University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A deep, shady solitude, before the Hermitage of Warkworth.—Percy and Douglas sitting on a stone bench by the door of the cell.
Per.
Caution must rein our ardor: see the land
Drained for these wars; the King and Westmoreland
O'er seas, with all the turbulent, bold spirits,
Busy in France:—then, stir for Mortimer,
Make common cause with him, and we may thrive.

Doug.
With Mortimer?

Per.
My cousin Edmund's son, the lineal heir
Of Clarence, lives: our rightful Sovereign.

Doug.
Where?

Per.
In London; whence I hourly look for tidings.
But, if nought sinister by waves or war
Befall the King, an absent pilot leaves
The galley reeling. Men begin to murmur.
This prodigal, say they, for selfish ends,
Drags to unknown, inhospitable graves,
Our sons; barters their bones for barren fame;
Leaves us to starve, while he, on foreign shores,
Plucks blood-stained laurels.

Doug.
Talk they thus?

Per.
Douglas,
If Mortimer inherits but a soul,
And once Northumberland will lift her voice,
Oft, through the realm, in dark and troubled times,
The watch-word of the mighty, hope survives
For down-trod justice. Number but the host
Of discontented spirits late fallen off;
More, groaning yet beneath his father's stripes:
And more that, from the first, pitying wronged Richard,
Hated this proud usurping race, and fought
In Percy's battles for the rightful heir:
All, waiting but the call.

Doug.
If this be so,
What fear?

Per.
And that were glory! grasp at once
My own lost heritage, and throne my King!
Sometimes the vision dances in my eyes,
But ah! I fear, a glittering, empty bubble.
Monmouth is wise, dauntless as Mars, and proved
In all the issues of the field; he knows
The talisman that rules a soldier's heart;
Success has shed a blaze about his head,
Dazzling to vulgar gazers: I, the while,
Am but a stripling, yet unknown; my cause
Unsanctioned by a name of power, save thine.

Doug.
But thou hast justice on thy side.

Per.
Alas!
And had not Hotspur, too, when he lay stiffening?
Douglas, I 've looked through men, and marked the ways
Inscrutable, and dark, of Providence.
Too oft the righteous is the luckless cause.
Nay, have not holy men, in every age—

Doug.
Sweet lad, trouble not me with saintly lore.
One thing I know, and, spite of flesh, will cleave to:—
The justice of our cause can never hurt it.

Per.
Ha! 't is himself.

Enter Bertram, attired like a Hermit.
Bert.
Heaven speed ye, sons!

Per.
(embracing him.)
Nay, Bertram, thou behold'st a second self.
This is that youthful Douglas, whose renown
Has reached thine ears.

Bert.
Why then I see my brother of adoption,
A true-born son of never-daunted Douglas.

Doug.
Approve him as you find him.

Per.
Long, and dark,
And tragic, is the page of Bertram's story.
Its emblems carved within this rock shall speak.
Suffice it, Douglas, cruel fate, with wounds
Incurable, had pierced his noble heart.
Here, in this cell, I found him, where, in tears,
Sackcloth, and bitter penance, Bothal's lord
Had twenty winters mourned. He loved my sires,
For whom his fathers and himself had fought;
For Bertram, once, stood foremost of the brave.
His faith and wisdom proved, my birth I told,
Demanding counsel. Roused by Percy's name,
The sorrowing Hermit woke, forsook his cell,
Cast off the cherished burthen of his griefs,
Serves me, and loves me with a zeal like thine.

Doug.
Thy hand. Brave Baron, I have heard thy fame,
But thought thee mingled with the dead.

Bert.
The pangs
Of many deaths may be endured.

Per.
Hark! (Horns heard in the forest.)

What horns are those?—And horsemen?

Doug.
Lo! again.

Per.
Strike through the wood and see: lest I be sought.—
(Exit Douglas.)
Well, Bertram, speak. What speed?

Bert.
Alas, my lord, no hopes.

Per.
Ha, why?

Bert.
A high-born spirit so ignoble,
So grov'ling, wedded to base things, lives not.

Per.
O Fate!

Bert.
He scarce is known at court: he soils
His nobleness by fellowship with cullions:
Spurns lore and chivalry, to waste his days
In vulgar revels with the city scum.

Per.
O, Mortimer!—But didst thou probe him, Bertram?
Search to his heart? Show the foul wrong he suffers?

Bert.
I courted him; oft drew him into talk:
Spoke of his father, grandsire, all his house
Downward from Lionel; wept their fallen fortunes;
Touched on his claim; the people's discontent;
In my discourse, still, as by chance, let fall
Words that had pierced, like scorpion stings, a breast
Not seared to honor; but, a bond-slave, dolt,
Or idiot, had been moved to nobler fire.

Per.
O, Nature! thou conspirest, too,
With my cursed stars.

Bert.
He ne'er can serve our purpose.
We need a young Prince rarely versed; who knows
Men, and the times; apt, shrewd, and valiant; skilled
To catch and fix the wavering multitude.
But Mortimer, in nought—

Per.
A curse upon him!
I would not stain the venerable chair
Where Alfred shone, and godlike Edward sat
'Midst captive Kings; so oft by heroes filled,
Whose wisdom, toil, and valor through the world
Have spread our glory, made our narrow Isle
Queen of the Sea, and Arbitress of Nations,—
No,—not for empire would I stain that throne
With such a hilding. Henry's faults are princely,
Such as in noble natures aptest grow,
And ne'er will soil the robe not rightly his.

Re-enter Douglas, hastily.
Doug.
Friends,—friends,—

Bert.
What now?

Doug.
The King is coming.

Per.
What!

Doug.
True, as the faith,—the English King,—
This night, to Warkworth!

Per.
(with a start.)
When?

Doug.
This very night,
And with a slender train.

Per.
Immortal heaven!

Doug.
Infernal hell! if ever he depart
Till Harry Percy hold his own.

Per.
To-night!—
We cannot!—Bertram!—Douglas!—God of heaven!
Had but a day—but one twelve hours of time—

Doug.
Hear, Percy! list! He hunts
To-morrow; couches here to-morrow night;
Next morning, goes;—if we, like coistrils, slaves,
Base stirrup-lackeys, cap in hand, cry, Speed!

Per.
(smiting his breast.)
'T is come!—'t is come!
The issue of my fate!—

Bert.
Beware! refrain!—Lord Douglas, answer me,—
Were yonder horsemen couriers of the King?

Doug.
My lord, they were, and thus report. The King,
Riding a course to Berwick, with a train
Of twenty Nobles and an hundred Knights,
Will reach this castle by the hour of curfew;
To-morrow rouse a stag; and northward wend
With next day's earliest sun.

Per.
That sun shall see
Our banner in the wind, or me released
From earthly thraldom!—There 's a path—a hope—
A glorious path!—Question not—parley not—
Douglas—those spearmen!—Mount a fleet steed, Bertram—
This ring— (producing a ring from his bosom.)
—was once my grandsire's signet; drawn
From his dead hand on Bramham-Moor. For life,
Hurry away to Mountfort. Thou wilt find him
Clad like a minstrel, in an humble cot
Fast by the towers of Fitzhugh. Say, the man
Whose crest is on that ring has need of him.
He will commune with Fitzhugh, and direct
Your steps to Bardolph. Join me all—fail not—
Conjure them so—by twilight, in the cavern.

Bert.
Speaks Mountfort to his name?

Per.
Ask for old Harold,
The harper—Children know the ancient minstrel.
Or, shouldst thou spy a giant-boned old man,
Stooping his bulk upon a charging-staff,
His locks and beard like hoar-frost, yet his brows
Shaggy and black, 't is Mountfort. Now, to horse.

Doug.
Come on.

Per.
Would thou couldst meet these friends to-night.

Doug.
That will I, by the ghost of Merlin! Choose
A clean-limbed steed, and lend me spurs. I need
But strike the march; my kinsman Malcolm 's trusty.

Per.
Bertram, lead Douglas to the forest-gate:
I'll follow with the coursers.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A court before the stablés. Rook, alone.
Rook.
Some Juggler's brat, I'll swear, by Gypsies kidnapped,
Knavish by nature, and in lies instructed,
Left in a barn asleep, has slipped his masters,
And come to practise his fine arts on us.
Even if he be no worse.—Here comes my lord.
Now, greensleeve, if thou 'rt not hag-born, beware me!

Enter Westmoreland.
West.
Which way went Arthur?

Rook.
Toward the wood, my lord,
With Shiek and Lady Bayard by the bit,
Scarce cooled since yesterday.

West.
Whither?

Rook.
Heaven knows,
Not I.—Perhaps, on Percy's service.

West.
Rook,
If thou guard'st not that venomed tongue—

Rook.
No doubt, no doubt, my lord, he serves you ably;
Much better than a poor, plain vassal, bred
In good old Westmoreland, of seed that 's known,
And served your father well, and might, mayhap,
Lead out a course as well as he. Nor spleen,
Nor malice prompt me, my good lord, but love
And true allegiance. Could your lordship list
An odd adventure that befell me, late,
Upon the hunt?

West.
If it concern me, speak.

Rook.
My lord, I sometimes ride upon the chase,
An humble follower, like the rest, of Arthur.
Not long ago, leading us up and down
Under a burning sun the livelong day,
He stopped at evening 'midst a group of huts
Sequestered in the Cheviots. In a dingle,
Divided from the rest some furlongs, stood
Three lonely cabins: there, by strict command,
The train was sheltered; but, for lack of room,
My lord, my steed was stabled in a barn
Planted amidst the thick of cottages.
When I had slept, methought, an hour or twain,
I woke; and as I mused, upon my straw,
Chanced to remember somewhat left undone
Most needful for my harassed beast. I rose;
And drawing towards the green (the moon being bright)
Round which the dwellings of the hamlet stood,
Descried a press of peasants by a door.
Stopping, I through the smoky lattice saw
Within, encompassed by a gaping crowd,
Our noble leader high in argument.

West.
Arthur?

Rook.
The same, my lord.—Greyheaded men,
And boys, and all between, stock still, agape,
Swallowed his words like tidings from the grave,
While he, with gestures fierce, and eyes like beacons,
Of Hotspur spoke.

West.
Of Hotspur!

Rook.
Ha!—he comes!—
Ever, my lord, he named him—

West.
Peace! begone!
When the stir 's past of this day and the next,
I'll more of this. Begone! (Exit Rook.)
How dare he touch
That theme among my vassals?—Hotspur! ha!

Enter Percy.
Per.
Joy to my lord, and his illustrious dame,
That conquering Henry draws so near to Warkworth.

West.
Thou 'rt well encountered.—But a day he stays,
And means to hunt, and I a course would hold
Worthy my King. Look to it, knave. Be found
In trim: with horses, hawks, hounds, harness, train,
Glistering, and plumed for speed. Send Ivo out
To warn the Cheviot warden.

Per.
Good my lord,
Fear not.—What say ye to a Masque, my lord,
After the chase, in honor of the King?

West.
A Masque?

Per.
After the banquet, with my lord's good leave,
I know a little pageant that might draw
Attention from your guests and Royal Kinsman.

West.
'T would please me, sirrah.

Per.
Vizards, and hoods, and mail, are all we need.

West.
Open the armory.

Per.
And please, my gracious lord,
That busy, meddling fools pry not about me—

West.
Prate not. Begone unto your tasks.
(Exit Percy.)
That Rook regards him with a jaundiced eye,
Hates, and would cast him, gladly, from my favor,
Full well I know. There 's large allowance:—still,
To name amidst those peevish, factious slaves,
The race they worship dearer than their God,
Is treason. None that loved me e'er would do it.—
Anon, I'll know the meaning of this tale.

(Exit.)