The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1. George MacDonald
That's awkward now.
[Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window.]
Pardon me, dear lady;
[Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm.]
'Tis not to save my blood I would defile
Even your handkerchief.
[Coming towards the door, carrying her.]
I am pleased to think
Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.
[Looking out of the window on the landing.]
For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.
[He goes down the stair]
SCENE VIII.—A room in the castle. JULIAN and the Nurse
Julian.
Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
You have put your charge to bed?
Nurse.
Yes, my dear lord.
Julian.
And has she spoken yet?
Nurse.
After you left,
Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,
And her eyes wandered over all my face,
Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
As feeble as a child.
Julian.
Under your care
She'll soon be well again. Let no one know
She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.
Nurse.
Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.
Julian.
That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.
Nurse.
Leave?
Julian.
Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
Over the earth and sea. She must not know
I have been here. You must contrive to keep
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
When she is well and wishes to be gone,
Then write to this address—but under cover
[Writing.]
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.
Nurse.
How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?
Julian.
I have thought of that. There's a deserted room
In the old west wing, at the further end
Of the oak gallery.
Nurse.
Not deserted quite.
I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.
Julian.
You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
I found a sliding panel, and a door
Into a room behind. I'll show it you.
You'll find some musty traces of me yet,
When you go in. Now take her to your room,
But get the other ready. Light a fire,
And keep it burning well for several days.
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
Take everything to make it comfortable;
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
Then put her there. I'll let her father know
She is in safety.—I must change attire,
And be far off or ever morning break.
[Nurse goes.]
My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—
But not with even a heavenly gift would I