University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.
Dougan.
This seems some tower o' the fancy—its foundation
Flits 'fore us like a shadow.

Enter Mabel Moran.
Neal.
Who comes here?
A rude gray beldame come in cantraip time
To mount her ragwort chariot, and to quaff
Good wine with the pole star.

Dingwall.
My hoary dame,
I do beseech thee, keep thy foot on the sod;
There's forms to night i' the air, raging unloosed
From the flaming glen thou wot'st of, who might jolt
Thee from thine airy saddle, and would singe
Thy pike staff to a cinder.

Mabel.
Reaver Rob!
The wind that blaws thee here 's from a black airt;
Among my hen-roosts, thy two hands are worse
Than the teeth of twenty foumarts. Saul to gude!
His presence too be near us! Who art thou?

Comyne.
My good and reverend dame, we hapless ones
Have come from a far nook of foreign earth—
No midnight reavers we, but men whose swords
Were bared in God's high quarrel; we have felt
Rough weather on the deep, and seek i' the gloom
Lord Walter Maxwell's mansion. Wouldst thou trust
Thy foot i' the dew to show the path that winds,
Through planting, park and woodland, to the gate
Of thy lord's dwelling; I'll requite each drop
That gems thy hair, with a fair piece of silver.

(Offers money.)
Mabel.
Put up your gold, man—for the dark deep sea's
Too dread a place wherein to gather gold,
To scatter it in moonlight. So ye swam
For your sweet lives? And, by my sooth, that's true;
Ye 're dripping like the wing o' the water hen.
The Solway is a sinful flood, sweet Sir;
On many a fair face has it feasted: it
Has muckle dool to answer for.

Dougan.
I've heard
In foreign lands men call 't the bloody water.
Is yon Lord Maxwell's castle, 'mongst the groves
On which the moon is gleaming?

Mabel.
Three lang miles,
Weary and dark, through mire, and moss, and wood,
Have you to wend, and find no bigged wall
Save this poor sheal. But in the Solway flow
Ye'd better be to the neck, wi' Will o' the wisp
Shining aside you, than at my hearth stone
Sit till the morning. Ye'll have heard from the Turks
How Mabel's house is haunted. There came once
A gifted man—a soul's well wisher—one
Whom men call'd Shadrach Peden. In he came,
Wi' “peace be here;” and, “Dame, thou'rt sore beset
Wi' sprites of the sinful and permitted fiends.”
“Aye, well I wot that's true,” quoth I. He drew
A circle and a cross, and syne began
Stark controversy for a stricken hour.
But, Sirs, the fiends wax'd strong and fearful, and
The saint grew faint and frail. “Mabel,” quo' he,
“There's no perfection in flesh.”

Dougan.
Truce, holy dame:
Lift thy door latch, and let us have one hour
Of fellowship with thy fiends—feel the warm glow
So ruddy at thy window: I dread more
Pit-falls and darkness, than the pranks of spirits:
I'd liefer sleep wi' the arch fiend at mine elbow,
Than grope my way through moss, and mire, and flood.

Hogan.
I've had enough of dismal forms and faces;
For cursed shapes paced on the splintering deck;
And 'tween Arbigland and Caerlaverock bay,
Each wave seem'd rife with moans of dying men;
My sword caught drops of reeking blood upon it;
My hands smelt horribly warm with murder's work;
And I'll brave hell no more.

Dingwall.
Faith, I'm not one
To sit and sigh out prayers, and mournful psalms,
Aside this beldame's hearth, with a charm'd ring
Of wiseman's chalk to bound one from the fiends.

Neal.
Witch, hast thou got one cup of barley dew?
Or most unrighteous brandy? or one drop
Of meek and saintly sack? That cursed sea
Has turn'd my weazon to a thoroughfare
For its unblessed water.

Mabel.
What sayest thou
To a cup o' the rarest juice of bloomed ragwort?
Or bonnie hollow hemlock, stark and brown?

Neal.
Carlin! cursed carlin! keep such drink to cheer
Thy Hallowmass gossips.

Dougan.
Now, my sage good dame,
We leave thy gleaming hearth to trooping spectres;
We love not to carouse with such companions,
Nor shake hands with visionary fingers. So
This is the way, thou sayest?

Mabel.
(Exeunt Halbert Comyne, &c.)
Mabel Moran, alone.
(Exit.)