University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A cavern: a fire of embers burning on the ground. Percy standing in the cavern's mouth.
Per.
'T is time they came.—That broad and crimson cloud
Which, just now, seemed a fretted vault of fire,
Wave after wave, grows pale and gray:—the rooks
Are hush:—the amber tint of twilight fades.—
How oft have I, when fortune seemed afar,
Gazed, musing, on that lingering streak of day,
And wondered if, in all the shining realms
Fancied beyond those hills, a bosom dwelt
So desolate as mine! Or eyed yon star
Kindle her cresset in the glowing West,
And wished her placid bowers had been my birthplace!
Now, my exulting heart would scarce exchange
Her hopes for Paradise.—Michael to aid!
Rid'st thou a hippogriff?

Enter Douglas.
Doug.
Well, by the hum,
Hurry, and stir abroad, our quarry's harboured?

Per.
Two hours ago.

Doug.
How strong?

Per.
Two hundred Knights,
And twenty Nobles.

Doug.
Humph! one hundred Knights,
The courier said.

Per.
No matter.

Doug.
Merrier sport;
That 's all.

Per.
You found the soldiers safe?

Doug.
Impatient for my summons: dight like pilgrims,
In separate bands, by ways obscure they come,
To meet upon the outskirts of the wood.—
Where 's Bertram?

Per.
Not yet come.

Doug.
Not—

Per.
Hark!—I hear them.

Doug.
Whose deep-toned voice is that?

Per.
Old Mountfort's. Mark me, Douglas—he alone,
Knows me, or this day's chance: the rest expect
But Percy's emissary. Name me not.
Enter Bertram, Mountfort, Bardolph, Fitzhugh, and several Peasants.
Thrice welcome, valiant Mountfort, to our cell!
Lords Fitzhugh, Bardolph, and the rest, all welcome.

Mount.
Dark as a den of Cyclops! else my eyes
Wax dim apace. Where art thou?

Per.
Here, my lord.

Mount.
Ay,—press me,—make me young again. My lords,
This is the youth I spoke of.

Per.
Stir a blaze,
That we may see each other's faces, Bertram.

Doug.
Most noble Mountfort, let me guide thy steps
To yonder jutting rock.

Mount.
Who speaks? ha?

Doug.
(in a low tone.)
Douglas.

Mount.
Guide me.
Thy voice did thrill my pulses like a trumpet.
(Whispering.)
What! has he stooped? the Royal bird?

Doug.
Perched, my good lord.

Mount.
Good King! sweet King! shrive, shrive! I shall see day yet.

(Douglas conducts Mountfort to a seat on the rock by the fire; which Bertram replenishes and fans to a blaze.)
Per.
(to the Peasants.)
Draw near, my loving friends: stand not apart.

Mount.
Now then, explain the cause of this hot summons.

Per.
In part, my lords, you may have heard its purport?

Bard.
Touching our master's son, Lord Mountfort said,
Young Percy.

Per.
Whom I serve: the hapless youth
For whose illustrious Fathers yours have bled
An idle sacrifice. For, where, alas!
The pomp, power, victories, they dearly bought?
The storied memory, my lords, is left
In chronicles of other times, and serves,
Serves but to wring an Exile's breast with anguish.
In the cold tomb their wreath of glory lies:
The Chieftain's arm protects no more: his voice,
That should have cheered you in the fields of fame;
In peace, ruled, shepherd-like, his flock, yet sleeps
Mute and inglorious, in a land of strangers.
My friend—has a true heart;—desires,
And memory;—knows what his fathers were;—
Like them aspires:—judge how he feels his fate!
All day, upon some sea-beat rock he sits,
Mourning his people and himself as orphans,
And begs, as Heaven's best boon, once to behold them.

First Peas.
(to the others.)
Mark that! (Drawing near.)
The Percy loves us, then?

Second Peas.
When saw you, Sir, our noble master?

Mount.
Peace!—
No matter, now.—Go on.—Pardon me, friends.

Per.
Your father, noble Bardolph, was the friend
Of old Northumberland, and fared with him
When, bowed with bitter years, the reckless Earl,
Heart-broken by the loss of Hotspur, fled,
Exposing to the time's vicissitudes,
Insult, and want, and scorn, his hoary head,
Rather than knee the murderers of his son.
Through all his pilgrimage, thy noble sire
Watched his sad steps, and cheered him from despair.
At last, around his banners, from the North,
Mustering a scanty train, he vowed to die,
Or reave from Bolingbroke the blood-stained crown.
On Bramham-Moor, Bardolph partook his fate.—
Percy was yet a child; but having heard
This tale, with every circumstance of love
Shown to his grandsire by your noble father,
Loves, even as his own, your name and race.

Bard.
Doth he?—Heaven judge me as I love him too!

Per.
Presuming on that love, he bade me speak.—
In happier days, the name of Fitzhugh ranked
High 'mid the valiant who for Percy drew.—
But persecuted Mountfort, whose own eyes
Witnessed the downfall of his master's house,
Hunted, proscribed, an outlaw for his faith
And zeal untamable in Percy's cause,
Would spring, we knew, to vengeance.

Mount.
By the gods,
Though fourscore stiffening winters gripe my limbs,
And dim these eyeballs, with a cripple's crutch
I'd beard the tyrant!

Bard.
Persuasion it needs not to stir my heart.
Much have I wished me near the noble youth;
Daily and nightly I implore my Saint
To keep and counsel him. But for our babes,
I had not now been here,—had long ago
Wedded my own to his abandoned fortunes.
Say to my exiled Chieftain, Bardolph holds
Life but for him, and will his summons answer
As his dear father's voice spake from the ground.

Mount.
St. George and victory! the day is won.

Per.
The Percy shall requite thee, Bardolph.

Mount.
Now,
What says my son-in-law? what says Hugh Fitzhugh?

Fitz.
Commend me to the youth, and wish him well.

Mount.
Wish him!—But barren wishes, son?

Fitz.
Nor more,
Nor less, Sir.

Mount.
(stepping back.)
Fiends! is this your answer?

Fitz.
Yes, rash man.

Mount.
Hell sear thy tongue, then, runagate,
When thou claimest kindred next with Marmaduke!
By all my wrongs I swear to starve, rot, kneel
To Lancaster,—to Neville kneel,—ere owe
Shelter or succour to a recreant more.

Doug.
And so would I, by Jupiter!—Avaunt!

Fitz.
Stand off, young Brave! I'll teach you, else, to tremble!

Doug.
Teach Douglas—

Per.
Douglas! Mountfort! Peace, for Heaven's sake!

Doug.
(grasping Fitzhugh.)
Learn first, thou craven—

Per.
Hold! (Thrusts Douglas to the wall.)
What! are we ruffians?
A den of bandits?—Stir not, on thy life!—
Why, Mountfort, thou art rash as madness.—
Brave Fitzhugh, turn not—Shame! shame! outrage!
Turn not, indignant—Fie, my lord, O fie!
(To Mountfort.)
To mock your own white head!

Mount.
Look ye, (takes off his cap)
my nonpareil! my valiant wisher!
Here stands the noble Percy: this is he.
Wish for thyself! Beseech ye, wish!—What! dumb?

Per.
Be dumb thyself, or by my father's soul,
Age, name, and love, shall vanish on the word!

Peasants.
(who had crowded round Percy.)
Art thou, indeed, our Chief? Is Arthur, Percy?

Per.
The same, my friends—Thanks, for your steadfast love.

First Peas.
Kneel, ye unmannered boors.—
Dear, honored, noble master, may a poor
Unworthy vassal kiss thy hand?

Second Peas.
And I?

Third Peas.
And I?

Fourth Peas.
And I?

Per.
Remember, I have proved,
And love you all.—Stands Bardolph yet aloof?

Bard.
O Percy! Percy!—If this form be he
Clasped in my arms, what more can Heaven bestow?

Mount.
Be he? Look, Bardolph! look! Be he, forsooth!
Whose kingly front? whose falcon eye is that?

Per.
Come, Baron Fitzhugh, to my heart. Thy wish,
Thy friendly wish, I prize. Forget, my lord,
The hasty words of your impetuous father,
Who from aspersion would your honor guard
At his life's hazard.—Here, a comrade stands,
Whose hot pulse travels at a pace with Mountfort's:
Archibald Douglas, son to Scotland's earl.

Doug.
(wringing Bardolph's hand.)
Lord Bardolph, thine till death; and thine, old Chief.

Bard.
Thanks, noble Douglas!—But methinks I dream.

Per.
Long had I languished for my native land;
Burned from my father's battlements to rend
The hostile crest, and vindicate their fame;
Oft, round my bed their restless spirits stalked,
With looks indignant, pointing to their tombs
By foemen trampled. Plighting Heaven an oath
To rescue them, or be myself their tenant,
I hither came, to see what friends, what hopes,
Survived our fortunes. Hid beneath this vest,
With eyes observant I 've explored the land,
Tyring the temper of our ancient vassals,
And find our house, beyond my utmost hope,
Loved and remembered. Neville's yoke they loathe.
The sun-burned ancient darkens at his name,
Deep vengeance threatening when his injured lord
From Scottish hills descends to claim his birthright.
With blessings, prayers, and vows, am I invoked
As their deliverer.

Mount.
The meanest hind
Chained to the soil, would welcome death for Percy.

Per.
Fired by such zeal, I had a scheme devised
Would task their valor, had not happy chance
Opened a surer path to all my wishes.—
With you it rests to terminate our woes,
Chase these disastrous clouds, and give again
Our planet to her lustre. Fate has cast
Even at my feet my princely heritage.

Bard.
What means my lord?

Mount.
'T is true as Heaven! one grasp
Reclaims Northumberland.

Fitz.
(aside.)
Madness?

Bard.
If there be hope in arms, and Bardolph faint,
Let “Coward” be his epitaph.

Per.
How beats
Lord Fitzhugh's heart?

Fitz.
In tune with Bardolph's. But, with blindfold eyes,
To seal conspiracy, pass desperate pledge
With a mere stranger, sooth to say, whose name
Bore not its old repute, whose fortunes seemed
Given o'er to ruin, had not less been frenzy
Than risk, for nought, my life on raging seas,
Or, for the fallen, leap a precipice.
My heart was with you, Sir,—my sword shall be,
When reason's semblance guides the enterprise.
But, noble Percy, humbly let me ask,
What can two thousand vassals, toil-worn hinds,
To counsel, camps, and arms unused, against
The might of Neville, backed by England's King?

Per.
Your words seem wise, and show considerate thoughts.
Now lend, my friends, a heedful ear.

Mount.
Draw nearer.

Per.
King Henry is in yonder castle.

Fitz.
Sir!

Per.
The King:—this night arrived:—slightly attended.

Bard.
Ha!

Mount.
What think ye now?—The tyrant, Bardolph! Here!
Come like a victim to the sacrifice!

Per.
All that my restless heart has panted for;
Clung to, despairing, as affection clasps
The breathless clay; which might have wasted life
In hopeless chase, and left me, if my youth
'Scaped sword and dungeon, but an exile's grave,
Relenting Heaven, in pity offers me.
Yourselves shall judge.—In honor of the King,
The Earl, to-morrow, holds a mighty hunt,
And grants me leave, at night, to show a Masque.
Arms, and the keys, to that intent, are mine.
My lords, this cavern, seemingly barred up
By yonder rocks, issues beneath the castle;
Commanding by a range of vaults, unknown
To its new lord, the hall and posterns; scooped
For special purpose in my grandsire's wars.
Through this, what power we please, may be conveyed
Into the walls; environ them without,
And every gate, ward, avenue, is ours,
Even to the hall of state, where, high in pomp,
The King and nobles feast. The castle won,
Whose voice will dictate?—Will they for their lives
Cavil on nice conditions? call my lands
A hard exaction as a Monarch's ransom?

Mount.
Will they gainsay our daggers?

Fitz.
Troth, my lord,
What looked as to attempt the mid-day sun,
Appears an easy triumph.

Per.
Can we fail?—
The train will then be weary, flown with wine,
Unarmed, and unsuspecting.

Bard.
Death, or life,
I'll stake upon the cast!

Doug.
O, noble Bardolph!

Mount.
Speak, Fitzhugh, speak!

Fitz.
And I.

Per.
Then briefly, Sirs, how many trusty spears
Can ye lead up to-morrow night by curfew?

Bard.
(after a pause.)
My lord, five hundred.

Per.
What says gallant Fitzhugh?

Fitz.
(with hesitation.)
Three hundred spears, and crossbows, were the utmost.

Mount.
(aside to Fitzhugh.)
Five hundred, son, five hundred say: match him.

Fitz.
Impossible, my lord! On one day's notice?

Mount.
Call in the Devil!—Percy, I do pledge
Five hundred for my son and self: I'm known
To some brave hearts; I boast a little power;
I'll eke it, by my soul!

Per.
And bind me ever.

Bert.
My lord— (Draws Percy aside.)


Doug.
Old bird of flame,
Thou must fly north, and snuff our mountain air,
And soar with strong-winged Douglas.

Mount.
Mass, and will,
Young goshawk: score with Monmouth first.

Per.
My lords, let all come singly to this forest.
Come not in bands; the hunt will be abroad
Through all the Border. Charge, with strictest heed,
Each soldier,—mark me, Sirs,—to wear a bugle.
(To the Peasants.)
Friends, you possess my bosom thoughts. Demean
Yourselves like men. Assist your worthy lords
In calling in their vassals,—mates of trust:
Next week, perchance, the grandsire on his crutch,
Your wives and little ones, with garlands crowned,
Will join the feast at Percy's jubilee.

First Peas.
Let that day come,
We care not if our requiem 's next.

Per.
Now, gentle friends, farewell! Heaven be our shield!
Good night, brave-hearted Mountfort! Like an oak
By ages buffeted, thy hoary top
Still scorns the tempest.

Mount.
Time rolls backward, Percy!—
This joyful night, as in a wizard's glass,
Shows me myself when these white locks were raven,
These withered sinews like the Danite's nerve,
And hope rekindles me.

Bard.
My lord, farewell.

Per.
Bardolph and Fitzhugh, both farewell. Fail not.

Fitz.
No fear.

Peasants.
Good night, brave Percy.

Per.
Guard ye Heaven!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A bedchamber. A lamp burning. Armour lying on the table and floor. Percy walking up and down the room.
Per.
O! for those vanished hours so much misprized!—
Strange! when the music of her tongue I heard,
Gazed on her face, basked in her smiles, my soul
Could pine for other good!—From some dim world,
I may look back with anguish to the days
When here, with her, in my paternal shades
I dwelt, and wish my heart had known her rest.—
I may have ta'en my last adieu.—Who knows?—
To leave her thus!—believing me a churl
Incapable of any touch— (Pauses, listening.)
—What strain?—
(Approaches the lattice.)
A light yet burning in her tower!—Ye Saints!—
Her voice and harp!—past midnight—Ha! could I not—
That same was once my mother's oratory—
I know the secret entrance.—Power of love!—

(After a moment's irresolution, snatches the lamp, and exit.)

SCENE III.

An oratory opening into Elinor's chamber. A missal spread upon the altar, before a crucifix: over it a large picture of the Virgin. Elinor kneeling, and singing to her harp.
El.
(As the sound of her harp ceases, the picture slides, discovering Percy, wrapped in a cloak, with a lamp. She starts.)

Per.
Fear not, lady; angel guardians
Surround by night the bower of Innocence.

(Springs down.)
El.
What apparition?—

Per.
(throwing off his cloak.)
Pardon, gentle lady!
Bold as may seem—

El.
Ha! do I wake?—What dost thou here, audacious?
At midnight!—Hence, rash youth! with speed, begone!
Hence! or I wake the house. How darest thou, slave,
Steal on the secrets of my worship?—Fly!
Thy very life may answer such an outrage.

Per.
Sweet lady, hear me.

El.
Quit this place.

Per.
One word—

El.
Heavens! is the Neville's daughter so abased
That grooms dispute her chamber?—Ho!

Per.
Nay then—
But, by my soul's eternal hope, I swear
In gratitude, in honor, but to say
Farewell, I came.

El.
How?

Per.
No matter:—when we meet again,—above,
Thou 'lt better know me. God be with you, lady.

(Takes his lamp, going.)
El.
Nay, now, I know not what thou meanest.

Per.
Sweet saint,
I would have told thee.

El.
Goest thou from our service?

Per.
Thus to interpret!—Sooner would I dare
Insult a glowing Cherub, perish in his glance,
Than sully, but in thought, thy purity.

El.
If I have done injustice—

Per.
Speak; I pause.

El.
What canst thou have to say?

Per.
Thanks, thanks unnumbered,
Blessings unspeakable for all thy favors.
Shrined here,—while life beats,—worshipped, they will dwell,
Although thy beauty I behold no more.

El.
No more!

Per.
My heart is full,—yet scarce—
Thou know'st, when I became an inmate here,
I called myself an orphan; desolate;
In the wide earth alone. So far, thou heard'st
A mournful truth; yet I deceived you.

El.
Ha!
Deceived us, Arthur?

Per.
Arthur 's not my name:
Nor am I what I seem.

El.
Shield us! Who art thou?

Per.
Though in your halls a vassal, Arthur boasts
Blood older than these towers, or any oak
Leafless with age on yonder hoary hills.
Thou seest me fallen; but my Fathers stood
Their country's bulwark. Kings have quaked to hear
The rumors of their march: their rushing host
This sea-throned Isle has to her centre shook.

El.
What next, I prithee?

Per.
Alas!
What shall I say then? What will vouch my truth?—
Durst I my name reveal—

El.
O, Sir, forbear:
A name so potent might unseat our towers.

Per.
Hast thou, before, found cause my faith to question?
Ever, before this night?—In justice—

El.
No.

Per.
Believest thou, in this solemn parting hour,
Lips that dare imprecate Heaven's wrath on falsehood,
Avenging thunders, hell, and penal judgment,
My lips,—can frame a lie? Believest thou this?

El.
I would not—cannot think it; but this tale—

Per.
A moment, lady, counsel with your heart.—
Have you not something seen, or fancied, in me,
That seemed ill coupled with this outward baseness?
Arguing a mind above the hireling's pitch,
A nobler nature,—as in some mewed eagle
That creeps, degraded, round a peasant's croft,
Proving the native of the princely eyry?

El.
Suppose I have.

Per.
Recall the time
When first thou saw'st my face;—the tale I told.
Glance back to many a trivial circumstance
That still belied me; startled thee, so oft,
And made thee gaze with wildered eyes. O, think,
Think of that night when righteous Providence
Rescued your honor:—when the moon beheld
Your deathlike face, and loose locks on my breast;—
When my roused spirit spoke,—all else forgot,—
High as her bent, and tender as the hour!
Thou own'st, feel'st truth in this. Mark! do I, now,
Fashion my speech in phrase of servitude?
Would the carle's tuneless tongue prove false the boast
That courts have been my home; my walk with princes;
My toil the Antique Sages' lore; my sport,
Penning the roundelay for ladies' lyres,
Who paid me with the radiance of their eyes?

El.
Pray leave me.

Per.
One brief moment ere we part.—
I go—I go—where Destiny conducts me:—
To be myself;—or cast disguise, and life,
Together, off. In rank thine equal, peer
To England's proudest, powerful as thy sire,
And crowned with old hereditary laurels,
Arthur returns, or never more. Ah! say,
If Fate should smile,—wilt thou smile too?—canst thou,
O, canst thou bid me rise—to life, to love,
To paradise with thee?

El.
My heart,—I mean,—
I'm giddy: all my senses seem bewildered.

Per.
Ah! may I construe silence?—Tongues
More used to ecstasy might talk of mine!

El.
But whither goest thou?—on what quest?

Per.
I cannot answer thee.

El.
But is there danger?

Per.
Question me not, for chains are on my tongue.

El.
O! choose some more propitious season.

Per.
No;
One mystic hour the characters of fate
Mark for the enterprise, that must not pass me.

El.
What dreadful meaning lurks beneath your words?
I fear—I fear—

Per.
For Arthur?

El.
Methinks I dream; so strange, so wildering seems
This tale. When ends the mystery? saidst thou when?

Per.
My fortunes touch upon a speedy issue.
Nor had thy sympathy been vainly waked,
Could I have torn my trembling heart away,
That clung and would not leave thee,—leave thee here,
Unconscious of my love,—a rival's prize,—
Never to be remembered more; or deemed
Senseless of virtues dearer to my soul
Than breath can utter. Falling, I could now
Greet death with smiles: the rapturous thought thou know'st
My heart's dear hope, and wilt remember me,
Brightens the dark hour like a glimpse of Eden.—
Farewell!—the matin star grows dim.—O, heed!
If this be not a dream of ecstasy,
A moment comes, is now upon the wing,
When, unexpected, I may rise to claim—
To sue—Ah! then shrink not to confess me!—

(Presses her hand hastily to his lips; ascends. The picture closes after him.)
El.
(in a wild tone.)
He 's gone!—to bleed! to perish!—Woe is me!
What will become of me—

Enter Florence, from the bedchamber, in her night mantle, and clasps Elinor in her arms.
Flor.
Nay, start not, love;
Waked by your voices, breathless I o'erheard
Your wondrous interview. Sure he is noble,
And merits worth like thine.

El.
(hiding her face in Florence's bosom.)
But he is gone!—
O Florence, Florence!—gone for ever,—O!
That he should perish,—just upon the verge
Of all his hopes!

Flor.
Not so;—he spake not so despairing. Hope,
Methought, gave lively courage to his accents.

El.
O, dost thou think— (Stops abruptly.)


Flor.
Indeed I do,—I'm sure
His voice, his face, his mien, his modesty,
His valor, every graceful word and act
Proclaim him noble.

El.
Ah! whoe'er he be,
In such an issue,—had he asked it of me,—
I would have strengthened him from Neville's power.
Now, friendless, he is gone, and never more
Shall I behold him.

Flor.
Dear Elinor, you will,—
But hark!—hark! as I live, the morning cock!
Come in;—come,—on our pillows we will talk it.

El.
First let me pray.

Flor.
Not now:—to-morrow.

El.
Oh!
I hear sweet sounds.

Flor.
Nay, nay,—repose is needful.

(Leads her in.)