_Wynne._ Then, sire, farewell. Some men are fashioned men by circumstance-- Shaped by what wind blows on them. In their veins The heavens croak or sing. Does the sky frown, They're muddy and befouled,--it smiles, and straight Fair weather's in their blood, sporting its flag In their new countenance. Not I, my lords! Nay, on the winds my soul shall leave its shape, And where I venture I am what I am, A knight of England, loyal to his king. [_Exit_] _Alb._ Death to his arrogance! _Pem._ This judgment, sire, Is much too modest. _Win._ Hear us now, my liege, For you have heard too little these months past. _Hen._ My lords, I am too faint and troubled now To understand if you be friends or foes, Or if the earl of Kent be false to me; But come, and what you choose to speak, I'll hear. ... Glaia, art gone from me? Ah, who would live? The winds of doom are sold by Lapland witches, Who mix the compass points and blow us foul When we have paid our fortune to go fair. [_Exeunt Henry and lords. Lady Albemarle and Margaret are left alone_] _Mar._ Why do you keep me so? _La. Alb._ Where would you go? _Mar._ Where else but to my lord? _La. Alb._ You shall not go. O, stay with me! One moment, Margaret! _Mar._ Another? Nay, you're better. I must go. O, Eleanor, didst hear that Winchester? Foul murderer of honor--Hubert's honor! Can these be tongues of men?... And Roland banished! _La. Alb._ Canst think of him? _Mar._ He's Hubert's friend. Who now Will stand by him? _La. Alb._ You, Margaret, and I. _Mar._ Yes--let me go! _La. Alb._ What will you say to him? _Mar._ Beg him not let his bitter thoughts usurp Quite all his heart, but leave a little room That e'er so small will make me ample heaven. _La. Alb._ You will not ask of Glaia? _Mar._ Ask? Dost think That I must ask? _La. Alb._ He will not tell thee! _Mar._ Not? I am his heart. His veins run not with health Except as I know how they course, and beat Concordantly. Doubt not he'll tell me all. _La. Alb._ He shall not tell thee! _Mar._ Madam, you are strange. _La. Alb._ Ay, Margaret, and strangest to myself. O, he is true! Dear God, I know he's true! _Mar._ Make it no question then. For by the sun, And heaven's starry clock that now goes by, You shall not say he's false to Margaret! _La. Alb._ To you? Ha! false to you? Dost think my thoughts Must ever web round you? _Mar._ [_Going_] You are his sister. _La. Alb._ What, are you gone? Forgive me, Margaret. _Mar._ Ah, you forget that I am suffering too.