Page:Czecho-Slovak Student Life, Volume 18.djvu/294

the Crusade;—but, by the standard of St. George, Sir Thomas, were such a knight to plant the banner of the Cross on the Temple while I was unable to bear my share of the noble task, he should, as soon as I was fit to lay lance in rest, undergo my challenge to mortal combat for having diminished my fame.—Ah! I am weak; my limbs grow weary.—Come, Blondel, my king of minstrels, give us a song.

BLON.: My voice is ever at the service of my royal patron. But, my liege, the hour grows late, and your grace is exhausted.

RICH.: Not a whit, man, not a whit. Come, music and a song.

DE VAUX: Nay, nay, your majesty! Indeed you must not waste precious hours of sleep in lying awake listening to a wandering minstrel’s idle songs.

RICH.: Thou art a mule, Sir Thomas, a very mule for dullness and obstinacy.—Come Blondel, a song I say.

DE VAUX: Very well, my lord, if it please you to list to silly songs, I for my part have more list to my bed than to have my ears tickled.

RICH.: Thy ears tickled! That must be with a peacock’s feather, and not with sweet sounds. Hark thee, Thomas, do thine ears know the singing of Blondel from the braying of an ass?

DE VAUX: In faith, my liege, I cannot well say; but setting Blondel aside, who is a born gentleman, I shall never, for the sake of your grace’s question, look on a minstrel, but I shall think of an ass.

RICH.: And might not your manners have excepted me, who am gentleman born as well as Blondel, and like him, a guild-brother of the Joyous Science?

DE VAUX: Your grace should remember that it is useless asking for manners from a mule.

RICH.: What an ill-conditioned animal art thou, Thomas.

DE VAUX: Your grace is pleased to call me a brute, forgetting that I serve the Lion who is acknowledged the King of brutes.

RICH.: By St. George, there thou breakest thy lance freely upon my brow. I have always said that thou hast a sort of wit, De Vaux—narry one must strike with a sledge-hammer to make it sparkle.—Well then, farewell and goodnight, master-mule, and get thee to thy litter without any music being wasted on thee. (Exit De Vaux, Blondel singing.)

Scene 3. (Before the Grotto of Engaddi. Enter Kenneth.)

KEN.: (Off stage.) There, my noble steed; rest thy weary limbs; thy master will do likewise.—Confound those Saracen hounds. Here a good Christian knight near rides his worthy steed to death thru these burning sands, and wherefore?—to hear the sallow-faced and black-hearted Moslems declare they will have none of our peace. “Jerusalem,” says this precious dog of a Soldan, “is our city.” Out on the misbeliever! Well, if he will not have our peace, why we’ll let him have the edge of our swords. One good Christian knight is worth an army of these unbaptized villains.—Well, Sir Kenneth, thou bearest the Cross upon thy right shoulder; thou hast taken many a step from thy native hills of Scotland to these desert sands; and it will go hard with thee, if thou dost not, for every step thou hast taken, send one yelping Paynim to his father, the devil.—What ho! By my soul, here comes one of these lemon-colored misbelieving cut-throat rascals.—Art thou friend or foe? (Stands at guard. Enter Adonbec, with drawn sword and charges him. Kenneth strikes the scimitar from the Saracen’s grip.)

ADON.: (Approaching Kenneth with right arm upraised.) Sir Knight, thou art brave, I see. But since there is peace between thy people and my nation, why should there be war between thee and me?

KEN.: ’Tis well thou hast bethought thee of this in time, ere I had sent thy worthless soul to keep company with thy false prophet. Yet if it pleas-