University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Lincluden Abbey in ruins.
Enter Bernard, a Friar, carrying a Light before the Queen and Adelaide.
Bern.
This way, good people;—you've had a dismal night;—
The rivers too are out.
[Mary falls down almost lifeless, then recovers.
Lady, you've nought to fear.

Mary.
I've nought to fear, that is too true:
I'm sunk—I'm sunk—I'm at the very bottom
Of ruin's gulf; so deep, that all around
Reigns stillness horrible; while, far o'er head,
The thunder of the storm is here scarce heard.

Bern.
O I have heard a tongue that spoke like yours,
And seen an eye that wore that very look!

Adel.
May be;—but who is it that welcomes us?

Bern.
A man who has outlived all he held dear.

Mary.
Thou'lt not betray us?

Adel.
But tell,—it does import us much to know,
In these dark times,—what party thou art of.

Mary.
Oh, I am very wretched! I am stunned
With misery! But tell us, good old man,
What place is this, and who thou art?

Bern.
I will remove your fears. Here have I dwelt
Near threescore years. This place you must have heard of:
Lincluden is its name. Within these walls
Twelve beadsmen, of which number I was one,
Said prayers by day, and nightly vigils kept.
I am the only one that now remains
In this sad corner of our ruined towers.

Adel.
How art thou suffered to remain?

Bern.
The bigot fury that destroyed our house
Spared me. I had acquired, while in my youth
I followed arms, some skill in healing wounds.
Full many sorely hurt at Solway moss—

Mary.
O God!

Bern.
Were hither brought, and healed. Among the rest,
One man, who afterwards, when the fierce rabble
Circled these walls, with threats of instant death
To all within, his left hand lifted up,
And swore, that not a hair of Bernard's head
He'd suffer to be touched: They gave assent.
Thus was I saved; and here am I allowed
To linger out my days.

Mary.
O, Solway, many an orphan didst thou make!
But for that day I might have still a father.
He was not healed—his wound was in his heart.

Adel.
I see that banner yet among the spears;
He would not part with it, but with his life.
O Douglas!

Mary.
He took me in his arms before he breathed
His last, and kissed my then scarce conscious lip,
And weeping, o'er me smiling, called me Mary,
Ere at the font I had received that name:
Hence 'twas a saying, that I was baptised
With tears; and they who saw the scene presaged
Ill fortune to me, and presaged too true.

Bern.
My Queen! my royal mistress!
I said that I had seen that eye, and yet
It is not so—but O how like the King's!
My God, preserve her! bless her! O save her!
[Kneeling.
How can this be? (rising)
your Highness in this guise?

Mary.
Ask not, good father, now; I scarce can speak;
Were't possible, I'd go to rest.

Bern.
Besides this chamber, once our refectory,
And my poor cell, there is a room of state,
Which, in the days of our prosperity,
Was set apart for guests of high degree:
It too was left untouched.

Mary.
O lead me to it!—yet I cannot rest
Until I know that Hamilton is safe.

Enter an old Shepherd.
Bern.
Are the horses cared for?

Shep.
They are, father.

Bern.
An' please your Grace to follow me.

[Exeunt Queen, Adelaide, and Bernard.
Shep.
What can this mean?

Enter Hamilton.
Ham.
Say who art thou, and what this place?

Shep.
Say who art thou?

Ham.
Are there two strangers here?

Shep.
Old father Bernard—he will answer you.

Ham.
Who art thou, again I say?

Shep.
I'm an old shepherd man; all night I've watched
Upon the hill with some few sheep, and now
That day-light's near, and the storm fallen,
I'm come to warm myself at Bernard's faggots.
His door is never barred; his nightly taper
Through the thick wintry flakes oft shoots a ray
To guide us shepherds through the heaping drift.
This night has been a kind of winter one.
Now tell me who thou art?

Enter Bernard.
Bern.
God save you, sir!

Ham.
Father, I thank you. Are there two strangers here?

Bern.
This is a roof which at all times,
By day and night, welcomes the stranger's steps.

Ham.
I am the friend of those I now enquire for.
Say, came they here?—They are—but why describe them—
They are most fair,—unfortunate as fair.

Bern.
Your name?

Ham.
Hamilton.

Bern.
The Queen is here; and with her came
One of a downcast, and tear-hidden eye;
But such a soft and soothing voice she had,
That when she spake, I thought some seraph hymned
A requiem for an infant's parted soul.

Ham.
'Tis she—'tis Adelaide.

Bern.
They're gone to rest.
How came you not along with them?

Ham.
We scarce had seen your tapers welcome ray,
When something from among the trees came forth,
And followed us. I bade the Queen proceed:
I turned—it fled: I followed it too far:
O'erta'en at last, it turned—it seemed a man,
But gave a groan unlike aught earthly; and then
I heard the gnash of teeth. My charger wheeled,
And brought me, ere I wist, close to the river,
Where, frightened at the rapid eddying foam,
He stopped, nor, till the rowels reached his ribs,
Would take the flood. What could it be?

Bern.
None in these parts know who he is:
We think his hands have been embrued in blood.
In winter's bitterest storms he sometimes sits
Beneath the gateway's broken arch; and there
I've overheard half-muttered sentences,
Such as—'twas me—no, 'twas this hand—not me:
Had it been day—had I but seen her face,
The deed had ne'er been done:—
And then he'll fix his eyes upon the ground,
As if he looked on something lying there,
Then, seeming horror-struck, rush to the woods.

Re-enter Queen and Adelaide.
Mary.
Lord Hamilton,
I joy to see you safe, but yet must blame you.

Ham.
I left you, as the best means to defend you.

Mary.
'Twas for the best, I know.

Bern.
How short has been your Highness' rest!

Mary.
I've had no rest: I fell into a sleep,
And in that sleep have had such horrid visions!—
A fiend pursued me o'er a sandy waste;
I heard his steps gain on me; then his shadow
Lengthened before me; then his furnace breath
I felt shrivelling my hair: Lifeless I sunk.
And next I found myself among the woods
We passed yestreen; boisterous and dark the night,
Save for the lightning's glare, which flamed so bright,
That oft the traces of its zigzag course
Were visible among the half-burnt leaves,
Still curling from the flash. A raven next,
Beneath a blasted yew, was busy gorging
A murdered infant's corse. A friendly peal
At this dire moment waked me.

Adel.
And I, I too, saw horrid sights: I saw—
Half raised upon his arm, he fainting held
That banner to his breast, to staunch the blood.

Bern.
Banish the memory of these phantasies!
Put trust in God! Be of good cheer!

Mary.
You never dreaded sleep.

Bern.
God yet may turn
The hearts of your worst enemies to love you.
Meanwhile, you here may sojourn quite unknown;
Nor shall you want for aught: I've friends all round.

Mary.
If e'er the hearts of my worst foes should turn
To love and to obey their Queen, be sure
That you shall have another resting-place
Than this so drear abode. Ingratitude
My enemies could ne'er reproach me with.

Bern.
I'll thank your Highness' with my heart's last throb;
But know, I would not leave this lonely place:
Those I hold dear;—one I held dear is laid
Within that roofless chapel wall: Each weed
That grows about her grave I know; They spring
With gaudless flowers, year after year the same:
The wind that sighs among you aged trees
Sounds like an old friend's voice: Even Cluden's stream,
Whether 'neath summer suns it gently flows,
With such a whispering murmur, that the bee
Upon the farther bank is heard to hum;
Or whether, in its ice-fraught course, it roar
So loud amid the wintry thunder storm,
That though the flash is seen, the peal's unheard,—
All, all its sounds are grateful to mine ear:
I would not part from it, or from these woods,
The very birds of which are tame, and know me:
I should even miss the echo's wonted voice,
That gives responses to my lonely hymn,
And bears it, with a music not its own,
To heaven. But hark, the woodland matins rise.

Adel.
O happy birds, each minstrel's mate is near!

Bern.
And shall our hearts be cold, and tongues be mute?
An please your Highness, it is still my wont,
Within the roofless chancel, to perform
The service which in former days I joined.
No person and no season hinders me:
The snowy shower that drives upon my head,
It shuts my eyes, but cannot seal my lips,
When singing praise to God: The drifted wreath
Feels like a downy cushion 'neath my knees.
Come to the chancel, friends; come, follow me.

Mary and Adel.
Most joyfully.

Ham.
I may not go where Romish rites are done.

Shep.
I dare not go.

[Exeunt Queen, Adelaide, and Bernard.
Ham.
That good old man, his words, his aspect mild,
Almost persuade me to renounce my faith.

Shep.
Aye, he is good; his thoughts are ne'er on earth,
Save when he's doing good among the poor:
At other times his thoughts are all in heaven.
Even in the night, we often hear his voice
Borne faintly on the wind. His taper burning,
Aye, and before an image on the cross,
(That's wrong?) he never suffers to go out.

Ham.
List! list!—
[Music of Voices heard—“By the Rivers of Babylon,” &c.—Voice stops.
How faint the echo floats along the aisles,
As 'twere the soul of the departed strain!
That hymn will to the mercy-seat ascend,
And there, in unison with heavenly harps,
Will from their chords (while listening angels pause)
Draw forth a sound more sweet than seraph's touch.
O what are forms, but different languages
Addressed to Him, who knows all tongues, who hears
The heart! We'll go to them.

Shep.
I will attend you to the gate, but not
Go in.

[Exeunt?

SCENE II.

—The Chapel.
Bernard, Mary, and Adelaide.
Mary.
That hymn hath soothed my spirit: I think I now
Could rest in quiet. Sleep, now I dread thee not!
My dreams no longer will be horror-haunted;
Angelic strains will lull my ear; my couch
Shall be all curtained round with cherubs wings,
Through which the morning sun will faintly send
A purple slumber-shedding ray, sealing
My weary eyelids for a time with peace,
Until some gentle well-known voice
Breathe in my ear, awake: And yet I think
I see—no, no—begone—false fear—
I gave no warrant—I forbade the deed.

Adel.
I hear a tread.—
[Looking round.
Ah me! it is not his.

[Exeunt Mary and Adelaide.
Bern.
The shaft is plucked, but O I fear the barb
Is rankling in her heart: If it be so,
O God, forgive!

Enter Hamilton.
Ham.
Where is the Queen?

Bern.
They are just gone. The Queen thought she could rest.
Her spirit seemed—but for a moment—soothed.
What think you 'tis that weighs upon her mind?

Ham.
What think you—to have been a Queen, and now
To be cast down below a subject's state.

Bern.
I long to learn from you, my lord, the events
Which must have come to pass since that the Queen
Was held a captive in Lochleven isle.

Ham.
Father, you shall be satisfied.

Bern.
Let us, meantime, return: I must set down
Refreshments 'gainst the awaking of the Queen.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Wood on the Banks of Cluden.
Enter Adelaide.
Adel.
Aye, she may sleep, whose loss is but a kingdom.
She may be yet restored—The dead to life
Return not.—Aye, sleep on, poor Queen, be happy
A little while. She smiled, but soon a tear
Her close-shut eyelash filled; and then again
She smiled, but 'twas more faintly than before.
I ne'er shall smile again, even in a dream.
O Douglas! Douglas! hadst thou not been slain,
Thou wouldst ere now have been with us.
Thou'rt dead—I thought I could discern
In Hamilton's close visage signs of joy;
He knows, perhaps, thou'rt numbered with the dead;
And yet, how should he?
But Douglas, know, thy spirit ne'er shall see
My love for thee to Hamilton transferred;
No, if thou'rt dead, I'll even break the bonds
Of sacred friendship; I'll forsake the Queen,
Fly to thy grave, and make thy turf my couch.
Why did I seem to favour him I loved not,
Lord Hamilton, from whom my heart was far?
Why did not Douglas see 'twas him I loved?
The thought of it had been a comfort to him,
When on the corse-strewed field he took
His last look of the hill on which he left me.
Oh me! had he but known how well I loved him,
He would have been more careful of his life.
O I have murdered him! He rushed on Death,
Driven by Despair.
Hadst thou but known how open was my ear
To listen to the faintest prayer of love
Urged by thy lips; how open were these arms
To clasp thee to this breast; how my heart leaped
With ardent hope one day to feel thine beat
With mutual throb!—May be he yet does live.
O, if he lives, feigning henceforth begone.
Perhaps he feigns, and I am but the step—
What if he loves the Queen—
And sometimes I have thought her Highness' voice
Was softer toned to him than other men.

Enter Douglas, and kneels.
Doug.
Feign! no!

Adel.
God!—.
[Falling, Douglas supports her.
Douglas! no! Douglas thou art not:
None of that name was ever treacherous found;
No Douglas ever would have lain in wait
To hear the ravings of a simple maid.

Doug.
Hear me, fair Adelaide! dear lady, hear me!
I did not lie in wait with the design
To hear your words. When I had hither come,
I knew not who inhabited this place,
Or friend or foe; wherefore I thought it best
To take the advantage of the woodland shelter,
Until I learned whether it would be safe
To come more near. Just then I heard a voice,
Of which, although I oft had heard the tones,
Its music was so new to me,
I thought it could not be but that I dreamed,
Till by degrees I waked indeed to bliss.

Adel.
But Douglas, Douglas, say you heard me not;
The Cluden's rushing roar was all so loud,
You could not hear.

Doug.
Some words indeed I lost:
But did you not my name reiterate
In such a voice as told you loved the sound?
Did you not say—Do not I see that blush?

Adel.
I'll hide it, Douglas, in thy arms.
But you are wounded?

Doug.
No, I escaped unhurt,
To be (how little did I think) most blest.

Adel.
And how did you escape—O Douglas, how?

Doug.
While thus you speak—I cannot think of what—
Of what is past; the present
Engrosses my whole soul.

Adel.
I love to hear.

Doug.
And do you truly wish to hear?

Adel.
I love to hear you speak about yourself.

Doug.
You saw the fight, and our discomfiture:
A ponderous mace soon brought me to the ground.

Adel.
Douglas, is this thy hand? Do I not dream?
Art thou indeed beside me?

Doug.
And when I from my stupor first awoke,
I saw around me dead and dying men.
The rout was o'er: The crowds, that on the hills
Had stood, were now upon the field, to search
For kinsmen or for friends. 'Twas a sad sight.
The grey-haired father helped to bear the son
Uncoffined to the grave, then laid the turf,
With purple-bosomed gowans blood-bedewed,
Above the mangled corpse. Amid this scene,
Some of the horsemen, tired from the pursuit,
Alighted, and were plied with flaggons, brought
By Glasgow's zealous burghers to the field.
My guards, (for I was 'mong the prisoners,)
One after other, fell asleep. One wretch
I never shall forget, whose ruffian head
Was bolstered on a dead man's gory breast.
I watched my time, rose, seized a straying horse:
None of my guards could mount to follow me.
Thus soon I was beyond the jangling sound
Of old St Kentigern's rejoicing peal.

Adel.
How did you trace us?

Doug.
The country was all out; the mountain cairns
Were clustered o'er; and at the cottage doors
The old men stood, and asked, with trembling voice,
How went the day.—Your course was not unmarked.
From place to place I questioned of your way:
At last I reached a cottage by a stream,
Where you had left the little glib-tongued page.
He pointed out a hill o'er which you passed:
I passed it too; descended to the vale;—
A dreadful night ensued; it stopped me not.
Although I judged that I had lost you quite,
I wandered on, half frantic with despair,
And cursed the flash that showed my horse the flood
Or wished-for precipice. But wherefore speak
Of dangers past? I am now here with you.
O happiness unhoped! No thought but joy
Can now pervade my breast. Come, speak to me.

Adel.
I am so happy, I can only hear.

Doug.
And I can only think of what I heard.
You said, I think, my turf should be your couch.

Adel.
Peace now, sweet Douglas, peace!

Doug.
And that—

Adel.
So soon to taunt at my too quick won love!

Doug.
And that your beating heart—

Adel.
You'll kill me.

Doug.
I love to raise your blush, to feel its glow
Spread o'er my raptured cheek.

Adel.
But two days gone you were a humble lover;
You trembled when you did but touch my glove.
But, Douglas, did you never guess 'twas you
I loved?

Doug.
But once, and only once, I dared to hope:
'Twas when you asked Argyle, before the fight,
That he would leave me with the Queen and you:
Your look, your voice, expressed solicitude
Less for yourself than me: Then first I hoped.
O it was sweet, though faint as the first breath
Of some lone spring-flower, first of all its tribe,
Which one would stoop to smell, yet think 'twere sin
To pull.

Adel.
How are you sure that I do love you?

Doug.
Think you I have forgot—
My turf should be your couch? No, Adelaide,
Your head shall rest, your eyes shall gently close
Upon this arm.

Adel.
Be sober-minded, as becomes our fortunes.

Doug.
Sobriety, demureness, melancholy,
I do henceforth renounce, abjure you all.
But tell me now, how wouldst thou have found out
Thy truelove's grave among the other heaps?

Adel.
Why, by this mark—No flower, save only one,
Called love lies bleeding, would have dared to grow—
But, O! 'tis barbarous in me to harbour
One cheerful thought, when Mary, Queen of Scots,
My friend, my dearest, earliest, bosom friend,
Lurks here a fugitive.

Doug.
My Adelaide, or mourning or rejoicing,
If 'tis with thee, 'tis sweet: I sympathise
With all thy sympathies: Besides, I love
The Queen, and I will serve her for thy sake,
And for her own. Is she within yon walls?

Adel.
She's there—she's gone to rest.

Doug.
What does she mean to do? where mean to go?

Adel.
To England straight.

Doug.
To England! Does she not know Elizabeth?

Adel.
I have in vain to endeavoured to dissuade her.

Doug.
And will you follow her, and pine your days,
Sunk in the dungeon of an English prison?

Adel.
Perhaps they'll feel compassion for a Queen,
A banished, helpless woman.

Doug.
No, no; fear, hatred, envy, all have steeled
The heart of England's Queen.

Adel.
Mary feels no mistrust.

Doug.
And will you follow her?

Adel.
I am resolved—she's bent to go.

Doug.
Because she vaults a precipice, are you
By any tie obliged to follow her?
You follow ruin; her you cannot save.

Adel.
I cannot save—but I can die with her.
But we must hence; she is, I fear, awake ere now.

Doug.
Lean on my arm—How very light you lean;
I fear you love me not.

Adel.
Love you not!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—The Refectory.
Mary seated. Hamilton and Bernard waiting on each side.
Mary.

She cannot sure be far; she would not leave me

Bern.

No; for I have seen her look upon your Grace with such a look as spoke—whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried. She comes, but not alone.

Enter Adelaide, followed by Douglas.
Mary.
Douglas!

Doug.
I joy to see your Grace in safety.

Mary.
Rise, Douglas, 'tis not fit you kneel to me;
I am no more a Queen.

Doug.
If to yourself, and to your country's cause,
You are not treacherous, you are still a Queen.

Mary.
What tidings do you bring?

Doug.
We lost the day, that's sure; but if your Highness
Had staid, our flight might but have been retreat.
You yet have many friends.

Mary.
I fear to ask
How many fewer than before the battle.

Doug.
Cassilis I saw amongst the prisoners.
No one of any note, that I could hear of,
Was of the slain.

Mary.
Woes me!—of any note! How many men,
Whose names were never heard beyond the sound
Of their own native village bells, are mourned
With tears more bitter than are shed for men
Of high degree!—the poor man's orphan child
Weeps as he sees the smooth-worn ploughshafts lie;
He thinks upon the hard but kindly hand
That helped his infant steps.

Doug.
Your Grace is not to blame; do not repine
For what could not be helped. If to yourself
You'r true, all yet may be retrieved; your friends
Are numerous, powerful, faithful, though dispersed.

Mary.
How of them all art thou alone with me?
How didst thou 'scape—how trace us out—
How was the battle lost? Tell me each circumstance.

Doug.
'Twas lost—but how, it boots not to inquire.

Mary.
Tell me, for I can bear to hear.

Doug.
I'll tell your Highness all I saw.
Montgomery, with a band of noted names,
A chosen few, moved wedgewise onward,
No more regardful of the English archery,
Than it had been a flight of thistle-downs;
But, at two spear-lengths from the meeting phalanx,
Forward—
They cleft it thorough, like a thunder-bolt
Ploughing a chasm 'thwart the foam-capt waves.—
Here, with an edgeless stroke, I was laid low.
How long I lay, I'm ignorant; but when
I lift my eyes—no banner to be seen—
'Twas gone—'twas lost by me—the Bruce's heart.
Soon as I stirred, a soldier, who had thought me dead,
Wrenched from my clotted hand, the gore-glued hilt,
By this time Glasgow's citizens
Were plying hard their friends with merry pints,
Staggering o'er corpses both of friend and foe:
My maudlin guards, o'ercome with wine and sleep,
I left; one of their horses straight I mounted,
And soon I was beyond the dismal sound
Of old St Mungo's dong, which, whether meant
For funeral knells for their departed friends,
Or merry peals for dear-bought victory,
I do not know; but this I know, that all
I met, questioned me how the day had gone,
In words that told me that they wished you well.
I even met some bands hasting to join;
And, when I told them that they came too late,
They looked as if they thought, “had we been there,
“It might not have gone thus.”—Your Highness' friends
Are many thousands strong. Go not to England.

Mary.
How did you trace us out?

Doug.
I knew your thoughts had often turned to England
As a last refuge. I southward bent my course
To Loudon Hill, and stopped by happy chance
At the small cot-house, by the little stream,
Where you had left your tiny magpie page.

Mary.
Poor child!—O tell me, were they kind to him?
He too's an orphan, left in strangers' hands.

Doug.
The dame had sent him out to keep some sheep;
But, when I went in search of him, I found
The pretty elf asleep upon the bank:
I stood, and wished my slumbers were as sweet:
So gentle was his sleep, his breath scarce moved
A primrose flower that almost kissed his lip;
A rushy crown, half finished, lay beside him;
The flock was scattered here and there around.

Mary.
O Scotland! O my people!

Doug.
When I had waked him, he was at first all joy:
But, when I asked him to point out the way
That you had ta'en, he could not answer me;
With tear-filled eye he looked, and pointed southward;
O'er yon far hill (at last he said) they passed;
I saw them 'tween me and the light as small
As little birds.—He would not let me go;
It wrung my heart to force his little hand
From mine. I promised to return—Then, forward.
By the last streak of light, from Cossencot
I saw the vale of Nith, and did resolve
To keep its course.
What is your Highness now determined on?

Mary.
England—England is now my only refuge:
And yet I doubt. She tried to intercept
My voyage to my native shore. I fear.

Adel.
The Queen of England will protect her sister.

Doug.
[To Adel.]
Poor simple bird! Perhaps she will allow thee
To flutter in a gilded cage; but still
Thou'lt find thyself a prisoner.

Mary.
I ask not Adelaide to follow me.

Adel.
But I will follow you, though you forbid;
I think I am in safety while with you.

Mary.
Thou seek'st the perilous shelter of a tree,
To shun a thunder-storm.

Doug.
If e'er you trust yourself on English ground,
I'm sure I ever shall have cause to rue
That I released you from a Scottish prison.
'Twill be a sorry change. Woe is the fate
Of him that bears the double wretchedness
Of exile and captivity.

Mary.
Captivity!

Doug.
Yes, imprisonment.

Mary.
What do you mean?

Doug.
'Twill be a prologue.

Mary.
To what?

Doug.
To a tragedy.

Mary.
Speak in plain words.

Doug.
She'll treat you as her prisoner at first;
And oft you've read, the distance is but small
Between a prince's prison and his grave.

Mary.
You give advice in aught but courtly style.
Your words have shocked me, Douglas; you should have
Some pity on me 'mid this storm of fate:
Your words are lightning gleams, which, while they shew
The foam-capt rock where ruin's breakers dash,
Scathe and dismantle the poor labouring bark,
And make her quite a helpless piece of wreck.

Doug.
Alas, no words I speak can serve to shew
The Queen of England; she is a sunken rock
Beneath a smooth and halcyon seeming bay.

Mary.
She would not crown herself with infamy.

Doug.
A woman and a queen can never want
Pretexts. She'll at her manifesto mint,
Stamp the base bullion with the regal die
Of state necessity.

Mary.
Do not belie the Queen.

Ham.
I would not trust to her;
She envies, hates, and fears your Majesty.
I marked how once,—as Cecil spoke your praise,
She blanched; her eye, retreating 'neath her brow,
Seemed like an arrow peering through a loop-hole,
Drawn back before it flies: Then such a rush
Of blood o'erspread her face, as quite outflamed
Her Berenician locks.

Bern.
O, put no trust in such a woman!

Adel.
Trust your own countrymen; they love you.

Mary.
Wilt thou not go with me?

Adel.
Can you believe I would not go with you?
To think you were a prisoner, and I free,
'Twould kill me.—I ne'er will leave you—no;
Were this Elizabeth some monster serpent,
Hurrying to wreathe its undulating length
Around my friend, I'd rush to her embrace,
And joy to die in the same venomed folds.

Enter Shepherd.
Shep.
I see three horsemen up the river side.

Mary.
How near? Come they this way?
Look they like friends or foes?

Shep.
They were so distant, and they glittered so,
I could not guess who they might be.

Mary.
How far?

Shep.
'Yond Halbert's bughts.

Bern.
That's half a mile or more, an' please your Grace.
I doubt not that they are your friends;
But, please your Highness, go into my cell
Until we know the certainty.

Mary.
I am resolved; I will not thus remain
A slave to ever new alarms: I'll brave
The storm, rather than, crouching, tremble thus
Beneath the shelter of a threatening rock.
For England at sunset we depart; 'tis fixed:
My resolution's taken; do not harass me
With vain entreaty. Meantime, good Bernard,
We'll to thy cell; the Queen of Scots must learn
To stoop her uncrowned head.

[Exeunt.