Within and Without

door in my own fence,
And that is well. If I step carefully,
Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.
What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think!
Oh, I see! it is mine⁠—he has wounded me.
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 Go begging love; that should be free as light, Cleaving unto myself even for myself. I have enough to brood on, joy to turn Over and over in my secret heart:⁠— She lives, and is the better that I live!
	Reenter Nurse.
Nurse	My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; She’s in a dreadful fever. We must send To Arli for the doctor, else her life Will be in danger.
Julian	Rising disturbed. Go and fetch your daughter. Between you, take her to my room, yours now. I’ll see her there. I think you can together!
Nurse	O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! Nurse goes.
Julian	I ought to know the way to treat a fever, If it be one of twenty. Hers has come Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. I’ve seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!

Scene IX

The Abbot’s room in the monastery. The Abbot.

Abbot	’Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
	Enter Stephen.
	Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told You said to-day, if I commissioned you, You’d scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
Stephen	I did, my lord.
Abbot	How would you do it, Stephen?
Stephen	Try one plan till it failed; then try another; Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. I have no plan; but, give me time and money, I’ll find him out.
Abbot	Stephen, you’re just the man I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.

Scene X

Towards morning. The Nurse’s room. Lilia in bed. Julian watching.

Julian	I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! My heart is beating as if it would spend Its life in this one night, and beat it out. And well it may, for there is more of life In one such moment than in many years! Pure life is measured by intensity, Not by the how much of the crawling clock. Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across The window-blind? or is it but a band Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed Upon the other?⁠—’Tis the moon herself, Low in the west. ’Twas such a moon as this⁠—
Lilia	Half-asleep, wildly. If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!⁠— Julian! Julian! Half-rising.
Julian	Forgetting his caution, and going up to her. I am here, my Lilia. Put your head down, my love. ’Twas all a dream, A terrible dream. Gone now⁠—is it not? She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks