Re-enter Edmund.
Edmund. Turn not away.Your hands late held my book. Take now the handThat wrote the book.May. Are you a ghost, a ghoul,A vampire, come to plague me for my sinIn killing him with scorn whose form you bear?I beg no mercy, for the doom is just.But no; you are an angel; it must be:No spirit foul could harbour in your shade:And you have come to tell me I'm forgiven.Edmund. I'm neither ghost, nor ghoul, nor angel, May:I am your lover in carnation true,A bodiment much better than of yore,Edmund, with health restored and joy complete,Since it is crowned with what he never hoped,The freely-given diadem of your love.May. I think you surely are the devil, sir.This acting is too good: you're like him too.Edmund. Him!—whom?—the devil?May. O, no! Earl Edmund.—Love, I know you now.[He offers to embrace her.No, sir; I will go to the grave unkissed by any man, if I do not find thetrue Earl Edmund. I think I must begin and search for him. I wait andwait, and time is all that comes and goes. When I think that on every hourI bestow a treasure of hope, and that some day I may have entertained somany hours as to have spent all my fortune in that kind; and when Iremember that all this expense may be waste, for my love may be in heaven;and when I think that if he be alive every hour removes my memory furtherfrom him; that he may love another, that he may be married, then I clingto the skirts of every parting hour, and sigh at the knell that tolls itsdeparture and the advent of the next.—But let us act again.—O yes, I know you, Edmund, and I love you.But can you then forgive me for my scorn?Edmund. Forgive—forgive? There's nothing to forgive.May. O, I was very foolish, very young!I did not know how great a thing love is:That woman's love is like the spacious sea,And man's love like the mirroring of the sky.O, I knew nothing! Yet, I should have known.Now, I know all; your book has been my school,My manual, my cyclopaedia:It tells me of the all in all of love,And teaches that its soul cannot be told,That action is its highest eloquence.Edmund. The silence of your lips, my gentle love,Is richer, rosier, than the ruddiest gold;The diamonds and the rubies of your speechBecome them well.May. You act too warmly, sir.Edmund. I do not act at all; I am myself.May. Nay, then, I think you are beside yourself.Be moderate, sir.—You uttered only words;And words are breath; and then, a lover's breath!Hot, gasping, poisonous air!Edmund. O no, my May!Love's breath is hot and healthy as the breezeThat floats the summer from the sunny south,With merry crews of nightingales and swallows,As sweet and swift as are the words of love.May. O words and songs and sounds are merely stones,When love is as an empty hungry gulf.Edmund. Ay, but when love is certain of a feast,Then words and songs and sounds are spicy whets.May. Yes, yes; dear love, dear love. Speak on, speak on.Edmund. Say after me what I will say to you,The words that are the sweetest in the world,And are an act when all a soul is in them.You are the cause that makes me whisper them,And, being said, from you claim like effect.If what I say be of such worth to you,As, said by you, 'twill hold in my esteem,Then this will be a changing gold for gold:I love you.May. I love you.Edmund. The only wordsWorth learning, speaking, writing, singing, graving.The middle word, the linking word, the 'love'Is like eternal space; and 'I' and 'you'Mark out a sky and earth, and gather inTime, heaven, and hell.May. O, happiness alone!We hedge about an Eden, I and you.Edmund. Eden, indeed! Adam I envy notHis grand originality; for whenI say to you, 'Sweet May Montgomery,I love you,' I speak words I seem to make.As sweet and strange they are as when first saidBy Adam when he first beheld his Eve.I feel within, about me, and aboveThe freshness of creation. EverythingIs new, and every word a white-hot poem:I am a poet, too, as great as Adam;To speak, as in his time, is to invent.'I,' 'you'—O, these are words new-forged and bright!And herein am I happier than he—I love, not Eve, but May Montgomery.May. O me! I would that I could find my love!You are in love, too, for your speech betrays you.Pray, tell me of your love; I told you mine.Edmund. Not now; the hour is past. Come; we must run.How they will mock us!May. We've been happy, though.[They go out, running.
Enter Clown and Bellona.
Clown. O Amazon, victorious and proud,More dread than is your bow your eyebrows are,Upbending to discharge darts keener farThan fill your quiver or the thunder-cloud.You jest at me, you mock my heartfelt love;You put me off and on even as a glove.O gentle, noble, bitter amazon,I would that you could see into my heart!Bellona. I've seen; it is an empty nut, good clown.Clown. Thenceforward I will play a silent part.
Enter Mary-Jane.
Bellona. What is to be done?Mary-Jane. Herminia is dressing Annie Smith like a bride in satin andlace; and she and Antinous will lead her into the presence of the mad boy,whom we are to have here. As it was our dresses as much as our maturitythat caught his fancy, I have no doubt that, mistaking Annie for a newgoddess, he will fall at her feet with some hyperbolical apostrophe, as hedid at yours.Bellona. A very likely thing. I hope he may not recogniseher.—Clown.Clown. Your will?Bellona. Fetch hither Ringan Deane.Clown. Where is he?Bellona. Find him.[Clown goes out.Mary-Jane. Have you two quarrelled?Bellona. O no! He's a patient, strong man, that clown.Mary-Jane. He's a handsome fellow.Bellona. I have eyes.
Enter Edmund and May Montgomery.
May [aside]. We're not the last: we're safe from mockery.Edmund. Why, where are all the rest, good amazon?Bellona. Why, where's your wondrous plot, good earl?Edmund. Fate knows.Bellona. Fate!—how you startle me! I brooded onceOn destiny, and thus said with myself:I will not do as other women do,Marry a man, and be one couple more;I will not be as other women are,Whom the world praises, and who deem themselvesHappy as earth can make them: I will beUnwomanly, and scorn what women love.Edmund. A new Diana.Bellona. No, a thousand times!Why will you think what may be must have been?My thought——But I'll not tell you; for to tellWould kill it; then I could not give it shape.Always I read of fate and talked of it,Of birth-stars, and our own polarity,And of the orient, iron dooms-day book,Of former lives that we have led, whose deedsDetermine this, of unrelenting life—The ecstasy that with the flowers we share,The crisis that for ever shakes the world;And I would ebb and flow with hope and fear,But mostly breast the adamant with wavesOf seething blood, I curbed, I quelled——How's this?You spoke of fate, and struck a resonant string.Edmund. Then, you're a fatalist.Bellona. I fear I am.Edmund. You speak more truly than you think. Your fearIs just; for brooding souls that talk of fate,And of their helpless, brute plasticityIn mighty, thoughtless hands, bring down the woesThey dread and should defy: the timid bloodIs first to be diseased; and winged deathFalls on the shrinking quarry. Amazon,Face fate and stare it down. Why, this is fate,This only: other slave we cannot haveThan these same hands and feet of circumstance.Master it, master it; or fire and floodAre drowned and scorched like moths and drops of dew!The Arab fisher's jinn; unsealed, diffused,He fills and suffocates the universe;Inurned, a plaything, or a marshalled host.You see, I know the western prophet, too.May. O, let us lie and talk of love and fateHere on the daisies till the night comes down!
Enter Sir James and Lady Montgomery, and Captain Mercer.
Mary-Jane [aside]. My husband! O, what shall I do?Lady M. Alas,She is not here!Mercer. My wife is; that is she.Edmund. You watch us keenly.Sir James. We have reason, sir.Mary-Jane [kneeling before Mercer].Forgive me. Kneel beside me, May; kneel down.[May kneels.Give me your hand, and—kiss me.May. Mother, mother!What is it?Bellona. Now, I think, the play begins.Mary-Jane. They killed my baby; and they gave me her.Look at her, feel her!—could I give her up?Sir—madam!May. Mother, mother!Mary-Jane. Husband!May. Hush,Or you will die.Mercer. Dear love, dear soul, dread nothing.[Raises Mary-Jane.Bellona [aside]. Herminia comes.—Good people, who are caught In thissame net of circumstance, go hence:Pass through these birches, and you'll find a bowerWhose shade will blend more sweetly with your mood,And make serener your enraptured souls.Besides, I am the prompter, or the fateOf one scene more fantastic than you play,Which falls now to be acted here.Sir James. Lady,Your garb does not bespeak your wisdom.Bellona. Sir,Since when had decency sole grant of sense?Edmund. Well said!Sir James. I'll set my wits to yours anon.Is this the way?Bellona. Under the lowest boughs.[Sir James and Lady Montgomery, Mercer,Edmund, Mary-Jane and May go out.
Enter Antinous and Herminia with Annie Smith dressed like a bride.
Bellona. Ah, keep that look, sweet child! The mysteryOf sense and soul! Her eyes are infinite.Herminia, what would not you and I,Maids as we are, and infants yet in law,Surrender thankfully to own againThe dream of innocence?Herminia. My beauty—ay,Half of my beauty for the dewy dawn,The fragrance, and the shadow of heaven, the bloodThat knows not what it would, bathing the thoughtWith odorous tides, the rapture of life, the swoonOf innocence, the infinite longing,The sweet pain, and a pure, brave boy to love me!Antinous, we shall please ourselves with this,And play at being a boy and girl again.Antinous. My love, you are happier in this fantasyThan when you were the thing and knew it not.Herminia. And I believe you.Bellona. Here they come. Sit, child.
Annie Smith sits on a knoll. Herminia and Bellona lie on either side of her. Antinous stands behind.
Enter Clown with Ringan Deane.
Ringan. What deity is this? whose bride? whose queen?Look, how she sits among these earthly maids,A star between two lamps. She looks at meWith eyes like beckoning flames. A kind of nightHovers about her, she so dazzles day.She bends toward me; she stretches out her arms;A tear, a molten tear wells in each eye,And overhangs the lid and slowly falls,Loth to descend these tender wistful heavens.Her lips are open, but her struggling voice,A helpless, still-born sigh, dies in her mouth.I hope I may have strength to speak to her.[He kneels before Annie Smith.Annie. O Ringan—Ringan Deane!Ringan. You know me, then!Annie [embracing him]. O, Ringan, I am Annie—Annie Smith!Bellona. Clown, this is very well. I am so moved;I feel a kindliness to all the world.Clown. And I am of the world.Bellona. Ay, so you are.
Re-enter Sir James, Lady Montgomery, and the others.
Bellona. Well, noble earl? What!—wonders?Edmund. Yes, indeed,Most wonderful.Bellona. Sit, then, and tell us. See,The feast is spread.Edmund. We'll tell you when we sit;But there's a thing to do before we sit.—Ladies and gentlemen, a little wayWe've stepped beyond convention. I proposeA further deviation from the pathBeaten by ages, dusty with the tradeOf thronging use and wont. The Scottish lawPermits us here to marry as we are:Let us be married—are we not all paired?And this same feast shall be our wedding-feast.Do you object, Sir James?Sir James. Why should I, sir?Edmund. Then, May Montgomery, will you know me yet?May. I am in a dream. One mystery at a time.However came you by my proper name?Edmund. That is the strangest accident of all:I was a prophet when I wrote my book.—Sweet May Montgomery, I take you for my wifeIn sight of heaven and you, astonished friends.May. I take you for my husband.Antinous. I take you,Herminia, for my wife.Herminia. And I take you,Antinous, for my husband. [Aside to Ant.] Dear old Jack.Bellona. My name is Mary Jones.Clown. So? Ha! Then I,James Jocelyn, take you to be my wife.Bellona. I love you, and I take you for my husband.Mercer. My dearest wife, you'll be my bride again?Mary-Jane. Surely, my husband.Sir James. This is bravely done!My wife and I bid heaven's blessing on you.Mary-Jane. But where are Annie Smith and Ringan Deane?May. I saw them, like a vision, steal away.
Curtain.
BRUCE: A CHRONICLE PLAY(Glasgow, 1884)
DRAMATIS PERSONSRobert Bruce, Earl of Carrich, afterwards King of Scotland.Edward Bruce.Nigel Bruce.Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews.Walter, the Steward of Scotland.Sir William Wallace.Sir James Douglas.Sir Thomas Randolf.Sir Christopher Seton.Sir John Seton.James Crombe.Kirkpatrick.Comyn, Earl of Badenoch.Comyn, Earl of Buchan.Macduff, Earl of Fife.Sir Robert Comyn.Edward I., King of England.Edward II., King of England.The Earl of Pembroke.Lord Henry Percy.Lord Robert Clifford.Sir Ingram de Umfraville.Sir Giles de Argentine.Sir Peter Mallorie, Justiciary of England.Hugh Beaumont.Isabella, Countess of Carrick, afterwards Queen of Scotland. Isobel,Countess of Buchan.Countess of Badenoch.Lady Douglas.
An Old Man, a Young Friar, a Messenger, a Forester, a Spy.Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Monks, Soldiers, &c.
King Edward I., Earl of Pembroke, Lord Henry Percy,and Lord Robert Clifford.Edward I. Once more, my lords, the rude north claims our care.A faction there is still opposed to peace,Strongly ill-willed to England and to me,Obdurate, set, incorrigibly wroth—A band whose blood is of the liquid flameThat often madly jets in savage veins,When wisdom would bestow some blessed gift,Some pearl which ignorance rejects with scorn,And chafes and frets and sets the world on fire.The Bruce, my lords, has fled the English Court:He goes to Scotland, and his guiding starIs that same beacon of rebellious lightBuilt up by every burning Scottish heart.Astonishment and curiosityShoulder each other in your crowded eyesLike townsmen gazing from a window's heightAt some strange pageantry afoot below;There let them crowd, for wonders are to pass.Were I to ask you, now, if Bruce or ComynHas played the fairer game, you might say this:They cannot be compared—Bruce always with,And Comyn always opposite to me;Yet have they both held by the cause they chose:So there's a parity of constancy.Such answer might be yours. Then I would say,They both are faithless: here I hold the proof.[Exhibits a scroll.This is a deed transferring Bruce's landsTo Comyn, who exchanges for the sameHis claim—it's written so—to Scotland's crown.He promises besides to aid the BruceTo gain the state and name of King of Scots.There are their signatures.Pembroke. By miracle—Or how did this indenture reach your hands?Edward I. John Comyn sent it me. You see—base rogues!—Bruce falseto me, and Comyn false to Bruce.Pembroke. My liege, Bruce hitherto has borne a nameAs bright and glorious as his golden shield,Untarnished by dishonour's rusty breath.This paper may be forged.Edward I. That was my thought;And so I had a copy of it made,And sent to Bruce last night. My messengerAsked, being charged so far, some word from him.He half denied; but compromised, and cravedThree days to answer. So much grace I gave.This is the first day, and last night he fled.Pembroke. A sign of guilt. What will your Highness do?Edward I. With your good counsel, lords, doubtless the best!Percy. To horse, and take the knave alive or dead!Edward I. A speedy finish; but consider this:Comyn and Bruce divide the land of Scots;They now are mortal foes; why need we stirTo fight two cocks who will each other slayBetween the high walls of their Scottish pit?Yet Pembroke, Clifford, and bold Harry PercyBe ready at a word to lead your knightsAcross the border.Percy. Nor can that summons comeToo soon for us.Edward I. I would your willing hasteWere from the proof removed a farther cast:And so were Wallace wise as he is wightIt would be. Twice I offered grace and love,If he would govern Scotland in my name.He thanked me for my grace and for my love,But at my terms he laughed as at a jest.Had he accepted them, I say again,As there is none so fit to rule the Scots,Your willing service had been hardly asked.Percy. Let me say this: had such a league been struckBetween your Highness and the valiant Scot,You might have borne your banners through the world.Pembroke. What specious arguments could Wallace urge?Edward I. O, ask me not! My patience served me illTo hear him out. How can I then rehearseHis saucy reasons, wasting breath and wrath!Within short space you all shall hear himself;A fortnight hence, I think, he will be tried.And now, Lord Clifford, James of Douglas comesTo claim his father's lands, which you possess.Tell me, who knows, what kind of man he is,That we may judge how he will bear himself?Clifford. A man of men, although my mortal foe.I knew him well in Paris ere these broils.Unarmed, a gentle blitheness graced his style:A dainty lisp engaged his auditorsWith tickling pleasure; such a piquant touchWas in the Scottish Hector, as they called him,Tripping with helpless tongue, like rose-lipped girls.But when he armed his body, then his soulWas harnessed in a dress of adamant.In council-halls, o'er ladies' lutes, in war,Brave, courteous, wise, loyal to truth, he was:So is he: Douglas changes but for good.Edward I. You praise him highly. You shall answer him.He comes. Make room.
Enter Sir James Douglas.
We know your errand, sir.Speak, and Clifford here will answer you.Douglas. Lord Clifford will, and must: be sure of that.I also crave King Edward's open ear.Clifford will reckon with me for my land:You, sire, must render an account of blood.Clifford. Clifford has yet to learn why Douglas dareSpeak such a swift defiance.Edward I. [turning his back to Douglas]. Answer himOn this wise, my good lord:—Your father, sir,A faithless felon, died a prisonerIn Edward's dungeon; and his forfeit landsReverted to the crown. It pleased the kingTo make me lord of Douglasdale. Go, then,Buy land where'er you may, I keep my own.He has his answer, follow me, my lords.[Edward I., Pembroke, Clifford, and Percy go out.Douglas. There's justice in the heavens if not in kings!He might have listened. It is very plainKing Edward means to play the tyrant now.Yet tyrants can be courteous. Insolent!To toss an answer o'er his shoulder at me,Whetting with crude affront, the pointed "No,"As one would check a cringeing beggar's plea.One way is left, a flinty, narrow way,The rebel's way, the way I still have shunned:And yet it seems a broad, green, garden-walk,Since I elect to be a traveller there.Now though it be as hopeless as to stemThe Solway's tide, or toss the deep-based BassFrom Forth to France, with all my strength I'll fightAgainst this tyrannous usurping king.How strange that I should find rebellion's stormThe happy haven where my troubles end!But so it is: my cares are blown away;Light-hearted vigour is my lot once more;And trampled conscience, like the heath released,Springs up, and breathes sweet scent of approbation.[Goes out.
Enter Bruce and Comyn of Badenoch.
Comyn. I thought you were in London, cousin mine.Bruce. And still would have me there, or anywhere,But by your side.Comyn. Why is your tongue so harsh,Your eye so big, your face so dimmed with ire?Bruce. Why falter you? Why has your colour fled?Why, but because my tongue still speaks its thought;Because my face wears not the darker showOf death's grimace upon a spear's long neck,Grotesquely ornamenting London Bridge;Because my limbs are not the bait of crows,The gazing-stock of crowds in Scotland's towns;Because I live and am at liberty:These are the reasons why you tremble now.Comyn. Not so; it is because I think you mad:These monstrous breathings are insanity:You shake with passion, hissing out your words.I fear you; and I will have witnessesOr no more conference.[Going.Bruce [seizing his arm]. With honest menGod is sufficient witness. Are you true?You know my ground of wrath as well as I.Comyn. Your words are like your brow, darker than night.Bruce. Be this the sun that shall illumine them.[Exhibits a scroll.Sun, said I! rather inky light of hell,Whereby you may behold your treachery.I see it's true what I have heard of men,Who, knowing right, pursue a wrongful course:Custom uprears athwart the source of shameA fragile dam; but when another marksThe waves that beat behind, they swell and burstThe sandy sea-wall of hypocrisy,Like a packed gulf delivered by the moon.That flood is in your face: you blush like fire.Comyn. I blush to be accused of this great wrong.Bruce. Comyn, you lie. Look, see, the very wordsOf that compact, which we with aching heartsDrew up and signed and swore in Stirling town.Have you forgotten how we wept hot tearsCondoling over Scotland's misery?Its fertile plains, that richer were than gold,Burnt up with fire, salted with tears and blood;Its cots and palaces confounded lowIn stony litters that the soil reclaims;Its wealthy towns and pleasant places sacked;Its people?—Ah! we could not sound our griefFor wives made widows; husbands, left alone;And children, blighted by too early barenessOf parents' comfortable snowy wisdom:Death and destruction feasting everywhere.We found ourselves to blame; therefore we wept,Repenting of our jealousy and strife.This pact united us in sacred bondsFor ever to oppose the English rule.We prayed that our conjunction, like two starsMeeting auspiciously for Scotland's weal,Might yield its war-worn people prosperous peace;And o'er the border cast calamitiesOf such deserved and overwhelming woe,That England never more should be inclined,Nor have the power to wage a conquering war.We then embraced, and you with trembling breathThanked God that Bruce and Comyn now were friends.Two copies of our compact we endorsed.Here is a third that's neither yours nor mine:King Edward sent it me; whence had he it?Comyn. Unless King Edward sent it back to you,You having given it him, I cannot tell.Bruce. God keep my hands from blood! O soulless wretch!Obtuse, unthinking liar! Could I noteThe shape of good that dances in your brainTo be matured for service by denial,Perhaps that might extenuate your lie.But knowing nothing save your treachery,And hardened daring of a damning fact,Relentless hate expels all dreams of loveThat harboured once toward you within my heart.Comyn. If, then, your rage is for the present spent,A few plain words may hope for audience.What proof have you that Edward had this writThrough me or mine? Impartial sense would blame,Not me, who ever have been Scotland's friend,And foremost in opposing Edward's power,But you, the truckling lord, inheritingAnd practising your father's policy,Which was to follow at the Longshanks' heel,And fawn for smiles, and wait his Highness' whimTo pay the lacqueying with a dirty crown.Bruce. This idle mockery becomes you well.Did any doubt remain of your dark sin,The hunting out a mote within my eyeTo poise the beam that does disfigure yours,Would make me sure.Comyn. What legal proof, I say?Bruce. The laws of God, honour and loyaltyCondemn you traitor to their interests.I judge you guilty, for I know right wellKing Edward never had this scroll from me,And no one else could give it him but you.Your heart condemns you, though you brave it thus.Comyn. And yet I say again, I swear by Heaven,I never saw that paper till to-day.Bruce. Talk not of seeing!—Come to the altar here.[They advance to the altar.Now lay your hand upon the traitorous sheet,Call God to witness that you speak the truth,And swear once more you have not broken faith.Beneath your feet the dust of true men rests,Your ancestors and mine; this lofty roof,These consecrated walls and columns highAre wont to hear the sounds of sacred song,The gospel of the holy Christ of God;This is God's house; this altar is God's throne.Now, can you swear? You will not do it, sure.Comyn. And what shall hinder me while I have breath?Without my instigation or connivanceOur compact reached the King. If God's in heaven,And I speak false, may I this moment die.Bruce [stabbing Comyn, who falls].God is in heaven, and my hand wields his wrath! . . . .What have I done? A madman's dreadful deed!I was engulfed, and now I'm cast ashore.O, in our passionless, reflective hoursWe lock emotion in a glass-walled jailOf crisp philosophy; or give it scopeAs far as prudence may enlarge its steps!But to some sense a small distraction comes—Across the sight a butterfly, a flower—The fetters snap, the prison crumbles—off!—To clasp the air where shone our will-o-wisp!For no gewgaw have I burst reason's bonds,But to avenge a gross iniquityThat clamoured brazenly to heaven and earth.O, it was human!—It was devilish!Here on the altar—O, the sacrilege!That man of my own blood, whom I adjured,By every holy thing, to speak no wrong,I do wrong, slaying. O, heinous sacrilege!—Perhaps he is not dead. Comyn, look up;Speak; make some sign. Alas! that fatal blowWas aimed too surely at my cousin's heart!I used God's name too when I struck him dead!O horrid blasphemy! The sacrilege![Going.
Enter Kirkpatrick.
Kirkpatrick. My Lord!Bruce. I fear I have slain Comyn.[Goes out.Kirkpatrick. Ha!You fear!—Then I'll make sure. He opes his eyes.Comyn. False—foolish—dying—guilty—perjured—lost![Dies.Kirkpatrick [stabbing Comyn].Something to staunch your muttering. No fear, now.
Enter Sir Robert Comyn with his sword drawn.
Robert Comyn. Stop villain! Hold your hand, rash murderer!Kirkpatrick. I only gave a grace-thrust to your nephewTo end his agony. Put up your sword.He died a good death on the altar-steps.Robert Comyn. Kirkpatrick, you have aided in a deed,Unseconded, even in these fearful times.Kirkpatrick. Strong words and stiffly spoken. Does your swordKeep pace with your sharp tongue?Robert Comyn. We'll try.Kirkpatrick. Come on![They fight, and Robert Comyn falls.Robert Comyn. Is this the day of judgment for our house?Kinsman, I was your follower on earth,And now I am your henchman through death's vale.[Dies.
Enter Edward Bruce, Sir Christopher and Sir John Seton, and other gentlemen.
Sir Christopher Seton.Two Comyns dead! Bruce only spoke of one.Kirkpatrick. I slew the other. He would have me fight.Sir John Seton. Alas! and could it be no other way?There was enough dissension in the realmWithout a feud between these families,Highest in state and strongest in the field.1st Gentleman. Comyn is dead, and Bruce has laid him low.The dead may slay the living. What say you?2nd Gentleman. I say so too. The stroke that Comyn killedMay yet recoil upon his murderer.Edward Bruce. Judge not, my friends. A murder has been doneWith outward signs of most unrighteous wrath.But think who did the deed—the noblest Scot,The knightliest chevalier, the kindliest friend,The prince of brothers. I, who know, say this.The very horror and the sacrilegeThat frame the crime with dreader circumstance,Cry out the doer was insane the while,And recommend him to your lenience.Therefore, take warning; and before you judgeLet your bloods cool, lest you be guilty tooOf foolish rashness in your condemnation.My brother left a message for you all:He asks you who are friends to visit himto-morrow at Lochmaben; where he meansTo lay the matter of his crime before you,And take your counsel on the consequence.1st Gentleman. It's fair we should withhold our judgment, sirs,Until we be possessed of this event,The cause and manner of its happening.[Shouting within.
Enter Nigel Bruce.
Nigel Bruce. The people buzz and clamour to be led.The news of Comyn's death has made them mad;If blood were wine, and they had drunk of itTo fulness, they could not be more matureFor any mischief that the time suggests.Edward Bruce. Good mischief, if the English suffer it.I'll be their captain. Caesar pricked his horseAcross the Rubicon, defying Rome.Bruce pricked John Comyn over death's dark stream,Defying England. Caesar triumphed: BruceShall triumph too. And now begins the fight.[All go out.
Buchan. You holy men, give place a little while.A Monk. To whom?Buchan. The wife and friends of slaughteredComyn.[The monks retire.Countess of Badenoch. Would any mortal think to look at meThis dead man was my husband? Should I weep,And rend with sighs my breast, and wring my hands;Peal out my sorrow, like a vesper bellCalling the cloistered echo's shadowy choirTo take the burden of a woeful dirge;Enrobe myself in that dishevelmentWhich tyrannous grief compels his subjects paleTo show their vassalage by putting on,I might persuade myself and you, my friends,That I am sorry for my husband's death:Even as an actor, lacking any cue,Visible, tangible, as I have here,Steps lightly at a word upon the stage,Leaving his brothers and their merry chat,And takes upon him any passion's showWith such devotion and abandonment,That what was first a cloak becomes a soul,And audience and actor both are heldDissolved in ecstasy; which, breaking, backFrom high heroics to sad homelinessTheir spirits are precipitated straight.But I'll not play the broken heart, for you,My friends, my audience, know the cause I haveRather to laugh than weep. O wretched corpse!What habitation holds the spirit nowWhich Bruce ejected rashly, warrantless,Pulling the house about the tenant's ears?Buchan. He loved me little, and he loved you less;And by his death he leaves a legacy,The taking up of which, if spirits watchFrom where eternally they rest or pine,Our tragic, many-scened mortality,Will reconcile him to his sudden death.Countess of Buchan. Husband, what legacy?Buchan. A mortal feud.Countess of Buchan. Will you avenge on Bruce the death of himWhom his best friends lament not?Buchan. Yes, I must.And good Sir Robert, too—his blood cries out.It is a duty that the world will lookTo see performed directly and with speed,Admitting no perfunct, half-passive danceOn patient Providence. Dissuade me not,For it becomes you not. There is a thingThat vaguely circulates in certain spheresConcerning you, my dearest. Sad am IThat from my lips it first should taint your ears;But you must know it now. Give me your hand.This white and fragrant palm from guilty deeds,That harden more than penitential toil,Or from the touch of slime, is not more free,Than your unshriven soul from infant thoughtsSwaddled in shame. But foul-tongued calumny,Tutored by hatred, like a jabbering birdWith implication lewd repeats your nameAnd Bruce's in a breath.Countess of Buchan. Alas, I know!The lying scandal that benights my lifeWill be a foil to make my memory shine.—If it confronts you graven on the skyTo visit retribution on his headWhose hand laid low your cousin's, be it so:I'll not invade your secrets; but I meanTo do what woman can for Bruce's cause,Which whispers tell me will be Scotland's soon.Buchan. Well, we'll not quarrel. We'll talk of this again.Countess of Badenoch.Come take me home. I'm in a gentler mood.Let those good cowls return and pray their best.[The Countess of Badenoch and the Earl andCountess of Buchan go out. The monksadvance and kneel, and the scene closes.
Enter Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews, Edward and Nigel Bruce, the two Setons, Sir Thomas Randolf, and other Lords and Gentlemen.
Lamberton. My lords and gentlemen, this is no timeFor ceremony, which, when lazy peaceHas rusted o'er the world's slack businesses,Oils easily the motion of affairs;For now events impel each other on,And higher powers than beadles usher them.I am commissioned by the noble BruceTo greet you heartily and wish you wellWhile you remain within Lochmaben's walls.By my advice he begs you to excuseHis absence, while I speak. When you have heardI doubt not that you will. He has confessedThe sacrilegious crime of yesterday,Contritely and with simple truthfulness.No exculpation, no defence at all,Such as we know there is, he offered me.Some of us here may hold that Bruce's actShould rather be extolled than stigmatised.We know for certain now what was the wrongThat Comyn, having wrought, denied on oath,And all our sympathy goes out to Bruce.But such the old deceitfulness of sinThat feelings of the sweetest comfort oftMislead us to embrace iniquity.Man's worst of deeds God turns to good account:A penance, which I hope will work God's will,I have enjoined on the humiliate earl.I mean to crown him, Robert, King of Scots:His task will be to make that title good.Now I have said a word that stirs your blood,Begetting hope and courage, valiant twins.And yet it is not I that speak, but God:Surely God speaks. The sequence of events,Of which this conference is the latest bud,Appears to me a heavenly oracle,As evident as Aaron's sprouting rod,Commanding Robert Bruce to be the king.He would have placed the crown on Comyn's headHad Comyn wished, that Scotland might be one;But Comyn thought to get the crown by guile,And like an impious fool betrayed his friend,Setting between him and the English kingA gulf of enmity impassable.Edward will judge him out of church and law;But in our Scotch communion he is safe:And being out of law, there is no way,Except to be our king, above the law.Needs must, my lords; and is not need God's will?Edward Bruce. It is the will of God.All. Bruce shall be king.
Enter Bruce.
Long live the King! Long live King Robert Bruce!Bruce. You hail me by a name that may be mineIn more than word, but not without your aid.There are not many Scots besides yourselvesWho will acknowledge me their King. Think wellBefore you pledge your faith to one outlawed;For so I am, if law depend on power.Scotland, the Isles, and England are my foes:My friends are individual; on my handsThey may be counted. Lennox, Athole, Cairns,Fleming, the Hayes, the Frasers, Sommerville,Glasgow, and Moray, sum the list with you:These only are the Scots whom I may rule.Sir Christopher Seton. Then only these deserve the name of Scot.Lamberton. Right, Seton!Randolf. We are Scots, the rest are slaves!Freeman and Scot have ever meant the same.Lamberton. Carrick or King?Bruce. King, by God's will and yours.Lamberton. Sometimes we please ourselves with imagesOf deeds heroic. The unstabled thought,Enfranchised by rough-riding passion, windsA haughty course and laughs at depth and height:But the blood tires; and lo! our thought, a steed,That from his rider ever takes the mood,Pants, droops, turns tail, and hobbles home to stall.Look in yourselves, and see if vain conceitOr lofty daring, lord it o'er your minds.This thing is sure: reason must be constrained:You must be hot, believing, fanatic;You must be wrathful, patriotic, rash;Forethought abandon o'er to providence;Let prudence lag behind you, like a snail,Bearing its house with care upon its back;Take counsel only of the circumstanceThat shapes itself in doing of the deed;Be happy, scornful, death-defiant: strongYou will be then matchless, invincible.What! shall we go to Scone, and crown Bruce king?Randolf. At once, Lord Archbishop.Sir John Seton. To Glasgow, first,To take our friends there with us.Lamberton. That is best.Is it your will to be crowned king at Scone?Bruce. Most reverend father, and my noble friends,If language were to me in place of thought,I could pour grateful speeches in your ears;But words are wanting. I am helpless, dumb;I would be lonely; I would think awhile.Lamberton. Think worthy thoughts, that only second areTo worthy deeds; yet their begetters too.We'll leave you till our little troop's arrayed.Bruce. You are very kind, my lords.[All go out except Bruce.I'm not a manMuch given to meditate. When pending thoughtsHurtle each other in the intellect,Darkening that firmament like thunder-clouds,To let them lighten forth in utteranceClears up the sky, confused with swaying rack.My life begins a new departure here;And like one dying all my time appearsEven on the instant, in eternal light.Ambition struck the hours that measured it.My pact with Comyn was half-hearted. What!The passion that laid hold upon my soulWhen he was killed—When he was killed? I thinkI'm to myself too merciful; but yetI seemed to do some bidding:—were there notAlloys of gladness that the bond was loosed,Of jealousy that Comyn barred my way,Mixed in the blow that paid the traitor's wage?There are two voices whispering in my ear:This is the bane of self-communion. Now,Right in thy teeth, or in thy toothless chaps,I swear, antiquity, first thoughts are best:Their treble notes I still shall hearken to,And let no second, murmuring soft, seduceTheir clear and forthright meaning. It is gone,The flash of revelation: dallying doesWith intuition as with other chance.I would to God that I might ever hearThe trump of doom pealing along the sky,And know that every common neighbour dayIs the last day, and so live on and fightIn presence of the judgment. Wishing thisHave I not broached the very heart of truth?Each unmarked moment is an end of time,And this begins the future.
Enter Isabella.
Isabella!Isabella. What in this time of doleful accidentsCould move the joyful shouts I heard just now?Bruce. My dearest, what would make you shout for joy?Isabella. I have not shouted since I was a girl;But now, I think, if any happy thingShould spring into my life, I would cry out,I have been so unhappy, and so long.Tell me you'll never leave me any more;Then will I cry, and weep, for very joy.Bruce. Heaven grant it may be so!Isabella. If there is hope!—Did I not shout now?—I will nurse it warm,And pet it like a darling, till it comeTo be what I imagine in the fact,Or in the fancy; for I will go mad:I'll bend myself to lose all faculty,All thought, remembrance, all intelligence,So to be capable of companyWith your phantasm, more real then than life;And be a wild mad woman, if those fears,Those weary absences, those partings pale,And fevered expectations, which have filledThe summer of our life with storm and cold,Determine not in peace and halcyon days.You do not love me as I love you; no;Else you would never leave me. Love of powerAnd love of me hold tourney in your breast.Let Will throw down the baton, and declareThe love of me the winner, and I'll beYour queen of love; and beautiful as loveFor man can make a woman. I am proud:When love transfigures me I can conceiveHow beautiful I am. Stay with me, then,That holy, sweet, and confident desireMay light me up a pleasant bower for you:I am, when you are gone, a house forlorn,Cold, desolate, and hasting to decay:Stay, tenant me, preserve me in repair;Only sweet uses keep sweet beauty fair.Bruce. I love you, Isabella, by high heaven,More than the highest power that can be mine.Isabella. Why then pursue this power so ardently?Bruce. I stayed pursuit; but it would follow me.My countrymen have asked me to be king.Isabella. King!—But you murdered Comyn. All his friends—Forgive me, love. I would not for the worldReproach you; but——Bruce. I know your gentle heart.My thought of you is not the morning bride;Nor even the rose that oped its balmy breastAnd gave its nectar sweetly. In my mindThis memory of you crowds out the rest:The woman who with tender arms embracedThe bloody murderer. I know your heart.Isabella. Hush!Bruce. Friends are few; but if my title's good?Hopeless the cause; but if the cause be just?I'm glad my hand that did my passion's hestHas made my mind up for me.Isabella. You'll be king?Bruce. Will I be hunted like a common knaveWho stabs his comrade in a drunken brawlFor some rude jest or ruder courtesan,And, being an outlaw, dies by any hand?I'd rather be the king; and though I dieThe meanest death, be held in memoryAs one who, having entered on a courseOf righteous warfare by a gate of shame,Pursued it with his might, and made amendsFor starting false—so far as lay in him;For out of him his sin is, 'stablished, past,And by a life's atonement unredeemed.I do not brood on this. Before you cameI had better thoughts.Isabella. O, I am sad at that!Bruce. I love you: not from you those worse thoughts sprang.Isabella. Perhaps they did: for I have sometimes found,When I have spent an hour in decking me,But thinking more to please you in my lifeThan in my dress, that, coming then to you,Brimming with tenderness, some thoughtless word,Or even a look from you, has changed my mood,And made me deem the world a wilderness;While this cross glance, or inauspicious tone,Was but a feint of yours, whose strength of loveWithheld itself, afraid it should undoIts purpose by endeavouring too much:And we have parted, discontented both.But we'll not part now. Say, we shall not part.Bruce. Not now. We will be crowned together, queen.Isabella. 'But then' succeeds 'not now'; I hope, far off.Bruce. We must prepare to go.Isabella. So soon!Bruce. Our friendsAwait us, chafing doubtless at delay.Isabella. Then I will make a proverb lie for once,And be on horseback sooner than my lord.[They go out.
Enter Bruce, Isabella, and a Squire.
Bruce. Look to our horses while we rest.[Squire goes out.Isabella. How farAre we before our friends?Bruce. See, they appear.Isabella. That little puff of dust?Bruce. Our company,Three miles away I think. The road is straight,And slopes to us. I hear a hoof—this side.Isabella. It is a solitary knight, but oneWho need not fear to ride afar, alone,If I may trust a woman's hasty eye.He is dismounting; he unhelms, he bows;He seems to know you, and salute you king!
Enter Sir James Douglas.
Bruce. Douglas! I thought that Paris would retainFor years to come the service of your youth.Douglas. You speak as one whom some transcending hapHas shown the high and secret worth of life;And such am I, or else discourtesyAlone had greeted me in what you said.Not with shrunk purse, drained veins, and heart dried-up;Will—broken-winded; pith-brains; sinews—straw,From Paris, which unstiffens many a one,Come I to Scotland, where is need of strength.A love of noble things—a kind of faith—A hope, a wish, a thought above the world,Has swayed me from the mire; and yet I knowIt is a miracle I'm not more soiled.Bruce. I spoke unworthily of this reply,And gladly now unsay my hinted charge,Which, with less thought than commonplace, I made;Though I should utter nothing now but thought,For as you judged I see a soul in life.And what in Scotland do you think to do?Douglas. Retrieve my lands, avenge my father's death,And drive the English from its borders. HereI offer Scotland's king my lance, and hereI vow to be his lady's loyal knight.You are amazed. They say, ill news spreads fast:He whom the tidings then will halcyonKnows of his weal as soon as he his woe.Is the news good to you that Bruce is king?Bruce. The news is good: best, that he's king of you.I wonder most at that. I stood in armsAgainst your father, and but yesterdayI seemed the friend of England.Douglas. YesterdayWas once the date of every lasting change.While you are faithful to the land that's yours,I swear to serve you faithfully till death.Bruce. Another trusty friend when friends are few—And such a friend! Welcome, a thousand times!Isabella. A happy handselling of our enterprise!What is the news from England? Have you heardIf Wallace has been judged?Douglas. Not yet; but soonIn Westminster he will be doomed to death;For victory, which oft ennobles kings,Debases Edward. Since he has not grace,The gracious-hearted world with one outcryShould claim the life of Wallace for its own,As the most noble life lived in this age,And not to be cut off by one man's hate.Bruce. The thought of Wallace troubles me. The truthThat great men seldom in their times are known;And this that little men are eminentIn midst of their thin lives and loud affairs,Assert how perilous election isBy peers all bound and circumstanced alike.If he were solely moved by noble thoughts,And is the signal hero you give out—Nothing I say, and nothing I deny—Then were the nobles who deserted himUnworthy cowards, beggars, churls, knaves, hounds.Shall I condemn my order so? or thinkThat Wallace hoped to aggrandise himself,And lost those friends who had no need to fightFor mere existence when the restive hoofOf personal ambition kicked asideThe patriot's caparison? You wince:But with the time I drift, and cannot findA mooring for my judgment. Pardon me.This I believe: there is no warriorBefore the world, who could, even with those meansOf formal power that Wallace mostly lacked,Have wrought the tithe of his accomplishment:His name will be an ensign; and his actsThe inspiration of his countrymen.Douglas. You yet will know his magnanimityWhich girdled round the ample continentOf his performance like the boundless sea.Bruce. I'm glad to think—to know the best of him.Shall we turn back and meet our friends?Isabella. Yes; come.And, Douglas, tell us more of Wallace, pray.[They go out.
Enter the Earl and the Countess of Buchan, and the Earl of Fife.
Countess of Buchan. Once more, I beg you, brother, on my knees, Toundertake the duty of your race.Now, while I plead, they may be crowning him,And no Macduff to gird his curling hair.Eleven kings from Malcolm Canmore's timeOur ancestors have perfected with gold,Laying the ruddy chaplet on their browsLike magic dawn that tops the day with light.It is a custom that has come to meanThe thing it garnished; and he cannot beThe King of Scots, however just his claim,However consecrated, sceptred, throned,Who is not crowned by you.Fife. I am the friendOf England, of your husband; finallyBe answered I beseech you. If you pleadAgain with such hot vehemence, I'll thinkYour husband is a fool to slight the wordThat birds have carried of the Bruce and you.Countess of Buchan. If I were richer than to need your help,I'd let you know that brother's qualityWho dares to doubt his mother's daughter. Shame!But I am passionate, and so are you:You meant no wrong. You'll do this, will you not?Fife. Why! here's a woman!—What a woman! Well!I tell you I am England's friend, which meansThe foe of any upstart such as Bruce;And I am Buchan's friend, which means the foeOf Buchan's mortal foe, the outlaw Bruce.I tell you this, and yet you beg of meTo do for Bruce the service needed mostTo make him mighty in his enmity.Countess of Buchan. If you were armed to fight a champion,And he had lost his helm before you met,You would not do despite to chivalry,And take advantage of his naked head,But find him in a morion, or unclaspYour own, and equally defended, charge.Be chivalrous to Bruce; make him a kingThat Edward may be vantageless in that.Then fight for Edward—with your puissance, fight.Fife. I think you're mad. This pertinacity,Which you intend shall urge me to comply—Which you conceive no doubt a sign of strength,But which I judge a sign of vanity—Is one of women's weapons, well-approved,With which she jags to death a stronger will.But my resolve is harnessed, and your dartTurns off it blunt—and spent I hope.Buchan. You hear;I said you could not move him.—Come away—I'm sorry you have set your mind on this.[Fife and Buchan go out.Countess of Buchan. To toss my hair, to weep, to rate my maid,Are small reliefs I ne'er resorted to;And now I must do something notable.What if I went and crowned the Bruce myself?Ah! here's a thought that's like a draught of wine!My brother whose the office is, resiles:Mine—mine it is!—But how?—but if I did?Their tongues, their tongues! their foul imaginings!Is the world wicked as its thought is? Love?There's no one would believe me if I vowedUpon my deathbed, between heaven and earth,I understand no meaning in the word.Maidens have lovers, and they sigh and wake;Wives love their husbands, and they wake and weep:But never, never have I loved a manAs I see women love—with bursting hearts,With fire and snow at variance in their cheeks,With arching smiles, the heraldry of joy,Whose rainbow shadows shine on hot, hard tears;With cruel passion, dying ecstasy,With rapture of the resurrection morn.I have not loved. It may be to my shame,But justly to the world's, condemning meFor deeds no cause could work me to commit.If I take horse to Scone, farewell my fame,Which halts yet at the threshold. Who's this?
Enter James Crombe.
Crombe,Do you remember in my father's houseYour life once stood in danger for a crime—Which I'll not name—when mercy at my pleaWas meted you in place of punishment?Crombe. Well I remember.Countess of Buchan. You were thankful then,And held your life at my command. The time——Crombe. My lady, if some service you requirePerilling my life, I'll do it willingly;But had you urged my love, my duteous love,And not my debt, I had been happier.Countess of Buchan. I beg your pardon, sir. Indeed, I thinkThe service I require may cost your life,But surely something dearer. I am whirledFrom thought to thought: my mind lacks breath. Good Crombe,You owe me nothing. Will you, if I bid,Procure me black dishonour, and yourselfA name of loathing?Crombe. No, my lady.Countess of Buchan. How?Crombe. If I beheld you hurrying to your shame,I'd keep your honour holy with my sword,And send it hot to heaven.Countess of Buchan. Well.—You're a Scot?I mean, you long for Scotland's freedom.Crombe. Yes.Countess of Buchan. Are you acquainted with the news?Crombe. Of Bruce?I've heard they mean to crown him king to-day;But since my lord of Fife is England's friend——Countess of Buchan. Yes, yes! But are you glad?Crombe. Most heartily.I think of joining Bruce.Countess of Buchan. My timorous heart,Fie, fie!—I knew you were a noble man.You will put no construction but the rightOn what I mean to do. Both you and IMust be dishonoured in the world's regard:I, an unfaithful wife; you, go-between.Saddle two horses; lead them secretlyA mile beyond the castle. There I'll mountAnd ride with you to Scone. Go, instantly.I, Isobel Macduff, will crown Bruce king.Crombe. But, noble lady—not for fear, but safety—What of pursuit?Countess of Buchan. Pursuit? I am a mint,And coin ideas. Come—come out! It's gold!My husband's horses must be aired to-day.You'll see it done. Some of the grooms we'll bribe,And some will come unbought, and some we'll forceEither to follow us, or quit their steeds:Leave nothing in the stables that can run.My lords—ha! ha!—are nowhere in the chase.Crombe. Captain, and countess, mistress, service-worthy,Be confident in me, as I in you,And the deed's done.[Goes out.Countess of Buchan. Now, world, wag, wag your tongues!I sacrifice my fame to make a king:And he will raise this nation's head againThat lies so low; and they will honour him;And afterwards, perhaps, they'll honour me.Or if they slight me and my modest work,I shall be dead: I have enough to bearOf disrespect and slander here to-day,Without forecasting railing epitaphs.But some—nay, many of the worthiest,And many simple judgments too, will seeThe sunlight on my deed. This, I make sure:No Scot's allegiance can be held from BruceBecause he was not crowned by a Macduff.—And if I love him, what is that to him?That's a good saying. So is this, I make:If I do love him, what is that to me![Goes out.
Enter Sir Peter Mallorie with Sir William Wallace, bound and guarded.
Edward I. Proceed with the impeachment, Mallorie.Mallorie. Sir William Wallace, knight of Elderslie,Some time usurping Guardian of Scotland,You are a traitor to the English crown——Wallace. I am no traitor to the English crown,For I was never subject to King Edward.Mallorie. Therein your treason rests. But speak not now:You may speak afterwards in your defence.Wallace. I will speak now, not to excuse my deeds,But to arraign the falsest traitor here.Edward of England, if one pure pulse beatsIn that debauched and enervated coreWhich was your conscience, I will make it ache.Edward I. What do you mean? To have us think you mad,And to your frailty that compassion showWhich crimes and sins forbid us to extend?Or are you posing as a prodigyOf heroism? In their minstrelsyThey sing of captive knights whose bold addressIn presence of their victors won them grace:But know that justice sees no worth in words—Deeds only: therefore hear your deeds rehearsed.Mallorie. Sir William Wallace, treasons manifold——Wallace. I crave the pardon of all manhood here.Having small use for any facultySince I became a captive, I have slackedThe rigour of my will, and thus it isI spoke with petulance before my time.Proceed to read my accusation, sir.Mallorie. You are accused of many treasonous actsDone on the persons, castles, cities, lands,Of our most noble sovereign, Edward First,In England and in Scotland——Wallace. But, explain——Edward I. Silence, guilty felon!Wallace. Guilty? CondemnedAnd hanged already, doubtless, in your heart.I will confess my guilt, for I am guilty—Guilty of failure in a righteous cause.I will confess that when ill-fortune cameMy friends forsook me; that I lost the dayAt Falkirk, and have since been little worth.I stayed your accusation, sir, to askWhat treason I could work against a kingWhom I acknowledge not, and in a landNot governed by that king?Edward I. Silence!—Proceed.Wallace. What! English Edward! Would you roar me down?My deeds have spoken: shall I fear your tongue?The charge against me is irrelevant;No jurisdiction have you over meTo pardon or to doom: prisoner of war,No traitor, I; and here I make demandFor knightly treatment at the hands of knights.Edward I. You shall have justice.Wallace. In the end I shall:And so shall you. Death you have often faced;Justice you shall see once.Edward I. Stay, Mallorie.We'll tutor this heroic insolence.The observant world has notched the life of man,And three main periods indicate three powersWhose dreadful might directs our very stars.These powers take reason's throne, the intellect.First, love usurps, like Saturn come again—Whose orb is yet man's most malignant foe—Turning the sad, outlandish time of youthInto a golden age. Ambition rulesWith godly sway the second period,And marshals man's capacity to warAgainst the evils that beset him most,And win what things of worship he desires.Prudence, which none but old men understandTo be the strongest tyrant of the three,Reigns lastly, making peace with God and man:Securing acquisitions; peering forthInto the future, like a mariner,Whose freight is landed in a foreign port,With wistful homeward gaze, but eager yetTo see his merchandise disposed of well:And reason, which should rule, most cheerfullyAccepts the ministry beneath these kings:That is the chronicle of noble men.The sun gleams lurid through a rotting fog,And those pure powers that shine in lucent souls,Clear, as if lanterned only by the air,In natures base, burn with a murky flame,As lust, concupiscence, and avarice:And reason, mad with degradation, toilsUnwillingly in slavish offices.Now comes my application. Cruel, vain,Intolerant, unjust, false, murderous,You, Wallace—rebel, outlaw, hangman, fool,Incendiary, reiver, ravisher—You are the serf of vile concupiscence—Yea, of the vilest famine—hungry greedOf notoriety!—the commonest,The meanest, lewdest, gauntest appetite,That drives the ignoble to extremity!No sooner had we quarried painfullyForth of that chaos left by your King John,A corner-stone for righteous government,Than you and other itching malcontentsWith gothic hands o'erturned the fane of peaceAnd on your groaning land brought heathen war,That you might win the name of patriot.Again I built up order; and againYou overthrew my government, and causedYour fatherland—heroic patriot!—From Tweed to Moray Firth to swim in blood,Before divine authority could rule.Still you rebelled; for you must stand alone—And think not, lords, I over-rate the strengthOf this delirious thirst for some repute—Though nobles, knights, burgesses, yeomen, priests,Yea, every Scot, well-pleased, acknowledged us,You—cast-off guardian—dog that had his day—Alone, unfriended, starving in the wilds,Held there aloof, and signalised your nightBy howling for that moon you almost clutched,A tyrant's power, calling it liberty:For that was still behind your lust of fame.Mallorie. You're silent now.A Lord. Silence becomes him well.This just exposure stills his shameful voice.Wallace. Seeing how your rage leapt from your lips in lies,King, I bethink me ere I make reply,Lest I, too, throw the truth.Edward I. Now tell us, lords,Are we on our defence or Wallace? Which?Villain, regard law's form if not its soul.Be better mannered; touch your memory;You stand before the majesty of England.Wallace. I stand there truly; but behind me pantsThe king of terrors; and his quiver holdsOne dart I hope to parry, which I fear—But not the venomed shaft that nothing fends.It is—not now; I'll tell you afterwards.—Noble?—ignoble?—who shall judge us, king?This deed and that we may with help of heavenChristen or damn, and not be far astray;But who shall take upon him to declareThe mind of God on what is unrevealed,The guiding thought, deep, secret, which is known,Even to the thinker, but in passing wafts.Because my life was spent in thwarting you,I am not therefore an incarnate fiend,Although the justice of the end I stayedPossessed your soul to sickening. Mad for fame!—My wife's, my father's, and my brother's deaths.—Edward I. No more of this. Call in the witnesses.Wallace. I'll speak now, and be heard.All. Silence! Be still.Wallace. I can outroar you all. Sound trumpets, drums,And fill your hall with clamour, I shall speak,And you shall hear. Above the voice of warI have been heard, and——All. Silence, traitor, silence![The shouting continues for a little, but graduallyceases as Wallace speaks on.Wallace. I fought for liberty and not for fame.Monarchs know not the inestimable worthOf that imperial, rich diademWhich only crowns both kings and carls, men.Say, slavery unfelt were possible,Then freedom is a name for sounding wind.But call me slave in any mincing term;And let the tyrant's frowns be smiles of love;The chains, less galling than a lady's arms;The labour, just my pleasure's ministry:If I surrender to the conqueror,As captive is my soul, as though thick ironsWore through my flesh, and rusting in my blood,Rasped on my bones, the while with lash and oathSome vicious tasker held me to hard toil.I stand here free, though bound and doomed to die.And know, King Edward, every Scot who bent,Gnawing his heart, a recreant knee to you,Perjured himself, being free; and even now—I know my countrymen—contrite they rise;And when they have another leader—oneAbler than I—pray heaven, more fortunate!—They will anew throw off your galling yoke,And be once more lieges of liberty.I am the heart of Scotland; when I dieIt shall take heart again——Edward I. No, no! by heaven!The Scots repudiate you!Wallace. The Scots do not:The people, pulse for pulse, beat warm with me.Edward I. You lie! You lie!—But I forgot myself.Freebooters, prodigals, scroyles—outcasts all—Your sole supporters, may lament your end;But true men everywhere are jubilant.Not England only, and the better partOf your divided country were your foes;But from the world's beginning you were doomedTo fail in your unholy enterprise.For destiny, whose servant Nature is,Ordained by the creation of this land—So long sore vexed by chance, fate's enemy,With heptarchies, divisions, kings and clans—That one king and one people here should dwell,Clasped in the sea's embrace, happy and safeAs heaven is, anchored in eternity.In fighting me you fought fate's champion,Anointed with the fitness of the time,And with the strength of his desire inspired,To finish Nature's work in Albion.You, paltry minion of a band of knaves,In name of patriotism—which in this caseWas in the devil's name—fought against God;The coming of His kingdom hindered here.Now His sure vengeance has o'ertaken you,And over both our lands His sweet peace reigns.Wallace. Eternal God, record this blasphemy!Who doubts our lands are destined to be one?Who does not pray for that accomplishment!Why! Know you not that is the period,The ultimate effect I battled for,That you, free English, and that we, free Scots,May one day be free Britons. And we shall;For Scotland never will be tributary:We are your equals, not to be enslaved;We are your kin, your brothers, to be loved.Time is not ripe: fate's crescent purposes,Like aloe-trees, bloom not by forcing them;But seasonable changes, mellowing years,Elaborative ages, must matureThe destined blossoms. Listen, king and lords;Here is a thing worthy remembering,And which perhaps you never rightly knew:Duty is always to the owner done;And the immediate debtor wisely pays:The heritage of duty unperformedIncreases out of sight of usury.Restore to Scotland freedom. Do that, king,Or it will be required from you or yoursWith woeful interest.—I have done. I fearedI might not find a way to speak these truths,Having no nimble tongue, and die oppressedWith warning unpronounced. I truly thoughtI could command a hearing had I words.Death now, the due of all, my triumph, waits.Edward I. The witnesses, Sir Peter Mallorie;Your accusation now is needless.Mallorie. Sire,Hugh Beaumont is the first. He'll testifyOf early deeds in the arch-traitor's life.He is an old man now and garrulous:A gentleman withal, whose gentle bloodStood him in little stead, when windy youthHad sown itself, and whirling povertyDown to the barren common dashed his head.So with his sword he battened as he might,And valour was his star. Let him have scope,For he has much to say.[Hugh Beaumont is led in.Inform the kingAs strictly as to God of all that passedBetween you and the prisoner.Edward I. Speak the truth.Beaumont. Your gracious majesty, what I can tellIs liker fable; but the noble knight,The prisoner, will acknowledge all I say:Much of it honours him.—To Ayr he cameOne day, disguised, with hat down, cloak pulled up.There as he paced the street, Lord Percy's manSeized on some fish a burgher just had bought;Whereat, Sir William, like a smouldering fire,Flared up to burn the foot whose thoughtless kickHad tortured it to flame. In speechless rageHe grasped the caitiff's throat and smote him dead.About two score well-harnessed Englishmen,With whom I was, did straight environ him.Against a wall he bore which seemed to beRather upheld by him than him upholding,And reaped us down like corn. He did, my lords.He multiplied his strokes so that he seemedTo multiply himself; there did appearOpposed to every soldier there a Wallace.Without or helm or mail, in summer-weed,Grass-green, flowered red with blood, he fought us all,Till one that bit the dust writhed near enoughTo pierce him in the leg, and then he fell.Yet even so he might have won away;But as he rose he fetched a blow at me,Which I eluding, down his breaking brandUpon the causeway struck; and in his eyesA light went out, when his uplifted handShowed but the hilt. In faith I pitied him,I pitied him, and bore him to the tower.There in a filthy dungeon he expiredOf festering wounds and food that swine refused,Ere they had settled what death was his due.Edward I. But he is here alive?Beaumont. Pardon, dread lord;He seemed at that time dead: the West mourned for him:His aged nurse bought his corrupting corpseTo bury it decently in hallowed ground.Well, after that a while, in Lanark town,I waited in the High Street on the judge,Lord Ormesby, then on circuit in the West.Four men were with me. One, on fire with wine,A braggart at the best, vaunted his deeds.And when two men came down the street, he cried,"See yonder stalks a canny muffled Scot,A strapper, by this light! attended, too!He's like to have that may be taxable.Something I'll mulct him of; or something give,That shall be worse than nothing—namely, blows!""Belike," said I, "that boon will not go quit.His side is guarded by a lengthy purse,Whose bright contents, I think, he will not hoard.""I'll have his sword," quoth he, "if he refuse,Take it, and beat him with it till he shakeHis dastard body out of his habergeon;Which, leaving here, he'll give me hearty thanks,That I leave him his skin, the lousy Scot!"And so he staggered out to meet the two.The muffled stranger whispered to his man,And he sped on before in anxious haste,Dodging the drunk man's outstretched arm, who said,"Well, you may go; your master is behind."And when the master came he stopped him, saying,"Knave Scot, unveil! Come, show your sonsy face.Vile thief, where did you steal this tabard green?And where the devil got you this fair knife?What! jewelled in the hilt! Unbuckle, quick,Mantle and whittle; and to make amendsFor having ever worn them, clasp them bothAbout me, and you shall have leave to go.""St. Andrew! There's my whittle, English dog!"And with a thrust the Scot let out his life.We others rushed upon him instantly,Shouting, "Down with him! Vengeance on theScot!" He gave us back, "St. Andrew, and the right!"Wrapping his arm in what had wrapped his face,And looking like the lion that he was.Beholding him, I trembled, and stood still;But one more rash ran on, to shriek and fall,His raised right arm lopped at the shoulder off.With that a voice cried, "In the king's name, peace!"The Scot looked up and saw a troop approach."Too great a pack for one," he said, and ran.Now this was Ormesby, the justiciary,Arrived in Lanark to dispense the law,With Hazelrig, the ruler of the shire.Mallorie [aside to Beaumont].Quick, man! be quick! Look how his Highness chafes!Beaumont. The valiant Scot was Wallace. It appearedHis foster-mother, who had paid awayThe earnings of her lifetime for his corpse,Kissing and weeping o'er it, saw a sparkStruggle with night of death; or else her hopeInspired new breath, much aided by her prayers.The little glow she nursed into a flame,So feeble, that, lest meat should smother it,Her daughter gave one of her bosom's springs,Then at high-tide to feed her new-born babe,For the replenishing his body's lamp.Being recovered, he had come to seeHis wife, who dwelt in Lanark.Wallace [aside]. God! O God!Beaumont. Hazelrig led the chase: I followed close.We reached the house: I searched the garden. There,Scarcely concealed, I saw the prisoner.Sire, I'm not a coward, and I was not then;But from the instant that I recognisedThe dead man come alive, enchantment caughtMy spirit in a toil, and made me watch,Powerless and voiceless, all he did. I feltNo movement, even while I followed him.There was some witchery I do believe.In by the window, when the search was o'er,He entered, saying gaily to his wife,"I almost think an English lourdane saw me.How thin a thicket hides a dread discovery!"Then seeing on the floor his lady lie,"O God! what varied truth was in that word!Not dead, my love!" She spoke that I could hear."Dying, dying. Hazelrig has killed me.My spirit clings still to my lips to kiss you.I would my soul might melt into a kissTo lie on your lips till your soul's release,And then to heaven together we would fly.Avenge my death and Scotland's wrongs." "My love!"He cried; and all his strength was water.And long he held her: and he shook and sobbed.Wallace [straining his bonds].Nay, hang me!—burn me!—I am sawn asunder!Beaumont. At length he put her softly on a seat,And took her hand and knelt: and she was dead:Her face was like an angel's fallen asleep.Upon her bloody breast his eyes he fixed,Seeming unruffled as a still white flame,And words, more dread than silence, spake aloud:"I will avenge thy death and Scotland's wrongs.For every tear that now my eyes have droppedFrom English veins shall seas of blood be shed.Each sigh of mine shall have ten thousand echoes:Yea, for her death I'll England sepulchre.O glutton grave, a surfeit shall be thine!Death's self shall sleep before my vengeance flags."Slowly retiring, with his face to her,He went. I have not seen him since till now.He was a young man then.[Voices within.Edward I. What noise is that?Clifford. A messenger, my lord, would force the door.Edward I. Whence comes he?Clifford. From the North, your majesty.Edward I. Admit him.