University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Cumlongan Castle.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
May Morison.
This grief 's a most seducing thing—all ladies
Who wish to be most gallantly wooed must sit
And sigh to the starlight on the turret top,
Saunter by waterfalls, and court the moon
For a goodly gift of paleness. Faith! I'll cast
My trick of laughing to the priest, and wooe
Man, tender man, by sighing.

Mary Douglas.
The ash bough
Shall drop with honey, and the leaf of the linn
Shall cease its shaking, when that merry eye
Knows what a tear-drop means. Be mute! be mute!

May Morison.
When gallant knights shall scale a dizzy wall
For the love of a laughing lady, I shall know
What sighs will bring i' the market.
(Sings.)

Mary D.
No tidings of thee yet—my love, my love;
Didst thou but live as thou camest yesternight
In vision'd beauty to my side, 'twere worth
The world from east to west.

May Morison.
O lady! lady!
This grief becomes you rarely; 'tis a dress
That costs at most a tear o' the eye—the sweetest
Handmaid that beauty has. How thou wouldst weep
To see some fair knight, on whose helmet bright
A score of dames stuck favours—see him leave
His barb'd steed standing in the wood to preach
Thee out of thy virgin purgatory, to taste
The joys of wedded heaven.

(A knock heard at the gate.)
Mary Douglas.
(Exit May Morison.)

Enter Halbert Comyne.
Comyne.
Now, beauteous lady,
Joy to your meditations: your thoughts hallow
Whate'er they touch; and aught you think on 's blest.

Mary Douglas.
I think on thee, but thou 'rt not therefore bless'd.
What must I thank for this unwish'd-for honour?

Com.
Thyself thank, gentle one: thou art the cause
Why I have broken slumbers and sad dreams,
Why I forget high purposes, and talk
Of nought but cherry lips.

Mary Douglas.
Now were you, sir,
Some unsunn'd stripling, you might quote to me
These cast-off saws of shepherds.

Comyne.
The war trump
Less charms my spirit than the sheep-boy's whistle.
My barbed steed stamps in his stall, and neighs
For lack of his arm'd rider. Once I dream'd
Of spurring battle steeds, of carving down
Spain's proudest crests to curious relics; and
I cleft in midnight vision the gold helm
Of the proud Prince of Parma.

Mary Douglas.
Thanks, my lord;
You are blest in dreams, and a most pretty teller
Of tricks in sleep—and so your dream is told:
Then, my fair sir, good night.

Comyne.
You are too proud,
Too proud, fair lady; yet your pride becomes you;
Your eyes lend you divinity. Unversed
Am I in love's soft silken words—unversed
In the cunning way to win a gentle heart.
When my heart heaves as if 't would crack my corslet,
I'm tongue-tied with emotion, and I lose
Her that I love for lack of honey'd words

Mary D.
Go, school that rank simplicity of thine:
Learn to speak falsely in love's gilded terms;
Go learn to sugar o'er a hollow heart;
And learn to shower tears, as the winter cloud,
Bright, but all frozen; make thy rotten vows
Smell like the rose of July. Go, my lord;
Thou art too good for this world.

Comyne.
My fair lady,
Cease with this bitter but most pleasant scoffing;
For I am come upon a gentle suit,
Which I can ill find terms for.

Mary Douglas.
Name it not.
Think it is granted; go now. Now farewell:
I 'm sad, am sick—a fearful faintness comes
With a rush upon my heart; so now, farewell.

Comyne.
Lo! how the lilies chace the ruddy rose—
What a small waist is this!

Mary Douglas.
That hand! That hand!
There 's red blood on that right hand, and that brow:
There 's motion in my father's statue; see,
Doth it not draw the sword? Unhand me, sir.

Comyne.
Thou dost act to the life; but scare not me
With vision'd blood-drops, and with marble swords;
I 'm too firm stuff, thou 'lt find, to start at shadows.

Mary D.
Now were thy lips with eloquence to drop,
As July's wind with balm; wert thou to vow
Till all the saints grew pale; kneel i' the ground
Till the green grass grew about thee; had thy brow
The crowned honour of the world upon it;
I'd scorn thee—spurn thee.

Comyne.
Lady, scorn not me.
O! what a proud thing is a woman, when
She has red in her cheek. Lady, when I kneel down
And court the bridal gift of that white hand
Thou wavest so disdainfully, why then
I give thee leave to scorn me. I have hope
To climb a nobler, and as fair a tree,
And pull far richer fruit. So scorn not me:
I dream of no such honour as thou dread'st.

Mary Douglas.
And what darest thou to dream of?

Comyne.
Of thee, lady.
Of winning thy love on some bloom'd violet bank,
When nought shines save the moon, and where no proud
Priest dares be present: lady, that 's my dream.

Mary D.
Let it be still a dream, then; lest I beg
From heaven five minutes' manhood, to make thee
Dream it when thou art dust.

Comyne.
Why, thou heroine,
Thou piece o' the rarest metal e'er nature stamp'd
Her chosen spirits from, now I do love thee,
Do love thee much for this; I love thee more
Than loves a soldier the grim looks of war,
As he wipes his bloody brow.

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, unseen.
Sir Marmaduke.
(aside.)
What! what is this?
She whom I love best—he whom I hate worst?—
Is this an airy pageant of the fiends?

Mary Douglas.
(Aside.)
Down! down! ye proud drops of my bosom, be
To my dull brain obedient. (To Comyne.)
My good lord,
Much gladness may this merry mood of yours
With a poor maiden bring you. I thank you much
For lending one dull hour of evening wings
To fly away so joyous.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Mine ears have
Turn'd traitors to my love; else they receive
A sound more dread than doomsday. Oh! thou false—
Thou did'st seem purer than the undropt dew,
Chaste as the unsunn'd snow-drops' buds disclosed
Unto the frosty stars; and truer far
Than blossom to the summer, or than light
Unto the morning. And dost thou smile too,
And smile on him so lovingly? bow too
That brow of alabaster? Woman—Woman.

Comyne.
O! for a month of such sweet gentle chiding,
From such ripe tempting lips! Now, fair young lady,
As those two bright eyes love the light, and love
To see proud man adore them, cast not off
For his rough manner, and his unpruned speech,
A man who loves you. Gentle one, we'll live
As pair'd doves do among the balmy boughs.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Painted perdition, dost thou smile at this?

Mary Douglas.
This is a theme I love so well, I wish
For God's good day-light to it; so farewell.

Comyne.
An hour aneath the new risen moon to wooe,
Is worth a summer of sunshine: a fair maid
Once told me this; and lest I should forget it,
Kiss'd me, and told it twice.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Dare but to touch
Her little finger, faithless as she is;
Yea, or her garment's hem—My father's sword,
Thou hadst thy temper for a nobler purpose;
So keep thy sheath: for did I smite him now,
Why men would say, that for a father's blood
Mine slept like water 'neath the winter ice;
But when a weak sweet woman chafed my mood,
And made sport of her vows, then my blood rose,
And with my spirit burning on my brow
I sprang wi' my blade to his bosom. So then, sleep
Fast in thy sheath. Before that lovely face,
Those lips I've kiss'd so fondly, and that neck
Round which mine arms have hung, I could not strike
As the son of my father should.

Mary Douglas.
Now, fair good night,
To thee, most courteous sir. I seek the chace
From dark Cumlongan to green Burnswark top,
With hawk and hound, before to-morrow's sun
Has kiss'd the silver dew. So be not found
By me alone beneath the greenwood bough;
Lest I should wooe thee as the bold dame did
The sire of good King Robert.

(Exit.)
Comyne.
Gentle dreams
To thee, thou sweet one: gladly would I quote
The say of an old shepherd: mayst thou dream
Of linking me within thy lily arms;
And leave my wit, sweet lady, to unravel 't.

(Exit.)
Sir Marmaduke.
And now there's nought for me in this wide world
That 's worth the wishing for. For thee, false one,
The burning hell of an inconstant mind
Is curse enough; and so we part in peace.
And now for thee—I name thee not; thy name,
Save for thy doom, shall never pass my lips—
Depart untouch'd: there's something in this place
Which the stern temper that doth spill men's blood
Is soften'd by. We 're doom'd once more to meet,
And never part in life.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Halbert Comyne and Sir John Gourlay.
Comyne.
And so the English cuirassiers are come
With Sir John Rashgill's spears?

Sir John.
Not all, my lord:
Seven were left praying by the river side,
For it to stay like Jordan: and they'll pray,—
For the cursed stream keeps running. And ten more
Sat singing “Stroudwater,” by a living brook,
To the hundred and nineteenth psalm.

Comyne.
No more, I say;
These men pray not more fervent than they fight.
Now, good Sir John, I have a gentle deed
For thee to do; nay, nay, 'tis no dirk work.
I'd have thee wear the sweet look of sixteen,
When it ventures first 'mongst maidens.

Sir John.
Sword or speech,
My lord, are ready; I can work with both,
But brief—most wond'rous brief.

Comyne.
The bravest men
Are oft the briefest—thou mayst be as brief
As a bride's prayer 'neath the blanket. But, Sir John,
She has a marvellous soft and winning way,
A sovereignty in her look, which melts
Flint hearts as wax; she eloquently moves
Hands of surpassing whiteness; and her tongue
'Twixt her lip-rubies is a thing can charm
The raven's voice to sing.

Sir John.
'Tis rarely painted.
Is she some mermaid of the flood, my lord,
That I must find to charm ye?—you 've described
A thing too hard to catch.

Comyne.
She is no maid
Of the salt flood—but she 's the sweetest maid
On the green earth. In yon high turret, see,
O'er which the twin bright stars are travelling, where
The casements gleam so gallantly, she dwells.
Here glows the red wine, ready for her lips:
Here is a soft couch for her gentle limbs;
This arm shall be her pillow; and what more
Can a good soldier offer, kind Sir John?

Sir J.
She'll ask me for some token, good my lord,
Some antique ring, some rare and costly gem,
A dirty stone set deep in dirty gold;
Or she may have a love for bonnet pieces,
The coin o' her native country. Is she soft,
And will listen to sweet speech?

Comyne.
Stay! take this ring;
And, for thy pains, take thou this purse of gold.
Nay, linger not to reckon it; begone.
(Exit Sir John.)
This fellow has his price. I love him for 't;
He does the deed, and is paid. But he that doth
His right hand wash in my foe's heart, for love
Of shining with my rising, puts a bitt
Between my lips, and follows all my steps
With the halloo of hell.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

Cumlongan Castle.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
Mary Douglas.
Bring me my page's mantle and plumed bonnet,
My little dagger with the golden hilt;
A breath of time is all that sunders me
From a life-time of dishonour.

May Morison.
In the name
Of Meg Macnay, who shaped the winding sheet
Of her first husband and her second's shirt
At once from the same web, what hastes us now?
(Sings.)
(Exit.)

Mary D.
A strange bold courage buoys my spirit up:
Yestreen I dream'd my father's spirit stood
One foot on Solway, and one foot on shore;
And still kept waving seaward. I'll not stay
And yield my fame up with a shriek, like dames
Who dread to soil their slippers.

May Morison enters singing.
May Morison.
(Dresses her.)
Eh! help me, madam, you 've a martial look;
The bonnet fits you rarely—the sword, too,
Doth seem as natural, bless me, to your hand,
As the leaf is to the tree.

Mary Douglas.
What is the hour?

May Morison.
The hour young witches walk in, and work pranks
With the wits of wisest men—'tis short of twelve.
(Sings.)

Mary Douglas.
Farewell! thou hast been faithful; so take this,
And take this too—we'll meet in better times.

May M.
Lord! I'm not shod in shoes of lead—I'll go
And see this young sweet gentleman—his boat
Mayhap may carry double.

Mary Douglas.
Of whom speakest thou?
I know no one—I go far off, I care not
With whom I meet. In this wide world but one
Breathes, who would wrong my wretchedness.

May Morison.
I speak
Of him—even he himself—him you aye dream of.
Lord, lady, how you crimson. The proud youth
Who writes you such rare ballads—Redder yet?
And sings them in your ear—Sir Marmaduke,
He who waits for you in the greenwood now.

Mary D.
Make mirth with other subjects—but on this
Hold thy unkind and most ungentle tongue;
He is where the blessed be.

May Morison.
Lord! Lord! my lady,
My grey eyes are not marble. I can tell
A flesh and blood youth from a saint of heaven:
Why he stood here five minutes since as pale
As one come from the grave. He saw you; heard you
Wooe his grey-headed kinsman: he wax'd pale;
Wax'd paler still, and paler, and his eyes
Shot from them positive fire.

Mary Douglas.
Look in my face;
I am no baby, whom a sugar'd tale—
As you dread heaven, say, did you see him? now
Look me firm in the face.

May Morison.
Lord! here's the piece
Of good red gold he gave me—it's no vision;
'Twill buy me a green kirtle, and a snood:
He gave me a kiss, too, well worth twice as much;
I feel 't yet on my lips—a kiss far kinder
Than e'er Jock Tamson gave me. See him, lady!
My sooth I saw him, and I'll warrant him
Worth all the saints o' the calendar, and sweeter
To thee than fifty visions.

Mary Douglas.
He is living!—
So take my bent knees, heaven. O! my love,
My tried, my faithful, and my gallant love;
I'll follow thee o'er the world—And he was here
'Scaped from extremest peril—pale did you say?
I'll seek, I'll find him, and sink into his arms.
Come, wilt thou go with me?

May Morison.
Look, lady, look;
The night is monstrous mirk, and the grass damp:
Cumlongan greenwood is no gracious place,
And I've a new snood I would gladly sew,
And I've a kind lad I must meet to-night.

Mary Douglas.
They have the noblest guide who have but God;
I give me to his guidance: so, farewell.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

Cumlongan Wood.
Enter Sir John Gourlay.
Sir J.
Enter Mary Douglas, disguised.

Mary Douglas.
An orphan poor,
Outcast from those I love, I sorrowing seek
Kind service, and kind hearts.

Sir John.
Thou 'st found them both.
So go with me. What dost thou gaze at, shake at
Even as an aspen leaf?

Mary Douglas.
Sir, I am seeking
A face to please my fancy; I'm no servant
To every man that whistles, and cries Come.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell.
I am not corn for every crow to peck;
And so, good night.

Sir John.
In faith, proud stripling, no;
You go with me? I'll find thee prettier work
Than curling locks for a lascivious maiden;
Come! else my hand shall teach thy feet obedience:—
And thou so shakest and sobb'st too? By my faith,
My pretty one, you are not what you seem.

Mary D.
O! let me go. Oh! kind sir, let me go;
If e'er you parted with one you loved dear,
E'er won the blessing of a gentle heart,
E'er wet your cheeks at other's deep distress,
E'er won heaven's smile by one bright deed of mercy,
E'er spared the milky head of reverend age,
The babe with mother's milk between its lips,
The mother, when her white hands she held up
Against the lifted steel,—spare—let me go.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
This moves not him. This is a goodly youth,
Free of his speech, and touching in his words;
He has won my heart already—let me hear.

Sir John.
Thou goest on some suspicious errand—so
Milk not thine eyes to me. Come, thou'lt page still
Thy lady's heels, for she doth sleep to-night
In the arms of Halbert Comyne. Come, now, come;
Hast thou some love pledge in thy bosom, come—
Faith I shall find it out.

(Seizes her.)
Sir Marmaduke.
Sir! stay your hand:
This youth should be the chooser, not the chosen.
Though he's a sun-burnt stripling, sir, a thing
That can outweep a girl—pray let him go;
Free limbs endure no bondage.

Sir John.
Prating sheep-boy,
Darest thou talk so to me? To thy flocks—begone—
And tell thy grandame that John Gourlay smote thee
With the flat side of his sword.

(Strikes him.)
Sir Marmaduke.
Sir, use the edge on 't!
For by the rood and eagle they do need
Courage, and fence, who strike one of my name.

Sir John.
I've ta'en the wild hawk for the hooded crow.

(Exeunt Fighting.)

SCENE V.

Cumlongan Wood.
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Mary Douglas.
Sir Marmaduke.
Thou art free, stripling—use thy feet—fly fast,
The chasers' swords may yet o'ertake us both.
When thou dost fold thy flocks, and pray, Oh! pray
For one, whom woe and ruin hold in chace;
Who wears the griefs of eighty at eighteen;
Upon whose bud the canker-dew has dropt;
Whose friends, love, kindred, are cold, faithless, dead:
O! weeping youth, pray not for me; for God
Has left me, and to pray for me might bring
My fate upon thee too. Away, I pray thee.

Mary Douglas.
The wretched love the wretched; I love thee
Too well to sunder thus. I will go with thee;
Friends, kindred, all, are all estranged, or dead;
An evil star has risen upon my name,
On which no morn will rise.

Sir Marmaduke.
Thou art too soft
I' the eye—too meek of speech—and thou dost start
For the falling of the forest leaf, and quakest
As the thrush does for the hawk. Who lives with me
Must have eyes firmer than remorseless steel,
And shake grim danger's gory hand, nor start
For the feather of his bonnet.

Mary Douglas.
O! I shall learn.
I'll sit and watch thee in thy sleep, and bring
Thee clustering nuts; take thee where purest springs
Spout crystal forth; rob the brown honey bees
Of half their summer's gathering, and dig too
The roots of cornick; I will snare for thee
The leaping hares—the nimble fawns shall stay
The coming of mine arrow. We will live
Like two wild pigeons in the wood, where men
May see us, but not harm us. Take me, take me.

Sir M.
Come, then, my soft petitioner, thou plead'st
Too tenderly for me. And thy voice, too,
Has caught the echo of the sweetest tongue
That ever blest man's ear. Where is thy home?
That little sun-burnt hand has never prest
Aught harder than white curd.

Mary Douglas.
I served a lady:
And all my time flew past in penning her
Soft letters to her love; in making verses
Riddling, and keen and quaint; in bleaching white
Her lily fingers 'mong the morning dew;
In touching for her ear some tender string;
And I was gifted with a voice that made
Her lover's ballads melting. She would lay
Her tresses back from her dark eyes, and say,
Sing it again.

Sir Marmaduke.
Thou wert a happy servant.
And did thy gentle mistress love this youth,
As royally as thou paint'st?

Mary Douglas.
O! yes, she loved him,
For I have heard her laughing in her sleep,
And saying, O! my love, come back, come back;
Indeed thou 'rt worth one kiss.

Sir Marmaduke.
And did her love
Know that she dearly loved him? Did he keep
Acquaintance with the nightly stars, and watch
Beneath her window for one glance of her,
To glad him a whole winter?

Mary Douglas.
Aye! he talk'd much
To her about the horn'd moon, and clear stars;
How colds were bad for coughs, and pangs at heart:
And she made him sack posset, and he sung
Songs he said he made himself, and I believe him,
For they were rife of braes and birks, and burns,
And lips made of twin cherries, tresses loop'd
Like the curling hyacinth. Now in my bosom
Have I the last song which this sighing youth
Framed for my mistress. It doth tenderly
Touch present love: there future sadness is
Shadow'd with melting sweetness.—

Sir Marmaduke.
This small hand—
This little trembling lily hand is soft,
And like my Mary's. O! my love—my love,
Look up! 'tis thou thyself! now blessed be
The spot thou stand'st on, and let men this hour
For ever reverence—heaven is busy in it.

Mary D.
O! let us fly! the hand of heaven, my love,
And thine, have wrought most wond'rously for me.

Sir M.
And wilt thou trust thy gentle self with me?

Mary Douglas.
Who can withhold me from thee—I had sworn
To seek thee through the world—to ask each hind
That held the plough, if he had seen my love;
Then seek thee through the sea—to ask each ship
That pass'd me by, if it had met my love;—
My journey had a perilous outset, but
A passing pleasant end. Thine enemy came:
I pass'd a fearful and a trembling hour.—

Sir M.
I know—I heard it all—O I have wrong'd thee much;
So come with me, my beautiful, my best;
True friends are near: the hour of vengeance, too,
Is not far distant. Come, my fair one, come.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Halbert Comyne, alone.
Comync.
Enter Sir John Gourlay.

Sir John.
I saw no lady; but in the greenwood
I found one of her slender sun-burnt pages;
And, as I parley'd with him, came a youth,
A simple shepherd-seeming youth, and tall;
Who dropt upon me as the lightning would;
Foil'd me, and won my sword. Ere I could rise,
Forth from the castle there came such a sweep
Of ancient men, with heads more white than snow,
Of youths with tresses like the raven's back,
Of matrons, shrewd old dames, on whose tongues live
The wanton deeds o' the parish, and sweet maids
Ripe in their teens, and rosy—seeking her
Whom I was sent to find!—

Comyne.
Sir John! Sir John!
This is the strangest dream thou ever hadst.

Sir John.
Aye! and the truest too. But I would lay
A golden basnet to a milkmaid's bowl,
That page was no true page; but a sweet maid
Hid in her mantle, like the summer moon
Shrouded in dewy mist. And that bold youth
Who seem'd a shepherd rude, conversant with
Flocks ring-straked, speckled and spotted, wore on his heels
Spurs of pure silver.

Comyne.
By the fiends, I think
That murder has not done sure work, and those
Do walk the world whom the deep hungry sea
Hath grown sick with, and given the world again;
Or hath not dared, for fear of heaven, to swallow.
This page—a lady in her mantle shrouded;
This youth—who wears proud knighthood's silver spurs;
This prophetess—that dooms me to the sword,
And gives this soldier to Caerlaverock ravens;
And, thy fate too, my head and right hand, Hubert!
Macubin, ho! go saddle our steeds straight;
I'll seek the woodland lair of this famed witch,
This hag who deals in destinies of men,
And dooms unto the drugg'd cup, or the dirk,
All those she hates; and hood-wink'd peasants, then,
With sharp sword, or swift poison, make her sayings
Come suddenly to pass.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VII.

A Wild Cave in a Wood.
Lady Maxwell and Mabel Moran.
Mabel.
Lady, I tell thee that sword is not forged,
Nor is that man born yet in the wide world,
Shall harm a hair of his head. Now stand and tell me
What thou dost see and hear.

Lady Maxwell.
A stillness sits
On hill, and dale, and ocean; there is lustre
Unwonted in the heaven—but I hear nought,
Save the sweet waters of the Solway sea,
Sing 'mongst the shells and pebbles.

Mabel.
Lady, look;
What thinkst thou of that bright and little star?
See o'er Caerlaverock's turret top it stays,
And far its shining tresses shoot o'er heaven,
Even like a silver crown. Now, lady, this
Comes not in idle radiance forth; it comes
To tell thee that thy time of glory's coming.
Be valiant, and believe. For ere it comes,
Extremest peril shall compass thee and thine.

Lady Max.
Peril, again? Oh! I do dread thee still,
Thou high and wrathful heaven. My hope will fall,
Even as yon large and gloomy star is flung
From the mid sky to the earth.

Mabel.
Now, nerve your heart,
And fill that bosom, where thy babe has suck'd,
With courage that quails never. Thou canst do 't.
Hear'st thou the rush of horses? Hark! he comes,
And you must look upon your direst foe.
Fear not—fear not; there is a hand, to which
A murderer's arm is rushes, guards thee, lady.
He comes to prove me, and to spurn me. Give
To me that garment; I must hem 't—it will
To-night be wanted, though the corse be quick
That 's doom'd this shroud to fill? 'Tis a fair sark.—
Now, lady, swathe thy silken robe around thee;
Hide here, and heed my song.

Mabel
sings. Enter Halbert Comyne and Servant.

Comyne.
This lame hag whoops an ominous song—hush! hush!
For she doth sing again.

Comyne.
Where didst thou learn this song, thou hag? What shroud
Do thy long, sharp, and shrivelled fingers sew?

Comyne.
Beware! lest one stroke of this good sharp sword
Should mar thy skill in shroud-sewing—beware!
Why dost thou bend those sooty brows on me,
And measure me o'er thus?

Com.
Name me the man of whom thou warblest thus.
Beldame, dost thou mean me?

Com.
There seems a dooms-note sounding in this song!
Old dame, who taught thee these wild words, and gave
Thee this cursed shroud to sew?

Com.
From me wild words alone no credence gain,
And I see nothing, save this dreary cave,
And thine accursed self.

Comyne.
Come, come, thou dotard beldame—thy strange words
Dismay me not—things visible and felt—
(Sees Lady Maxwell.)
Eternal God! what form is this? does fancy
Hoodwink my reason with a dreamer's marvel?
Art thou a figure painted out of air?
Pale and majestic form, I've sinn'd against thee,
Beyond repentance' power. Is there another?
(Sees the spirit of Lord Maxwell.)
What terrible shape is that? Art thou a thing
Permitted thus to blast my sight—or but
The horrible fashioning of the guilty eye?
This bears the stamp of flesh and blood—but thou,
Thou undefined and fearful, thou dost make
A baby's heart-strings of my martial nerves;
I'll look on thee no longer—mine eyes ache
As if they gazed upon a fiery furnace.
Give me some drink, Macubin.

Servant.
Oh! my lord,
What moves you thus?

Comyne.
Dost thou see nought, Macubin?
Nought that doth make your firm knees knock like mine,
And make your heart against your bosom leap,
And make you think upon the blood you've spilt,
And make you think on heaven's eternal wrath?

Servant.
I see this old dame, and thine honour'd self;
What should I see, my lord?

Comyne.
O! nothing—shadows:
Such as the eye shapes to alarm the heart.
Nay, nothing—nothing. Ancient dame, I've been
Ungentle in my speech; I've wrong'd thee much.
I will repair the folly of this hour
With a fair cot and garden—they are gone—
Perchance were never here, for the eye works
Unto the timid thought, and the thought paints
Forms from the mire of conscience, will-o' wisps
To dazzle sober reason.

(Exeunt.)