Act I - Page 2

all the more the man.' And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell.

HERBERT: God make not thee, but thy foes, fall.

BECKET: I fell. Why fall? Why did He smite me? What? Shall I fall off--to please the King once more? Not fight--tho' somehow traitor to the King-- My truest and mine utmost for the Church?

HERBERT: Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be; For how have fought thine utmost for the Church, Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick? And how been made Archbishop hadst thou told him, 'I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church, Against the King?'

BECKET: But dost thou think the King Forced mine election?

HERBERT: I do think the King Was potent in the election, and why not? Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King? Be comforted. Thou art the man--be thou A mightier Anselm.

BECKET: I do believe thee, then. I am the man. And yet I seem appall'd--on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King. I served our Theobald well when I was with him; I served King Henry well as Chancellor; I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. This Canterbury is only less than Rome, And all my doubts I fling from me like dust, Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind, And all the puissance of the warrior, And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, And all the heap'd experiences of life, I cast upon the side of Canterbury-- Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro' The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms, And goodly acres--we will make her whole; Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, These ancient Royal customs--they are Royal, Not of the Church--and let them be anathema, And all that speak for them anathema.

HERBERT: Thomas, thou art moved too much.

BECKET: O Herbert, here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief To show the scar for ever--his, a hate Not ever to be heal'd.

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Enter ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, flying from SIR REGINALD FITZURSE: Drops her veil.

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BECKET: Rosamund de Clifford!

ROSAMUND: Save me, father, hide me--they follow me--and I must not be known.

BECKET: Pass in with Herbert there.

[Exeunt ROSAMUND and HERBERT by side door.

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Enter FITZURSE:

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FITZURSE: The Archbishop!

BECKET: Ay! what wouldst thou, Reginald?

FITZURSE: Why--why, my lord, I follow'd--follow'd one--

BECKET: And then what follows? Let me follow thee.

FITZURSE: It much imports me I should know her name.

BECKET: What her?

FITZURSE: The woman that I follow'd hither.

BECKET: Perhaps it may import her all as much not to be known.

FITZURSE: