Lewis. No! no! My noble sister? What? my Lords! If her love move you not, her wisdom may. She knows a deeper statecraft, Sirs, than you: She will not throw away the substance, Abbot, To save the accident; waste living souls To keep, or hope to keep, the means of life. Our wisdom and our swords may fill our coffers, But will they breed us men, my Lords, or mothers? God blesses in the camp a noble rashness: Then why not in the storehouse? He that lends To Him, need never fear to lose his venture. Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell my castles? Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wartburg. Their worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage, And foreign foes may pay untimely visits. C. Wal. And home foes, too; if these philosophers Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, The scythes will be among our horses' legs Before next harvest. Lewis. Fear not for our welfare: We have a guardian here, well skilled to keep Peace for our seneschal, while angels, stooping To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence, Will sain us from the roaming adversary With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords. Eliz. Nay,--I must pray your knighthoods--You must honour Our dais and bower as private guests to-day. Thanks for your gentle warning; may my weakness To such a sin be never tempted more! [Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis.] C. Wal. Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, is it paid over and above with beef and ale? Weep not, tender-hearted Count! Though 'generous hearts,' my Lord, 'and ladies' tenderness, too oft forget'--Truly spoken! Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern coals of fire on Count Hugo's head? C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where? C. Wal. Nay, I speak mystically,--there is nought there but what beer will quench before nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit [to a Page at the door], out of your burrow, and show these gentles to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. [They go out.] C. Wal [alone]. Well:--if Hugo is a brute, he at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; he wears his tushes outside, for a warning to all men. But for the rest!--Whited sepulchres! and not one of them but has half persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save me from your small pedant,--your closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it will carry him. In experience, a child: in obstinacy, a woman: in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping: instead of God's grace, a few schoolboy saws about benevolence, and industry, and independence--there is his metal. If the world will be mended on his principles, well. If not, poor world!--but principles must be carried out, though through blood and famine: for truly, man was made for theories, not theories for man. A doctrine is these men's God--touch but that shrine, and lo! your simpering philanthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. [Exit.] SCENE IX