CHAPTER SIXTEEN - A Murderous Madam, Scenes One and Two

Scene 1

"Thou art unwell," Elswyth said – to her rightful sir, who at the moment played with her hair - much like the waves in Norway of yore.

"Nonsense, madam – I feel so good when you talk to me (your voice like the one of Israfel), and your heart-strings are a flute!" said the sire, his gaze acute.

At that, the madam looked and frowned at the young man whose head was crowned with curls of ebony glory, and said – said she;

"I say, my sire – ye are thinking far too much of me! (with a maidenly blush of the cheeks, at that statement – and the previous one, also.)

'How'er, thank ye – ye noticed not – of my sunken cheeks, of my used tricks – ah!"

At that the young sire stood up and glared, and said, said – "I fret of you, my dear madam – what tricks doth you use on me?"

"Nothin', sire, o-oh, my king! – just assume, I beg you, sire, that my words are a wretched, wasted                                                                                                             thing!" gasped out Elswyth and silently slid in behind the man.

(There, where the window blew in breathes the young woman let herself seethe as she drew out a dagger from its sheath from under the skirts of her Roman dress and ran she a hand through her brown tresses.)

"No, pain hath – shan't be endured, and ye won't my space intrude – no more – no yore! – no Eleanore!"

"You talk of things that I understand not, and – my petty madam – I shan't, I won't!" but now – these words came to be the last ones fought...

Because, now came the dagger upon the youth, and be told the truth... the word fresh upon his lips – the one he screamed out before he died – was, unmistakably, "Eleanore!"

Scene 2

(Gaze upon the father of the killed sire. West Tower, North Wing of the Palace Hall, The First of the Triplets).

"My dear son, all by 'imself... in the land of the dead, with my deceased wife..." (weeps)

(Enter Elswyth)

"Ah, weep not my lord! Ye weep none, for thee shalth feel tired... mething ye're wasting too much of ye time!"

"Thee art a woman of sorts...! For one, I expected thy tears to be streaming down thy face... if thee darest come..."

"Darest? I hath come - true, hath you no respect for me?"

"Thee art a week creature... 'ether thee like it or not! (scoffs) I hath no respect for you? Ha, hee, ho... ho, indeed! But, if thee darest cry... of my son... hee..!"

"Why pause you, lord..?"

"...Methink thee sorry darest be!" (bitterly)

"Me? I shalth send on fury... from the waves of lore... 'Lo! ...Unto you..." (crossly)

"Me? - I hath a kingdom, and thee hath fury! And not of regret..."

(Exit Derek)

(Els throws inkstand at Derek's head, he collapses...)

(Exit Elswyth)