University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Courtyard. Enter King Robert, Albany, Douglas, and Soldiers.
King Robert.
No peace! Still fret the Borders.

Albany.
March is up,
The English sway'd to northward. 'Tis for us
This time to give them battle on their ground,
Nor let them ravage Scotland.

Douglas.
Trust my arms.
Your grace, I'll drive them to their scarpèd peak,
And plunder every homestead. In an hour
We start.

Albany.
You're swift, Lord Douglas. Heaven grant
As sure as swift!

Douglas.
You doubt it?

Albany.
Nay, my lord;
But fortune is a wheel.

Douglas.
Douglas the spring
And axis of its going. Fare you well.

[Exit with Soldiers.
[Enter Lindsey.]
King Robert.
Lindsey!

Albany.
Black, travel-stained!

King Robert
[aside].
I will not ask—
Not blab my weakness nor express my shame.
A question would command my blood to rise
Unkingly to my face; my voice is rough.

[Goes apart.
Albany.
All done?

Lindsey.
He's safe.

King Robert
[aside].
That's well.

Albany.
And lodged within
The castle's dungeon?

Lindsey.
Yes.

King Robert
[aside].
There must he stay
Till, chastened by the rod of discipline,
He learn to know himself.

Albany.
Good jailers—ay?

Lindsey.
Yes, excellent; such do their duty well.

King Robert
[aside].
The father must not kiss his son henceforth,
But painfully chastise. I scarce can bear
To look into the face of any man
With honest children of a fair repute.

Albany.
How yielded he?

Lindsey.
In passion and in fear.

King Robert
[aside].
I'll leave this list'ning. It will move my love
To force the bolt I've strain'd my will to plant
Across the door of Mercy.

Albany
[to King Robert].
You would hence?
The matter of the prince's durance waits
But time to fructify in glad event.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—Falkland Castle. A Dungeon. Rothsay.
Rothsay.
I cannot tell if it is night or day—
How many nights and days have gone outside,
And I been hungry here. 'Tis all one night,
One dream of anguish. I can only think
Of bread, bread—bread!—the pulling hot desire
That ever strains to seize upon the thought
And eat it into nothing. Oh, without
Are many cornfields—and the river! God!
I scarcely can remember anything
But the white floods, and the last scrap of meat
I emptied from my wallet. Once I fed,
Could drink at will, and all the lads about
Laughing together. Past all things, 'tis strange
That once I laughed. Would I had ne'er been born!
I'm nothing but a heap of crying bones
And maddened flesh. Oh that the earth would gape!
Would it were famished too!—The holy bread,
They give it to the dying ... and the taste
Would make me live. But I'm forgotten clean,
As I had lived a thousand years ago—
Mere unrequiring dust—and every atom
Is grasping like a murderer! I'll lie
Flat on the ground, for then my hunger's less,
It pities my submission. On my face!
They put them with it upward in the grave
That they may rise; but I would fall and hide
Where life can never come. The other way
Is hope—the proneness of my head despair.

[Throws himself down and sobs.
Selkirk
[without.]
The dog is still.

Wright
[without.]
Contented with his bones.

Selkirk
[without.]
Ha, ha! good wit—a very lively wit!

[They enter.]
Rothsay
[springing up.]
You're bringing me some food?

Selkirk.
It's here within.

Rothsay.
Give it me! give it me!

Selkirk.
Take it from me, then.

Rothsay.
Where is it? I would rather look on it
Than sun or anything that eyes can see!

Wright.
Ho! it's about him!

Rothsay.
Where? I shall go mad
With thinking of its nearness. Give it me.

Selkirk.
If you can take it from my stomach's grasp,
You're welcome to it.

Rothsay.
Oh! With hands, knees, lips,
I pray for bread; and if 'twill move your grace,
I'll press the floor with brow as well as knees.

Wright.
King Selkirk! bless us!

Rothsay.
As you're men, and made
In this poor fading image; as you have
Lips—flesh that fails, as fire at curfew-time,
Unless 'tis fed; as you have appetite,
That struggles like a lion in his net
Till the first mouthful frees it; as you've blood,
That is a river dried by famishment;
As you have teeth, tongue, stomach, all the parts
That give us glad renewal; if you've known
Faintness and hollow suffering and thirst;
If you have seen the table spread, have drunk
Your fill with friends, have tasted the cold brook
Or seen the harvest grow, pity my want,
My pain, my tortured memory.

Selkirk.
How fine
We talk for belly's sake! As to your feasts,
I've seen you with your swinish company
Rocking the bench from which you thrust us out
To the mastiff i' the yard.

Wright.
We'll cast you now
Back to your barking stomach.

Rothsay.
Pity me!
I am so young—so young in my desire
For food—so strong, so helpless are my pangs.
Have you fed children?—I am scarce eighteen.
I've all their need. If you will fetch me bread,
I'll love you better than my father.

Selkirk.
Ay,
That were small love, and scarcely worth a kick.
[To Wright.]
Come, we'll begone; our dinner's on the air.
'Twill taste the better—la!—for this lean talk.

[Exeunt.
Rothsay.
Bread, bread! The mocking stones!
[Flings himself on the ground.
Would I were old,
With one weak thread to crack and so to die;
But, oh! the mighty cable of my youth
That knots me to despair!—I ever thought
Death was a shadow.—I myself am Death.
I fed and never knew it; now I starve.
Here is the skeleton I've seen in books!
'Tis I—the knarled and empty bones.—Here, here—
The grinning dints! I thought Death anywhere
But near my life; and it is in the pith
And centre of my body. Horrible!
I was conceived, shaped in Mortality's
Own ribb'd and ghastly image; but the bread,
The bread that is denied me, hid the thing
I am—it clothed me. I am naked now.
Its clothes I want to dress this skeleton,
And wrap it from my sight. Death is not dead;
O God! he lives in me—in me must die;
And I must watch him with these burning eyes,
Like candles set aflare upon my corpse.
Hell? Hell itself to this were Paradise,
For there there is no waiting for an end,
Heart-wringing expectation of a term
To madden'd vigil. Would I were in Hell,
Immortal and contemned. Ah, torturing fires,
They're in my brow; come out and circle me,
So only I may burn with you, nor stop
To all Eternity.—A sound outside!
Out in the blessed world where there's the sun,
The fresh-grown wheat, the wild carousing wind,
Man's gay, habitual intercourse, the chime
Of frequent laughter, happy wonted sleep,
The daily meal. Bread, bread! I cannot starve,
Grow strange to all that gave me joy. O Earth,
Sprout me some strangled grains here in the dark;
For see! I die because I have no bread.—
Bread, bread! Oh! oh!

Woman
[without].
Now prythee hold thy peace!
A cur at midnight has not sharper throat.
Peace, peace!

Rothsay.
They're starving me. ...

Woman.
Then come this way.
I've got some tiny oaten cakes. But mind!
No yelping!—Lord, to have it follow you!—
Now thou'lt be still?

Rothsay.
As death, if I may live.
Where are ...?

Woman.
Here, here! I'll slip it through the bars.
Caught it? ... Nay, honey, do not eat so fast.
My word o' faith! It is a youngster—this—
An' thin as trees i' the winter.

Rothsay.
More—one more!

Woman.
There—gently! 'Tis so dim. His poor pinched sides
Have known some soft embraces. Hey, to think
He is not in his coffin!

Rothsay.
What?

Woman.
Nay then—

Rothsay.
Another one!

Woman.
I'll put thee all I have.

Rothsay.
But you will come again—not let me die,
Go to that other prison, where the worms
Cling like a second famine, and the walls
Are built as firm as these, but have no bars
Where comfort can slip in.

Woman.
I'll come, poor lad.
What is thy name?

Rothsay.
David—Prince David.

Woman.
What!
Our bonnie wicked prince!—our madcap prince,
Of whom they tell such tales! The Lord above!
How came you here, my liege?

Rothsay.
I cannot tell.
My father sent me.

Woman.
Good King Robert?

Rothsay.
Yes.
Curse him!

Woman.
Hush! hush!

Rothsay.
It is a father's deed.
I thought to foster was his very charge;
Even the beasts do that. But you are come,
And have so kind a voice. Is 't possible
To let me have some water?

Woman.
How, my lord?
There is no jug will pour between the bars,
Nor any vessel.

Rothsay.
I shall die of drought;
And the bread makes it worse. My lips are stiff
As clay in August. I can eat no more.
There, father, to your face!

[Throws down a cake.
Woman.
Patience, my lord,
I cannot think he knows.

Rothsay.
He's cast me off,
Prey to the thirst and hunger he has chained
Within me from my birth! He's slipped the leash!
Help me!

Woman.
I'll do the utmost woman can.
[Aside.]
There's Emmeline the armourer's wife.—Be sure
I'll help you if I can.

Rothsay.
Then I shall live,
Live and be young again—perchance escape.
I will be patient—there's the sound of life
Within your voice; it wakens me. You've seen
The sun to-day, and I shall see 't again.
You've brought me hope.—I cannot talk.

Woman.
Nay, nay.—
Bless me! His eyes still ask!—I'll come anon.

[Exit.

Scene III.

—Another part of Falkland Castle. Enter Emmeline.
Emmeline
[sings].

[Enter Country Woman.
Woman.
Now sweet good soul ...

Emmeline.
I must not speak with you.

Woman.
'Tis pert for such as I to say a word;
But answer me one thing, good mistress, one,—
Have you not heard strange cries?

Emmeline.
I thought the birds
Were noisy; but 'tis clearer and distressed.
I've heard it many times.

Woman.
'Tis not the birds,
But a poor soul that's caged.

Emmeline.
A prisoner?

Woman.
Ay, mistress, an' they're clemming him to death.
If you could see him, mistress, look on him!
His hair is tattered like the yellow fern
On our December wolds; his cheeks—nay, hear!—
As snows in thaw are dwindled, an' he weeps.
He's but a youth, and, mistress, he's our prince.

Emmeline.
Then let us help him.

Woman.
I have ta'en him cakes—
You know how fine we make 'em, an' 'twas well
The prison-bars are close. I fairly quaked
To see his greed. But he is thirsty still.

Emmeline.
We'll take him drink.

Woman.
Alas, the bars are close
Beyond all hope, poor soul!

Emmeline.
Can we do naught?

Woman.
I cannot, mistress ... but—

Emmeline.
You think I can.
I'm ready.

Woman.
But you never will forgive
That I should tell you—

Emmeline.
Do not frighten me,
Or say to me aught I must never hear.
What can I do?

Woman.
Give what you gave the child ...
I speak it not in lewdness ... but your milk
Is all the charity that God will grant.—
I'll go away.
If you should wave your handkerchief, I'll come
An' take you to the place.

[Exit.
Emmeline.
He is not pure.
None mention him with honour, and the woman
Who pleads for him hath lost her holy fame.
It may be she'd beguile my innocence,
And draw me into sin with pity's net.
But still it was not in her look or words;
For falsehood leaps not thus within the eyes,
Nor from the mouth springs forth; it ever comes
With tardiness and caution. She is true,
And then ... O woman's shrine on which God lays
A husband's faith and a babe's confidence,
White altar for Love's consecrated gifts,
Could Pity desecrate the pale retreat
Of modest wedded peace and motherhood?—
The milk is throbbing in my breast, to stay
The grief of hunger. Oh, I must not close
The fountain of God's mercy with rough pride,
For He will keep it holy, and the eyes
Of misery are pure. In our dread times
Of war and woe, too many are the veils
Raised from our easier days that I should shrink
To stir my clinging wimple. I will go.
He had a mother once, and as her child
I'll think of him and go.—My handkerchief.

[Re-enter Woman.]
Woman.
The saints be with you!

Emmeline.
Take me where I go.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

—The same. A Dungeon. Rothsay and Emmeline.
Rothsay.
Do not leave me yet.—

Emmeline.
I'm called.

Rothsay.
You must not put me from the milk,
And leave me. God! I'm fed with innocence,
And like a baby fall upon my sleep.
Keep close!

Emmeline.
My lord, lie down upon the ground;
It may be you will rest.

Rothsay.
Ay, if you watch.
I cannot sleep alone.
The very air is starved and shrieks at me
For the want of human breath. Oh, let me feel
The succour of a voice. Put me to sleep
With some soft cradle-words.

Emmeline.
My memory
Is crazed; I cannot think of them.

Woman
[without].
Oh, fly!
Mistress, be quick, there is the sound of steps.

Rothsay.
Unless you watch me, Slumber will not come,
For I should be too secret to be found
Of one so blind. I cannot lay my hands
On any of my senses; all's confused;
All's lost. ...
I've got one little cake within my vest—
I shall forget where I have hidden it,
Unless you watch. It's growing dizzy now,
And you keep drawing back.

Emmeline
[turning away].
Lie down, my lord.
It's rest you need.

Woman
[without].
Oh, mistress, we are lost!

Rothsay.
What! You are come again!

Emmeline.
To bid good-night,
And settle you to sleep: you'll say your prayers?

Rothsay.
I have no prayers; I'm back now to the child. ...
It's a land of milk and honey. ... Oh! I drowse. ...
Don't stir!

Emmeline.
He's breathing heavily; he's gone.

Woman
[without].
They're on us!

Emmeline.
He's asleep.
Now may I—

[Enter Wright, Selkirk, with the Country Woman.]
Selkirk.
Hang!

Woman.
For pity's sake, save her!
She's kind and young: 'twas I that forced her come
With story of the pain in yonder cell.
She came not of herself.

Wright.
Nor by herself
Shall feel the noose. The gallows carries two,
Old nurse of Satan!

Woman.
You are beasts, and worse
Because you look like men, to starve the child
Within there—pinch his bonnie youth and wring
Tears from his royal eyes; and then to hang
This dearie. ...

Wright.
Ho! a cord! She'll deafen us.
Sly harlots!

Selkirk.
He's spent everything on such.
Now 'tis your time to pay. He's bankrupt, lass.

Emmeline.
These insults worse than kill me.

Woman.
Hold your tongues,
You savages!

Selkirk.
Old watch and bawd!

Emmeline.
Ye heavens,
Make haste to end my hearing!

Wright.
Off with them.
The deil! He's gone to sleep. Spite o' the bars,
You've charmed him.

Emmeline.
When he wakes ... and oh! we're dead
I must not think.

Woman.
He will not wake again.
Heaven bless you! he will wake in Paradise.
Ye murderers! you'll have it hot in hell.
God's mother, curse you!

Emmeline.
Hush! we will not speak.
Let us die still.

Selkirk.
Cords! cords!

Wright.
Then gurgle out
Your devil's threats!

Emmeline.
Oh! ... if my Henry comes,
He'll find me dead and learn about my death;
He will not like it here; but when he's taught
A little of the angels, he will smile
And take me to his arms. I'm ready now.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—King Robert, and Prince James on the hearth, Albany, and the Duchess Marjorie.
King Robert.
The wind is raging! it afflicts my head,
And stirs it to confusion.

Albany.
A wild night
For those not warmly housed; of dark presage
To our camped soldiers if they couch to rise
To-morrow to a battle. As they lie,
Their death-shrieks like pale ghosts will stride to them
Across the wailing air, and—curse the fools!—
Unman them for the fray.

King Robert.
O Robert, peace!
I shudder.—Draw up nearer to the fire.
An ingle-nook is gracious at such hours,
When all are gathered round it.

Albany.
Truth! The glow
Is pleasant, and doth ruddily assure
The heart of safety.

King Robert.
'Tis a black, black night.
D'you think it cold?

Albany.
Scarcely for March.

King Robert.
And yet
The blaze is welcome.

Albany.
'Tis a trifle chill
For those of fearful mind.

King Robert
[aside].
Then he is cold—
James, shall you be afraid to sleep to-night
In all this noisy darkness?

Prince James.
Father, no!—
I'm not afraid.—My noble hound, you've got
A comfortable ear.

King Robert.
The dauntless child!

Albany.
Our army will be routed by the air
Before it face the English. May to-night
Find it within some guarded vale that's slow
To open gates and parley with the storm.
There snaps a limb of some aghasted oak!
The Devils make Inferno of our woods.

King Robert.
Hark! Listen! [Aside.]
Oh, I wonder if he wears
The little relic that his mother tied
About his neck.

Albany.
I'm speaking of the troops—

King Robert
[to Prince James].
Will David sleep like you?

Prince James.
He fears the dark.
And, father—

Albany.
James, you're pressing on the dog.
His sides can scarcely bear your elbow-joint,
Though willing for your head.

Duchess Marjorie.
Is he asleep?

Prince James.
No, no; not he! He's listening by the fire,
As we are, to the rattle out of doors.

Albany.
Ah, as I told you, when my words were crashed
By falling of the oak, our army lies
In danger from the weather.

King Robert.
My poor lad,
My David, who is fearful of the dark,
Would he were here this bleak and scolding night!
He used to throw a cushion on the floor,
And lay him down as featly as the hound,
His foolish yellow head against my knee;
And so he'd laugh and chat and sing old songs,
Or gaily sneer at our last grave debate,
Drop sudden crude suggestions that anon
Our older counsel ripened into act;
Until for some light word I'd give rebuke,
When either with a peal of raillery
He'd toss me back a penitent bright face,
Or with a shaded humour spring apart,
No place from me too far. Good Albany,
You would not have our Rothsay longer shut
In such grim-tempered darkness?

Albany.
Fifteen days!
'Tis but a slender punishment, my liege.

King Robert.
Enough, enough! The terror of this night
Doubles the term of his captivity,
And makes of it a month.

Albany.
We'll send for him
Before the week hath touched its sacred goal.
[Aside.]
By this he must be dead.

King Robert.
Why now I'm warm in spirit, which the fire
With all the urgent comfort of its face
Could not effect; I'll send for him anon.
[Albany paces the room.
How glad I am in soul! Yet I confess
I'm half afraid to meet him. Now all's well,
I'll think of him no more.

[Enter Allan.]
Allan.
Your porridge, sire.

King Robert.
Put it away, I have no appetite;
The turmoil makes me disinclined to eat.
Good Allan, set it on the hearth and stir.
Have you all supped? [To Albany.]
Why do you pace about?

Albany.
My foot is gone to sleep.

King Robert.
When did you sup?

Albany.
Like you, I have no stomach for a meal.
[Aside.]
All that I eat is heavy in my throat,
As if I gulped the bait on Hell's own hook.
[Re-seats himself.
This rain will smear our army's pride.

King Robert.
Too sure.
Yet are the troopers hardy and rough-bred,
Trained by strict weather to all skiey chance,
And led by one whose buff coat of bull's hide
Enfeebles all the water of the clouds,
And makes it folly.

Prince James.
Black old Archibald!
Allan, he is a mountain, and his voice
A waterfall.—Give me that oaten lump
Upon your spoon.—There, dog!—another one!—
Mouth open!

King Robert.
Allan, stir the embers up;
They lay themselves to rest.

Prince James.
A blaze, a blaze!
Brave! They put out red tongues, and roar for food
Like the big lion.

King Robert.
But the wind is shrill
Above their noise.—What's that?

[Shriek without.
Albany.
What?

Allan.
Some one dies;—
Mother of Christ!—for look you at the dog;
He shivers as an ague, an' his whine
Is like a sinner's, drowning in hell's pitch.
The Banshee! Hark!

Duchess Marjorie.
Allan is credulous.
'Tis an old story when the wind is sad,
And wails about a corner. By the tower
I've noted that it cries most audibly.

King Robert.
Ah, Allan! how you struck upon my fear,
And thumped on it as 'twere a crazy drum.
Brother, a woman is more rational
Than three old men.

Allan.
Well, sire, I know the wind
Hath got no breast from which such grief can moan;
An' why, sire, should the dog be scared with things
That touch not man?

King Robert.
Nay, nay, but he is still.
[Shriek repeated.
Again, again! It is a voice, my God!—
You know it, Albany; your eyes are cow'd,
You cannot lift them, tho' you shake your head.
It calls me, calls!—Allan, you say the voice
Is full of death and direful prophecy.
O Allan! do you think you know its tones?

Duchess Marjorie.
The same the blast makes ever when like Jews
It lifts its lamentations by a wall.

Albany.
I think 'tis so.

King Robert.
Think, think! But is your thought
The very cause? or do the elements
Speak out what we are deaf to in our souls,
And force a hearing?

Albany.
Should I know? How? why?
This is mere fooling. Mass! D' you think of me
As privy-counsellor to Doomsday, man!
It may be hurricane; it may be speech.

[Shriek third time repeated.
King Robert.
It is his voice!—Your shoulder, Albany—
Open the door! No matter if I fall.
Will it not open—never? Does it keep me
Like a tomb's gate eternally at stand?
Burst every lock!
[It opens.
David, my son, my son, thy father hears!
Thou shalt be freed, shalt come to me again.
Nothing shall hinder—chains, nor bars, nor bolts;
Nothing shall dare oppose my tyrant love
That binds and looses. David, thou art free
This moment. I have heard thee call, my son,
And all my soul hath answered thou art free.

Albany.
Come in! The madness of this howling air
Hath made you its interpreter. Come in!
Let it rage on in accents of its own,
And give it not our language. Come away!

King Robert.
He calls no more; his misery is done,
For I have promised comfort and release.

Albany
[aside].
This burthen on my shoulder is too much.
Brother, you lean
With desperate weight on me. A lighter hold!
Pr'ythee, to save my breath hang not so hard.

King Robert.
The very soul of hearing finds no sound,
No slightest human sigh in all this wind.

Albany.
Now shall you in with me.

King Robert.
How dare you put
My son and I apart?

Albany.
The wind convicts!
If you give ear
To a chance spasm in the air to fix
On me a guiltiness ...

King Robert
[still listening].
There may be more.

Duchess Marjorie.
They are possessed. I thought that Albany
Had nerve and reason stronger.

Allan.
The king's hair
Flies round like foam; his breath is much distressed.
We must entreat him back,—an' yet to stir
Seems irreligious.

Prince James.
I will go. Stay here,
And I'll beseech him shut the door again.

King Robert.
Nothing! 'Tis gone; and yet I fancy still
It bleats upon the air.

Albany.
No; on my soul,
All's over. ...

King Robert.
Stay!

Albany
[aside].
I've said it audibly.
My lips have witness'd 'gainst me.

Prince James,
Father, sir!
You're cold and weak to bear this chilly gale.
Do not stay longer out.

King Robert.
I will not, boy.
James!

Albany.
You are wise to move.

King Robert.
My child, your hand.
Albany, shut the door [returns to his seat, led by Prince James]
. And, boy, to bed!
It was the wind that shrieked.

[Exit Prince James.
Duchess Marjorie.
Well, heard you aught
But windy fret and uproar?

Albany.
If my liege
Will pardon, I'll go start a messenger
To Falkland, that your mind may be at peace.—
[Aside.]
This wanton blast beguiles me. Conscience is
A fool o' the weather and the time o' night.—
I've your authority to send this man?

King Robert.
That of my fatherhood and royalty,
Which hand in hand instructs you so to do.

Albany.
I will; and if we do not meet again—
As I'll retire to rest—good-night, my liege;
And keep your mind from brooding on the fears
Absence and Love, with magic craft combined,
Both sorcerers, have raised for us this eve.

King Robert.
Robin, good-night, if you can shift to sleep.
[Exit Albany.
Cries in the whirl of night bode ...?

Duchess Marjorie.
Nothing.

Allan.
Death.

King Robert.
I think you are mistaken there—distress.

Allan.
As you will, sire.

King Robert.
And are they near of blood,
Or even kin at all for whose decease
The air is said to toll?

Allan.
I scarcely know.
But I should say for any fate hath put
Near to our int'rest, sire.

King Robert.
Then may this groan
For Douglas rive the throbbing atmosphere.
The army on whose welfare I have set
My nearest hopes may, at this very hour,
Perish in blood, their leader struck to earth,
With none to ring a dirge but senseless gusts.

Duchess Marjorie
[aside].
He almost smiles. Ah! deepest selfishness
That would prefer the doom of honest souls,
Led by a great and high-deserving chief,
To loss of its own pampered libertine.—
My father by the law, you give to fate
Him, who by nature is my father's self.
I am his daughter; but I'm blunt in soul,
And you so tender-strung that, at all cost,
You get you comfort.

King Robert.
Oh, I'm base indeed
For such oblivion to cross my sense
As hid your dear relationship to him
I fancied slain.

Duchess Marjorie.
Nay, I am used to such.

King Robert.
My girl, forgive me, for you cannot know
What it is works within a parent's breast;
'Tis the begetting makes the difference,
And so my passion grew.

Duchess Marjorie.
Your subjects?

King Robert.
Hush!
This is all talk; we'll build no argument
On these disjointed rumours of the storm.
Your father is not bleeding. Cheerly, lass!
All's well.
[Exit Duchess Marjorie with a distant obeisance.
'Tis very quiet out of doors—
Unnatural!—I'll go and look at James.

[Exit.

Scene VI.

—Same Apartment. Enter Walter, Randolph, and Allan.
Walter.
Nothing from Falkland?

Allan.
Nothing.

Walter.
From the wars?

Allan.
Nothing.

Walter.
An empty mouth, an empty mouth!

Allan.
Better than have it filled with bitterness.
I look for no good news.

Walter.
Thou croaking man,
Thou raven, soul of evil augury,
Wherefore bad news?

Allan.
It is the feeling, man,
And the dull sky.

Walter.
God bless your sense, I feel
As merry, ay, as merry as the morn,
The cricket, lark, or any earthly thing
That figures my condition; and the clouds
From sullen flash to gay as seconds pass,
So I can build my humour on the sky
As well as you.

Randolph.
You can, my chanticleer!

Walter.
Marry, as thus: the prince will home again,
The king for very love will give him gold,
The gold will give us feast and merriment,
And jolly cups and wenches' jocund lips;
All these delights in turn will give us heart
To celebrate authentic victory
Of Scotland o'er the bragging English hinds.

[Enter Ralph.]
Ralph.
O lads, defeat!

Walter.
Come, come!—an ugly game!
We'll play at victory, if play we must.
Victoria!

Ralph.
All's over, all is lost;
Douglas a captive, with a gored right eye
And spouting wounds; our host but helpless limbs
And bleeding impotence that cannot meet
The wing'd attack of the mere birds of Heav'n.
The English Hotspur and our traitor March
Fell on the trustful bands, adorn'd with spoil,
And shook them to the nakedness of death.

Allan.
Where fell the woful chance?

Ralph.
At Homildon.

Walter.
Allan, thou wry-faced prophet, I have done!
The prince will next be either churchyard's corpse
Or church's convert. I will never speak
High-stomach'd language more.

Randolph.
How went the fight?

Ralph.
Why thus:—our Douglas, in audacious fit
(Foolhardy as his wont), in fated hour,
Bore up our army to a topping brow
Of moorland, naked, tree-unbonneted,
And open to the arrows' swift assault—
There held our men a target to the foe,
A troop for slaughter; till a voice arose
That thrill'd the pulseless manhood of our host
With surgent valour,—high it rose and clear
Above the whizzing darts, the foeman's yell,—
Higher, as if it scorn'd opposing sound—
John Swinton's knightly voice that cried aloft:
“Why stand we here as stags upon the hill,
Dart-stricken brutes, when down these drenchèd slopes
Naught hinders that we rush upon the foe
To fight as victors or to fall as men?”
They wake; they gather with a forward sway;
Death is forgotten, ay, and deadly feud;
For young lord Gordon, whose good sire was slain
By Swinton's hand, unmindful of revenge,
Bow'd down and pray'd for knighthood from the sword
Proved mortal to his house; for “ne'er again,”
Said he, “shall I encounter one so brave.”
Amid the surging bands he said the vow,
Received the hasty stroke; then with a rush
The two fair soldiers clave them out a path
To th' English centre and were overborne—

[Enter Albany and Lindsey.]
Albany.
With all our host. 'Tis miserable news!

[Lindsey draws him apart.
Lindsey.
The streets are full of citizens grim-brow'd,
With rancour in their throats.

Albany.
I like it not
That thus they are incensed; for in such mood
There's not a crime, however strange and black,
But they will hang it on their rulers' necks
To make a shame at which to point and jeer.

Lindsey.
It carries danger, as your grace conceives,
And much I fear what other news may come.

Albany.
Ay, Lindsey, there's the peril's very head.
We must be firm and stablish'd in our looks,
And in our speech most sad and circumspect.
Yon is Ramorgny, and the messenger
I sent upon his heels to slay the men
Who did the deed that never must be known.
[Enter Ramorgny and Messenger.]
Good news from Falkland? When returns the prince?

Ramorgny.
Never!

Albany.
A most impossible, loathed word!
[Aside to Ramorgny.]
Colour your ashen cheeks, you raving fool!—
What, in my castle do you say he died?

Messenger.
It was a sort of dysent'ry, your grace.

Ramorgny
[aside].
Oh, if it were!—his face impeach'd my soul,
A keen, malignant, bitter, cursing face—

Albany.
Have they yet buried him?

Messenger.
Your grace, they have,
With private ceremonial.

Albany.
Where? where?

Messenger.
Lindores.

Ramorgny.
And there he lies with the quick fiends
Bound in his stony clay—

Albany
[aside].
Tame your wild face!—
Fronting this doom I stand so terror-struck
That wail and grief are cow'd as childish things
Before an elder agitatiòn.
The king!

Lindsey.
I dare not think.— [Advancing to Walter,]
The prince is dead.

Walter.
What, the dear prince!

Allan.
The kind young prince!

Ralph.
Our mate!

Allan.
His spirit pass'd away that stormy night.
Did he die hard?

Albany.
Why?

Messenger.
No, 'twas short and fierce,
A feverous infection.

Allan.
Prison-caught?
Oh, the poor king!

Walter.
Mine eyes are wilful, Ralph.
I loved him. An' he'll drink a rouse no more.

Ralph.
Our days are over.

Randolph.
We'd best go repent;
For there's no liveliness in any sin,
Or chink of coin within our company.

Ralph.
I'll treat thee to a flagon for his sake.

Randolph.
An' while our throats are moist we'll pipe a mass.

Ralph.
Nay, pardie; but we'll give the priest his cup,
And set him to the chanting.

Randolph.
Come your way.

[Exeunt.
Albany.
This is the very hour my brother stirs.
He will be here anon, and who will speak?

Lindsey.
Not I, your grace.

Ramorgny.
[aside].
Nor I, by my lost soul.

Messenger.
Nor I, for all the worth of very life.

Albany.
Varlet!

Messenger.
The torture shall not move my lips.

Ramorgny.
Death shall not force my tongue to utterance.

Lindsey.
Ruin and exile shall not ope my mouth.

Albany.
Then must I do 't.

Lindsey.
You must, your grace.

Ramorgny.
And will.

Messenger.
We humbly pray you.

Albany
[aside].
How my flesh is thrill'd
And my speech curdles. Let me face the deed
One moment and grow strong—then bury it
Beneath the soil of consciousness so deep
The death-bed quake alone can rive the sod
That over-presses it. With this resolve
I have built up my fortitude—I will.

[Enter King Robert, Prince James, and the Duchess Marjorie.]
King Robert.
O woe is me for a defeated king!
In vain they changed my name from woful John
To favour'd Robert—vainly was it done.
Ye are all silent. Is it fond respect
To hoary shame and vanquish'd royalty?
No wonder that your brows are black to-day.

Albany.
It is the mournful badge of minds bereaved.

King Robert.
Many the dead to mourn.

Albany.
One more, my liege.

King Robert.
Is my son well?

Albany.
Ay, as we count it bless'd.

King Robert.
Not dead?

[Pause; Exit Ramorgny wildly.
Allan.
Sweet majesty, at peace with God.

King Robert.
Dead, dead! You tell an old man he is dead.
I've look'd on in a cradle—who was full
Of light and movement—when? Whom I begot.
Help, help! I'm sinking!—Whither? To the depths
To find him who for evermore is gone?—
No end to where I sink!

[Faints.
Albany.
A pillow here!
Raise up his head—this is unmanly grief,
Tho' eloquent for pardon. Chafe his hands.
We'll keep a silence till the fit is pass'd.
[OMITTED]

King Robert.
Oh, I shall never find him. I have gone
To deepest depths of Hell and utmost space—
For higher there's no warranty to go.—
Still he may be at Falkland.

Albany.
Brother, no.
At Lindores is he buried.

King Robert.
Put from sight!—
God help my unbelief!

Allan.
Be still. He prays.

Duchess Marjorie.
When did he die?

Messenger.
The night of the great storm.

Duchess Marjorie.
Of what complaint?

Messenger.
A fever.

Duchess Marjorie.
And you said
He's buried?

King Robert.
Stop this catechism! Stop!
A king's command. She's had no offspring—she!

Duchess Marjorie.
None.

King Robert.
Allan, ask them if he died a-bed,
Or on the floor as he had been a dog,
Who was my first begotten?

Messenger.
There was straw.

King Robert.
Shut his vile mouth!

Albany.
Control this lawless grief.

King Robert.
How dare you speak who sway'd my anxious love
With sly, Satanic counsel; you who drew
The net you forced me spin about his life;
You who, miscall'd my brother, art my foe,
A murderer, false witness. 'Twas your speech
Beguiled my fatherhood; 'twas in your fort,
Your nest of bloodshed, that my son breathed out
The last of his short days. Traitor, begone!
I read you through and through.

Albany.
I will not stay.
My pride instructs me, till this rage is out,
To spare my ill-starr'd, guiltless presence. Thus
I take my leave, till calmer thoughts shall claim
A penitent recall. Be comforted.

King Robert.
A hard-mouth'd, shallow wish! O Albany,
'Tis but the sword's point that is in my heart;
All the long cruel blade has yet to cut.
[Exit Albany.
I know not how to grieve; but time to come
Will find me perfect at it. This is strange,
That all my sorrow is but prophecy.

Allan.
Could he but weep!

Cries
[without.]
Curses on Albany!
The traitor! murderer! our prince, our lord!

King Robert.
My David, thou wilt never be a king.
God lets me put that little strip of balm
About my bleeding love. It falls on thee,
[Clasping James]
My last, last son, the whelming heritage,
On thee, who still art mine! Here, to my breast,
And let it feel possession—carry it,
And crush it into permanence!

Allan.
He weeps.
The red grief stains his lids.

King Robert.
Thou shalt not go,
As went thy brother. Oh, to think he's dead!
Within his fair and newly-fashion'd case
The pendulum of life no longer moves;
His face no longer answers to the hours,
Marking with lips and eyes their various flight;
Time has no mirror in his countenance;
There is no voice in him to sound its lapse;
The cunning clock of his mortality
Is stopp'd for ever, and my heart hath lost
The count of all her days.

Prince James.
Oh, do not weep!

King Robert.
Not till I have my privacy. I'll go
Straight to my inner chamber. Allan, come,
Whom I must burthen with this grievèd frame.

[Exeunt.
Walter.
Well I believe that Albany is false.
He never loved the prince. I've deadly fear
That there hath been foul play. Oh, if there has
'Twill be reveal'd; for sin doth ever blab
And show the woman thro' its darkest crafts.
To think that all our merriment is done,
Our youth closed up and seal'd; our comrade gone
To lie beneath the ground where we must go.
[Re-enter Allan.]
How fares the king?

Allan.
But just beyond the door
He fell at once into a second faint,
And so was borne to bed, where now he lies
As if extinct. I am suspicious, Walt.
Let's go and hear what rumour holds the crowd.

[Exeunt.