University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

A Court, &c. as before.
Enter Anna.
Anna.
Thy vassals, Grief! great Nature's order break,
And change the noon-tide to the midnight hour.
Whilst Lady Randolph sleeps, I will walk forth,
And taste the air that breathes on yonder bank.
Sweet may her slumbers be! Ye ministers
Of gracious heaven who love the human race,
Angels and seraphs who delight in goodness!
Forsake your skies, and to her couch descend!
There from her fancy chace those dismal forms
That haunt her waking; her sad spirit charm
With images celestial, such as please
The bless'd above upon their golden beds.

Enter Servant.
Servant.
One of the vile assassins is secur'd.
We found the villain lurking in the wood:
With dreadful imprecations he denies
All knowledge of the crime. But this is not
His first essay: these jewels were conceal'd
In the most secret places of his garment;
Belike the spoils of some that he has murder'd.

Anna.
Let me look on them. Ha! here is a heart,
The chosen crest of Douglas' valiant name!
These are no vulgar jewels. Guard the wretch.
[Exit Anna.

Enter Servants with a Prisoner.
Prisoner.
I know no more than does the child unborn
Of what you charge me with.

First Servant.
You say so, Sir!
But torture soon shall make you speak the truth.
Behold the Lady of Lord Randolph comes:
Prepare yourself to meet her just revenge.

Enter Lady Randolph and Anna.
Anna.
Summon your utmost fortitude, before
You speak with him. Your dignity, your fame,
Are now at stake. Think of the fatal secret,
Which in a moment from your lips may fly.

Lady Randolph.
Thou shalt behold me, with a desperate heart,
Hear how my infant perish'd. See he kneels.

[The Prisoner kneels.]
Prisoner.
Heav'n bless that countenance, so sweet and mild!
A judge like thee makes innocence more bold.
O save me, Lady! from these cruel men,
Who have attack'd and seiz'd me; who accuse
Me of intended murder. As I hope
For mercy at the judgment seat of God,
The tender lamb, that never nipt the grass,
Is not more innocent than I of murder.

Lord Randolph.
Of this man's guilt what proof can ye produce?

First Servant.
We found him lurking in the hollow Glynn.
When view'd and call'd upon, amaz'd, he fled.
We overtook him, and inquir'd from whence
And what he was: he said, he came from far,
And was upon his journey to the camp.
Not satisfy'd with this, we search'd his cloaths,
And found these jewels; whose rich value plead
Most powerfully against him. Hard he seems
And old in villainy. Permit us try
His stubbornness against the torture's force.

Prisoner.
O gentle Lady! by your Lord's dear life!
Which these weak hands, I swear, did ne'er assail;
And by your children's welfare, spare my age!
Let not the iron tear my antient joints,
And my grey hairs bring to the grave with pain.

Lady Randolph.
Account for these: thine own they cannot be:
For these, I say: be stedfast to the truth;
Detected falshood is most certain death.

[Anna removes the Servants and returns.]
Prisoner.
Alas! I'm sore beset! let never man,
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul!
Eternal justice is in this most just!
I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal.

Lady Randolph.
O! Anna hear!—once more I charge thee speak
The truth direct: for these to me foretel
And certify a part of thy narration;
With which if the remainder tallies not,
An instant and a dreadful death abides thee.

Prisoner.

Lady Randolph.
Was he alive?

Prisoner.
He was.

Lady Randolph.
Inhuman that thou art!
How could'st thou kill what waves and tempests spar'd?

Prisoner.
I am not so inhuman.

Lady Randolph.
Didst thou not?

Anna.
My noble Mistress, you are mov'd too much:
This man has not the aspect of stern murder;
Let him go on, and you, I hope, will hear
Good tidings of your kinsman's long lost child.

Prisoner.
The needy man, who has known better days,
One whom distress has spited at the world,
Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon
To do such deeds, as make the prosperous men
Lift up their hands and wonder who could do them.
And such a man was I; a man declin'd,
Who saw no end of black adversity:
Yet for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not
Have touch'd that infant, with a hand of harm.

Lady Randolph.
Ha! dost thou say so? Then perhaps he lives!

Prisoner.
Not many days ago he was alive.

Lady Randolph.
O! God of heav'n! Did he then die so lately?

Prisoner.
I did not say he died; I hope he lives.
Not many days ago these eyes beheld
Him, flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty.

Lady Randolph.
Where is he now?

Prisoner.
Alas! I know not where.

Lady Randolph.
Oh fate! I fear thee still. Thou riddler, speak
Direct and clear; else I will search thy soul.

Anna.
Permit me, ever honour'd! Keen impatience,
Tho' hard to be restrain'd, defeats itself.—
Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue,
To the last hour that thou didst keep the child.

Prisoner.
Fear not my faith, tho' I must speak my shame.
Within the cradle, where the infant lay,
Was stow'd a mighty store of gold and jewels:
Tempted by which we did resolve to hide,
From all the world, this wonderful event,
And like a peasant breed the noble child.
That none might mark the change of our estate,
We left the country, travell'd to the North,
Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth
Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye
Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore.
For one by one all our own children died,
And he, the Stranger, sole remain'd the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness lov'd the boy,
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth,
With his own secret: but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.
Mean while the stripling grew in years and beauty;
And, as we oft observ'd, he bore himself,
Not as the offspring of our cottage blood;
For nature will break out: mild with the mild,
But with the froward he was fierce as fire,
And night and day he talk'd of war and arms.
I set myself against his warlike bent;
But all in vain: for when a desperate band
Of robbers from the savage mountains came—

Lady Randolph.
Eternal Providence! What is thy name?

Prisoner.
My name is Norval; and my name he bears.

Lady Randolph.
'Tis he; 'tis he himself! It is my son!
O sovereign mercy! 'Twas my child I saw!
No wonder, Anna, that my bosom burn'd.

Anna.
Just are your transports: ne'er was woman's heart
Prov'd with such fierce extremes. High fated Dame!
But yet remember that you are beheld
By servile eyes; your gestures may be seen
Impassion'd strange; perhaps your words o'erheard.

Lady Randolph.
Well dost thou counsel, Anna: heaven bestow
On me that wisdom which my state requires!

Anna.
The moments of deliberation pass,
And soon you must resolve. This useful man
Must be dismiss'd in safety, 'ere my Lord
Shall with his brave deliverer return.

Prisoner.
If I, amidst astonishment and fear,
Have of your words and gestures rightly judg'd,
Thou art the daughter of my antient master;
The child I rescu'd from the flood is thine.

Lady Randolph.
With thee dissimulation now were vain.
I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm;
The child thou rescu'dst from the flood is mine.

Prisoner.
Bless'd be the hour that made me a poor man!
My poverty hath sav'd my master's house!

Lady Randolph.
Thy words surprize me: sure thou dost not feign:
The tear stands in thine eye: such love from thee
Sir Malcolm's house deserv'd not; if aright
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress.

Prisoner.
Sir Malcolm of our Barons was the flower;
The fastest friend, the best, the kindest master:
But ah! he knew not of my sad estate.
After that battle, where his gallant son,
Your own brave brother, fell, the good old Lord
Grew desperate and reckless of the world;
And never, as he erst was wont, went forth
To overlook the conduct of his servants.
By them I was thrust out, and them I blame:
May heav'n so judge me as I judg'd my master!
And God so love me as I love his race!

Lady Randolph.
His race shall yet reward thee. On thy faith
Depends the fate of thy lov'd master's house.
Rememb'rest thou a little lonely hut,
That like a holy hermitage appears
Among the clifts of Carron?

Prisoner.
I remember
The cottage of the clifts.

Lady Randolph.
'Tis that I mean:
There dwells a man of venerable age,
Who in my father's service spent his youth:
Tell him I sent thee, and with him remain,
Till I shall call upon thee to declare,
Before the King and Nobles, what thou now
To me hast told. No more but this, and thou
Shalt live in honour all thy future days:
Thy son so long shall call thee father still,
And all the land shall bless the man, who sav'd
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir.
Remember well my words: if thou should'st meet
Him whom thou call'st thy son, still call him so;
And mention nothing of his nobler father.

Prisoner.
Fear not that I shall mar fo fair an harvest,
By putting in my sickle 'ere 'tis ripe.
Why did I leave my home and antient dame?
To find the youth to tell him all I knew,
And make him wear these jewels in his arms;
Which might, I thought, be challeng'd, and so bring
To light the secret of his noble birth.

[Lady Randolph goes towards the Servants.
Lady Randolph.
This man is not th'assassin you suspected,
Tho' chance combin'd some likelihoods against him.
He is the faithful bearer of the jewels
To their right owner, whom in haste he seeks.
'Tis meet that you should put him on his way,
Since your mistaken zeal hath dragg'd him hither.

[Exeunt Stranger and Servants.
Lady Randolph and Anna.
Lady Randolph.
My faithful Anna! dost thou share my joy?
I know thou dost. Unparallell'd event!
Reaching from heav'n to earth, Jehovah's arm
Snatch'd from the waves, and brings to me my son!
Judge of the widow, and the orphan's father!
Accept a widow's and a mother's thanks
For such a gift! What does my Anna think
Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest?
How soon he gaz'd on bright and burning arms,
Spurn'd the low dunghill where his fate had thrown him,
And tower'd up to the region of his sire!

Anna.
How fondly did your eyes devour the boy!
Mysterious nature, with the unseen cord
Of powerful instinct, drew you to your own.

Lady Randolph.
The ready story of his birth believ'd
Supprest my fancy quite; nor did he owe
To any likeness my so sudden favour:
But now I long to see his face again,
Examine every feature, and find out
The lineaments of Douglas, or my own.
But most of all I long to let him know
Who his true parents are, to clasp his neck,
And tell him all the story of his father.

Anna.
With wary caution you must bear yourself
In public, lest your tenderness break forth,
And in observers stir conjectures strange.
For, if a cherub in the shape of woman
Should walk this world, yet defamation would,
Like a vile cur, bark at the angel's train—
To-day the Baron started at your tears.

Lady Randolph.
He did so, Anna! well thy Mistress knows,
If the least circumstance, mote of offence,
Should touch the Baron's eye, his sight would be
With jealousy disorder'd. But the more
It does behove me instant to declare
The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights.
This night I purpose with my son to meet,
Reveal the secret, and consult with him:
For wise he is, or my fond judgment errs.
As he does now, so look'd his noble father,
Array'd in nature's ease: his mien, his speech,
Were sweetly simple, and full oft deceiv'd
Those trivial mortals who seem always wise.
But, when the matter match'd his mighty mind,
Up rose the Hero: on his piercing eye
Sat Observation: on each glance of thought
Decision follow'd, as the thunder-bolt
Pursues the flash.

Anna.
That demon haunts you still:
Behold Glenalvon.

Lady Randolph.
Now I shun him not.
This day I brav'd him in behalf of Norval;
Perhaps too far: at least my nicer fears
For Douglas thus interpret.

Enter Glenalvon.
Glenalvon.
Noble Dame!
The hov'ring Dane at last his men hath landed:
No band of pirates; but a mighty host,
That come to settle where their valour conquers;
To win a country, or to lose themselves.

Lady Randolph.
But whence comes this intelligence, Glenalvon?

Glenalvon.
A nimble courier sent from yonder camp,
To hasten up the chieftains of the north,
Inform'd me, as he past, that the fierce Dane
Had on the eastern coast of Lothian landed,
Near to that place where the sea-rock immense,
Amazing Bass, looks o'er a fertile land.

Lady Randolph.
Then must this western army march to join
The warlike troops that guard Edina's tow'rs.

Glenalvon.
Beyond all question. If impairing time
Has not effac'd the image of a place,
Once perfect in my breast, there is a wild
Which lies to westward of that mighty rock,
And seems by nature formed for the camp
Of water-wafted armies, whose chief strength
Lies in firm foot, unflank'd with warlike horse:
If martial skill directs the Danish lords,
There inaccessible their army lies
To our swift scow'ring horse, the bloody field
Must man to man, and foot to foot, be fought.

Lady Randolph.
How many mothers shall bewail their sons!
How many widows weep their husbands slain!
Ye dames of Denmark! ev'n for you I feel,
Who sadly sitting on the sea-beat shore,
Long look for lords that never shall return.

Glenalvon.
Oft has th'unconquer'd Caledonian sword
Widow'd the north. The children of the slain
Come, as I hope, to meet their fathers' fate.
The monster war, with her infernal brood,
Loud yelling fury, and life-ending pain,
Are objects suited to Glenalvon's soul.
Scorn is more grievous than the pains of death:
Reproach more piercing than the pointed sword.

Lady Randolph.
I scorn thee not, but when I ought to scorn;
Nor e'er reproach, but when insulted virtue
Against audacious vice asserts herself.
I own thy worth, Glenalvon; none more apt
Than I to praise thine eminence in arms,
And be the echo of thy martial fame.
No longer vainly feed a guilty passion:
Go and pursue a lawful mistress, glory.
Upon the Danish crests redeem thy fault,
And let thy valour be the shield of Randolph.

Glenalvon.
One instant stay, and hear an alter'd man.
When beauty pleads for virtue, vice abash'd
Flies its own colours, and goes o'er to virtue.
I am your convert; time will shew how truly:
Yet one immediate proof I mean to give.
That youth, for whom your ardent zeal to-day,
Somewhat too haughtily, defy'd your slave,
Amidst the shock of armies I'll defend,
And turn death from him, with a guardian arm.
Sedate by use, my bosom maddens not
At the tumultuous uproar of the field.

Lady Randolph.
Act thus, Glenalvon, and I am thy friend:
But that's thy least reward. Believe me, Sir,
The truly generous is the truly wise;
And he who loves not others, lives unblest.
[Exit Lady Randolph.

Glenalvon
solus.
Amen! and virtue is its own reward!—
I think that I have hit the very tone
In which she loves to speak. Honey'd assent,
How pleasing art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! flattery direct
Rarely disgusts. They little know mankind
Who doubt its operation: 'tis my key,
And opes the wicket of the human heart.
How far I have succeeded now I know not.
Yet I incline to think her stormy virtue
Is lull'd a while: 'tis her alone I fear:
Whilst she and Randolph live, and live in faith
And amity, uncertain is my tenure.
Fate o'er my head suspends disgrace and death,
By that weak hair, a peevish female's will.
I am not idle: but the ebbs and flows
Of fortune's tide cannot be calculated.
That slave of Norval's I have found most apt:
I shew'd him gold, and he has pawn'd his soul
To say and swear whatever I suggest.
Norval, I'm told, has that alluring look,
'Twixt man and woman, which I have observ'd
To charm the nicer and fantastic dames,
Who are, like Lady Randolph, full of virtue.
In raising Randolph's jealousy I may
But point him to the truth. He seldom errs
Who thinks the worst he can of womankind.