Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse;
Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him
For thy life and thy son's.
ROSAMUND (_rising_).
I am a Clifford,
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet.
I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee
One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he
Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I
Would bow to such a baseness as would make me
Most worthy of it: both of us will die,
And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven,
And shriek to all the saints among the stars:
'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England!
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor,
Whose doings are a horror to the east,
A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle--nay,
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father--
Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen--
Strike!
I challenge thee to meet me before God.
Answer me there.
ELEANOR (_raising the dagger_).
This in thy bosom, fool,
And after in thy bastard's!
_Enter_ BECKET _from behind. Catches hold of her arm_.
BECKET.
Murderess!
[_The dagger falls; they stare at one another.
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