University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Cavern on the Galloway Coast.
Mabel Moran, and Outlawed Royalists.
Mabel.
Hast thou look'd seaward? hast thou landward look'd?
And look'd to heaven? then say what thou hast seen.

First Roy.
There is a strange commotion on the earth,
And trouble on the waters; heaven's whole stars
Stream seven-fold bright; a ruddy red one dropt
Down on Caerlaverock custle; lo! it changed
From its bright starry shape to a flaming shroud:
I heard a loud sob, and a funeral wail—
Flights of blood-ravens darken'd all the pines,
And clapt their wings, and seem'd to smell out prey:
I read the hour upon the chapel clock,
And I dared look no longer.

Mabel.
Thou hast done
Wisely and well. Now, William Seaton, say
Didst thou sit on Barnhourie cliff, and watch
Sea-shore and heaven? then say what didst thou note.

Second Roy.
A fearful cry came from the flood, a cry,
Between Caerlaverock and Barnhourie rock,
Of an unearthly utterance; every wave—
And they roll'd in heaped multitudes and vast—
Seem'd summited with fire. Along the beach
There ran a rushing wind; and with the wind
There came a voice more shrill than human tongue,
Crying “Woe! woe!”

Mabel.
I thank thee, thou bright heaven:
The green ear's spared yet,—but the ripe is cut,
And by a villain's sickle. Brief's thy time,
Thou ruthless spiller of thy kinsman's blood:
A hand shall rise against thee, and a sword
Shall smite thee mid thy glory. For the sun
Shall walk but once from Burnswark's bonnie top
To lonely Criffel, till we hear a sound
Of one smote down in battle. Now, my friends,
There is a bright day coming for poor Scotland:
'T will brighten first in Nithsdale, at the hour
Foretold by our prophetic martyr, when
The slayers' swords were on him. Now be men:
Gird to your sides your swords; rush to the flood;
To the good work of redemption.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

Coast of Galloway.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, Lady Maxwell, and Outlawed Royalists.
Sir M.
Kind, gallant strangers, thanks; you were our friends
In a most perilous moment.

First Royalist.
Thy best friends
Were God and thy good sword, for thou madest us
But idle lookers on.

Second Royalist.
I tell thee, youth,
I have seen gallant knights unhorsed, and I
Have crack'd my spear upon a prince's mail:
And I've seen tried men start when the foe's sword
Came like a thing loved blood. But by St. Andrew
Thou'rt made of peerless stuff. I ne'er saw one
That leap'd so dauntless in the fearful gap
Which gapes 'tween life and death. Thou'rt forged for war,
For thou art fashion'd of a thunder-bolt,
And thy sword's living fire. What's thy name?

Sir M.
He that has nothing in this wide bad world,
No roof to put his desolate head aneath,
No sheltering place from the pursuer's sword,
Nothing he loves he evermore shall see,
Nothing but his weak sword and hapless self,
Has no use for a name.

First Royalist.
By Charles's blood,
(Dost thou start youth!) I love thee for that speech;
And I will seek a noble name for thee.
These seven long summers have I lived in strife:
At times arm'd, watching on the mountain tops;
Sometimes asleep in caverns, with mail'd brow,
And bared blade in my hand; and oftentimes,
Even glad of such diversity, I've rode
Where steeds were rushing on the splintering spears,
And lofty crests were stooping, gaining gashes
O'er which bright eyes have wept. But only one
Of all men I have led to fight or follow'd—
But only one seem'd born to be obey'd;
But one alone could like a god mould hearts
In valour's heavenly warmth. Thou art his son;
Welcome, Sir Marmaduke Maxwell.

Sir Marmaduke.
Noble sir,
If thy right hand hold charity with wretchedness;
If thou dost reverence noble birth, or lend'st
Thy hand to the oppressed one, and turn'st
Thy sword on the oppressor; O! if thou
Hast ever knelt to beauty, e'er gazed back,
As thou didst spur thy courser on the spears,
To the land where dwelt thy loved one, pity us:
For I have lost a noble father, and lost
Him by a villain's hand.

Second Royalist.
What! Halbert Comyne's?
I know him well; we've breasted steeds together
On a field far from this: and well I know him
For one as brave as ever spurr'd to battle;
And I know too I would not choose to wear
The head he dream'd to cleave—

First Royalist.
There are some fearful tidings in the wind;
There are hot coursers spurring to and fro;
Musters of armed men; and summon'd chiefs
Begin to wear blank looks. I tell ye, friends,
I dream'd yestreen that crafty Cromwell lay
Even in the death-pang: see now, here comes one,
To tie my faith to dreams.

Enter Page.
Page.
Sir William Seaton!
My Lord Protector 's gone upon a journey,
Where, the elect know not.

Third Royalist.
Northward belike,
For here sits Monck as crafty as a spider
I' the middle of his mesh.

Page.
Some hotter clime
'Tis thought he seeks; he has had cold fits of late.

First Roy.
Come, cease thy riddling; he is dead; I knew
This gladsome tale some hours since: I know too
Our monarch's navy, thick with shining helms,
Will soon stand for the coast. Come, draw your swords,
Soldiers of good King Charles, and shout and kneel,
And let us vow a vow.

Second Royalist.
Aye, let us vow
To strike Caerlaverock cope-stone to the moat,
And in its place set Halbert Comyne's head.

First Royalist.
We must our steps choose warily. Halbert Comyne
Appears commission'd to blunt his sharp sword
On the bosom bones of loyal men who love
The ancient line of their anointed kings.
Now, gentle lady, deep in yon green wood
Stands the lone shealing of a dame far famed
For cunning skill by shepherds. This shrewd page
Shall guide thy footsteps at the day-dawn, lady;
She is a dame, tender, and tried, and true.

Sir M.
We know this sage dame; she's as true as light
Unto the morning. Honour'd lady-mother,
An angel has forsook our house, and now
The fiend inhabits there.

Lady Maxwell.
My son, my son,
When tear-drops fall from heroes, we may look
For women's eyes to weep. Bury thy grief
Deep in thy bosom, and let maiden's cheeks
Wear tears, not thine. Now mark and mind my words:
The way of glory narrow is, and straight;
That of ambition, short, and bright, and broad:
Touch glory, and thy hands shall seem as snow
Ere it hath reach'd the earth. Whoso doth touch
Ambition's finger, yea, or kiss the hem
Of her far-flowing robe, shall smell of blood
As far as from the green earth to the moon.
Thou art the last of an illustrious line;
And there is spilt blood on thy father's floor.—

(Exit Lady Maxwell.)
Sir M.
Yes, there is spilt blood on my castle floor,
Blood dearer far than flows in my sad heart,
Dearer than aught that 's dear to me on earth:
The avengement of that blood shall be a tale
While Criffel keeps its stance, while gentle Nith
Flows at its foot. Old men shall hold their hands
Toward Caerlaverock castle, and relate
To their grandchildren how it came to pass.

SCENE III.

Caerlaverock Hall.
Halbert Comyne.
Comyne.
Fresh smells the air of morning; and I see
Red in the eastern heaven. 'Tis some hours now
Since I have wash'd my hands, yet none return
From the good greenwood and the deep wide sea,
To greet me with good tidings. Hubert! Hubert!
Thou that dost errands swift as thunder doth,
Why lingerest thou? What! has the green ground gaped
And swallow'd them up too? Even the yare sea,
That ne'er refused the bloodiest offering, keeps
Present and giver both. O! this doth mix
Perdition in my sugar'd cup. Now, now
I hear the sound of coming feet—no, no;
Cursed wind, this is thy mockery; mayest thou
Ne'er slumber 'mongst the odorous violets more,
But sleep on rotten fens. Now I must wear
The aspect of amazement and strange horror:
Terror must seem to sway my tongue, and straight
Must fearful words escape it. I must call
With the voice of one who sees some fearful shape,
To which creeds give no credence. Tut—no more;
I shall wear looks that might seduce the stars
To shoot down for mere pity.—Ho! awake!
Awaken! rise! or sleep till the sharp steel
In murderers' hands invade you. Will you sleep
Till the blood of slaughter'd bodies flood your couches?
Awake! or drowse till doomsday. Haste, oh haste!
Ring the alarm bell! let the trumpet sound
Till it shakes down the cedars!

Enter Servants.
First Servant.
What, oh what,
Means this most fearful summons?

Comyne.
Thou blank fool,
Thou slumbering coward, may perdition seize
Those that can slumber now! Yet thou couldst sleep
At the loud thunder's elbow! Haste, now haste!
Warn all the warlike vassals of thy lord!
Saddle the fleetest steeds! Dost tarry still?

Sec. S.
What, in the name o' the eagle and the rood,
Calls for this sudden summons?

Comyne.
Thou sleepest yet,
Thou creature made up in a hasty moment;
Now, by the blood of thy good lord that reeks
Yet on the sword that shed it, I'll make thee
The ravens' meat.

Enter Women.
First Woman.
Now what means a' this din?

Com.
My bonnie maid, thine eyes are sparkling yet
With dreaming of caresses. My old dame,
Bind up thy gray locks, and go to thy prayers:
Hast thou been revelling late? Can sixty years
Be tempted like sixteen?—Foh!

Second Woman.
Me, sir! me, sir!
A king on a throne—a preacher o' the word—
Nay, even the laird of Collistown himself,
Laird of three miles o' moorland, shouldnae tempt
A dame sedate as me: my certe! tempted?

Comyne.
Not armed yet, you tardy rustics! Arm!
Mount! spur! the spoiler has fallen upon your house,
And I alone am left: come, mount and follow.

Second Servant.
I'm arm'd; and, Halbert Comyne, swift as thine
My steed shall fly; as sharp shall smite my sword;
So let us hasten:—who has done this deed?
Where is my lord, and my thrice honour'd lady,
And young Sir Marmaduke?

Comyne.
All dead and gone!
'Twas at the morn's third hour—Be those slaves arm'd?
I heard a shriek; and, ere I rose, a groan
Came from a dying man.—I snatch'd my sword,
Flew down the stair, and, lo! the hall was full
Of armed men, and they had slain thy lord,
Ta'en captive his fair lady and her son.

Second Servant.
Oh, words of woe! who can have done this deed?

Comyne.
They were all men of evil mien, all arm'd
With brand and dagger, and, in desperate deeds,
Skilful they seem'd; and they were closely swathed
In dark gray mantles; o'er their brows were pull'd
Their plumed bonnets, while to the full moon
They held their brands, and mutter'd chosen scraps
Of Scripture threatenings, and to bloody meaning
Did turn each spotless word.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

Cumlongan Castle. Morning.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
Mary Douglas.
Come hither, maiden;—dost thou know a tree,
A high green tree, upon whose leafy top
The birds do build in spring? This tree doth grow
By the clear fountain, on whose virgin breast
The water lily lies. There the pale youth,
Sick in his summer beauty, stoops and drinks:
Grave matrons say, the waters have strange virtues,
Which this green tree drinks through his veins, and wide
To the joyous air he spreads his balsam'd bough.
Thou know'st it not.

May Morison.
Lady, I know it rarely;
Far up the straight stem of this lovely tree
The honeysuckle climbs, and from its boughs
Flings down its clusters, till the blossoms wreathe
The passers' foreheads. 'Tis the self-same tree
True lovers swear by. I have three of its leaves
Sew'd i' the hem o' my kirtle. 'Neath its bough
Thou left'st thy snood, to greet Lord Walter Maxwell,
When his fair son off-cap'd thee like a goddess.

Mary Douglas.
Cease, cease, thou know'st it; now be swift, and haste
Unto this tree. Fly like a bird that leaves
No stamp of its wing upon the yielding air;
Its centre stem shoots as 't would say, Ye stars,
I'll stop when I'm among you.—See if this
Be shorn in twain by fire; and if two names,
Carved curious i' the bark, are razed out
By the lightning's fiery bolt.

May Morison.
Lady, I'll go,
And come as the Scripture-dove did, when she bore
Tidings of happy sort.

(Exit.)
Mary Douglas.
Can there be truth
In the dreams of night? To the airy semblances
Of possible things can I glew on belief
Firm as my creed? for the night visions oft
Take their complexion from our troubled thoughts;
And yet wise ones have said, to favour'd men
The future woes are vision'd forth and shaped
By heavenly hand and gentle. Thus sad things
Come softly on the mind, as the dove's down
Drops on the tender grass. Though my mind 's not
Hoodwink'd with rustic marvels, I do think
There are more things i' the grove, the air, the flood,
Yea, and the charnel'd earth, than what wise man,
Who walks so proud as if his form alone
Fill'd the wide temple of the universe,
Will let a frail maid say. I'd write i' the creed
Of the hoariest man alive, that fearful forms.
Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels;
That shapes too horrid for our gaze stand o'er
The murder'd dust, and for revenge glare up,
Until the stars weep fire for very pity.
If it be so, then this sad dream, that shook
My limbs last night, and made my tresses creep
As crested adders, is a warning tongue,
Whose words deep woes will follow.

Re-enter May Morison.
May Morison.
Hearken, lady:
On the tree top two cushat doves are cooing;
At its green foot two wanton hares are sporting;
A swarm of brown bees cluster on its stem,
And loud 's their swarming song. No leaf is touch'd.
The tree looks green and lovely.

Mary Douglas.
Thou deservest
A silken snood for this. Now tell me, maiden,
Hast thou e'er dream'd sweet dreams that came to pass,
And hast thou faith in them, as in the vows
Which youths of seventeen breathe?

Mary Morison.
Dreams! I have dream'd
Such things would win a gentle lady's ear,
Wrought in a tender ballad. Faith in them
I venture little. For of empty shrouds,
And coffins too, I've dream'd, and graves that gaped
For the neat length of my little body, lady.

Mary Douglas.
But hast thou ne'er dream'd that at evening, which
The morrow's sun reveal'd before it set?

May Morison.
Since I was sixteen, I have dream'd such dreams,
'T would take no slender wisdom to expound them.
I've dream'd of gentle kisses—kisses ne'er
Have touch'd my lips, except perchance i' the dark,
A twilight smack or two; but these none saw,
And are not worth the counting. I've dream'd too,
Of trooping 'midst bride-favours, to the sound
Of dulcimer and flute; on my head, too,
I've dream'd the bride's hose fell; yet, I am here,
As single as a neighbourless stocking. None
Ask the kind question which all maidens long for.

Mary D.
I ask for dreams, and thou givest me a history.

May Morison.
The best o' my dreams is coming. Late last night,
I dream'd I met with the dear lad o' my heart
By a green bank, where the rich violets blush'd,
Expecting to be press'd. I 'woke with joy; then fell
In pleasant sleep again, and straight I dream'd
I heard my name call'd i' the kirk, and loud
Rose the crowds' shouting, as I swept along
Beside my gallant bridegroom. I had on
Your gown of satin, with the golden flounce,
The bonnet, too, you promised me, all deck'd
With pearls, at least; and proud I look'd; and so
The bridal bed was made, and I was laid
Atween the lily sheets.

Mary Douglas.
Come, come, no more—
The gown I'll give thee, and the bonnet too,
Sown all with Solway pearl. To these I'll add,
When this dream proves no mockery, snowy sheets,
As white as those which visited thy sleep.
Lo! who come here? men who have urged their way
Through flood and forest; at their bosoms hang
Leaves, rent from boughs in passing. Simon Graeme,
Why all this show of steel?—Haste, fearful haste,
Seems in thy steps, and sad news on thy tongue.

Enter Halbert Comyne, Simon Graeme, Mark Macgee, Servants and Shepherds.
Graeme.
News, gentle lady! news of that sad sort,
To turn thy cheek-rose pale, and make the tears
Course down the snow o' thy bosom.

Mary Douglas.
Tell, oh, tell me!

Graeme.
Ask Halbert Comyne, beauteous lady; he
Can picture forth this tragedy in words
That may make murder look less hideous, and
Blanch it like boulted snow. For he is versed
In those soft soothing words, that take the taint
From deeds that smell to the moon.

Comyne.
Peace, peasant, pe ace
Weep, gentle lady, there is done a deed
That renders day-light hideous; makes the mother
Her baby dash i' the dust, lest its soft hand
Should fumble with a dagger; that doth call
From the creation's centre to high heaven,
With a voice more audible than thunder. Our castle
Is sack'd. Our good lord, and fair lady, with
Their only son, and all that could bear brand,—
Yea, even my men, whose nerves were nerves of steel,
Are swept from 'neath the sky, and I alone,—
Though I sought death, and with my broad sword bared
Follow'd them to the wood, and strove to smite
Some of the boldest,—I alone am left
To tell the tale and weep.

(Mary Douglas faints.)
Macgee.
Life's roses fade;
And see, the lily o' death grows i' the place.—
Water! bring me water.

Graeme.
Low thou liest,
My beauteous fair one; my keen plowshare ne'er
Shared violet half so lovely. Take these drops,
Pure from the spring, they are not half so pure
As thy most lovely self.

Macgee.
The rose, whose lips
The dew hath never tasted—the chaste lily
That hid its bashful bosom from the sun,
But look'd sedate unto the modest star,
Seem'd ne'er to me so beautiful and spotless.

Graeme.
Now all hear this—if this sweet lady dies,
Then I wait not for sign of heaven, or word,
To draw the sword of vengeance. My right hand
Shall swiftly smite and sure. Oh! gaze again;
Thou piece of chaste perfection, gaze again.

Comyne.
Peace, varlet, peace! Deem'st thou this lady is
Some slippery dame, whose tardy sense swift cups
Have newly overtaken?

Graeme.
Halbert Comyne;
An hour of sin—an age of deep repentance—
If such be heaven's will; but make not now,
From this maid's sorrow, matter for thy mirth.

Mary Douglas.
Where is my love, that I may stretch myself
By him, and call for swords of cherubim?
Oh! is he slain, or lost in the wild sea,
The ruthless sea, where shrieking pity's tongue
May reach not? Stand ye there—and are ye men,
And nursed at women's breasts, while my true love
Is torn away by traitors? There's a time—
So lay it to your hearts, and think of it—
When for each hair torn from his precious locks,
For every drop shed from his bleeding body,
For every sigh he utter'd—for each pang
That he endured, and for each tear shed for him
By maids' or matrons' eyes, a strict account
Will be demanded. But I speak to men
With eyes of marble, and with hearts of flint.

Comyne.
Of whom speak'st thou, my fair one? In the strife
I saw Lord Maxwell's life-blood on the floor:
His son smote sore and carried swift away;
Bound with his weeping mother. They are now
Beyond the sight of mercy's weeping eyes.

Graeme.
O'er this dread night a woeful mystery hangs,
Which God will take away. for we have sought them
By the wide fathomless sea—by the green wood
Upon the sea sand, and the lily lea;
Nor step, nor trace of man may we espy:
O'er this dread night an awful mystery hangs,
Which god will in his own time take away.

Comyne.
Farewell! fair lady; may I hope a time,
When for my kinsmen I've sung dool—and ta'en
Some of their state on mine unworthy shoulders—
To kneel and offer my poor service to thee;
For tears will dry up like last morning's dew,
And grief itself grow gentler; and the sobs,
Which give such awful grace to beauty's woe,
Will stop no more the current of free speech.

Mary Douglas.
Oh! Halbert Comyne—tarry, Halbert Comyne;
Now let mine arms come never from thy neck:
Turn me, turn him, into the desolate world.
Take, lord, the rich earth from the east to west,
And own all that the sun doth look upon;
Take tower and turret, and the sodded sheal;
Take all mine unsumm'd treasures—all that kings
Have given in honour of the Douglas name;
And we shall sojourn in the uttermost earth,
And never think of thee, save when we pray
For thine increase of glory. Halbert Comyne,
Give my true love to me.

Comyne.
Thy speech errs much,
Thou gentle one. I do forgive thee, lady:
Thy brain is rapt and wandering, and thou dream'st
Of foes in firmest friends.

Graeme.
(Aside.)
My sword be swift:
For I shall sure hear thunder. God's fierce wrath
Might find an object here. In heaven above,
In earth beneath—the spacious air—the sea,
God gives my sword no signal. Shall I cease
My faith in the sign'd promise—things reveal'd;
And smite thee as a heathen smites, nor wait
For fire to aid my vengeance?

Com.
Let's home from vain pursuit. Whoever found
The mark of the eagle's wing on the soft air
He soar'd through, when he left the ravish'd dam
Running on the hill-top bleating? Lady, adieu!
Now let your steeds taste the sharp whip and rowel,
Till the flinty roads yield fire. Tardy rustic!
By heaven, the boor wears disobedient looks.

Graeme.
I am a plain blunt man, good sir, and lack
Those honey'd words which make the sour taste sweet:
I love not sleeping in the dark, where dirks
Forget to keep their sheaths; or where the feet
Of the murderer wear strong wings, which waft him o'er
Moat and portcullis. I'm too small a bird
To peck with the gore-hawk.

Macgee.
Can a man sleep safe
When the very air drops daggers? or close his lids
Beneath a roof doom'd to prove heaven's hot fire
Is an avenger yet?

Comyne.
Rude churls, remain.
I lack not such thick-blooded spirits as you:
Yet lay my words to heart. Do not be found
Shedding tongue-venom in our peasants' ears;
Else yon grim raven, which now croaking flies
From us toward Caerlaverock, he shall share
Your quarters with the hounds.

(Exit.)
Graeme.
Go! Halbert Comyne!
Lord of the gentle deed, and gentle look;
Thou hatest blood as yon black raven doth
Now croaking after thee.

Mary Douglas.
(To Graeme.)
Farewell! farewell!
I thank you for your pity: you have wound
Around my heart. I fain would call you friend:
For there be few friends in this ruthless world.

(Exit.)
Shepherd.
'Tis pitiful we've lost our own good lord.
But Halbert Comyne has the looks win hearts:
And he is gentle as the sleeping sea,
Meek as a May-morn 'fore the lark is up;
He'll make a right good master. How do sheep
Sell in Lochmaben market? does the black
And brocket breed excel the silk-fleeced brood
Of the auld stock o' Tinwald?

Graeme.
The auld stock
Of Tinwald-top for me. But, Halbert Comyne—
Why he's a thing worth worshipping, old man;
It breaks his heart to heir his kinsman's land:
He'd rather heir a dukedom. How he sighs,
Curses all sharp-edged swords, and vows henceforth
To deal in nought but daggers.

Shepherd.
'Faith! we're blest,
For he's a rare sweet gentleman. How now
Goes on the surgery of sheep, with tar
Instead of spell and charm, and watching them
With a peel'd wand of witch-tree. De'il have me,
If I like trusting to the wit of man.

Graeme.
Why, Cromwell and the troops of the covenant
Are coming soon to empty your sheep-folds?
What charms can save your sheep from soldiers' teeth
I'd have you put in practice. Touching now
Sir Marmaduke, the peevish stripling—he
Play'd on the lute: 'twas deadly sin! and sang
Songs praising black-eyed girls—'twas treasonable!
And our good lord—I'll paint no farther—soon
May the Eternal loose my sword, and set
Free my right hand. This secret, on my soul
Sinks like a mill-stone; my heart says to me,
“Go, shout out the stern truth.”

Macgee.
Farewell, farewell,
My well-going plough I sang so oft beside;
My bonnie grays which drew so fair a furrow;
The joy to see the green corn blade arise
Which I had sown—the gray lark sang to see it;—
The holy joy that silent Sabbath brings,
When nought is heard, save the far-sounding psalm,
And sweet bells knelling kirkward. Oh! my lord.

Graeme.
Let not thy wrath draw an unfated sword—
The hour is coming, and the right hand's ready
That shall avenge this deed. Make it a warning;
Even from Caerlaverock to the uttermost earth—
We'll spill his guilt-cup when it tops the brim,
And give him to perdition.

Macgee.
Be it soon!
For, Simon Graeme, why should we stand and see
The murderer wipe his bloody sword, and smile,
Nor smite him to the dust,—in hope that heaven
Will call in thunder “Strike!” Oh! Simon Graeme,
Men may mistake the stars—the signs above
Are hard to understand, and all men read them
Even as their own wills list.

Graeme.
Thou say'st the truth;
Yet thou but echoest me. Go, seek to stay
The rushing of that river; keep the sea
From leaping on the land—curb in yon sun
From his bright journey; and say to the wind,
Awake thou when I list. Lo! they run all
Their destined courses; and, they stay, but not
For mortal bidding—all the might of man:
Man, glorious man, who wears gold on his brow,
And steel in his right hand, can mock at them,
Not stay them—What is will'd will surely be;
God walks his way in silence, till his hour,
And then men hearken thunder. So, my friend,
Keep thy voice silent, and thy good sword ready—
Ere three days pass, such tidings will be heard
As ne'er were heard in Nithsdale.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE V.

Coast of Galloway.
Enter Lady Maxwell, and Page.
Lady Maxwell.
Woe! nothing but woe! I saw the blood blades bare,
And my lord's head smote i' the dust. Had I
Clasp'd him unto my bosom, and look'd up—
And to their swords exposed my tender body,
And my voice melting ripe with woe,—implored
Mercy one moment, it had been in vain.
You winged ones, who carry swords to shape
God's retribution out—you holy spirits,
Who fly to the uttermost earth to shield good men
When murder's blade is bare; Oh! where were ye?
God's wrath burns not 'gainst murder, as the creed
For some wise purpose words it. The full moon,
Yea, and the tender stars, look'd on, and smiled,
While my lord's life-blood cried from earth, above
The cherubim's abodes.

Page.
Here come two men;
Shepherds they seem; but let us hear them speak;
They may wear steel plates under their gray weeds.
Men are not what they seem.

(Exeunt.)
Enter Shepherds.
First Shepherd.
Now, peace be here!
A floor of scented cedar! I say, give her
A floor of earth, and lay green rushes on it.

Second S.
Floors of fine cedar! give her a tarr'd stick,
And a teat of tarry wool. She kens far more
Of smearing sheep, and clipping sheep, than dwelling
On bonnie boarded floors.

First Shepherd.
Sad tidings, man!
Sad tidings, man—the douce dame of the glen,
Douce Mabel Moran lies at the last gasp.
Lang John Dargavel saw her wraith yestreen
Come like a gray mist round the hip o' th' hill.

Second S.
We'll have a sample of sleety weather soon,
Rots and elf-arrows; Mabel will be miss'd.

First Shepherd.
Speak low—speak low—it's barely safe to talk
O Mabel's gifts; gifts did I call them? Gifts
From the foul creature that divides the hoof,
And yet's not eatable. Dying did I say?
None born will brag they carried her feet foremost:
Many a fair form she's stretch'd on their last cloth,
And mickle burial wine she's drank—but she
Lives on, and will. I heard John Cameron say,
That sinful Mabel would leave this sad world
With a wild sugh—no coffin, and no shroud.

Second Shepherd.
Prodigious man; but that is horrid.

First Shepherd.
Now
Last night, our Jean, a fearless lassie, went
To watch old Mabel through the night. The dame
Said, Wait not with me, sweet maid, in this desart,
A fair form from the east will ere day dawn
Come here, and comfort me.

Second Shepherd.
Re-enter Lady Maxwell and Page.

First Shepherd.
Gomeral and gowk!
Run, and she'll turn thee to a fox, and turn
Herself into a hound, and hunt ye round
From Burnswark to Barnhourie. Gracious me,
She's cross'd the salt sea in a cockle shell,
A cast of slipper, or flown o'er the foam
O' the Solway, like a sheldrake.

Lady Maxwell.
Youth, return;
I know one of these shepherds well; he'll lead me
To where the good dame lives. Take thou this token
To my fair son. It was his father's gift
Upon our bridal day. Say that I spake not;
But press'd it to my breast, as I do now,
And rain'd it o'er with tears.

(Exit Page.)
First Shepherd.
This is a dame
From the Caerlaverock side, far kenn'd and noted;
She sits by Solway, and says “e'en be 't sae;”
And straight the waters roar, and duck the ships
Like waterfowl. 'Faith, we must speak her fair.

Sec. Shep.
O! soft and fair; O! Saunders, soft and fair:
Who would take that sweet lady for a dame
That deals with devils? Sin has a lovely look.

First Shepherd.
(To Lady Maxwell.)
This is a bonnie morning, but the dew
Lies thick and cold; and there are kindlier things
To gaze on than the deep green sea. So come
With me—even Saunders Wilson, of Witchknowe,
For I love Mabel like mine own heart's blood;
Love her and all her cummers. Come and taste
The warm and kindly heart of corn and milk,
Which we poor hinds call porridge.

Second Shepherd.
Bide ye there!
Ye might come home with me—but three o' my cows
Last week were elf-shot, and we've placed witch-tree
Above our lintel, and my Elspa's famed
For a looser o' witch-knots—one that can stay
Shrewd dames from casting cantraips. So belike,
Douce dame, ye would nae venture to my home,
And I can scarce advise ye.

Lady Maxwell.
Willie Macbirn,
Thou art a kind and honest-hearted man:
I know who supper'd on thy curds and cream
Without thy invitation. They are night
Who scorn'd thy hollow stones and rowan wands,
And, in thy cow-house, drain'd thy seven cows dry,
And 'neath the cold moon's eastern horn who coost
A spell as thou camest screaming to the world,
To mark what death thou'lt dree. Dost thou hear that?
Now shall I rid me of this babbling peasant.

(Aside.)
Sec. Shep.
I hope—oh! cannie, kind and fearful woman,
I hope ye joke. A stone of good fat cheese,
A ham whose fat will gleam to the rannel-tree,
I vow but I will send you. Death I'll dree!
My conscience! kimmer, I should like to ken.

Lady M.
Avoid the salt sea, and a bottomless boat.

Second Shepherd.
Good Lord! now, Saunders Wilson, o' Witchknowe,
D'ye hear her? I ne'er dred such things before.

Lady Maxwell.
Dread growing hemp: but dread it twisted more.

Second Shepherd.
Hemp growing and twisted! diel maun I dread that.
I have been walking now these seven long years
On a bottomless pool, on ice a sixpence thick.

Lady Maxwell.
But, chief beware—what sort of soul art thou?
Had I an errand on the wide salt sea,
Couldst thou walk on the water?

Second Shepherd.
Walk on the water!
Were I five ell of wind, or a willie-wagtail,
Then might I swim like a sheldrake on the deep:
I'll walk on 't when it's paved with solid ice,
Or when the stone is bent from bank to bank,
Or when the cunning house of crooked timber,
Which men do call a boat, floats in the foam;
But I'm no spirit, or brownie, goblin, or wraith,
Nor will-o'wisp—a deil would do 't discreetly;
I am a sinful tender of sheep, good dame—

Lady M.
Meet me at midnight, when the risen moon
Sits on yon hill. I'll teach thy leaden feet
To tread o'er curled billows. Now, begone.

Sec. Shep.
Tread on the curled billows! horrid be 't!
And amble stride-legs 'tween the foul fiend's horns!
These are sad pranks for Jenny Jink's goodman.

(Exit.)
Lady Maxwell.
Shepherd, thou seem'st to know me. I am one—
Be wise, and cease to know me; for my name
May bring thee pain and peril.

First Shepherd.
Noble lady,
I am but a poor man; yet hair of thy head
I'll not see harm'd: some fearful woe, some grief
Fit to make dull eyes weep, hath turn'd thee thus.
O! there are awful changes in this world!
But I ask nought; and I can be as mute
As that grey stone; and I can draw too, lady,
For thy sake, a sharp sword. Here comes the dame,
Even reverend Mabel. Heaven be thy shield.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

A Wood on the Sea Coast.
Lady Maxwell and Mabel Moran.
Mabel.
Said I not soothly? May his murderous soul
Howl in the mirkest pit. Here have I sought
Mine old poor refuge. Thou shalt live with me:
For one kind shepherd brings me ewe milk cheese;
Another comes with the dried flesh of lambs;
A third doth give me new baked bread, and begs
A mild kind winter for his woolly flocks;
Another comes with blankets and warm rugs,
Blesses himself, “Good Mabel, make my sheep,
Now worth scarce thirty pence, worth fifteen shillings
By the lamb fair of Lockerby; the sum to thee
Is wondrous little, but to me 'tis large.”
So live with me till this cloud passes by;
A golden day is coming. Here comes one,
A man mark'd for the sword; I know his errand.

Enter Sir John Gourlay.
Sir J.
This Scotch land is one desert; barren hills
Succeeding barren valleys, and the hinds
Look miserably poor. That men live here
I have some doubt, for what I 've seen are ghosts—
Soft! here 's an ancient dame of other days:
I'd rather cross a culverin's mouth than meet her;
She looks beyond this world. Now in my way
She sets herself. There 's something in her looks
That pierces through me like a sharpen'd sword.

Mabel.
John Gourlay, what wantest thou with Halbert Comyne?

Sir John.
Thrice reverend dame, I come to greet Lord Comyne;
And I did think myself a stranger here,
'Tis my first foot in Scotland.

Mabel.
Thou dost come
With golden tidings. Hearken what I say:
Seek thou for Halbert Comyne one day hence,
And thou wilt find him as that dust which thou
Dost carry on thy shoes. All, all his days
Are noted, number'd; and the wiles of man,
His might, his courage, or his cruelty,
Cannot contend with God. Now go thy way.
Yonder 's Caerlaverock turrets, o'er the pines,
And there lives Halbert Comyne.

Sir John.
Ancient dame,
I have a reverence for thy hoary locks,
And crave thy blessing. Seest thou this gold mark?

Mabel.
John Gourlay, curse the hour that thou camest here,
To feed Caerlaverock ravens—That 's thy blessing.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VII.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Halbert Comyne, alone.
Comyne.
Three of these things were men whom nature made
In an hour of hottest haste, that she might frame
Her master-minds at leisure. Hubert Dougan,
Thou art mourn'd much, keen, quick, and fiery Hubert!
Yet thou wert thoughtful and thick-blooded grown,
And hadst compunctious fits. 'Tis well he's gone,
For he had proud stuff in him; his sharp looks
Had more of equal in them than I wish'd:
And he was fickle as an April morn;
As changeable as a maiden in her teens;
And dangerous as a drawn dagger placed
In a moody madman's hand.

Servant.
(Entering.)
Please you, my lord,
A messenger all reeking in hot haste,
A messenger with gold spurs on his heels,
From plume to spur all soil'd with desperate travel,
Is come with princely greetings for your ear.

Com.
Go guide him here. This world, this little world
Is given me now, to god me, or undo me;
And I have won it the way makes angels weep.
Yet I'm no murderer with a marble heart,
A scorner of grave maxims and sage saws,
Who seeks to win this world and lose the next,
And casts away the hope to sit and harp
By the hip of douce King David. There 's a time
My heart will cease to crow to mount my steed,
My brow will weary of its golden weight;
I'll cast my cuirass and my sword aside,
And kneel and vow that I am grown God's soldier;
And then will come our mantled presbyters,
And groan some sage saint-saying 'bout repentance;
And rank me with the elect, while some sweet maid
Will lay her white hand on mine old bald head,
And vow that I look wondrous at fourscore.

Enter Sir John Gourlay.
Sir J.
Hear, Noble Sir! my Lord Protector greets you
Lord Warden of the Marches; and this letter
Reveals his wishes farther.

Comyne.
What is this?
(Reads.)
“From Richard Cromwell, Lord Protector, greeting.”
(Aside.)
How in the name of the fiend climb'd this soft boy
To an eagle's perch like this? Thou unfledged thing,
To dare to mount December's darkest storm
On wings too weak for summer. Thou Protector?
Thou beardless school-boy, with a sword of straw,
And crown of new-pull'd rushes! Let me see:
“To our right trusty cousin, Halbert Comyne—
We greet you Warden of the Scottish March;
And of our troops from Tweed unto the Forth
We make you sole commander.” This sounds well.—
Now, what's your name? I'm sure I've seen your face,
And in a perilous place too.

Sir John.
Of small note
Is my poor name—John Gourlay, of Giltford.

Com.
What! Sir John Gourlay, who on Marston Moor
Soil'd the gilt coats of the gay cavaliers?
Sir John, thou'lt bear my standard, with a hand
Steeve as the temper'd steel. Now speed and spur,
Muster our troops, and rouse our rude dull rustics,
For arm'd rebellion halloos in the wind:
Monck sits in moody meditation here;
And cavaliers have put their feet in the stirrups,
And pluck'd their pennons up.

Sir John.
Now, noble general,
I crave small thanks for telling a strange tale.
As I spurr'd past where yon rough oakwood climbs
The river-margin, I met something there—
A form so old, so wretched, and so wither'd,
I scarce may call it woman; loose her dress
As the wind had been her handmaid, and she lean'd
Upon a crooked crutch. When she saw me,
She yell'd, and strode into my path; my steed
Shook, and stood still, and gazed with me upon her:
She smiled on me as the devil does on the damn'd;
A smile that would turn the stern stroke of my sword
Into a feather's touch. I smoothed my speech
Down from the martial to the shepherd's tone,
And stoop'd my basnet to my saddle bow,
And ask'd for the castle of my good Lord Comyne;
Her eye glanced ghastly on me—and I saw
Aneath its sooty fringe the glimmering fire:
“Go seek thou Halbert Comyne one day hence,
Thou 'lt find him even as the dust which thou
Dost carry on thy shoes. His days and hours
Are number'd. Can the might and pride of man
O'ercome the doom of God?” I ask'd her blessing:
She smiled in devilish joy, and gave me quick
To feed Caerlaverock ravens.

Comyne.
So that's all;
For one poor plack she'd dream thee a rare dream,
And crown thee Lord Protector for the half
Of a crook'd sixpence. These are old wild dames,
Who sell the sweet winds of the south to sailors,
Who milk the cows in Araby, and suck
The swans' eggs of the Tigris: they can turn
Their wooden slipper to a gilded barge;
Their pikestaff to a winged steed, that flies
As far as earth grows grass. They cast their spells
On green hot youths, and make the fond brides mourn.
I give them garments which the moths have bored,
And mouldy cheese—and so keep my good name,
And my hens on my hen-roosts.

(Exeunt.)