University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—Windsor.
Enter Elizabeth and Cecil.
Cecil.
The snare has answered to our wish.
I guessed that any sudden change of fortune
Would make her turn her thoughts to England.
I had prepared accordingly for her reception.

Eliz.
Is't Lancaster, said you? Is it a place of strength?

Cecil.
Of strength to laugh at rescue.

Eliz.
I fear we shall be blamed for these harsh measures.

Cecil.
Be blamed for execution of the laws!

Eliz.
She's not in chains?—that sure would be too cruel.

Cecil.
Perhaps it would.

Eliz.
Yet, to prevent escape—

Cecil.
She's in sure ward.

Eliz.
What if we should comply with her request,
And let her visit us? 'Twould be a triumph
To see a captive Queen in England's court.

Cecil.
That must not be; she'd turn your nobles' hearts.
O, I have seen her, ere I sowed dispeace
Between her and her people: Every eye
Was bent on her, with looks of love. She seemed
A beauteous star shot from its sphere, that drew
The constellations in its train: That is
To say,—she seemed—she looked—

Eliz.
And shall I lose by the comparison?

[Angrily.
Cecil.
An' please your Majesty to pardon me.
Lose! No; though Venus' self were to descend,
She'd first feel envy when she looked at you.

Eliz.
You do not think so.—Is Wingfield come?

Cecil.
He is at hand.

Eliz.
Send him to me. [Exit Cecil.
[Reading a Letter.]

“To be banished from my “country, and from my son—to be received in a prison, “and welcomed with fetters—Permit me either to “see your Majesty, or to return to my country and “my son—Languish unpitied and unseen.”—

Unseen! She thinks, that if she were but seen,
She would be pitied, aye, and loved besides;
She'd draw the constellations in her train.—
Her son! She boasts, too, of her son!—Detested—
The threatened chains shall be realities.
Aye, she shall feel their weight; and change
Her posture, and still feel the iron's weight
Bruising her beauteous arms, till the livid blotches
Turn into festering sores, which flies shall loath
To light upon. I'll goad her on to crimes;
Then she shall have no reason to complain
Of languishing unpitied and unseen.
Her night of woe I will at last illume
With lurid gleams of gorgeous misery,
Displaying in the collied verge a scaffold.—
Some have, for love, dipped napkins in the blood
Of sufferers at the block: I, I, for hate,
Could steep my pillow in the reeking stream,
And lay my head in dreams of sweetest vengeance.—
But, no—a public death!—'twould draw forth pity.
I'd have her die unpitied and unseen.—
He comes.—How to begin—I feel I dare not,
Even to him. A villain though he be,
He is a human being, and his eye
Will look me dumb—But, no; I'm Henry's daughter.

Enter Wingfield.
Wing.
An please your Majesty—

Eliz.
Wingfield!

Wing.
I'm here, an please your Majesty.

Eliz.
What sort of day is it?
It seems, I think, to overcast.

Wing.
'Tis a fine sunshine day, an please your Grace;
And yet 'tis somewhat cloudy, I believe.

Eliz.
What are the people saying?

Wing.
Of what, an please your—

Eliz.
Of any thing—of every thing—the North.

Wing.
They think that things go well in Scotland.

Eliz.
I had a thing to say, but talking of these matters
Has drove it from me: What, what could it be?

Wing.
Was it about the restiff commoners?

Eliz.
No, not that.

Wing.
The Queen of Scots?

Eliz.
No, no.—
Wingfield, go shake the arras there;
There, just behind where Brutus lifts his arm.
I am not safe; I have no peace; I dread
Some lurking king-killer; and still must live
In dread, as long—till—

Wing.
Till when, an please your Majesty?

Eliz.
Until—

Wing.
I'll die, to save your royal life.

Eliz.
Would'st thou, now, put a poniard in thy breast,
To save my life?

Wing.
I would.

Eliz.
Would'st thou become a suicide? commit Self-murder?

Wing.
I would.

Eliz.
'Tis the most heinous of all sorts of murder.

Wing.
'Twere here a pious deed.

Eliz.
If, then, to save my life, thou'dst sacrifice
Thy own, and do self-murder; say, would'st thou not
Think it less sinful to bereave of life
Another, to attain the end?
One guilty too; and one who, if not struck,
Will strike?

Wing.
That were most sure a meritorious deed.

Eliz.
But who's the judge? who has the right to judge?

Wing.
The truth: The truth's the truth, though not declared
By gospel-kissing knaves, who often yield
Their perjured judgments to a scarlet robe.

Eliz.
O now I recollect what 'twas I thought of;
The banished Queen of Scots—her maintenance—
'Tis hard the people should be burdened.

Wing.
'Tis very hard.

Eliz.
And that the prince's state should be endangered.

Wing.
It is not right.

Eliz.
And yet, nor prince nor people have a friend
To rid them of those burdens, and those hazards.

Wing.
Your Grace has many friends.

Eliz.
Aye, faithful friends, who'd rather serve themselves,
Than do disservice to mine enemies.

Wing.
Who are your Grace's enemies?

Eliz.
Have I not named the Queen of Scots?

Wing.
She is your prisoner; she's in your hands.

Eliz.
She lives, and she has friends.

Wing.
Your Grace cannot complain of want of friends.

Eliz.
My friends have tongues.

Wing.
And some of them have hands.

Eliz.
And yet my enemies live.

Wing.
What would your Highness that your friends should do?
Is death your life?

Eliz.
Begone! dost think I am a murderess?

Wing.
No, justice is no murder.

Eliz.
I fear the bird, though limed, may yet escape.
Where then would be my safety?—
Say, would'st thou, Wingfield, choose to be its keeper?
The rangership of Wiersdale should be thy fee.—
But, hark—

Wing.
An' please your Grace.

Eliz.
I would not have her blood upon my head;
There is no need, no, none for shedding blood.
Blood, though it sometimes glides with silent flow,
At other times speaks with a cataract's roar.

Wing.
What does your Highness mean?

Eliz.
Mean!
You ought to take with you a skilful cook;
She's fond of dainty fare.

Wing.
I've been informed, she has a female friend
Who tastes each thing she eats or drinks.

Eliz.
The holy wafer.

Wing.
How?

Eliz.
None tastes of it before she eats.

Wing.
I am no priest.

Eliz.
Wise, prudent priests there are, and of her faith.
In Lancashire they swarm.

Wing.
The rangership?

Eliz.
I've said it:—But, hear,
I would not have this done, unless you find
That those suspicions which I have surmised
Have truth for their foundation. Examine well;
I put thee in the place of those same knaves,
Those gospel-kissing knaves, of whom thou spok'st.
Enquire, and judge; and let thy verdict be
Written in deeds, not words; but, recollect,
It must be on full proof. I would not touch
The life o'the innocent to save my own.

Wing.
I would not do it, though your Highness ordered.

Eliz.
Wingfield!

Wing.
What more, an' please your Grace?

Eliz.
Nothing—O aye, I think on't; do not be
Another Hubert; but yet, remember well,
It must be on full proof of guilt:
Remember!

[Exit.
Wing.
Conscience, shall I be schooled by thee!
Thou shadow of the soul, at which fools start.
Crime! what is crime? If there be such a thing,
It lies in the intention, and in that
My guilt is now complete;—the plan is here:
[Pointing to his brow.
It is a furled scene, that's soon unrolled,
A tragic scene, by Treachery drawn in blood.
But where is all this guilt? What can I add
To misery like hers?—
Imprisonment perpetual is her doom:
Death is the sole deliverance she can hope.
Death—death—aye, death must come one day to me;
What then? what is it but a loss of being?
And what annihilation, but a sleep,
Unhaunted by those qualmish phantasies,
Which, while awake, I laugh at?

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—Lancaster Castle.
(Time—Evening.)
Mary and Adelaide on the Battlements of one of the Towers.
Mary.
The fourteenth day is past, and yet no answer.
O that I ne'er had crossed the Solway sea!

Adel.
Mary, be comforted.
If there be laws of hospitality,
Pity in woman, kindness in a sister,
Or loyalty in princes, you are safe.

Mary.
And yet we're prisoners.

Adel.
Aye, we again are prisoners, 'tis too true;
And who will rescue us a second time?

Mary.
O England, England! grave of murdered princes!
Why did I leave thee, Scotland, dearest land?
In thee I had some friends—they died for me.
O were I on the side of yon dim mountain!
Though wild and bleak it be, it is in Scotland.

Adel.
Alas! 'tis but a cloud.

Mary.
No, 'tis a mountain of sweet Annerdale.

Adel.
Ah, no! 'tis but a cloud; you know our distance.

Mary.
Well, then, it is a cloud that hovers o'er
My dear, my native land: I love that cloud,
That misty robe of spirits. O, Adelaide,
Come soothe me with that mournful song—
'Tis an old thing; we heard it in the days
Of happiness, and yet it filled our eyes
With tears; we heard it in the vale of Morven:
'Twas something—'twas about the voice of Cona.

Adel.
The maiden with the distaff by the stream,
'Twas she that sung it:
I do remember; and, after she had sung it,
She tried to tell it o'er in broken Scottish.

Mary.
Let me hear it.

Adel.
I feel my heart so full, that but one note,
A single note, sung even by myself,
Would quite untune my voice.—Shall we descend?

Mary.
Whither?

Adel.
To our chamber.

Mary.
The weary rook hies home—my home's a prison.
All things are free but me. Why did I leave
Lochleven's beauteous isle? There I could range
Along the shore, or, seated on the bank,
Hope still for better days; there could transform
The clouds reflected in the clear blue lake
To sceptres and to diadems restored;
And, when the visions melted into air,
I drew a kind of quaint and foolish comfort,
To see how far the watery circles spread
In sympathetic motion with my tears.—
O it presages ill the more I think!
Their forcing Douglas back—he rescued us;
And if it were not meant that we should still
Continue prisoners, why should the last,
The last friend but thyself,
The sole attendant of a Queen,
Be banished from her, and so rudely too?

Adel.
Perhaps, for ever! No, I will not suffer
My foolish fears to think 'twill be for ever:
No, no, we yet shall meet—we shall be free.—
Mary, be comforted; you see I still,
I think I still could—smile.

Mary.
Thou'rt not a banished Queen, a captive Queen;
Thou'rt not a mother severed from her infant.
I do remember when I used to think,
How it was misery, most anxious misery,
To be beyond the hearing of his voice:
Even when I watched beside him as he slept
In softest sleep, I've thought he ceased to breathe;
Then, trembling, would I lift the silken cover,
And at the light he'd smile without awaking.
What extacy! But now he's watched by strangers,
Perhaps by wretches hired to take his life.—
O, God forgive me! Adelaide,
That is a dreadful, dizzy height—'tis terrible!
And yet to think, that in the little time
In which I breathe a single heart-sick sigh,
I end all sighs.

Enter Warder.
Ward.
Your Grace will please come down;
We're just about to lock.

Mary.
O let us breathe a little longer here.

Adel.
An' please you do; I know you're very good.

Ward.
The sun is set this hour; the dew falls thick;
You'll mar that soft sweet voice if you bide out.

Mary.
Ah! misery is a shield against all seasons.

Ward.
'Tis very late; the moon, you see, is up;
I swear it's ten o'the clock, an't be an hour.

Adel.
Look at this dial here upon the corner,
By it 'tis only six; I count by the moon.

Ward.
And why, fair lady?

Adel.
Because I'm one of Dian's virgin band.
What think you of me?—
But do, sweet keeper, let us stay a while.

Ward.
I wish Lord Scroop were here to give you leave;
I scarcely dare to take so much upon me.—
Well, well, you may: I'm sorry for you;
I cannot tell you what I have to tell.

Mary.
What is it?

Ward.
Go not so near the wall, it is but low;
Look how your shadow stretches cross the court.

Mary.
'Would that I lay where now my shadow stretches!

Adel.
What have you got to tell? aught of our friends?
Are any of them dead?—Speak, speak at once.

Ward.
No, that were nothing; but I am commanded—

Mary.
Well, I'm prepared to die.

Ward.
'Tis not so bad, thank God, as that.

Mary.
What is it?

Ward.
Chains.

Mary.
Chains!

Ward.
I've orders that this night your Grace should wear
A chain.—O, woe is me! All I can do,
It shall be light, the lightest one we have,
One which, they say, a little prince,
Ta'en in the wars between the Roses, wore
For many a weary night and day in this same castle.

Mary.
Oh!

Adel.
The order sure extends to me:
I'll not be single, I will have one too,
Although it were of links like anchor rings.
These hands will ne'er submit to dastard freedom
While Mary Stewart's wrists are bound with chains.
Give me one too; I say, give me a chain.—
But, keeper, must the Queen of Scots—
Do not,—you need not do it.

Mary.
I'm ready; on, I'll follow thee.
My fate is all before me; I see it all.
Can malice, fraud, and cruelty like this
Exist, and can the stupid world look up,
Shouting, God save this model of all virtue!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—Wiersdale Forest.
(Time—Night.)
Gypsies sitting under a Tree.
1 Gypsy.
I'll act the abbot.

2 Gypsy.
You're not fat enough; I'll be the abbot myself.

3 Gypsy.
And I'll be little John.

1 Gypsy.
Thou little John! thou two-ell barber's pole.

3 Gypsy.
And thou the abbot! thou whey-cheeked, small-beer nosed ninny.

Enter Maude, a female Gypsy, singing.
Maude.
His nose is purple as a plum.

2 Gypsy.
[Sings.

Enter Rosa, another female Gypsy, singing.
Rosa.
When the moon-beam shines so bright,
That flower-bells open to her light,
We fairies—

Enter Douglas and Hamilton, with slung bows, coming forward from the back ground.
Ham.

Good folks, what is all this?

Rosa.
[Singing.]
Dance right merrily.

Doug.

Sweet lass, what is't you sing?

Rosa.

I enact the Queen of the Fairies; I was singing the prologue.

1 Gypsy.

And who are you, Sir?

Doug.

We live by our bows.

1 Gypsy.

Then you'll probably die on a tree. Will you be one of us? You're from Scotland, I think?

Ham.

Right: But who are you?

1 Gypsy.

Of a most honourable pedigree; none of our gang can boast an equal one: My brother was hanged for sheep-stealing, my mother was thrice i'the stocks, my father suffered with Johnie Armstrong; I was intended for the church, but I liked stealing better.

Doug.

But what was your contention about? I heard high words.

1 Gypsy.

It was about the casting of the parts.

Ham.

What parts?

1 Gypsy.

The Abbot of Unreason, Maid Marian, and the other parts of the play.

Doug.

Who acts the Queen of the Fairies?

1 Gypsy.

Rosa here, my daughter; she does it passing well, though I say it. Sing us, child, the old prologue. 'Tis in the character, Sir, you must know, of the Queen of the Fairies. Quickly, child; quickly and trippingly.

Rosa.
[Sings.]

Doug.

'Tis featly done.

Ham.

It goes right airily.

1 Gypsy.

We're going, an' please you, to enact this play at Lancaster fair, before the castle; the Queen of Scots will see us.

Doug.

And are you sure she's there? we heard she was at Bolton.

1 Gypsy.

I saw her but two days gone; she was

looking through the grate of John o' Gaunt's tower; and when some of the—

Enter an Old Gypsy.
Old Gypsy.

And when—

1 Gypsy.

And when—

Old Gypsy.

I'm telling it.—And when the rabble reviled her, she kissed her hand, and held it through the bars; at which the giddy fools raised such a shout—

1 Gypsy.

You'll know blind Robin the old Scotch minstrel; he has but one leg, and one tune; he lost his leg at Flodden Field: I led him that day the Queen was brought in, and her beauty was so bright, I sometimes thought old Robin saw her; for his face turned as she rode along, as if he had seen her; and in sooth, he said, he never saw her look sae bonny since the time she flang him a siller croun, and bade him no weary himsel' wi' playing.

Doug.

Was there any one with her?

1 Gypsy.

There is a lady with her, but she ne'er shows herself.

Ham.

I'd give my land (if I had any) to see this Queen.

1 Gypsy.

Your land, forsooth! But what hinders you to see her? You may go there to-morrow; we'll make you complete gypsies.—But, in the mean time,

gentles, we must go on with our rehearsal; the rest of our company are waiting for us. Yon little plat is our stage; the white-branched hawthorn our scenes; the moon and stars our lustres; and you will be our audience. Haste, trip with me: Come, follow—

Rosa.
[Singing.]

Follow, follow me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—The Terrace of the Castle Garden, Lancaster.
(Time—Night.)
Enter Wingfield and Francisco, conversing.
Fran.
I do not like the work.

Wing.
You shall have what you ask;
I hold a broad commission.
Think of the angels: Those I offer you,
They're not your feathered tribe of cherubims,
But solid sterling gold: Twelve score of them
Are worth whole legions of the other kind.

Fran.
I care not for your gold;
I'd rather have preferment in the church.

Wing.
That cannot be, unless you will abjure
The errors of the Romish superstition.

Fran.
O God forefend I ever should do that!
My conscience will not let me think of that.

Wing.
If you'll abjure, you shall be Dean of Peterborough;
The place is vacant at this very time.

Fran.
My conscience is not pliable.

Wing.
There is small difference 'twixt the two religions.

Fran.
I'll think of it.

Wing.
Think of the deanery.

Fran.
I'll think of it.

Wing.
Will you not flinch?

Fran.
A Spaniard break his word!

Wing.
I'll go before:
Meantime prepare the chapel.

Fran.
'Tis requisite it be reconsecrated;
I'd not profane the holy ordinance
In an unhallowed place. Against to-morrow
It may be ready.

Wing.
Do then prepare.—
This is a strong, yet slowly sapping drug,
[Delivering to him a little Box.
A subtle, vital-gnawing thing, that's sure,
Though imperceptible: The deed might else be traced.
Death must not rudely pluck the pretty flower;
No, let the canker-worm work at its root,
So, by degrees, she'll fade, then droop, then fall:
Nor will the real cause be once surmised.

[Exit.
Fran.
The deanery of Peterborough!—
For abjuration there is absolution.
The deanery is a step: Why may not I,
As well as others, reach the primacy?
Then, having access to Elizabeth,
Convert her from her present heresy,
Rebuild the catholic church, and expiate
My feigned defection from the holy see,
And this projected pious-motived murder.—
'Twill do, 'twill do.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

—Hall of the Castle.
Enter Wingfield, followed by a Warder.
Ward.
'Tis scarcely day.

Wing.
I must now see her; there is my warrant.

Ward.
You'd better wait an hour or two.

Wing.
No, not a second more; I do command—
[Exit Warder.
Now let me think how I may best ensnare
This peerless piece of royalty. I must,
If I obey my mistress's command, I must,
By every hardship, goad her on to treasons,
That, if the priest should fail, the judge may strike.
But then she is so Christianly meek,
She'll clothe herself in Resignation's stole:—
I'll meet her there, I'll laugh her faith to scorn;
That will, if any thing, incense her.

Enter Mary and Adelaide.
Mary.
Who asks for me at this untimely hour?

Wing.
I bear the Queen's commission, which commands me
To see your Grace the instant I arrived.

Mary.
Your business might have waited.

Wing.
Nay, 'tis your business most.
I've orders to redress your wrongs: What are they?

Mary.
Am I at liberty?

[Holding up her arms.
Wing.
No.

Mary.
Why am I not?

Wing.
The safety of the Queen requires this seeming harshness.

Mary.
Why are my friends forbid to visit me?

Wing.
It is the order of her Majesty.

Mary.
The word of God has said, Visit the prisoner;
And who says no? a woman!—
A curse will blast the power, that would arrest
The prisoner's sigh floating to friendship's ear;
That intercepts the beam of friendship's eye
From lighting up the prison's dreary gloom:
A curse will shrivel up the impious hand,
That, with its sacrilegious signature,
Arrests the joy-winged light, and tells
The eye, which, with a grateful glance,
Takes in the cope of heaven, to be content
With the faint ray that, glimmering, struggles through
The iron lattice of the hopeless man.—
O God forgive me! May thy will be done.

Wing.
That is a pious wish. But who, or where
Is God? If there be one, then thou art guilty;
For why should innocence be doomed to suffer?

Mary.
And art thou sent to steal me from my faith?
I rest on this:
[Pressing a Psalter to her Breast.
These are the words of life.

Wing.
Some foolish fables.

Mary.
This is the pillow of disease and age;
On this the captive rests his weary head,
And dreams of heaven. O blessed, blessed words!
The bitterest tear that drops on you is sweet.
These are the only words that comfort speak
To broken hearts like mine. This little book
The widowed mother presses to her breast,
And gives it to her orphan child to kiss.
The man bowed down by sorrow, who has laid
The last of all his children in the grave,
Returning to his lonely house, first finds
Some solace here. Even to the death-doomed wretch,
Who cannot read the blessed words of life,
This volume makes his loaded arms feel light;
Yea, even at the suffering hour, disarms
The dreadful apparatus of its horrors.
Perhaps to me that hour is in reserve,—
When on a stage, with sable scenes hung round,
Poor Mary Stewart shall lay down her life.
Let that hour come! On this I lay my hand;
Unclasping this, heaven opens to my view.

Wing.
Delusion all!

Mary.
I see, I see thee, proselyting fiend!
The wretch who, tainted with the pestilence,
Would breathe infection on the sleeping infant,
Is not more devilish than is he who, 'reft
Of hope himself, makes converts to despair.

Wing.
A God! [Smiling.]
—What proof? That which you call his word,
Is but the word of man.

Mary.
Canst thou blot out the stars? There do I read
The Deity, there face to face behold him.

Wing.
Well, well, I did but jest; and, as a proof,
I will o'erstep the bounds of my commission,
And send a priest of your own faith
To comfort you:
Besides, I'll order that the castle-chapel
Be given up to him, with liberty
There to perform all rites of holy church.

Mary.
Heaven reward you!

Adel.
Amen.

Wing.
I'll on the instant go; 'tis now broad day;
I'll rouse again the lazy Spaniard.

[Exit.
Adel.
I do not like that man;
His smile is still more hideous than his frown.

Enter Warder.
Ward.
An please your Highness, there is come a fortune-teller;
A cunning player on the harp besides.
Say, would your Highness wish to see the man?

Mary.
I'm sure he cannot tell us any good;
I wish not now to see him.

Ward.
Hark, he plays.

[The “Flowers of the Forest” heard without. Mary and Adelaide appear astonished. Mary recovers herself.
Mary.
Yes, let him come; I think his touch is soft.
[Exit Warden.
It is the very hand of Douglas, and the tune
He knows I took delight to hear him play.

Adel.
Ah, no!
That tune, though Scottish, comes so near the heart,
That 'tis a favourite with our enemies,
And oftentimes draws tears from English eyes:
There's many an English minstrel knows it well.

Mary.
But, hark!—the voice—'tis he.

Adel.
'Tis Douglas!

Mary.
Be calm; there is some hidden purpose here:
Study his looks, and if he seem to wish
Not to be recognised, beware! Assume,
Though fluttering be your heart to fly to him,
Assume a cold indifference in your look.

Adel.
Can I look cold on Douglas?—and yet I will attempt.

Enter Douglas, disguised in a Gypsy habit, followed by the Warder.
Doug.
God save your Grace! God bless thee, lady!

Mary.
Come forward, friend; why have you left your harp?

Doug.
I only play some few old things; the art
Which I profess is one of higher dignity.

Mary.
And canst thou now, by looking at the lines
Upon the hands, say when these shackled arms
Shall once again be free?

Doug.
I think I can; but first I must inclose
Your Highness, and your fair companion too,
Within a certain circle of great virtue.

Mary.
I fear not such imprisonment as that.

Doug.
Well then, good warder, stand a little back
While thus I draw my line;—a little farther—
Aye, that will do.
“Thrice times three athwart the line
“I've warped through each heavenly sign,
“Thrice times three,
“Thrice times three, three, three, three.”—
An' please your Highness now to reach your hand.—
[Douglas, kneeling, surveys her hand.
Aye, there's a lucky line.—
This night, according as occasion offers,
[Speaking low.
Perhaps the next, or next again,
Expect a trusty band, sworn to your rescue.
Three days ago they'd leave Caerlavrock shore,
In a stout bark, well trimmed and fitted out,
Like those that sail to fish St George's sea.
At dead of night they'll land, set fire at once
To different places of the town, and—

Mary.
That must not be; how many sleeping infants—

Doug.
Be ruled by those who risk their lives to serve you.—
Amid the noise, and hurry, and alarm,
We win our way, by force or guile, to you,
Bear off the prize, and straight embark for France.
I pray you be prepared.—
And you, sweet maid, come reach to me your palm:
'Tis a fair hand, that many gallants sue for.
Come, let me see—I see, formed by these lines,
A labyrinth from which thou'lt soon be free:
The Queen of England is merciful as just.—
Let me look nearer still. It is too soft;
I fear it will too easily be won.
But let me see again:
These lines are branches of a full blown thorn,
And that black mole, what is it but an ousel,
Which 'mid the boughs so fair hath built its nest;
A mystery right easy to be read:
In brief, fair damsel, you do love a man,
Who is so far from handsome, that his face
Would scarcely be a foil to one like mine,
[She seems for a moment displeased.
Of Ethiopian tint: But, what is more,
You'll win this sable gentleman; for if
I know aught of my art or of myself,
He loves you full as well as you love him.

Adel.
Now fair befal thee; tell me what's thy fee?

Doug.
Nor gold nor silver will I take of thine;
One kiss of that sweet mouth is all I ask.

Mary.
Why hesitate to grant the spaeman's boon?

Doug.
A trick, a trick; that was thy cheek.

Adel.
Well, well, an that it must be so.—

Ward.
In sooth, a very gallant fortune-teller.
Now, by Saint Peter's keys, I never saw,
Since first I learned the trade of turning locks,
One of thy tribe so bold, and yet withal
So little given to greed.

Adel.
When wilt thou play again?

Doug.
Perhaps this night at sunset.

Ward.
Haste, friend, I must away; walk, trudge.

Adel.
At sunset.

[Exeunt Douglas and Warder.
Mary.
I fear this too will fail.—Lead to my chamber,
It is my home: Come, I would rest in it.
I'm sick of disappointed hopes;—come, come.

Adel.
No, let us stay; none will disturb us here.
That massive door is close; and here we see
The furrowed field, from which spring all our hopes.—
Look, yonder is a sail; and far beyond,
As if suspended in the haze that joins
The sea and sky, I think I can discern
What seems another sail.

Mary.
I cannot see; my eyes ay fill with tears
Whene'er I look upon the watery way,
That brought me from the tranquil shores of France.
But let me try; I'll look, though dim my sight.—
Alas, thy hopes are bent to be deceived!
That, nearest, is a gallant ship, deep-fraught,
Whose well-stowed hull the shouldering waves
Scarce heave; sail bulging above sail, she seems
An airy castle turreted with clouds.
Our friends! they voyage in some sooty buss,
Hung round with lines, and nets, and pitchy ropes,
And such like implements of fishers' gear.

Adel.
Well, well, they'll come; no matter in what plight.
Look, see yon beauteous rainbow; you will grant,
It is a happy omen.

Mary.
No, 'tis a broken vault; and, see, it fades,
The fragments melting on the distant hills;
And now 'tis gone, quite gone—so fade my hopes.

Adel.
I see you are determined to despond.

Mary.
Ah, no! I only dread to cherish hope,
Because heaven breathes an anathema deep
On all my hopes, and turns them to despair:
I hoped to have a son—the infant's smile
Was for a season mine; but now he smiles
Upon his hopeless mother's bitterest foes.
I never more shall see his face again!—
O, I shall ne'er forget that hated day,
(Hated! and yet I love to brood on it,—
To speak of it,) when forced to leave my child.
I asked but for the respite of one day;
No, not a breath! the ruthless lips replied.
Just till my infant wake,—I kneeling prayed;
Well, well, you may;—such was the harsh response
Made to a Queen. Then o'er my babe I knelt,
And dreaded to behold, what oft my heart
With inexpressible delight had thrilled,—
The opening of his eyes, my parting doom.
Thus rivetted I gazed, and longer still
Had been allowed to gaze upon my child,
But that a shower of tears fell from my eyes,
And broke his placid slumber.—Woe, woe is me!

Adel.
O look not round upon the storm that's past.
Look forward to the little azure plat
Expanding in the clouds; 'twill soon extend
Till full upon us shines the heavenly beam.

Mary.
I fear that this attempt,—lead me to my cell,—
Like all the rest, will end in deeper woe.

Adel.
Keep up your hopes; success will never come
Without attempts to win it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

—Changes to the Castle Garden. The end of the Chapel seen in the back ground.
Enter Wingfield.
Wing.
This fool is at his exorcisms no doubt,
A-sprinkling holy lymph to purify
An altar for a human sacrifice.

Enter Warder.
Ward.
An please your worship, would you hear some music?
There is a pleasant harper here.

Wing.
No, no; begone!—Music! I hate it.
Hast e'er a cross-bow? I would that thou couldst shoot
Yon noisy throstle on the yew-tree hedge. [Exit Warder.
[The folding-doors of the Chapel open. Francisco, from within, comes forward. The altar, with lights, crucifix, &c. seen at the farther end.

A pretty show, indeed: The bait's well gilt;
The hook is sharp, and barbed withal;
It must not slip Francisco.

Douglas seen in the back ground among the trees.
Doug.
What can this mean?

[Aside.
Fran.
But there's one thing I fear may come to pass;
I would not wish, when angling for the trout,
To kill the little minnow: I've been informed,
There is a lady with the Queen of Scots.

Wing.
O mind not that; since, if it come to pass,
What then? There is no good can be attained
Without some ill.

Fran.
We must somehow avoid a double crime.

Wing.
If it be possible.—But, good Francisco,
There is another point:
I know my mistress wishes to obtain
Some proof of Mary's guilt, both as to Rizzio,
And to the King her husband. Do you think
You could persuade her friend to counterfeit
The Queen's subscription? I have prepared a writing;
It bears a full confession of her guilt.
I've heard that this same friend, or secretary,
Both pens and signs her mistress' letters.

Fran.
I'll not take more in hand; I do not know
The Queen's companion.

Wing.
I'll bring you to them now.

Fran.
I long to see them.

[Exeunt.
Douglas comes forward.
Doug.
There's here some villainy devised.
A double crime! some proof of Mary's guilt!
The little minnow kill—whom?
Although the character I cannot read,
I can discern the Queen of England's hand;
She writes in cypher, with a blood-dipped pen.
She's working.—Now, were I some wretch, hope 'reft,
Self-doomed to death, but dreading to incur
The guilt of suicide,
I'd by anticipation expiate
That guilt, by stabbing first
This empress of all princely hypocrites:
I'd be the avenging angel.
O, I would stand all hazards for the chance
Of striking such a blow; and when 'twas struck,
I'd deem the punishment a high reward.—
'Would I could see the Queen once more ere night,
But just to say, Beware! I'll try again
To wind myself into her presence.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

—Changes to the Hall of the Castle.
(Time—Night.)
Enter, to Mary and Adelaide, Wingfield and Francisco.
Wing.
Father Francisco is come.

Fran.
God bless your Highness!

Mary.
Father, I give you thanks. O, I am glad,
I'm comforted once more to see
That humble habit, and that sacred emblem.

Fran.
'Tis the peculiar duty of our order,
To minister to prisoners.

Mary.
You seem to feel, as if you once had felt
The misery of them who learn to note
The dreary hours by the slow-moving shadow
Of staunchel-bars upon the chequered floor;
To whom the cheerful sun shines but to tell
That life and joy exist, but not for them;
Whose serenade is noise of closing bolts;
To whom the sweetest sound that meets the ear
Is the slow warden's morning-steps ascending,
And then the ringing of the loosened hasps;
Even the stern face, that seems to grudge a look,
And tongue returning monosyllables
To anxious questioning, even these
Impart a kind of pleasure to the wretch
Whose home's the prison-house.

Fran.
Be comforted.

Adel.
Be comforted!

Fran.
How many pine in prisons for the crime
Of poverty, who never were accused
Of any greater guilt?

Mary.
The debtor! Oh, his lot is happiness
Compared to mine; his friends, those whom he loves,
They visit him. Have we not, Adele, marked,
The little barefoot boy come to the gate,
Bearing his prisoned father's morning mess?
At sight of whom the keeper's frown would change
Into a smile; and, as he let him in,
He'd pitying stroak the elfin's sun-bleached head.
I've wished to be the parent of that child.

Wing.
You would not wish to have your child with you?
These gloomy walls would frighten him.

Mary.
(Reproachfully.)
I'd shake this chain before my baby's face,
And please him thus, and then he'd smile to me.

Fran.
Ah! why these bonds?

[To Wingfield.
Wing.
I thought you came to comfort, not to move
Her discontent.

Fran.
Your Highness' thoughts, I trust, are turned to heaven?

Mary.
Yes; and the more that sorrow fills the heart,
Heaven shines more glorious to the sight of hope;
As to the tear-filled eye the tiniest star
Shoots forth a thousand beams athwart the gloom.

Fran.
I say it is not seemly, 'tis not right,
[To Wingfield.
This strict restraint—chains!

Wing.
Art thou the bearer of the Queen's commission?

Mary.
See what a furrow in my wrist it makes.

[To Francisco.
Fran.
'Tis barbarous.

Wing.
Withdraw, I do command.—
[Exit Francisco.
To show how much it is my earnest wish
To grant your Highness all indulgences,
I have allowed this priest to consecrate
The chapel; he comes to tell you this,
And to announce, that on the morrow morn
He will perform the service of the mass,
And that you and this lady here may join.
He'll be again with you ere night.

[Exit.
Adel.
O what a wretch is that!

Mary.
The friar had some ruth;—
I thought I saw a tear start in his eye.
Voice from without. Beware, beware!

Adel.
O God! that is the voice of Douglas.

Mary.
'Tis his:—There's something dreadful meant against us.
Farther access, no doubt, they have denied him:
'Twas from the garden that the warning came.—
I dread some horrid purpose 'gainst my life:
This low'ring Wingfield came not here for nought.—
Lead me to my chamber; I'm sick with apprehension:
Beware!—that word—it had a heavy knell.
I see dark visions float before mine eyes.
I used to love to muse on death; but now,
Behind his form, I see a hooked wheel,
Half-covered with a black, but blood-stained pall,
And in his knurled hand, 'stead of a dart,
He shakes fell torture-irons.—
Bear, bear me from the sight!

[Mary leans on Adelaide, looking wildly.
Adel.
O, Mary, I would die for thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

—The Shore of Lancashire.
Enter Argyle, Montgomery, Soldiers, and Sailors.
Arg.
Is she fast moored? for, mark, the heavy clouds
Are mustering all around.

Sailor.
Fast as the lesser bear to the pole.

Arg.
Speak not so loud.

Mont.
Douglas, I trust, will soon be here;
This should be near the place.

Arg.
'Would he were come. 'Twill be a dreadful night.—
Look, look—yon flash.

Mont.
Speak low; perhaps some straggling fishermen
May be returning from their day's adventure.

Arg.
And, hark! that distant, but tremendous peal,
Careering round the pitchy vault of night.—
Another flash—how nigh!
And, hear; that is no distant bolt.

1 Sold.
It bodes no good: I wish I were once more
Upon the shore of fair Carlavrock bay.

2 Sold.
'Would I were now beneath my smoky roof.

Mont.
Soldiers, are all your bows securely cased?
We'll have a flood ere long,—'tis pattering now.

1 Sold.
I hear a foot.

Mont.
Soldiers, go back a little way.—Keep close
And still.—Next flash will shew who comes.

Arg.
It is not Douglas.

Mont.
'Tis Hamilton, I think.—
Yes, both our friends.

Enter Douglas.
Doug.
I'm here among my friends, yet scarcely know them.—
I trust, you're all arrayed in Kendal green.

Arg.
All.

Doug.
My Lord, you're welcome to the English shore.

Arg.
How does the Queen?

Mont.
And her fair friend?

Doug.
They're well as captives are in use to be.
The Queen desponds; her friend is full of hope.—
But never did I see a night more cross;
Darkness would best supply our want of numbers.

Mont.
The night, indeed, is luckless and perverse;
For, as we past the postern-gate, each flash
Displayed the castle plain as at high noon;
We could have counted every vane, and spike,
And pinnacle: One lengthened gleam there was,
So bright, I thought I saw the watchman's eyes
Peer through a loop-hole of the western tower.

Arg.
And yet our enterprize brooks not delay.
This night must save the Queen,
Or plunge her deeper still in ruin.

Doug.
I know it must, my Lord; retreat is ruin.
You've past a broad and boisterous Rubicon.

Arg.
What is your plan? 'tis you must lead us on.

Doug.
I will explain it; but 'tis fit our men
Should hear.—
Comrades, draw near, and listen to the way
By which we'll work the rescue of the Queen:—
Close to the town of Lancaster, to which
I mean to lead you now,
There is a grange, whose barn-yard still is stored
With the saved increase of the former year;
We set it in a blaze, and then retire
Into a little grove of trees hard by.
Soon we shall hear the alarm of fire resound;
The port is opened, out the townsmen run
Confused, with pails and buckets, in their haste
Half filled: The castle-guard ere long comes down;
We watch our time, and straggling, two and three,
Pass in, and meet before the castle gate.
The porter takes us for their men returned;
Besides, I've learned the watch-word for the night,
The thistle 'neath the rose; and thus we gain,
I think we cannot fail to gain, admission.
By guile or force we'll make our entrance good.

Arg.
So far well planned.

Doug.
Admitted, instantly we shut the gate,
Seize on the keys, secure their keeper,
Force him to bring us to the royal chamber:—
To lead the Queen, my Lord, will be your part.
(What trembling joy in Adelaide's bright eye!)
Then through the postern of the western tower
Down to the beach;
Quick we embark, unmoor, and hoist the sails;—
I hear the rapid rushing of the prow.

Arg.
'Tis well devised; it scarcely can misgive.

Mont.
I'll answer on my life.

Doug.
What say you, friends?

[To the Soldiers.
1 Sold.
We'll follow trustfully where'er you lead:
We long to see our noble Queen once more.
She'll look on us with such a look of thanks!
To serve her we would rush on death.

Doug.
Then follow; now's the time; remember Scotland:
May Bruce's spirit burn in every breast!

[Exeunt.