 | The Tragic Mary |  |
Scene V
—Hermitage Castle; an upper room: Bothwell stretched on a couch. He turns, with closed eyes, to Paris.Bothwell
The water seems to rustle round my head.
Why should our stream move as in fresh attire—
The silk hiss of a woman?
Paris.
It is not
Hermitage Water rippling by your tower,
But . . . wake, my lord! . . . the queen.
Bothwell
I cannot move,
With all these hurts that kneel upon my frame,
Nor rise to bid her welcome to my haunt.
O red-cap Soulis, my predecessor once
Within this fort—old witch, endow my bed,
My sickness, with a strength of conjuration
Satanic and delicious to her sex
Who visits me—thus prostrate.
Enter the Queen, Moray, and Lethington
Gracious form,
I cannot show allegiance; fates forbid
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The proffer of your hand. You do me grace,
And I receive it merely.
Queen
We forgive.
How does our Lord Lieutenant? Moray, see,
These bandages are wounds that in our service
Were taken deep . . . But will the leech reprove,
Boy, if your master talk with us?
Paris
No, madam,
My lord is mending well.
Queen
Untoward Justicier,
Your courage has deprived us of your counsel,
Which in our need we seek. I pray you, Laird
Of Lethington, prepare the questions weighty
That hinder law, unanswered. (To Bothwell)
For a while
We must discourse of various things—your gashes,
The exploit that entrenched them where they are,
And of my savage ride. The unwarmed breeze
Took influence from the earth, and smelt of moss
Till it was sweet as keen; the moorland region
Shone grey and swelling, stud on hilly stud,
Like a gigantic shield; nor were there any
Among us who could find a certain track
To this sequestered castle.
Bothwell
Our strong winds,
And unyoked, grassy uplands never served
Such office as to-day—enamelling
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Would sting death to revival.
Queen
My warm colour
Is new-lit by our speed, so dangerous
Your countryside is held, so dedicate
To felon outrage.
Lethington
'Tis a sorry tract
On which to venture forth; one almost might
As well put out to sea in ignorance
Of compass, shoals, and weather-signs. My lord,
Among these moors, these billows marked in turf,
The queen was well-nigh lost.
Queen
You see this stain
Along my habit . . . .
Bothwell
Ha, the bogs are deep—
My neighbourhood has sullied you with mud;
Shame on the black disloyalty!
Queen
We christened
The stumbling-place Queen's Myre.
Moray
I understand
That grave discourse will not afflict the earl;
Is it not time for business?
Queen
Nay, the claims
Of courteous gratitude are sparely paid
Until we hear the tale of that brave day,
Which wellnigh cost us our lieutenant. Moray,
Fetch me a seat. (To Bothwell)
Ah, look not self-aggrieved;
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Forbidden slighter service to ourself.
(Aside)
The weakness of his voice and hue, for all
The muscle-corded arms, is piteous matter
For any woman's heart. (Aloud)
Your story first;
Let deeds approve good counsel.
Bothwell
(Apart)
Magic help me!
Wild, local wizardry be on my speech!
(Aloud)
This fortalice was crowded as a prison
With foresters and dalesmen, violent thieves
Reserved for justice, when, eight days ago,
Leaving my loutish servants far behind,
I crossed yon wood of alders.
Lethington
Folly, folly!
The subtle value of that everything
Called life escapes attention. I had held
My safety dearer.
Queen
Spendthrift gallantry,
Adorable misdeed!
Bothwell
Among the stems
And tangle of dusk branches, face to face,
I met the outlaw Elliot—hereabouts
Called John o' the Park—a shaggy man, who paused,
And asked his life as if it were a coin
I carried in my pocket. Merrily,
For scorn will make us merry when we hate,
I told him of my heart-felt satisfaction,
If justice set him free. The snaky villain
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Behind the brushwood: with a pistol shot
I brought escape to earth, and from my horse
Sprang to secure the prey. Another moment,
And I had pinned him! but an unseen stump
Must stretch me o'er its lumber in a fall
That shattered sense. The miscreant from his brake
Crawled forth and struck me, body, head, and hand,
With three, vindictive blows that bit so fiercely
They woke my spirit; and with such a vengeance
As that we deal in dreams I plunged my dagger
Twice through the craven breast: swoon overcame
My rage, I lay in quietness blind as night's,
When lifted by my vassals.
Queen
Oftentimes
A page of Plutarch has more swept my heart
Than has the valorous air which I have breathed
This morning, like a bird: your story, earl,
Eclipses both in prevalence. Continue!
The man was straightway slain?
Bothwell
His body lay
A mile off on a little, open hill.
Queen
Is there no more to hear? It was a fight
Like those upon the famous sands of Troy,
And ended scarcely otherwise—a cloud
Came on the wounded hero as a god
Saved him from death. Is there no more to hear?
Bothwell
Of combat nothing, of disaster still
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Brought me, no soul would open, for the keep
Was under capture of the bandits lately
My prisoners, who refused with brutish mouths
To let me have a resting-place until
My servants, in my name, would swear that nothing
Should hinder their departure or imperil
Their forfeit lives.
Moray
So justice for this year
Was mangled in these parts, vile Liddesdale
Re-fortified with villains.
Lethington
True, I smelt
Impolicy in hardihood.
Queen
(Rising)
One act
Of daring feeds a scantness in the land
Ten penal judgments cannot. (Apart)
How is this?
He has my hand; his lips are free with it,
As was October's climate on these steeps
Awhile gone by. I do not recollect
Intending such a favour. (Aloud)
Is there not
Legend of hidden terrors in a place
So stern as this and desolate?
Moray
Time flies;
One third part of the first hour of the two
That we can spare for consultation passes.
Shall we not put our questions?
Queen
Brother, wait!
Mine is not answered.
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From remotest years
Has this great, silent country known of things
That talismanic, dire, implacable,
Have been conceived and done within these walls.
Queen
Ah, the streams sang so eerily, as if
They knew but time-worn ballads. To my shame,
I feel a strangeness here. The exercise
Has stunned me with delight; my limbs are tired,
My head asleep—only my heart is strong
With effort in my side.
Bothwell
They say at noon
The midnight elves are vigilant, as deeming
The zenith sun broad Luna; in the light
They weave unearthly bondages with chaunt
That rings in destined ears.
Queen
Beseech you, lay
Some food and wine within the ante-room.
I cannot cope with law until refreshed,
And trembling less from haste.
Bothwell
Go, Paris, set
Our oldest bottles forth.
Queen
I will return.
You must advise me quickly, for we ride
To Jedburgh in full afternoon, so rough
And pathless is our journey. We are glad
To find you better, for believe the truth—
That we are sorry for your hurts.
Bothwell
Ah, Madam,
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To bleed, if you will come to me.
Queen
(Apart)
O God,
His glances pierce defence. I must not stay.
(To Moray)
Lead me to entertainment. (Apart)
I am ill.
| The Tragic Mary | |