Why? Am I to be
murdered to-night?
[_Knocking at the door_.
ATTENDANT.
Here is a missive left at the gate by one from the castle.
BECKET.
Cornwall's hand or Leicester's: they write marvellously alike.
[_Reading_.
'Fly at once to France, to King Louis of France: there be those about
our King who would have thy blood.' Was not my lord of Leicester
bidden to our supper?
ATTENDANT.
Ay, my lord, and divers other earls and barons. But the hour is past,
and our brother, Master Cook, he makes moan that all be a-getting
cold.
BECKET.
And I make my moan along with him. Cold after warm, winter after
summer, and the golden leaves, these earls and barons, that clung to
me, frosted off me by the first cold frown of the King. Cold, but look
how the table steams, like a heathen altar; nay, like the altar at
Jerusalem. Shall God's good gifts be wasted? None of them here! Call
in the poor from the streets, and let them feast.
HERBERT.
That is the parable of our blessed Lord.
BECKET.
And why should not the parable of our blessed Lord be acted again?
Call in the poor! The Church is ever at variance with the kings, and
ever at one with the poor.
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