University of Virginia Library

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.)