_Hen._ This is a fitting room for Death's cold jest; So proudly hung, and filled with comfort's chattels, As though its owner hoped long respite from A clayey bed. Where is the tenant, father? _Friar._ She'll enter presently,--ah, even now. [_Henry puts on cowl. Enter lady Albemarle, bearing a small box which she holds to her bosom_] _La. Alb._ Father, hast brought the holy man? The saint Whose prayer may save the soul already damned. _Fr._ Good daughter---- _La. Alb._ Ha! Good devil! That were better! He's here? Well, send him back. I've changed my mind. I will not see him,--no, nor you! _Fr._ Farewell. _La. Alb._ Nay, do not go! Wouldst leave a soul in hell For humor of the tongue? [_Friar returns to her_] My soul? Pah, sir! You think a priest can save it? I want not Your prayers, but your good service to set right A wrong. Don't mumble over me! I speak Because I'm dying. Had I hope to live, Then right might shift for itself. And you call this Repentance! Pah! Who can keep mum when death Turns the last screw? You know the earl of Kent? My brother? _Fr._ Yes, my daughter. _La. Alb._ I know that Will make his peace with Henry--foolish king! I must go back to tell you--years and years. [_Turns away as if musing_] _Fr._ Speak, lady, in God's name. _La. Alb._ I'll tell you all. But I'll not kneel. I've lived too much on knees. ... See? Albemarle! He has as many bodies As he has wishes to keep spy on me. ... He's gone, and did not speak. He never speaks, But there's a sort of beast sits in his heart That growls and I do hear it. _Fr._ Peace, good lady. _La. Alb._ Ah, good again. Foul, foul and villainous! Come here, thou holy man. To you I'll speak. Dost think that ever I was beautiful, And these long locks once bound a king to me? _Hen._ A king? _La. Alb._ Ay, royal John. A king indeed! Angel to me though devil to the world. None loved him but his Eleanor,--none, none! The rest were mistresses unto his throne. I gave my heart, he took me up to his. Ah, father, do you think that is my sin? That is my joy, my glory, my one pride. I'll ne'er repent it until I repent That e'er I smiled or felt myself alive. Repent? Nay, father, not till I believe That marble women are more dear to God Than we whose hearts are warm with the same love That beat in His when worlds leapt from His joy. Come back, O golden summer, when there dwelt Two happy beings in a magic wood, Treading not earth but soft enchantment's air, Until the beast came! There, do you not see him? Away, black Albemarle! O, mercy, Heaven! ... Then there was Glaia, bud of our true love---- _Hen._ Glaia!