University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Scotland.
(In Holy-rood Palace.)
Enter King of Scotland and Sevez.
K. Scot.
Have our Council sat upon those Traitors?

Sevez.
They have, my Liege;
Each Man refus'd to plead, and Lord Huntley,
With his usual Boldness, deny'd your Power,
And the Legality of private Tryals.
Call'd 'em Inquisitions—Us,—pack'd Parasites;
And with his wonted Roughness call'd for Justice,
And demanded his Peers.
But all were over-rul'd, and their Silence
We made the clear Evidence of their Guilt;
Upon which they were quickly attainted,
And Judgment of Death directly follow'd.
But the Time, Place, and Manner, wait on your
Royal Will.

K. Scot.
The Place shall be the Castle.—'Tis not
Meet that Huntley harangue the Populace;
There may be Danger in't.—The giddy Herd
Affect him much.
Are their Lands seized?

Sevez.
They are, my Liege.

K. Scot.
'Tis well—
Are all Things ready for Richard's
Coronation?

Sevez.
All, my Liege.

K. Scot.
Quickly then,
Let the royal Ceremony be perform'd,
With due Magnificence and regal Pomp.
To morrow we resolve for England, there
Again to crown the young Plantagenet.

Sevez.
Do you prepare his Highness.

Ex. Sevez.
Enter a Scot. Lord.
Scot. Lord.
May it please your Majesty, Lord Huntley's
Daughter, the Lady Katharine Gordon,
Is come to Court; and with distracted Aspect,
And grief-swoln Eyes, prays Admittance
To your Royal Presence.

K. of Scot.
Conduct her in—belike she comes to move us
For her Father's Life—but it must not be
But on one Condition.

Enter Katherine.
Kat.
O Royal James! if the House of Gordon
E're deserv'd your Love, if the many Lives
They have lost in your Defence, if the Blood
Of Generations, spilt in Scotland's Cause,
From earliest Time,
Down to my grey-hair'd Sire, if these, I say,
Deserve your Love, or Pity, then spare, spare,
For Love of Mercy, spare my poor old Father.
O, do not stop his Ebb of Life, with the
Traitor's Ax, a Death unknown to Gordon's Sons,
Who all have perish'd in the loyal Field.

K. Scot.
Rise, Katherine,
The House of Gordon we have ever deem'd
The fairest, brightest Jewel in our Crown.
Your Father hath ever been dear to us, dear as Love,
Or the Tyes of kindred Blood could make him.
'Till his o'erbearing Temper leap'd all Bounds;
Till he compell'd us
To shake off his iron Yoke; which hath provok'd him
To Cabals, Jibes, Murmurs, and disloyal Threats.

Kath.
O believe it not, Sir, they abuse your Ear
Who say so. Truth it self
Is not fairer than his Loyalty;
Which is incapable of Stain or Blemish.
O, Royal Sir, if you think him false,
You do not know him. Perchance his Temper,
Warm in his Country's Cause, may urge him beyond
The Bounds of Prudence; but this Heart is sound;—
Sound, as the Genius of our Land could wish.

K. Scot.
Katherine, I commend your filial Warmth,
And wish you had not Cause to sorrow;
But be assur'd from me, Huntley's a Traitor.

Kath.
Royal Sir,
Do not call him Traitor; for well I know,
That Name is sharper to his Soul, than death's
Keenest Dart.—My Liege, he is no Traitor.

K. Scot.
I find, Lady, your Father's daring Spirit,
In some Sort, breathes in your soft Form.

Kath.
It does, my Liege!
From Time, beyond the reach of Record,
It hath been our Race's Pride to cherish
Loyalty and our Country's Weal above
Our Lives. It hath
Been Huntley's first Precept to his Children,
Night, Morn, Hourly. No wonder then some Part
Remains with me. O had you heard him
Tell the warlike Deeds of Gordon's Ancestors,
For their King and Country; you then, I'm sure,
Wou'd have believ'd him Loyal.

K. Scot.
Katherine, we did believe him faithful,
'Till we found him rising above our Power,
And striving to awe, with subject Insolence,
Our sacred Majesty.

Kath.
Gracious Sir,
If his free Spirit hath outstept Discretion,—
Impute it not to traiterous Insolence,
But to a biass'd Mind in Scotland's Cause.
Merciful Sir, give me his precious Life,
He never, never, shall offend again.
He shall retire to our antient Castle,
The Nursery of Gordon's Ancestors;
Till weary'd Life steals from his feeble Frame,
Gently and unperceived as the setting Sun.

K. Scot.
Well, Katherine, on Condition he reside
For Life's Remains, within the Confines
Of Gordon's fertile Barony, we grant
Him full Pardon.—Provided, my fair Cuz,
That you accord our Sollicitation
In Favour of a royal Suit of ours.

Kath.
Command it, my Liege,
[kneels.
Be it Banishment, or Death, or lingring Famine,
Save but his Life, and conclude it done.

K. Scot.
‘No, my lovely Cuz; nor Death nor Banishment,
‘Nor aught ungentle, or unkind, will reach
‘This lovely Form, while we have Sway to hinder;
‘Nature design'd it for her noblest Use,
‘For a Monarch's Bliss, and Partner of his Crown,
‘For Joy in Youth, Content and Happiness in Age.
A youthful Prince must fill those snowy Arms;
And from this soft Image Albion's King must rise.

Kath.
Sir!

K. Scot.
Know, Katherine, our Cousin, young Plantagenet,
Burns with a Lover's Flame,
And longs to make you the happy Partner
Of his Bed and Throne.

Kath.
Me, Sir!

K. Scot.
Ay, fair Katherine!
Grant his Suit, and Huntley's Life is safe.
If not—You deny him Mercy, not I.
‘For the sharp Ax must fall where Law directs,
‘Unless by you prevented.

Kath.
O, royal Sir.— (kneels,)
how shall I speak it!—O some
Heavenly Power guide my distracted Mind!
O Sir!—My Heart is not my own;—'tis already given,
Betroth'd, and ty'd by Love, Honour, and all
The sweet, the witching Charms of blended Hearts.
Daliel! the blooming Daliel! sweetest Blossom
Of Scotland's Peers, has got my Heart, and to Morrow
By full Consent, and Joy of both our Parents,
The holy Priest was to unite us.

K. Scot.
Rise Cousin;—we will not controvert your Love,
Nor strive with Argument to sway Affection;
Your own free Will shall be your Guide,—therefore,
We offer this Alternative,—and chuse
You must this Night—That's our utmost Limit.
Prepare or to be crown'd as England's Queen,
Or to be whelm'd in Grief as Huntley's Orphan.

(Exit.
Kath.
Now, Horror, thou art at Work, and I defy
Thy madning Power to out-terrify
My distracted Mind. Scaffolds—Axes—Daliel,
And Huntley, pierce through my distemper'd Brain,
And Madness must guide me thro' the Chaos.
My Father—no, they shall not murder you.
I will wed sharpest Misery and triumph
In Wretchedness to save a Father's Life.

(Exit.