University of Virginia Library

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.