaia_ _Lords and ladies of the court_, _barons_, _prelates_, _guards_, _attendants_, _&c._ TIME: _13th Century_ SCENE: _England_ ACT I SCENE 1. _Autumn in Greenot woods near Glaia's cottage. Table, seats, mugs and ale. Enter Eldra with a plate of cakes._ _Eld._ [_Putting plate on table_] It's the very day and hour he'll be coming, and he's not the man to count leaves by the roadside. He likes my cookin', as I've had proof, and he looks so cunnin' at me lately I could swear he was fallin' in love all over again. And I'm picking up my looks, I must say. Ay, there's nothin' like a soft tongue for keepin' a woman young. I feel 'most like a lassie, though he did say some words at first that made my heart sore, not knowing me after ten years away. And he's that handsome yet,--since he's shaved off the beard that got so between us I didn't know my own good man that married me in Dummerlie kirk on as sweet a Sunday morn as you ever see, and the priest in a new frock from Wappington, as the housekeeper told me herself--La, I forgot my lady! [_Runs out. Stephen steps from behind a shrub_] _Ste._ So, mistress, you've known me all the time, have you? And me playin' the fool courtin' my own wife that was ready to jump into my arms at the drop o' a hat! But I'll play you a game, my lady! [_Re-enter Eldra_] _Eld._ O, Mr. Stephen! _Ste._ Ho, Madam Prune-face! A sweet mornin', now ain't it, but a bit briskish as suits the season. _Eld._ Prune-face! By my lady's glass, I've not a wrinkle yet as big as the hair on a bat's wing! Plague take the eyes o' him that says it as shouldn't! _Ste._ Well, well, I meant no harm, but mickle it takes to pinch a bruise. I brought a message to your lady from Sir Roland---- _Eld._ Sir Roland? He's a lord now---- _Ste._ Ay, 'tween the king and Hubert they've made him a lord. _Eld._ _Hubert!_ You mean his grace, the earl of Kent?