Chapter II: Part 2

MACDARA. Could there be a royaller coming, Sighle?... Once I wanted life. You and I to be together in one place always: that is what I wanted. But now I see that we shall be together for a little time only; that I have to do a hard, sweet thing, and that I must do it alone. And because I love you I would not have it different.... I wanted to have your kiss on my lips, Sighle, as well as my mother’s and Colm’s. But I will deny myself that. (_Sighle is crying._) Don’t cry, child. Stay near my mother while she lives--it may be for a little while of years. You poor women suffer so much pain, so much sorrow, and yet you do not die until long after your strong, young sons and lovers have died.

_Maire’s voice is heard from the room, crying_: MacDara!

MACDARA. She is calling me.

_He goes into the room; Sighle cries on her knees by the fire. After a
little while voices are heard outside, the latch is lifted, and
Maoilsheachlainn comes in._

SIGHLE. Is he gone, master?

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Gone out the road with ten or fifteen of the young lads. Is MacDara within still?

SIGHLE. He was here in the kitchen a while. His mother called him and he went back to her.

_Maoilsheachlainn goes over and sits down near the fire._

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I think, maybe, that Colm did what was right. We are too old to be at the head of work like this. Was MacDara talking to you about the trouble?

SIGHLE. He said that he would have to do a hard, sweet thing, and that he would have to do it alone.

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I’m sorry but I called him before Colm went out.

_A murmur is heard as of a crowd of men talking as they come up the
hill._

SIGHLE. What is that noise like voices?

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. It is the boys coming up the hillside. There was a great crowd gathering below at the cross.

_The voices swell loud outside the door. Cuimin Eanna, Diarmaid, and
some others come in._

DIARMAID. The men say we did wrong to let Colm go out with that little handful. They say we should all have marched.

CUIMIN. And I say Colm was wrong to go before he got his orders. Are we all to go out and get shot down because one man is hotheaded? Where is the plan that was to come from Galway?

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Men, I’m blaming myself for not saying the thing I’m going to say before we let Colm go. We talk about getting word from Galway. What would you say, neighbours, if the man that will give the word is under the roof of this house.

CUIMIN. Who is it you mean?

MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_going to the door of the room and throwing it open_). Let you rise out, MacDara, and reveal yourself to the men that are waiting for your word.

ONE OF THE NEWCOMERS. Has MacDara come home?

_MacDara comes out of the room: Maire ni Fhiannachta stands behind him
in the doorway._

DIARMAID (_starting up from where he has been sitting_). That is the man that stood among the people in the fair of Uachtar Ard! (_He goes up to MacDara and kisses his hand._) I could not get near you yesterday, MacDara, with the crowds that were round you. What was on me that didn’t know you? Sure, I had a right to know that sad, proud head. Maire ni Fhiannachta, men and women yet unborn will bless the pains of your first childing.

_Maire ni Fhiannachta comes forward slowly and takes her son’s hand
and kisses it._

MAIRE (_in a low voice_). Soft hand that played at my breast, strong hand that will fall heavy on the Gall, brave hand that will break the yoke! Men of this mountain, my son MacDara is the Singer that has quickened the dead years and all the quiet dust! Let the horsemen that sleep in Aileach rise up and follow him into the war! Weave your winding-sheets, women, for there will be many a noble corpse to be waked before the new moon!

_Each comes forward and kisses his hand._

MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Let you speak, MacDara, and tell us is it time.

MACDARA. Where is Colm?

DIARMAID. Gone out the road to fight the Gall, himself and fifteen.

MACDARA. Has not Colm spoken by his deed already?

CUIMIN. You are our leader.

MACDARA. Your leader is the man that spoke first. Give me a pike and I will follow Colm. Why did you let him go out with fifteen men only? You are fourscore on the mountain.

DIARMAID. We thought it a foolish thing for fourscore to go into battle against four thousand, or, maybe, forty thousand.

MACDARA. And so it is a foolish thing. Do you want us to be wise?

CUIMIN. This is strange talk.

MACDARA. I will talk to you more strangely yet. It is for your own souls’ sakes I would have had the fourscore go, and not for Colm’s sake, or for the battle’s sake, for the battle is won whether you go or not.

_A cry is heard outside. One rushes in terror-stricken._

THE NEWCOMER. Young Colm has fallen at the Glen foot.

MACDARA. The fifteen were too many. Old men, you did not do your work well enough. You should have kept all back but one. One man can free a people as one Man redeemed the world. I will take no pike, I will go into the battle with bare hands. I will stand up before the Gall as Christ hung naked before men on the tree!

_He moves through them, pulling off his clothes as he goes. As he
reaches the threshold a great shout goes up from the people. He passes
out and the shout dies slowly away. The other men follow him slowly.
Maire ni Fhiannachta sits down at the fire, where Sighle still
crouches._

THE CURTAIN DESCENDS.

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THE KING

A MORALITY

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CHARACTERS

GIOLLA NA NAOMH (“_the Servant of the Saints_”), _a Little Boy_ BOYS AN ABBOT MONKS A KING HEROES GILLIES WOMEN

_PLACE_--_An ancient monastery_

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THE KING

_A green before the monastery. The voices of monks are heard chanting.
Through the chanting breaks the sound of a trumpet. A little boy runs
out from the monastery and stands on the green looking in the
direction whence the trumpet has spoken._

THE BOY. Conall, Diarmaid, Giolla na Naomh!

_The voices of other boys answer him._

FIRST BOY. There is a host marching from the North.

SECOND BOY. Where is it?

FIRST BOY. See it beneath you in the glen.

THIRD BOY. It is the King’s host.

FOURTH BOY. The King is going to battle.

_The trumpet speaks again, nearer. The boys go upon the rampart of the
monastery. The murmur of a marching host is heard._

FIRST BOY. I see the horses and the riders.

SECOND BOY. I see the swords and the spears.

FOURTH BOY. I see the standards and the banners.

THIRD BOY. I see the King’s banner.

FOURTH BOY. I see the King!

FIRST BOY. Which of them is the King?

FOURTH BOY. The tall comely man on the black horse.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Let us salute the King.

THE BOYS (_with the voice of one_). Take victory in battle and slaying, O King!

_The voices of warriors are heard acclaiming the King as the host
marches past with din of weapons and music of trumpet and pipes.
Silence succeeds._

FIRST BOY. I would like to be a King.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Why?

FIRST BOY. The King has gold and silver.

SECOND BOY. He has noble jewels in his jewel-house.

THIRD BOY. He has slender steeds and gallant hounds.

FOURTH BOY. He has a keen-edged, gold-hilted sword and a mighty-shafted, blue-headed spear and a glorious red-emblazoned shield. I saw him once in my father’s house.

FIRST BOY. What was he like?

FOURTH BOY. He was tall and noble. He was strong and broad-shouldered. He had long fair hair. He had a comely proud face. He had two piercing grey eyes. A white vest of satin next his skin. A very beautiful red tunic, with a white hood, upon his body. A royal mantle of purple about him. Seven colours upon him, between vest and tunic and hood and mantle. A silver brooch upon his breast. A kingly diadem upon his head, and the colour of gold upon it. Two great wings rising above his head, as white as the two wings of a sea-gull and as broad as the two wings of an eagle. He was a gallant man.

SECOND BOY. And what was the look of his face?

THIRD BOY. Did he look angry, stern?

FOURTH BOY. He did, at times.

FIRST BOY. Had he a laughing look?

FOURTH BOY. He laughed only once.

SECOND BOY. How did he look mostly? Stern or laughing?

FOURTH BOY. He looked sorrowful. When he was talking to the kings and the heroes he had an angry and a laughing look every second while, but when he was silent he was sorrowful.

FIRST BOY. What sorrow can he have?

FOURTH BOY. I do not know. The thousands he has slain, perhaps.

SECOND BOY. The churches he has plundered.

THIRD BOY. The battles he has lost.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Alas, the poor King!

SECOND BOY. You would not like to be a King, Giolla na Naomh?

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I would not. I would rather be a monk that I might pray for the King.

FOURTH BOY. I may have the kingship of this country when I am a man, for my father is of the royal blood.

SECOND BOY. And my father is of the royal blood, too.

THIRD BOY. Aye, and mine.

FOURTH BOY. I will not let the kingdom go with either of you. It is mine!

SECOND BOY. It is not, but mine.

THIRD BOY. It matters not whose it is, for _I_ will have it!

SECOND BOY. No, nor anyone of your house!

FOURTH BOY (_seizing a switch of sally and brandishing it_). I will ply the venom of my sword upon you! I will defend my kingdom against my enemies! Giolla na Naomh, pray for the King!

_A bell sounds from the monastery._

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. The bell is ringing.

_The people of the monastery come upon the green in ones and twos, the
Abbot last. The boys gather a little apart. Distant sounds of battle
are heard._

THE ABBOT. My children, the King is giving battle to his foes.

FIRST MONK. This King has lost every battle into which he has gone up to this.

THE ABBOT. In a vision that I saw last night as I knelt before my God it was revealed to me that the battle will be broken on the King again.

SECOND MONK. My grief!

THIRD MONK. My grief!

FIRST MONK. Tell us, Father, the cause of these unnumbered defeats.

THE ABBOT. Do you think that an offering will be accepted from polluted hands? This King has shed the blood of the innocent. He has made spoils and forays. He has oppressed the poor. He has forsaken the friendship of God and made friends with evil-doers.

FIRST MONK. That is true. Yet it is a good fight that the King fights now, for he gives battle for his people.

THE ABBOT. It is an angel that should be sent to pour out the wine and to break the bread of this sacrifice. Not by an unholy King should the noble wine that is in the veins of good heroes be spilt; not at the behest of a guilty king should fair bodies be mangled. I say to you that the offering will not be accepted.

FIRST MONK. And are all guilty of the sins of the King? If the King is defeated it’s grief will be for all. Why must all suffer for the sins of the King? On the King the eric!

THE ABBOT. The nation is guilty of the sins of its princes. I say to you that this nation shall not be freed until it chooses for itself a righteous King.

SECOND MONK. Where shall a righteous King be found?

THE ABBOT. I do not know, unless he be found among these little boys.

_The boys have drawn near and are gathered about the Abbot._

FIRST MONK. And shall the people be in bondage until these little lads are fit for battle? It is not the King’s case I pity, but the case of the people. I heard women mourning last night. Shall women be mourning in this land till doom?

THIRD MONK. As I went out from the monastery yesterday there was a dead man on the verge of the wood. Battle is terrible.

SECOND MONK. No, battle is glorious! While we were singing our None but now, Father, I heard, through the psalmody of the brethren, the voice of a trumpet. My heart leaped, and I would fain have risen from the place where I was and gone after that gallant music. I should not have cared though it were to my death I went.

THE ABBOT. That is the voice of a young man. The old wait for death, but the young go to meet it. If into this quiet place, where monks chant and children play, there were to come from yonder battlefield a bloodstained man, calling upon all to follow him into the battle-press, there is none here that would not rise and follow him, but I myself and the old brother that rings our bell. There is none of you, young brothers, no, nor any of these little lads, that would not rise from me and go into the battle. That music of the fighters makes drunk the hearts of young men.

SECOND MONK. It is good for young men to be made drunk.

FIRST MONK. Brother, you speak wickedness.

THE ABBOT. There is a heady ale which all young men should drink, for he who has not been made drunk with it has not lived. It is with that ale that God makes drunk the hearts of the saints. I would not forbid you your intoxication, O young men!

FIRST MONK. This is not plain, Father.

THE ABBOT. Do you think if that terrible, beautiful voice for which young men strain their ears were to speak from yon place where the fighters are, and the horses, and the music, that I would stay you, did ye rise to obey it? Do you think I would grudge any of you? Do you think I would grudge the dearest of these little boys, to death calling with that terrible, beautiful voice? I would let you all go, though I and the old brother should be very lonely here.

SECOND BOY. Giolla na Naomh would not go, Father.

THE ABBOT. Why do you say that?

SECOND BOY. He said that he would rather be a monk.

THE ABBOT. Would you not go into the battle, Giolla na Naomh?

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I would. I would go as a gilly to the King, that I might serve him when all would forsake him.

THE ABBOT. But it is to the saints you are gilly, Giolla na Naomh, and not to the King.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. It were not much for the poor King to have one little gilly that would not forsake him when the battle would be broken on him and all forsaking him.

THE ABBOT. This child is right. While we think of glory he thinks of service.

_An outcry as of grief and dismay is heard from the battlefield._

FIRST MONK. I fear me that the King is beaten!

THE ABBOT. Go upon the rampart and tell us what you see.

FIRST MONK (_having gone upon the rampart_). A man comes towards us in flight.

SECOND MONK. What manner of man is he?

FIRST MONK. A bloodstained man, all spent, his feet staggering and stumbling under him.

SECOND MONK. Is he a man of the King’s people?

FIRST MONK. He is. _A soldier comes upon the green all spent._

THE SOLDIER. The King is beaten!

THE MONKS. My sorrow, my sorrow!

THE SOLDIER. The King is beaten, I say to you! O ye of the books and the bells, small was your help to us in the hard battle! The King is beaten!

THE ABBOT. Where is the King?

THE SOLDIER. He is flying.

THE ABBOT. Give us the description of the battle.

THE SOLDIER. I cannot speak. Let a drink be given to me.

THE ABBOT. Let a drink be given to this man.

_The little boy who is called Giolla na Naomh gives him a drink of
water._

THE ABBOT. Speak to us now and give us the description of the battle.

THE SOLDIER. Each man of us was a fighter of ten. The King was a fighter of a hundred. But what availed us our valour? We were beaten and we fled. Hundreds lie sole to sole on the lea.

THE MONKS. My sorrow! My sorrow! _A din grows._

SECOND MONK. Who comes?

FIRST MONK. The King!

_Riders and gillies come upon the green pell-mell, the King in their
midst. The King goes upon his knees before the Abbot, and throws his
sword upon the ground._

THE KING. Give me your curse, O man of God, and let me go to my death! I am beaten. My people are beaten. Ten battles have I fought against my foes, and every battle of them has been broken on me. It is I who have brought God’s wrath upon this land. Ask your God not to wreak his anger on my people henceforth, but to wreak it on me. Have pity on my people, O man of God!

THE ABBOT. God will have pity on them.

THE KING. God has forsaken me.

THE ABBOT. You have forsaken God.

THE KING. God has forsaken my people.

THE ABBOT. He has not, neither will He. He will save this nation if it choose a righteous King.

THE KING. Give it then a righteous King. Give it one of your monks or one of these little lads to be its King. The battle on your protection, O man of God!

THE ABBOT. Not so, but on the protection of the sword of a righteous King. Speak to me, my children, and tell me who among you is the most righteous?

FIRST MONK. I have sinned.

SECOND MONK. And I.

THIRD MONK. Father, we have all sinned.

THE ABBOT. I, too, have sinned. All that are men have sinned. How soon we exchange the wisdom of children for the folly of men! O wise children, busy with your toys while we are busy with our sins! I see clearly now. I shall find a sinless King among these little boys. Speak to me, boys, and tell me who is most innocent among you?

THE BOYS (_with one voice_). Giolla na Naomh.

THE ABBOT. The little lad that waits upon all! Ye are right. The last shall be first. Giolla na Naomh, will you be King over this nation?

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I am too young, Father, I am too weak.

THE ABBOT. Come hither to me, child. (_The child goes over to him._) O fosterling that I have nourished, if I ask this thing of you, will you not do it?

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I will be obedient to you, Father.

THE ABBOT. Will you turn your face into the battle?

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I will do the duty of a King.

THE ABBOT. Little one, it may be that your death will come of it.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Welcome is death if it be appointed to me.

THE ABBOT. Did I not say that the young seek death? They are spendthrift of all that we hoard jealously; they pursue all that we shun. The terrible, beautiful voice has spoken to this child. O herald death, you shall be answered! I will not grudge you my fosterling.

THE KING. Abbot, I will fight my own battles: no child shall die for me!

THE ABBOT. You have given me your sword, and I give it to this child. God has spoken through the voice of His ancient herald, the terrible, beautiful voice that comes out of the heart of battles.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Let me do this little thing, King. I will guard your banner well. I will bring you back your sword after the battle. I am only your little gilly, who watches while the tired King sleeps. I will sleep to-night while you shall watch.

THE KING. My pity, my three pities!

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. We slept last night while you were marching through the dark country. Poor King, your marchings have been long. My march will be very short.

THE ABBOT. Let this gentle asking prevail with you, King. I say to you that God has spoken.

THE KING. I do not understand your God.

THE ABBOT. Who understands Him? He demands not understanding, but obedience. This child is obedient, and because he is obedient, God will do mighty things through him. King, you must yield to this.

THE KING. I yield, I yield! Woe is me that I did not fall in yonder onset!

THE ABBOT. Let this child be stripped that the raiment of a King may be put about him. (_The child is stripped of his clothing._) Let a royal vest be put next the skin of the child. (_A royal vest is put upon him._) Let a royal tunic be put about him. (_A royal tunic is put about him above the vest, and sandals upon his feet._) Let the royal mantle be put about him. (_The King takes off the royal mantle and it is put upon the child._) Let a royal diadem be put upon his head. (_The King takes off the royal diadem and it is put upon the child’s head._) Let him be given the shield of the King. (_The shieldbearer holds up the shield._) A blessing on this shield! May it be firm against foes!

THE HEROES. A blessing on this shield!

_The shield is put on the child’s left arm._

THE ABBOT. Let him be given the spear of the King. (_The spearbearer comes forward and holds up the spear._) A blessing on this spear! May it be sharp against foes!

THE HEROES. A blessing on this spear!

THE ABBOT. Let him be given the sword of the King. (_The King lifts his sword and girds it round the child’s waist. Giolla na Naomh draws the sword and holds it in his right hand._) A blessing on this sword! May it be hard to smite foes!

THE HEROES. A blessing on this sword!

THE ABBOT. I call this little lad King, and I put the battle under his protection in the name of God.

THE KING (_kneeling before the boy_). I do homage to thee, O King, and I put the battle under thy protection.

THE HEROES, MONKS, BOYS, etc. (_kneeling_). We do homage to thee, O King, and we put the battle under thy protection.

GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I undertake to sustain the battle in the name of God.

THE ABBOT. Let a steed be brought him. (_A steed is brought._) Let the banner of the King be unfurled. (_The banner is unfurled._) Turn thy face to the battle, O King!

GIOLLA NA NAOMH (_kneeling_). Bless me, Father.

THE ABBOT. A blessing on thee, little one.

THE HEROES, etc. (_with one voice_). Take victory in battle and slaying, O King.

_The little King mounts, and, with the heroes and soldiers and
gillies, rides to the battle. The Abbot, the King, the Monks, and the
Boys watch them._

THE ABBOT. King, I have given you the noblest jewel that was in my house. I loved yonder child.

THE KING. Priest, I have never received from my tributary kings a kinglier gift.

FIRST MONK. They have reached the place of battle.

THE ABBOT. O strong God, make strong the hand of this child. Make firm his foot. Make keen his sword. Let the purity of his heart and the humbleness of his spirit be unto him a magnifying of courage and an exaltation of mind. Ye angels that fought the ancient battles, ye veterans of God, make a battle-pen about him and fight before him with flaming swords.

THE MONKS AND BOYS. Amen, Amen.

THE ABBOT. O God, save this nation by the sword of the sinless boy.

THE KING. And O Christ, that was crucified on the hill, bring the child safe from the perilous battle.

THE ABBOT. King, King, freedom is not purchased but with a great price. (_A trumpet speaks._) Let the description of the battle be given us.

_The First Monk and the Second Monk go upon the rampart._

FIRST MONK. The two hosts are face to face. _Another trumpet speaks._

SECOND MONK. That is sweet! It is the trumpet of the King! _Shouts._

FIRST MONK. The King’s host raises shouts. _Other shouts._

SECOND MONK. The enemy answers them.

FIRST MONK. The hosts advance against each other.

SECOND MONK. They fight.

FIRST MONK. Our people are yielding.

THIRD MONK. Say not so.

SECOND MONK. My grief, they are yielding. _A trumpet speaks._

THIRD MONK. Sweet again! It is timely spoken, O trumpet of the King!

FIRST MONK. The King’s banner is going into the battle!

SECOND MONK. I see the little King!

THIRD MONK. Is he going into the battle?

FIRST MONK. Yes.

THE MONKS AND BOYS (_with one voice_). Take victory in battle and slaying, O King!

SECOND MONK. It is a good fight now.

FIRST MONK. Two seas have met on the plain.

SECOND MONK. Two raging seas!

FIRST MONK. One sea rolls back.

SECOND MONK. It is the enemy that retreats!

FIRST MONK. The little King goes through them.

SECOND MONK. He goes through them like a hawk through small birds.

FIRST MONK. Yea, like a wolf through a flock of sheep on a plain.

SECOND MONK. Like a torrent through a mountain gap.

FIRST MONK. It is a road of rout before him.

SECOND MONK. There are great uproars in the battle. It is a roaring path down which the King rides.

FIRST MONK. O golden head above the slaughter! O shining, terrible sword of the King!

SECOND MONK. The enemy flies!

FIRST MONK. They are beaten! They are beaten! It is a red road of rout! Raise shouts of exultation!

SECOND MONK. My grief!

FIRST MONK. My grief! My grief!

THE ABBOT. What is that?

FIRST MONK. The little King is down!

THE ABBOT. Has he the victory?

FIRST MONK. Yes, but he himself is down. I do not see his golden head. I do not see his shining sword. My grief! They raise his body from the plain.

THE ABBOT. Is the enemy flying?

SECOND MONK. Yes, they fly. They are pursued. They are scattered. They are scattered as a mist would be scattered. They are no longer seen on the plain.

THE ABBOT. It’s thanks to God! (_Keening is heard._) Thou hast been answered, O terrible voice! Old herald, my foster child has answered!

THIRD MONK. They bear hither a dead child.

THE KING. He said that he would sleep to-night and that I should watch.

_Heroes come upon the green bearing the body of Giolla na Naomh on a
bier; there are women keening it. The bier is laid in the centre of
the green._

THE KING. He has brought me back my sword. He has guarded my banner well.

THE ABBOT (_lifting the sword from the bier_). Take the sword.

THE KING. No, I will let him keep it. A King should sleep with a sword. This was a very valiant King. (_He takes the sword from the Abbot and lays it again upon the bier. He kneels._) I do homage to thee, O dead King, O victorious child! I kiss thee, O white body, since it is thy purity that hath redeemed my people. (_He kisses the forehead of Giolla na Naomh. They commence to keen again._)

THE ABBOT. Do not keen this child, for he hath purchased freedom for his people. Let shouts of exultation be raised and let a canticle be sung in praise of God.

_The body is borne into the monastery with a Te Deum._

THE SCENE CLOSES.

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THE MASTER

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CHARACTERS

CIARAN, _the Master_
PUPILS:
IOLLANN BEAG
ART
BREASAL
MAINE
RONAN
CEALLACH
DAIRE, _the King_
MESSENGER
THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

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THE MASTER

_A little cloister in a woodland. The subdued sunlight of a forest
place comes through the arches. On the left, one arch gives a longer
vista where the forest opens and the sun shines upon a far hill. In
the centre of the cloister two or three steps lead to an inner place,
as it were a little chapel or cell._

_Art, Breasal, and Maine are busy with a game of jackstones about the
steps. They play silently._

_Ronan enters from the left._

RONAN. Where is the Master?

ART. He has not left his cell yet.

RONAN. He is late. Who is with him, Art?

ART. I was with him till a while ago. When he had finished his thanksgiving he told me he had one other little prayer to say which he could not leave over. He said it was for a soul that was in danger. I left him on his knees and came out into the sunshine.

MAINE. Aye, you knew that Breasal and I were here with the jackstones.

BREASAL. I served his Mass yesterday, and he stayed praying so long after it that I fell asleep. I did not stir till he laid his hand upon my shoulder. Then I started up and said I, “Is that you, little mother?” He laughed and said he, “No, Breasal, it’s no one so good as your mother.”

RONAN. He is merry and gentle this while back, although he prays and fasts longer than he used to. Little Iollann says he tells him the merriest stories.

BREASAL. He is fond of little Iollann.

MAINE. Aye; when Iollann is late, or when he is inattentive, the Master pretends not to notice it.

BREASAL. Well, Iollann is only a little lad.

MAINE. He is more like a little maid, with his fair cheek that reddens when the Master speaks to him.

ART. Faith, you wouldn’t call him a little maid when you’d see him strip to swim a river.

RONAN. Or when you’d see him spring up to meet the ball in a hurley match.

MAINE. He has, certainly, many accomplishments.

BREASAL. He has a high, manly heart.

MAINE. He has a beautiful white body, and, therefore, you all love him; aye, the Master and all. We have no woman here and so we make love to our little Iollann.

RONAN (_laughing_). Why, I thrashed him ere-yesterday for putting magories down my neck!

MAINE. Men sometimes thrash their women, Ronan. It is one of the ways of loving.

ART. Maine, you have been listening to some satirist making satires. There was once a Maine that was called Maine Honey-mouth. You will be called Maine Bitter-Tongue.

MAINE. Well, I’ve won this game of jackstones. Will you play another?

CEALLACH (_enters hastily_). Lads, do you know what I have seen?

ART. What is it, Ceallach?

CEALLACH. A host of horsemen riding through the dark of the wood. A grim host, with spears.

MAINE. The King goes hunting.

CEALLACH. My grief for the noble deer that the King hunts!

BREASAL. What deer is that?

CEALLACH. Our Master, Ciaran.

RONAN. I heard one of the captains say that the cell was to be surrounded.

ART. But why does the King come against Ciaran?

CEALLACH. It is the Druids that have incited him. They say that Ciaran is overturning the ancient law of the people.

MAINE. The King has ordered him to leave the country.

BREASAL. Aye, there was a King’s Messenger here the other day who spoke long to the Master.

ART. It is since then that the Master has been praying so long every day.

RONAN. Is he afraid that the King will kill him?

ART. No, it is for a soul that is in danger that he prays. Is it the King’s soul that is in danger?

MAINE. Hush, the Master is coming.

CIARAN (_comes out from the inner place; the pupils rise_). Are all here?

BREASAL. Iollann Beag has not come yet.

CIARAN. Not yet?

CEALLACH. Master, the King’s horsemen are in the wood.

CIARAN. I hope no evil has chanced to little Iollann.

MAINE. What evil could chance to him?

CEALLACH. Master, the King is seeking you in the wood.

CIARAN. Does he not know where my cell is?

BREASAL. The King has been stirred up against you, Master, rise and fly before the horsemen surround the cell.

CIARAN. No, if the King seeks me he will find me here.... I wish little Iollann were come. (_The voice of Iollann Beag is heard singing. All listen._) That is his voice.

ART. He always comes singing.

MAINE. Aye, he sings profane songs in the very church porch.

RONAN. Which is as bad as if one were to play with jackstones on the church steps.

CIARAN. I am glad little Iollann has come safe.

_Iollann Beag comes into the cloister singing._

IOLLANN BEAG (_sings_).

We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away,
With an óró and an iero and an úmbó éró.

ART. Hush, Iollann. You are in God’s place.

IOLLANN BEAG. Does God not like music? Why then did he make the finches and the chafers?

MAINE. Your song is profane.

IOLLANN BEAG. I didn’t know.

CIARAN. Nay, Maine, no song is profane unless there be profanity in the heart. But why do you come so late, Iollann Beag?

IOLLANN BEAG. There was a high oak tree that I had never climbed. I went up to its top, and swung myself to the top of the next tree. I saw the tops of all the trees like the green waves of the sea.

CIARAN. Little truant!

IOLLANN BEAG. I am sorry, Master.

CIARAN. Nay, I am not vext with you. But you must not climb tall trees again at lesson time. We have been waiting for you. Let us begin our lesson, lads. _He sits down._

CEALLACH. Dear Master, I ask you to fly from this place ere the King’s horsemen close you in.

CIARAN. My boy, you must not tempt me. He is a sorry champion who forsakes his place of battle. This is my place of battle. You would not have me do a coward thing?

ART. But the King has many horsemen. It is not cowardly for one to fly before a host.

CIARAN. Has not the high God captains and legions? What are the King’s horsemen to the heavenly riders?

CEALLACH. O my dear Master!--

RONAN. Let be, Ceallach. You cannot move him.

CIARAN. Of what were we to speak to-day?

_They have sat down around him._

ART. You said you would speak of the friends of Our Lord.

CIARAN. Aye, I would speak of friendship and kindly fellowship. Is it not a sad thing that every good fellowship is broken up? No league that is made among men has more than its while, its little, little while. Even that little league of twelve in Galilee was broken full soon. The shepherd was struck and the sheep of the flock scattered. The hardest thing Our dear Lord had to bear was the scattering of His friends.

IOLLANN BEAG. Were none faithful to Him?

CIARAN. One man only and a few women.

IOLLANN BEAG. Who was the man?

CEALLACH. I know! It was John, the disciple that He loved.

CIARAN. Aye, John of the Bosom they call him, for he was Iosa’s bosom friend. Can you tell me the names of any others of His friends?

ART. There was James, his brother.

RONAN. There was Lazarus, for whom He wept.

BREASAL. There was Mary, the poor woman that loved Him.

MAINE. There was her sister Martha, who busied herself to make Him comfortable; and the other Mary.

CEALLACH. Mary and Martha; but that other Mary is only a name.

CIARAN. Nay, she was the mother of the sons of Zebedee. She stands for all lowly, hidden women, all the nameless women of the world who are just the mothers of their children. And so we name her one of the three great Marys, with poor Mary that sinned, and with Mary of the Sorrows, the greatest of the Marys. What other friends can you tell me of?

IOLLANN BEAG. There was John the Baptist, His little playmate.

CIARAN. That is well said. Those two Johns were good comrades to Iosa.

RONAN. There was Thomas.

CIARAN. Poor, doubting Thomas. I am glad you did not leave him out.

MAINE. There was Judas who betrayed Him.

ART. There was Peter who--

IOLLANN BEAG. Aye, good Peter of the Sword!

CIARAN. Nay, Iollann, it is Paul that carries a sword.

IOLLANN BEAG. Peter should have a sword, too. I will not have him cheated of his sword! It was a good blow he struck!

BREASAL. Yet the Lord rebuked him for it.

IOLLANN BEAG. The Lord did wrong to rebuke him. He was always down on Peter.

CIARAN. Peter was fiery, and the Lord was very gentle.

IOLLANN BEAG. But when He wanted a rock to build His church on He had to go to Peter. No John of the Bosom then, but the old swordsman. Paul must yield his sword to Peter. I do not like that Paul.

CIARAN. Paul said many hard things and many dark things. When you understand him, Iollann, you will like him.

MAINE. Let him not arrogate a sword merely because his head was cut off, and Iollann will tolerate him.

CIARAN. Who has brought me a poem to-day? You were to bring me poems of Christ’s friends.

BREASAL. I have made a Song for Mary Magdalene. Shall I say it to you?

CIARAN. Do, Breasal.

BREASAL (_chants_).

O woman of the gleaming hair
(Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee),
Weary thou turnest from the common stare,
For the _shuiler_ Christ is calling thee.

O woman, of the snowy side,
Many a lover hath lain with thee,
Yet left thee sad at the morning tide;
But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee.

O woman with the wild thing’s heart,
Old sin hath set a snare for thee;
In the forest ways forspent thou art,
But the hunter Christ shall pity thee.

O woman spendthrift of thyself,
Spendthrift of all the love in thee,
Sold unto sin for little pelf,
The captain Christ shall ransom thee.

O woman that no lover’s kiss
(Tho’ many a kiss was given thee)
Could slake thy love, is it not for this
The hero Christ shall die for thee?

CIARAN. That is a good song, Breasal. What you have said is true, that love is a very great thing. I do not think faith will be denied to him that loves.... Iollann was to make me a song to-day, too.

IOLLANN BEAG. I have made only a little rann. I couldn’t think of rhymes for a big song.

CIARAN. What do you call your rann?

IOLLANN BEAG. It is the Rann of the Little Playmate. It is a rann that John the Baptist made when he was on the way to Iosa’s house one day.

CIARAN. Sing it to us, Iollann.

IOLLANN (_sings_):

Young Iosa plays with me every day
(_With an óró and an iero_)
Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay
(_With an óró and an iero._)

We race in the river with otters gray,
We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play,
We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away,
(_With an óró and an iero and an imbó éro_).

_A knocking is heard._

CIARAN. Run and open the postern, Iollann.

CEALLACH. Master, this may be the King’s people.

CIARAN. If it be, Iollann will let them in.

_Iollann Beag goes to the door._

CEALLACH. Why have good men such pride?

_A King’s Messenger appears upon the threshold. Iollann Beag holds the
curtain of the door while the Messenger speaks._

THE MESSENGER. Who in this house is Ciaran?

CIARAN. I am Ciaran.

THE MESSENGER. I bring you greeting from the King.

CIARAN. Take back to him my greeting.

THE MESSENGER. The King has come to make the hunting of this wood.

CIARAN. It is the King’s privilege to hunt the woods of the cantred.

THE MESSENGER. Not far from here is a green glade of the forest in which the King with his nobles and good men, his gillies and his runners, has sat down to meat.

CIARAN. May it be a merry sitting for them.

THE MESSENGER. It has seemed to the King an unroyal thing to taste of the cheer of this greenwood while he is at enmity with you; for he has remembered the old saying that friendship is more welcome at meat than ale or music. Therefore, he has sent me to say to you that he has put all enmity out of his heart, and that in token thereof he invites you to share his forest feast, such as it is, you and your pupils.

CIARAN. The King is kind. I would like well to come to him, but my rule forbids me to leave this house.

THE MESSENGER. The King will take badly any refusal. It is not usual to refuse a King’s invitation.

CIARAN. When I came to this place, after journeying many long roads of land and sea, I said to myself: “I will abide here henceforth, this shall be the sod of my death.” And I made a vow to live in this little cloister alone, or with a few pupils, I who had been restless and a wanderer, and a seeker after difficult things; the King will not grudge me the loneliness of my cloister.

THE MESSENGER. I will say all this to the King. These lads will come with me?

CIARAN. Will ye go to the King’s feast, lads?

BREASAL. May we go, Master.

CIARAN. I will not gainsay you.

MAINE. It will be a great thing to sit at the King’s table.

CEALLACH. Master, it may turn aside the King’s displeasure for your not going if we go in your name. We may, perchance, bring the King here, and peace will be bound between you.

CIARAN. May God be near you in the places to which you go.

CEALLACH. I am loath to leave you alone, Master.

CIARAN. Little Iollann will stay with me. Will you not, little Iollann.

_Iollann Beag looks yearningly towards the Messenger and the others as
if he would fain go; then he turns to Ciaran._

IOLLANN BEAG. I will.

CIARAN (_caressing him_). That is my good little lad.

ART. We will bring you back some of the King’s mead, Iollann.

IOLLANN BEAG. Bring me some of his apples and his hazel-nuts.

RONAN. We will, and, maybe, a roast capon, or a piece of venison.

_They all go out laughing. Ceallach turns back in the door._

CEALLACH. Good-bye, Master.

CIARAN. May you go safe, lad. (_To Iollann_). You are my whole school now, Iollann.

IOLLANN (_sitting down at his knee_). Do you think the King will come here?

CIARAN. Yes, I think he will come.

IOLLANN. I would like to see him. Is he a great, tall man?

CIARAN. I have not seen him for a long time; not since he and I were lads.

IOLLANN. Were you friends?

CIARAN. We were fostered together.

IOLLANN. Is he a wicked King?

CIARAN. No; he has ruled this country well. His people love him. They have gone into many perilous places with him, and he has never failed them.

IOLLANN. Why then does he hate you? Why do Ceallach and the others fear that he may do you harm?

CIARAN. For twenty years Daire and I have stood over against each other. When we were at school we were rivals for the first place. I was first in all manly games; Daire was first in learning. Everyone said “Ciaran will be a great warrior and Daire will be a great poet or a great teacher.” And yet it has not been so. I was nearly as good as he in learning, and he was nearly as good as I in manly feats. I said that I would be his master in all things, and he said that he would be my master. And we strove one against the other.

IOLLANN BEAG. Why did you want to be his master?

CIARAN. I do not know. I thought that I should be happy if I were first and Daire only second. But Daire was always first. I sought out difficult things to do that I might become a better man than he: I went into far countries and won renown among strange peoples, but very little wealth and no happiness; I sailed into seas that no man before me had sailed into, and saw islands that only God and the angels had seen before me; I learned outland tongues and read the books of many peoples and their old lore; and when I came back to my own country I found that Daire was its king, and that all men loved him. Me they had forgotten.

IOLLANN BEAG. Were you sad when you came home and found that you were forgotten?

CIARAN. No, I was glad. I said, “This is a hard thing that I have found to do, to live lonely and unbeloved among my own kin. Daire has not done anything as hard as this.” In one of the cities that I had sailed to I had heard of the true, illustrious God, and of men who had gone out from warm and pleasant houses, and from the kindly faces of neighbours to live in desert places, where God walked alone and terrible; and I said that I would do that hard thing, though I would fain have stayed in my father’s house. And so I came into this wilderness, where I have lived for seven years. For a few years I was alone; then pupils began to come to me. By-and-bye the druids gave out word that I was teaching new things and breaking established custom; and the King has forbade my teaching, and I have not desisted, and so he and I stand opposed as of old.

IOLLANN BEAG. You will win this time, little Master.

CIARAN. I think so; I hope so, dear. (_Aside._) I would I could say “I know so.” This seems to me the hardest thing I have tried to do. Can a soldier fight for a cause of which he is not sure? Can a teacher die for a thing he does not believe?... Forgive me, Lord! It is my weakness that cries out. I believe, I believe; help my unbelief. (_To Iollann Beag._) Why do you think I shall win this time, Iollann,--I who have always lost?

IOLLANN BEAG. Because God’s great angels will fight for you. Will they not?

CIARAN. Yes, I think they will. All that old chivalry stands harnessed in Heaven.

IOLLANN BEAG. Will they not come if you call them?

CIARAN. Yes, they will come. (_Aside._) Is it a true thing I tell this child or do I lie to him? Will they come at my call? Will they come at my call? My spirit reaches out and finds Heaven empty. The great halls stand horseless and riderless. I have called to you, O riders, and I have not heard the thunder of your coming. The multitudinous, many-voiced sea and the green, quiet earth have each its children, but where are the sons of Heaven? Where in all this temple of the world, this dim and wondrous temple, does its God lurk?

IOLLANN BEAG. And would they come if I were to call them--old Peter, and the Baptist John, and Michael and his riders?

CIARAN. We are taught that if one calls them with faith they will come.

IOLLANN BEAG. Could I see them and speak to them?

CIARAN. If it were necessary for any dear purpose of God’s, as to save a soul that were in peril, we are taught that they would come in bodily presence, and that one could see them and speak to them.

IOLLANN BEAG. If the soul of any dear friend of mine be ever in peril I will call upon them. I will say, “Baptist John, Baptist John, attend him. Good Peter of the Sword, strike valiantly. Young Michael, stand near with all the heroes of Heaven!”

CIARAN (_aside_). If the soul of any dear friend of his were in peril! The peril is near! The peril is near!

_A knock at the postern; Iollann Beag looks towards Ciaran._

CIARAN. Run, Iollann, and see who knocks. (_Iollann Beag goes out._) I have looked back over the journey of my life as a man at evening might look back from a hill on the roads he had travelled since morning. I have seen with a great clearness as if I had left this green, dim wood and climbed to the top of that far hill I have seen from me for seven years now, yet never climbed. And I see that all my wayfaring has been in vain. A man may not escape from that which is in himself. A man shall not find his quest unless he kill the dearest thing he has. I thought that I was sacrificing everything, but I have not sacrificed the old pride of my heart. I chose self-abnegation, not out of humility, but out of pride: and God, that terrible hidden God, has punished me by withholding from me His most precious gift of faith. Faith comes to the humble only.... Nay, Lord, I believe: this is but a temptation. Thou, too, wast tempted. Thou, too, wast forsaken. O valiant Christ, give me Thy strength! My need is great. _Iollann Beag returns._

IOLLANN BEAG. There is a warrior at the door, Master, that asks a shelter. He says he has lost his way in the wood.

CIARAN. Bid him to come in, Iollann. (_Iollann Beag goes to the door again._) I, too, have lost my way. I am like one that has trodden intricate forest paths that have crossed and recrossed and never led him to any homestead; or like a mariner that has voyaged on a shoreless sea yearning for a glimpse of green earth, yet never descrying it. If I could find some little place to rest, if I could but lie still at last after so much wayfaring, after such clamour of loud-voiced winds, methinks that would be to find God; for is not God quiet, is not God peace? But always I go on with a cry as of baying winds or of vociferous hounds about me.... They say the King hunts me to-day: but the King is not so terrible a hunter as the desires and the doubts of a man’s heart. The King I can meet unafraid, but who is not afraid of himself? (_Daire enters, wrapped in a long mantle, and stands a little within the threshold: Iollann Beag behind him. Ciaran looks fixedly at him; then speaks._) You have hunted well to-day, O Daire!

DAIRE. I am famed as a hunter.

CIARAN. When I was a young man I said, “I will strive with the great untamed elements, with the ancient, illimitable sea and the anarchic winds;” you, in the manner of Kings, have warred with timid, furtive creatures, and it has taught you only cruelty and craft.

DAIRE. What has your warfare taught you? I do not find you changed, Ciaran. Your old pride but speaks a new language.... I am, as you remind me, only a King; but I have been a good King. Have you been a good teacher?

CIARAN. My pupils must answer.

DAIRE. Where are your pupils?

CIARAN. True; they are not here.

DAIRE. They are at an ale-feast in my tent.... (_Coming nearer to Ciaran._) I have not come to taunt you, Ciaran. Nor should you taunt me. You seem to me to have spent your life pursuing shadows that fled before you; yea, pursuing ghosts over wide spaces and through the devious places of the world: and I pity you for the noble manhood you have wasted. I seem to you to have spent my life busy with the little, vulgar tasks and the little, vulgar pleasures of a King: and you pity me because I have not adventured, because I have not been tried, because I have not suffered as you have. It should be sufficient triumph for each of us that each pities the other.

CIARAN. You speak gently, Daire; and you speak wisely. You were always wise. And yet, methinks, you are wrong. There is a deeper antagonism between you and me than you are aware of. It is not merely that the little things about you, the little, foolish, mean, discordant things of a man’s life, have satisfied you, and that I have been discontent, seeking things remote and holy and perilous--

DAIRE. Ghosts, ghosts!

CIARAN. Nay, they alone are real; or, rather, it alone is real. For though its names be many, its substance is one. One man will call it happiness, another will call it beauty, a third will call it holiness, a fourth will call it rest. I have sought it under all its names.

DAIRE. What is it that you have sought?