University of Virginia Library

ACT III

Scene I

—Craigmillar; the Queen, Mary Seton, and Margaret Carwood, walking together through the garden from the chapel
Queen
How sweet it is to breathe the air again,
Though blue November mists it. Winter roses
Blooming and fading! Mary, have you loved,
My silent girl?

Mary Seton
I have but looked on love
As the moon looks on day-spring those rare nights
She sees a world her silver would make wan,
And creeps, recluse, into the western haze,
Full of unbosomed memories.

Queen
(She sings)

Mary Seton
Still faster tears! Why will you linger here,
So tall 'mid the low bushes?

Queen
(Stooping over the rose-bushes)
How I stood
On tip-toe, and with prickled hands drew down
The roses in the bower at Inchmahome!
We were so happy 'neath the filbert-trees
In the old, monkish garden.

Mary Seton
I remember
The rows of boxwood hid us from each other;
You struggled to get out into the sun,
Transgressing the due limits.

Queen
I was free
Those last few weeks before we went to France;
I could be naughty at my pleasure then,
The wrinkled faces smoothed to see my pranks,
And I had no correction. Let me wander
In reverie awhile.

Margaret Carwood
Alas, dear madam,
We find you sad if you are solitary,
And weeping oft, as now.

Queen
A common thing!
What is there for a woman who takes thought,
If once she look down on her lot, save tears,
Strong floods of silent weeping. Leave me, girls,
Leave me awhile.
Exeunt Margaret Carwood and Mary Seton
It was for courtesy
I stooped and let Lord Bothwell kiss my hands,
For sweet to me is love in human eyes,
As daylight to the world. Through all my sickness
My husband did not come; I was recovered
When he at last made speed. He comes again
To-day; I should be happy, for my babe
Waits Holy Church's blessing. Yester eve
I held him in my arms, and heard my voice
Humming a cradle-song. Ah me, the tune—
Guilty again! It was the very same
My sweet French poet sang to bring the flush—
He called it flush o' France—to my white cheek
When we sailed north together. Memories
All, all of love! I am grown weak again,
And weep at the least thought. A robin trills
Each morning at my casement, on the yew,
And sets me sobbing; yet if now, even now,
My lord would lean a little 'gainst my knee,
Brushing his curls in the old, boyish way
Against my fondling heart, it were enough
To bring me back to kindness and desire.
When first I saw him, he was messenger
From Lady Lennox to my early dule:
That night at Orleans, as I sat alone
By lamplight, in the chill of widowhood,
That pierced as penetrative flakes of snow,
That bruise and then make stiff the pain, there bent
Before me my boy-cousin, lovely-faced,
Modest, and rose, with radiant, crested hair—
One would have said that Cupid's arching wings
Were met above his head; he was too young
For other speech than what his glistening eyes
Might give: with bashful worship he withdrew,
And I, the unsealed packet in my hand,
Took courage of the envoy. High of stature
Even then, and such full prince in him!—his portrait
Keeps its warm lodging in my breast; I doubt
If e'er I can displace it.
Enter Darnley surrounded by a leash of sporting dogs
Margaret back?
Henry!

Darnley
(Pointing at her with a drunken laugh)
How wan a face, as thin and sallow
As if you you were a good wife in the wynds,
Suckling her puling bairn. I have left girls
With fresher cheeks than these.

Queen
What brings you hither?
If to confess, the list of your offences
You may rehearse unchecked; though majesty,
When the offence is vile, deals chastisement
Without assize.

Darnley
Ho, ho, my dame, and would
You care for my confession? You are proud,
And might not laugh to hear the songs we sing
At Ainslie's tavern: I could pipe you one
Would put you to the blush. But come, wife, come—
We wink at one another's slips. Be merry!
You must not show high stomach to a king.

Queen
A king of what? O'er whom? Is it to seek
An unknown empire you put out to sea;
To wave your hand o'er despicable tribes,
Where tyrants bluster and are terrible?
A royal purpose! Sir, we are apprised
That you continue every day from evil
To worse: we therefore must combine to put
Your honours from you, that in lower place
You may but mingle with your mates, not carry
High names and dignities along with you.

Darnley
You ask me as a private gentleman
To my cub's christening? You deceive yourself;
My spirit swells, and all magnificoes
Are chary of their smiles. Strange horrors haunt
Outside the wine-cup—Morton . . . someone's bones!
I drink for very life, and have no mind
To diddle at your shows.

Queen
You cannot mean
You will be absent when at Feast of Kings
We offer and present our true-born heir.
So glorious a day! The noblest princes
Of Christendom, through their ambassadors,
Compass the font, the Pope himself desires
A nuncio should be sped; I have half-drained
My coffers in my joy: solemnities,
Full of such quick succession and surprise
As we shall now prepare, will keep their rank
And lustre uneclipsed in sovereign minds
When James shall be a man.

Darnley
James!

Queen
There have been
Great Scottish monarchs of the name. My father . . . .

Darnley
There have been Scottish kings named David too;
If David be your infant's father's name,
Let it be his.

Queen
It grieves me to the heart
The child should bear your likeness. We must rear him
Wholly apart from you. Now quit my presence;
I came here for the fresher air.

Darnley
Dum derra!
Mistress, you go your way, and I go mine;
The spinning world is big enough for two
To ding their crowns and make a holiday . . . .
Flowers at your bosom! Let me have a rose
To wag at jesters. 'Pon my word, your lips
Are set up coy, and I must have a kiss
For bravery and fellowship. Come, woman,
Are you a wife or maid to lift your shoulder
Between our mouths?

Queen
Leave me.

Darnley
Gug, gug!—and wherefore,
Until I have advantage? By St. Bride,
I'll play the truant. Bessie laughs to hear
How you fly out and spit. 'Tis tavern-talk
That you are mortal jealous. Sweet-heart, come;
We will not mope.

Exit, caressing one of his dogs.
Queen
He must be put away,
Fool, traitor, noxious reptile. What are these
Sharp swords about my heart? No issue thence
Of sighs and dolorous weeping; war and winter,
Numb wretchedness, and fierce, constricting hate
Huddle together. If I suddenly
Could die! Ah, would to God that I were dead!
And yet death were too narrow!
Enter Lethington, Bothwell, and Moray
Lethington,
I must return to France.

Lethington
Slip from your sphere!
Not so, my lady Venus; we will chase
The noisome meteor from the firmament,
And, spell-bound, guard our passion for the stars.
While you, matutinal in piety,
Shunned not the perils of the autumn air,
Your servants not less zealous in your service
Than you in that of heaven, combined in close,
Determined counsel. Will you let us speak
Touching your husband?

Queen
'Tis a heart-break to me
To think he is my husband.

Lethington
Cast not forth
Such strong, deep sighs. They sigh who wail the dead;
Not those who have sharp matter of reproach
Against the living. Justice, madam, whets
Her sword.

Queen
Could I indeed be rid of him,
It were a dearer cleansing than from sin,
More liberating than to cast away
Mortality, more blessed than to rise
From misconception of disordered dream.
But if it cannot be . . . .

Bothwell
What easier aim!

Queen
Without dishonour to my son?

Bothwell
Ay, surely;
My father was divorced, yet I enjoy,
Unblamed, his heritage.

Queen
(To Moray)
James, you are silent;
Your mind misgives?

Lethington
But if his godliness,
Being a little staggered by our zeal,
Appear unready, 'tis the wont of such:
The man accustomed to the leisure ways
Of Providence is apt to take offence
At the trim worldling's nimble diligence.

Bothwell
(Standing close behind the Queen)
Cannot you banish him? You know the means
Of making the slow hours pass wearily
To those that have offended you.

Queen
O earl,
I banish to recall.

Bothwell
The chancellor
Should now be back in favour. (Apart)
God, I stumble,
And blurt I know not what.

Moray
An apt appeal;
With Morton here, we may, by the approval
Of Parliament, draw judgment on the head
Of the offender who hath twice detained
Your grace in ward unlawfully.

Lethington
True, true!
(Aside to Moray)
We must be patient. Take a turn with me
Across the tilt-yard, ere her mood be ripe
To pledge us Morton's pardon.

They pace together.
Queen
(To Bothwell)
Hepburn, still
My cry is for a convent, where one feels
The pleasantness of death, and every day
Lives with him as a gentle monitor.
I long to be alone, for there is sorrow
One cannot put into one's prayers, nor drop
In any human breast—half recollection,
And half despair. My injuries are not
For state-reform. It is a sulphur-wind
About my modesty to hear of men
Counting my wrongs, of arid Protestants
Meting the measure of the chastisement
That cannot be poured out. When love is wronged
Hell opens at his feet; he must have space
Uncircumscribed, another infinite,
To map out his remorse.

Bothwell
(Aside)
What would she do?
She shakes me and incites.—How should it profit
You should retire to France?

Queen
To mitigate
The shame of ruling with a vacant seat
Beside me, single, an unwidowed queen;
To yield to Fate, and, lying in her breath
Under her pressing bosom, to receive
Strange aliments and help. You do not speak . . . .

Bothwell
I dare not.

Queen
Does it look so ill in me
To crave for respite?
(Turning, she catches the expression on his face and rises quickly)
Hush, I will not urge
Too vehement a prayer for liberty;
There may be other means
(Lethington and Moray approach)
Is Morton lodged
With so scant comfort you would have him back
At once to his fat lands and revenues?

Lethington
Nay, madam, persons of your noble nature
Should think him amply punished; he has scarce
A hole to put his head into, a penny
To buy a dinner.

Queen
(Wearily and half apart)
There is none of them
Guilty of venial error.

Lethington
He will give
Wise counsel in this question of divorce;
He is an able lawyer, and hath much
Old rancour to repay.

Queen
Beseech you speak
No more to me of this. Can you not see
That we are sundered? 'Tis enough; henceforth
No mention of my husband; he is dead,
Cast from our royal mind and purposes,
Forgotten, insignificant.

Moray
To-morrow
We will remove to Holyrood.

Queen
Oh, why?

Moray
It is your birthday.

Queen
If these feasts were kept,
And not wide, hollow gaps within the year,
We should to-day be merry; for the king—
Ye put it in my mind—is twenty-one.
I gave him no good wishes; but my tears
Are all for his amendment; he is young.
I will within, and write to him. God heals
Though he is slow in healing. Moray, come.

Exeunt Queen and Moray, followed by Lethington
Bothwell
She stings me now to demon-jealousy
With shifts and cunning—yet she dropt a word . . . .
I hear the muster for some vast success
Rise through my nature, arming as a tract
Arms when the bale-fires hang upon the peels
By Tarras and by Tweed. My energies
Are wild and undirected, but aglow
With concourse and with hope. This husband, this
Mere cog upon the golden wheel of Fate
That would fly round to seat me on a throne,
And give me lips the loveliest that the world
Has decked for kisses and co-equal joys—
This Darnley shall be put away.
Re-enter Lethington, a bond in his hand, meeting Mary Fleming
How,—when,
I cannot bring to thought; but the great moment
That shatters him will feed my pulse with richness,
An impetus of blood.

Exit
Lethington
Well, Mary, well!
(Looking after Bothwell)
He must be cooler when I bid him sign;
Among us we will guide the matter through,
And keep the queen in languid innocence
Since she will hear no question of divorce.

Mary Fleming
Your brows are clouded.

Lethington

Scruples, dear, scruples! There can be no
clear-cut action in the world with this hesitancy at
wrist.

Mary Fleming

One cannot know surely by divination
whether an action be right or wrong.

Lethington

One may know by intuition whether a
deed will profit. Do you not grieve for your mistress?

Mary Fleming

Why, she is most marvellously beloved!

Lethington

Well parried, young stateswoman, and of
whom?

Mary Fleming

Of all but her enemies—and these are
the religious.

Lethington

Who have scruples, so we return to our
controversy; and scruples but cause men to do ill what
they do; they cannot hinder ill-doing. Mary, why did
you scruple to let me kiss you in the passage?

Mary Fleming

Why, the queen was looking.

Lethington

Looked she ever ill on lovers? I would
have bussed you bonnily under her very eyes: they are
russet now as a November twilight. I would fain enlighten
them. Our great queen must be concerned
with love—'tis her empire. Like the daughter of Jove
she can forget her own grief in the joys of an amorous
couple. We have need to divert her. Come, come;
'tis my hour of recreation. I have been plotting the
deaths of princes; but I have caught wind of the abominable
machinations of Dan Cupid for my wedding, and
I must look into this conspiracy. Have you harboured
any of these infamous malefactors?

Mary Fleming

My lord, most sorely against my
will . . .

Lethington

Ah, you had scruples, but yet a maiden's
delicate prompting to give protection to fugitives.

Mary Fleming

A troop indeed of vagabond wishes so
tender . . .

Lethington

Of age, you thought no-one would have
the heart to arrest them. They shall not be arrested.
Confide this innocent troop to my keeping. They confess
under torture to devising a plot for the possession of
my person.

Mary Fleming

I swear that they meant you no ill.

Lethington

No ill—but a remedy for all ills—my
death, which is rapidly approaching on the strides of
frenzy. I am lunatic every instant of my leisure, and
stark mad in my despatches. I must needs prate to Cecil
of your kindness. You have put a wonderful elation
into my nature. But as secretary, I am undone. Now
(Drawing her to him)
swear to me, a woman's sweet,
silent way, swear that you will recover me. What—refuse
the sweet lip-promise? 'tis the only oath I take of
a woman.

Mary Fleming

Yet I will not make it on compulsion.

Lethington

Lest you might break it without remorse.
O subtle casuistry! Kiss me once free-heartedly, and
take these winter-roses in your cheeks to the queen.

Mary Fleming

Carnation is the Stuart flower.

Lethington
(Taking her cheeks between his hands and kissing them)

Then your own by inheritance and fortune.

Scene II

—Stirling; Bothwell's private lodging. Lady Bothwell is seated reading. In a corner of the room Paris is folding up rich suits of clothing
Lady Bothwell
Ay, Paris, clear
Away the litter.

Paris
Madam, but my lord
Looked brave in his blue doublet. 'Twas the queen
Made choice of it.

Lady Bothwell
The show is over now,
The prince baptised a Catholic. Be careful,
Nor let the moths consume that Spanish fur—
Lay spices with it.

Paris
(Holding up a rich garment)
This is gaudier stuff:
If the dim, violet stitches were not blurred
On this gold ground, my lord, I warrant me,
Would not disdain to wear it at the court.
They say 'tis Flemish work.

Lady Bothwell
Peace, peace, I wander
From my good book—Legenda Aurea, this
My warning comfort through these vanities.
The sight of such fair clothing will recall
The day of my own marriage, when the queen
Herself attired me, sprinkling me with jewels
Of her own gift. 'Tis scarce a year ago.

Enter Bothwell
Bothwell
Jane, have you heard the latest stir at court?
The good archbishop of St. Andrews, he
Who gave us dispensation from the Pope
Is now restored to power. . . . You have not kept
Too carefully that paper? If 'tis lost
The archbishop could divorce us on the ground
We are too near of blood.

Lady Bothwell
There is grave reason,
Ay, graver cause than consanguinity,
Why we should separate. Your lewd behaviour . . . .

Bothwell
True, Jane, my conduct does deserve reproach,
And from a wife so saint-like.—Sue me, sue me;
Give me no mercy. I confess my guilt.

Lady Bothwell
But wherefore do you seek this separation?
I know your passion for the queen—alack!
I would not be the bar to your ambition;
But she has still a husband of her own,
Jealous, intractable, imperious.
Add not unto her griefs; her enemies
Have well-nigh overwhelmed her.

Bothwell
Darnley lies
Sick of small-pox at Glasgow, and the queen
Ere March may be a widow.

Lady Bothwell
Then heaven looks
With pity on my sovereign.

Bothwell
It is shame
To wrong a wife so gentle.

Lady Bothwell
I will lay
The dispensation where by no man's hand
It ever can be found. Thus honourably
We can be parted; and, in honour, you,
After such time as heaven has loosed her bond,
Can take the queen.

Bothwell
It is a desperate scheme!
How cold and yet how kindly are your eyes.
I never hate you—her I often hate.

Lady Bothwell
Poor lady, for you love her! I have been
More fortunate in winning your respect.
You are a gallant fellow, but too wild
For the great, fireside virtues. It is true,
Despite the dispensation, we have never
Been man and wife.

Bothwell
You have befriended me
Unfailingly. Jane, you are deep within
The counsels of the queen.—Does she incline:
May I not hope to win her?

Lady Bothwell
For her sake
I am unknitting, James, our marriage-bond;
I shall not then report her. At your feet
The gown of Spanish fur I recognise
As her own mother's wear. She loved her mother
She would not part with that except to one
She trusted with a child's simplicity.
Prove worthy of her faith.

Bothwell
She is capricious,
Lenient, remorseful, in a breath. To-night
With sudden pity for her ailing lord
She starts for Callander.

Lady Bothwell
A faithful heart.
James, of your loyalty they make great boast;
It is not of my fibre who for her
Resign my rank and office as a wife.

Bothwell
When I am king . . . .

Lady Bothwell
I shall be still her subject,
My blessèd lady. Men would die for her—
They say so. I, simply to smooth a crease
Of her wide brows, would suffer any shame
The good archbishop, or indeed yourself
Could put me to. Let Huntly settle this
Without my further meddling. I shall stay
Awhile from town. You have a heavy stare
And discontented: all is as you wish?

Bothwell
Have you no pain in leaving me?

Lady Bothwell
No pain
In serving my dear mistress. Fare you well.
I cannot yet divorce you from my prayers—
You have few friends. I will depart this even,
The writing on my person: 'twill be easy
Hereafter to approve our marriage null.
Farewell! God's blessing on you.

Exit
Bothwell
Fie, this woman
Leaves me with branded cheeks. To bid her pack;
To break up house, to get myself divorced
From one so noble and so tolerant
Just for a giddy hope! (Summoning Paris)
Ho, Paris, put
This trumpery away (Kicking the Spanish fur).
I must to-morrow
Betimes conduct the queen to Callander.
Exit Paris
The infamous, soft creature with her sighs,
Her innocence and wonder!—she shall be
A glorious fellow-sinner at my side,
Shall give me love for love. I am no fool;
I know we stand together on the brink
Of uttermost perdition; but some joy
She owes me. Why, a fiend to whom one sells
One's soul gives earthly pleasure to excess
In recompense, and I have simply signed
A bond to be a denizen of hell
For ever, for her sake. We will be platted
Together, as the rose is with the briar
O'er some fond lovers' tombs. How low the fire
Has sunk! I am left stranded, with no comfort,
Divorced and homeless,—till a palace-door
Open, until I have that other wife
Spotted with furs and gems; it turns my brain.

Scene III

—Whittingham; beneath the aged yew-tree; Lethington is discovered, leaning on one of the scaly, red boughs
Lethington
Ay, you big snow-clouds, pile your virulence
Over the swarthy yew-tree. Let the white
Be blackened, and the sooty swathed in snow;
'Tis the world's process of transfiguration,
And thwarted issues. I am dolorous, sick,
And savage, a pined bridegroom—married but
On Twelfth Night, Feast of the Epiphany,
And thrust from my sweet bride ere she had learnt
Half the infinitude of that affection
Reserved for conjugal unbosoming.
I told my pretty lass I would create
And then receive her happiness; 'tis plain
Of all the parts of man I am most fitted
To play the bridegroom: the slow dalliance suits
The quietness of my nature; and to win
My ends by love and sheer persistency
Is to give favouring exit to the grace,
The living fount within, that I attempt
Vainly to dam. There is no brute in me;
This Bothwell must contrive the bloody work
Of which the apprehension turns me sick.
I must acquaint my love of my bruised rest,
My terrors and imaginings.
(Jotting down a note)

Sweet Mary,

The omens are not auspicious. I fear thy bridegroom
will come to an ill end. For last night in a dream I encountered,
as it were, a mangled funeral. I saw the tressels
and the staves, the peacock and the dog. The peacock would
not look at me; but the dog paused as before some decayed
matter. Dear, in my anguish at his snuffling, I struggled
so violently that the vision broke. 'Tis the cradle of your
warm breast that I lack. You alone can rescue me from
these ill dreams. Yours, to deliver from the dogs,

To my breast, and to mingle there with much foul
matter. How now! Yonder is Morton, parting with the
castellan, a sunny bluster on his brow.

Enter Morton

My lord, you have a rosy face.

Morton

I have slept well in this air; it is my own.

Lethington

You mean your native air?

Morton

Mine, man, as the fish are in yonder stream.
It fans my harvests: shall I own the wheatfields and
not the breeze that bows them? It carries my feeding
rains into the valley; it sweeps my hills.

Lethington

'Twas the queen's bounty gave you
Whittingham.

Morton

The queen gave it; she shall by no means

take it back again with her other bounties when
she reaches her twenty-fifth year. I enjoy a goodly
heritage. When my paths drop fatness, I take it as a
sign I am one of God's elect; a man with a lean patrimony
is but a browsing goat. I feed among the green
pastures: that reminds me whose I am. I have been
lying fallow in the south; but, Maitland, my blank
ground is not unsown; it bosoms a young crop. Ah,
ah, my vengeance is lusty in me.

Lethington
But you must not blink
With such an eager eye. This death-chill morning,
And the grim velvets of the yew forebode:—
Cheerless for conference; yet a colloquy
I' the open air is safer than within.
I have myself made search beneath the shadow
Of the dark flats and found all tenantless.

Morton
But hold! where's Moray; he is one of us?

Lethington
Escaped from troubles, as the dove that fled
The ark when beasts grew quarrelsome within;
He will return anon, the twig of peace
And innocency in his mouth: meanwhile
I am enforced to break my honeymoon.
My marriage-morning when our sovereign bowered
My lady in the veil, a messenger
Brought word of the king's sickness; of a sudden
She softened, breaking as a wintry cloud
To prophecy of April.

Morton
There was rumour
Moray had tried with fireworks at the feast
Of the ambassadors . . .

Lethington
To take him off
By powder, and it failed. You see yon track
Of frosty breath? (Pointing to Bothwell riding swiftly)
It is our task to order,
Being circumspect, the footsteps of a fool,
To steer leviathan,
And regulate the plunges of the whale.
Moray is cautious; yonder is a man
Who will confound a murder with a brawl.
I leave you to give ear to his proposals;
I can but nurture, others must conceive.
(Peering at Bothwell through the boughs as he approaches)

I could pray—pray—in my detestation of him, and I am at
my very worst when I conceive a mind for prayer. 'Tis
a summoning of the legions of angels the Holiest abjured.
Yet to find incontinent a wish full in one's heart, a firm
desire! I will give it shape: Heaven blast him! So, it
is articulate, whizzed out into the air.

Exit
Enter Bothwell
Morton
This is mad riding in the frost—you steam.

Bothwell
The man is sick; it baffles me. God's blood,
She left me on her way to him—I travel
I know not whither; there is nought to do.

Morton
But for our present purpose, if the lad
Be like to die . . .

Bothwell
She will recover him;
I tell you she can lift up from the grave,
Just stooping o'er one.

Morton
Well, if he recruit . . .

Bothwell
One cannot stick one's hanger in a man
That's sick and dribbling. Were there but a field
To win, a universe to harry—not
This puling voice to stop!

Morton
Come, come! The deed,
Though it seem paltry, may have fine effect.
You would be king, and shall be, as reward
For my good pardon purchased by your love.
Compress yourself to rationality!
You have the queen's own hand-writ?

Bothwell
God, her great,
Committing glances. She pours forth the truth
Fast as the sun his arrows. Bless the lass!
For I would trail a pike to the world's end
For love of her.

Re-enter Lethington
Lethington
(To Bothwell)
Good morrow, earl.

Morton
(To Lethington)
You come
With business on your face, and in your hand . . .

Lethington
A doubting, anxious letter from the queen;
Her lord is mending and needs change of air,
How say you, shall he lie at Kirk o' Fields,
Since he mislikes Craigmillar? 'Tis a site
Not much frequented, pleasant for the sick.

Morton
Has Balfour offered it?

Lethington
With free access
To all our company.

Bothwell
This Kirk o' Fields,
You say . . . I care not, so she carry him,
Stretched on a litter, to the wilderness.

Lethington
But for the manner of the action?

Morton
Pick
A quarrel with him, end him in a brawl.

Bothwell
I will not touch the leper.

Lethington
Tempt him out
Into the country on a sunny day,
And let the maskers wait upon his steps.

Bothwell
Let the earth swallow him! I do not need
That you should lean your brows upon your arm
To pencil me my plan. Some accident,
Some loosening of the walls—for we can dig
And burrow if the tenement be ours—
Shall raise him up a mound: we will provide
His burial; ask no question of his death!
I will not face a tremulous, sick man.
I am too superstitious.

Morton
Lethington,
This lusty loyalist will be found a bridegroom
After our princess' heart.

Bothwell
(Fiercely, to Lethington)
Discredit me,
Speak low to Cecil of my impudence,
Hint to Elizabeth of my ambition
To give her unblessed, sterile throne an heir. . . .

Morton
(Quickly drawing Bothwell away)
What matter! Woo the woman afterward—
Will they or nill they, in the end 'tis one.
But look you, Bothwell, I am now at ease
On my estates, and a hoarse gratitude
To her who has re-seated me prevents
My open share in your conspiracy,
Unsanctioned by her warrant. Tell me now,
You who are high in favour, how the cause
Hath been advanced.

Bothwell
The true Evangel! Why,
The prince, you know, was christened Catholic,
And the queen wasted tears entreating me
To hold the grease, the candle, and the salt.
I will protest till she be Protestant;
She shows faint opposition when I rave,
A melting coldness.

Morton
The ambassadors
Marked how she put you in the foremost rank.

Bothwell
Until she went to Glasgow. Now, I swear
She dotes on his infectious malady.

(They pass out, talking)
Lethington

To widow her! Does my policy involve
a marriage? There is a certain dunness about my heart
that disarms: I was witness of that hand-fasting at Hermitage—and
there is a kind that goeth not out save by
marriage; in peculiar, female cases espousal is a process
of exorcism. Whew, whew! What a vast desire I
have to whistle, to confide my shrewdness to the wind.

Re-enter Morton
Morton

Heigh-ho! Where have your wits been?
Kill a husband, and not be hot upon his wife! Do you
think I have listened to English gossip for nothing? 'Tis
in all people's mouths that Bothwell was king-consort at
the christening. He will get this hand-writ.

Lethington

He will not. Unfold further.

Morton

He shall rise to his ruin step by step; we
exalt him to a scaffold. Ere a twelve-month, I tell you,
we shall have the government in the hands of men, foes
of Papistry and friends of England. Come, Mr. Secretary,
is not this the mark you shot at from the first?
What has blanched you, man? 'Tis this damned, still
air. Into the house! Let us eat and drink. (Standing

by Lethington, and watching Bothwell riding across

the plain.)
Does his ambition vex you? He fares forth
under the scowl of heaven, though he canter to his

bridal. (Walking away, and looking back at Lethington)

So, he will see him into the wood.

Exit
Lethington

How I dislike the supernatural! How
my appeal to it shames me! For to clamour there must
be instant largesse. Fate accomplishes because she is
deaf.

Exit

Scene IV

—The Garden of Kirk o' Fields; night, with moon and stars. The Queen and Margaret Carwood.
Queen
Out to the stars, to the keen, midnight air,
To cold, to purity! Margaret, my girl,
These are gay, tuneful worlds above our head;
One cannot hear their voices, 'tis too far,
But they are singing blithe. This pretty group
Of sisters in a knot, just seven—and Mars,
That burns so at the heart! Ye festal heavens,
I would be with you in your revelry.

Margaret
Lady, to me the stars are fixed and silent;
I do not judge your way.

Queen
They reel and spin,
Attract and spread repulsion.

Margaret
Recollect
To-morrow night you spend at Holyrood,
Howe'er the king constrain you.

Queen

Enter to the back, unseen, Bothwell and Paris
Margaret
Hush, lady, it is shame to face the heaven,
Singing of love.

Queen
It breaks the loneliness.
Enchanting music! Suddenly it jarred.
I was beside my husband.

Margaret
Such a sigh!
Can it be good to marry?

Queen
Excellent,
You backward girl!
(Perceiving Paris)
Jesu, how black a sight!
Comes Paris as a masquer from my lord?
Sooty as hell! How now, Sir Demon? we
Would hold discourse with you.
Exit Paris
He is ashamed,
And slinks into the shade. What is it, dear?
Some triumph for your wedding, some device,
And mocking entertainment? There has been
Much whispering of late about the stairs.

Margaret
Fie, fie, it frightens.

Bothwell
(Apart)
Does she rouse me up
To batten on her beauty? The response
To that frank singing toward the clouds is here.
She shall caress me. I will trouble her,
Until she fade and famish in desire.

Queen

(Passing with Margaret)
Bothwell
(Apart)
It is all art and demonology;
While fresh from out hell's smithy, for her sake
I bid the devils colour my design,
She wraps heaven's cloak about her, and becomes
The firmer in her blameless sovereignty
As she more guiltily incites. I hate her,
And curse this slovenly and raw intent,
This floundering pause, when free audacity
Would bring our lips to meeting in a trice.
Pass by, my lady Lucifer! Again,
The amorous, icy voice!

Queen
(Re-passing)
La langue chanteresse
De vostre nom aimé . . .

Margaret
Madam, you draw
Too near the windows.

Queen
With a wifely chaunt,
A soft, assailing ode? Give me my freedom,
My fancies for an hour. Who looks on us?
Earl, you are closely wrapped.

Bothwell
(To Margaret)
Your bridegroom, lass,
Were jealous did he find you thus entwined.
Give place; I would be private with the queen.

Exit Margaret Carwood
Queen
(Faintly)
It is the stars . . . .

Bothwell
Right, right; 'Tis destiny,
Plotting above our heads. You note that sign?

Queen
A flaming comet?

Bothwell
The round crystal yonder
Dropt from her sphere.

Queen
Astronomy and science
Upon your tongue, my lord?

Bothwell
If you have learning,
Your liegeman boasts some magic.

Queen
(Apart)
Is he drunk?
Nay, or he would not move me to this tremor,
And sense of the chill dew.—A lamp above
Is being shifted; I must hasten in.
Conduct me. . . . Is this rudeness that you stand?
Some memory folds you? Perhaps at Hermitage
You have seen all these stars in a great sky,
Like a dark moorland heaving overhead,
That not a roof or tower has civilised.

Bothwell

Queen
Ah, the gray grasses and the sudden bogs,
The wind that is a lonely trumpeter,
Blowing in triumph over loneliness!
Believe me that I envy your abode
Among the dales and breezes.

Bothwell
When you came
To Hermitage . . . .

Queen
I could not stay my horse;
We felt the pressure of our liberty
In maddening speed.

Bothwell
For swifter entertainment
Take ship on northern seas. By God, my life
Has had its share of rough distress and danger
Since first I went an exile from your realm:
Prison, and storm, and enemies.

Queen
At last
Your sovereign's love and trust.

Bothwell
Your hand as pledge.
(Apart)
Her flesh is beryl in the moonshine.

Queen
Yonder
There is a plot beneath the ash-tree, both
The ground and tree are whitened: there I'll tarry,
And hear of some adventure on the moor
Or sea-wave that befell you. I am caught
With longing for romance and vagrancy,
My nurse's cares have been so close and long.
I would I were a gipsy-queen to-night,
And from the brushwood looked upon the stars,
A rover such as they. I love to breathe
The ominous delight of these late hours;
With you they are familiar. . . . To my mind
You ever seemed the hero of some book
Of long-lost chivalry. Perchance I vex you;
My mood is wild, but careful of offence.
Pardon my dream.

Bothwell
Speak on, speak on!

Queen
Well, listen!
I thought I was to listen, but it seems
My frowardness is wordy. As to dwellings:
Crichton and Bothwell, Hermitage, Dunbar!
The very names might well seduce to deeds
Of formidable import; then, for change,
Your journeys through the foam,—your loyal service
Against outlandish brigands. . . . Is your wrist,
Fierce Elliot broke, recovered?

Bothwell
Merely tender
When I most need its sinews.

Queen
Still to babble—
Now of yourself: you have a gait and face
On which your occupations and your courage
Are faithfully imprinted; I have seen
A rock, thus obstinate, respond to weather,
Its force and circumstance identified,
Tho' opposites.

Bothwell
Say more.

Queen
When I have proved you
A knight, an old-world champion by my praises,
A man, while courts lack manhood?

Bothwell
This free evening
Is worth all years of my unfriended course.
My queen.

Queen
You crush my hand. . . . This starry sky
Becomes almost unreal in the intense
Stillness as I look up—the liquid spaces
Between the stars, the liquid, twinkling stars!
Let us go in. Those heights are tremulous,
Faint to my eyes. It must be weariness,
Or over-draughts of the full tide of air
That flows up with the shadows.

Bothwell
As I live
You shall not leave me yet, you cannot leave,
Enchanted by dark things.

Queen
(Apart)
He speaks the truth.
An irritation dances in my frame
That not a single woman of my troop
Should rescue me, and yet these long-drawn moments,
So quenchless and impossible, are sweet
As wonders when they happen. (Aloud)
You must talk;
It is your turn, sir knight,—some rash adventure,
Swift peril!

Bothwell
When I fled your anger last,
My ship drove in on Lindisfarne. . . . To-night
I have no memory; a fire of joy
Casts smoke across old doings. Look at me,
Not with those anxious, distant, queenly glances,
Coming and going like the shooting stars;
Give me the common, chestnut-coloured eyes
You bend on Melvil, full of confidence,
Serene and fearless. If you are beset
By hypocrites and traitors, so am I;
Misjudged, ill-favoured. Speak in this clear air;
Speak to me—you were better.

Queen
More than once
I have been forced to banish you. Ah, then
It seems to me you had more happiness
Than now I set you midmost of these false,
Insurgent subjects. If I could escape,
If I might leave my kingdom!

Bothwell
That great fortress
You gave me, that impregnable Dunbar,
Shall yield before I suffer you again
To put the sea betwixt us.

Queen
'Twas my mother . . . .

Bothwell
Made me the guardian of your unworn crown;
Shall I not shield it now this golden hair
Twines up and down the gems? It is this head,
This living head I love.

Re-enter Margaret Carwood
Margaret
Madam, your husband
Complains he is deserted, and with bitter
Persistence craves your company.

Bothwell
The queen
Is worn with watching and has need of air;
I will replace her.
Exit Margaret Carwood
Though I am no poet,
I joy to leave you compassed by the stars,
Lone on the grass that shines. Breathe freely, setting
The reckless chansons to some border-tune.
I will be faithful in my vigilance,
Till the night-watch.

Queen
When I return. My lord,
I were content upon an ocean-vessel
To be adrift wherever fate might carry,
Or whither Pleiads guided. Fare you well!
(They part)
A mad farewell!

Bothwell
(Singing at a distance)
Amour n'a point de loy.

Exit
Queen

Scene V

—Kirk o' Fields; the next night; the King's room. The Queen and Darnley; nobles playing cards at a distance
Darnley
Why should you leave me?

Queen
I have told you, dear;
To trip a dance for Hymen's sake, and carry
Bride Margaret to the bride-bed.

Darnley
I remember . . .

Queen
Ah, so do I—such pretty, blessèd hours,
When you were Cupid's lofty bachelor,
And I the captive queen he led in triumph.
Now do not darken, for the shorn-off curls
Will soon be up again, and soon your cheeks
Will catch the tint that fled them.

Darnley
I am clear,
I almost think, of blemish; in the glass
There showed but few ill-marks. You must not watch me.
I am so livid yet.

Queen
Come, come, this shame
And coyness are of health; for ever springtide
Is set on brave appearance.

Darnley
I have reason
To covet in your face the lovely wholeness
Of your complexion; we were once a pair
Of world-unequalled persons.

Queen
Foolish boy,
A few more patient days will mate our looks,
Since hearts are come together.

Darnley
Let me hold
Your sloping fingers still; I feel secure
Only when you are close.

Queen
So apprehensive
At Robert Stuart's tale! Alas, you know
How meddlesome he is, and though he told you
Of danger, when I questioned him, he looked
Hot with his lying, and denied expressly
All he had spoken.

Darnley
Bastard! With low mouth
He dared to give the lie to me; my sword
Will be a restless weapon at my side
Till it drink satisfaction.

Queen
(Apart)
O the future!
My soul aches when I span his convalescence,
And see him in the violent world again;
Intolerable change!—I have your promise
You will be gentle in your government,
Since God has shown you mercy.

Darnley
Do you doubt me?
My princess, I have almost died; disease
Has made my old life ashes, and implanted
A new life that's a yearning—when you bend
Above me, then I know it is for you,
To please you, win your smiles that like the sun
Take lonesomeness away. O Marie, Marie,
I have been such an outcast, I who have
Youth's social sting in every pulse, whose actions
Must need have eyes upon them to commend
The doing . . .

Queen
Hush, we will not look afar
From this kind present, or if memory struggle
To bear her part in loving, let her bring,
As in a rosy basket, all the flowers
She swept up from our nuptials.

Darnley
Do not laugh,
My Mary—but the poet you awaken
In every man who sights you, made me turn
Some stanzas in your praise . . about the turtle,
And how she cannot weary for her mate
More than I do for you who keep my heart,
Your tears!

Queen
It is such piteous exultation
If I can please you, Henry, that it brims
A little at my eyes.

Darnley
You must not weep,
Lest they should say we quarrel. Let me fling
A rainbow-laugh amid these showers. By Venus,
I'll tell you how I closed my monody.
When, pat!—I signed my name, they brought my meal,
And I was doggish-weary, half-asleep.
Is it not comic? I am bound to laugh,
As you are, at the wantonness—ha, ha!

Queen
You have not been so merry a long while;
'Tis true that youth is joy, or is not youth!
I see my handsome bridegroom once again,
Now that the round lips chuckle.
Enter Bothwell
Ah, my lord,
You find me a transgressor of my promise,
Sworn out of love to lovers. Shall I slip
Sebastian's revel? I would rather break
Engagement with an envoy.

Bothwell
Lighted torches
Await you on the steps; there yet is time
To entertain an hour at Holyrood.

Darnley
But do not go!

Bothwell
(Apart)
My God, what din they make
Below us—fools! I must suppress their noise.
(To the Queen)
Not go! The couple would forswear your service
After such sharp rebuff.

Queen
Your honest blame
Stirs me to blush and hasten.

(Kissing Darnley)
Bothwell
(Apart)
Curse her favours!
She yields him those surpassing lips that have
Envasseled me, at distance from their breath;
But yet she does not tremble: it is I
Who give her body laws.

Exit
Queen
What cruel fate
That kisses, though they lock a treasured hour,
Must afterwards unlock it! Loose my hand,
Dear boy.

Darnley
O Mary, it is very strong,
This beautiful, close hand, at which my life
Drags for its safety. I must shut my eyes,
And dash into my ruin if I loose . . .
My heart bounds in affrightment.

Queen
I will come
With early morrow; but for surer help
And comfort take this ring of bright-eyed stones,
Which I have warmed with use, and happily
Turn you to slumber, while this Argus tarries
To keep my watch about you. One last kiss!

Darnley
Your mouth revives me!

Enter Bothwell
Queen
(To Bothwell)
To the marriage! Come.

Exeunt the Queen and Bothwell: the nobles rise up and follow them as a train
Darnley
'Tis very lonely; the year-long alarm
That has been madness to my forward youth,
Driving its sap and fervour into violence
Of desperation, seizes me to-night.
I fly from my own body like a wild
And shivering horse that leaves the vehicle,
From which it broke, behind it on a road,
While it careers through distance. She alone,
My wife and queen, can hold this passion's head,
And keep me still.
Enter Darnley's page, Taylor
In mounting have you heard
A small and careful noise?

Page
'Tis strange—there is
No wind, and yet a windiness of sounds.
I feel as when my mother told me tales
Of murderers or of goblins o' the mine:
Our house and all the pantries, as she sang,
Grew restless to my listening ears, until
I went to bed and slept.

Darnley
Then let us go;
Shake up the pillows, Taylor. Why, the queen
Is moving through the glitter of a dance
Scarcely a half-mile off us. I believe
We both are childish, thinking of the fields
That lie beyond the garden. Let us sleep.
(They lie down)
(He repeats aloud)

Cor meum conturbatum est in me:
et formido mortis cecidit super me.

Why did I choose that psalm and study it,
To get it thus by rote? I have escaped
The defamating grave by such an inch
That now I tremble. What has moved my heart
To measure life against the weights of death?—
A woman's priceless, pale magnificence,
Docile to each least claim, and sweet as weather
That gems the boughs with florets. Die, go down
'Neath bloody stroke, or feel my breathing stolen
By those I have betrayed—impossible,
While she is counter to my punishment!
Ha! There is subtle noise upon the floor;
It terrifies attention, and its creak
Tolls through my very bowels. Taylor, listen!

Page
What is it, sire?

Darnley
A little, dangerous sound.
There! Do you hear it?

Page
Ay, it is a mouse;
I see him sliding hitherward. Mew, mew!
I'll out of bed, and chase it to its hole.

Scene VI

—Outside the Kirk o' Fields; Bothwell, Paris, Hay, and Hepburn
Bothwell
Hell! Must I wait on time to do my work,
The unconcerned and common moments, mere
Serfs of occasion?—stand with senses ready,
Yet wait upon a match that will not burn
As quick as hedge-snake moves her rings of skin,
Though fire itself is circling up the splint?
Curse my reliance on a tricksy force
Not bound in this right arm! O weariness,
That mounts to terror! Lads, I shall roar out
Unless the noise begin. The very night
Is but an ear, expecting what it knows
Will burst from silence. Hepburn, the nine months
I lay enwombed were shorter than these seconds
That travail with explosion. Ha, ha, ha!
The glow-worm has a firm shine in the tail;
Have we a Jack-a-lanthorn in our service,
Will-o'-the-Wisp, a lighted impotence,
Lustless and unconducive? On my soul,
The spark is out. Is there no window-pane
Through which I could be spy on my tormentor,
This slack, starved faggot?

Paris
Monsieur, round the house
There's such a casement.

Hepburn
But the de'il himself,
For all the frying that he gets below,
Would scarcely put his head in through the place
At this sweet time.

Bothwell
The air has grown congealed;
'Twill be incapable of prodigy
If kept like this. I'll go.

Hepburn
You shall not.

Hay
Madness!
My lord, be patient, or the king and you
Will both fly up like witches.

Bothwell
Are you certain
The flame caught? There is booming at my heart,
As if the blood touched powder. I am mad,
As all are who await results, and do not
Whip their own actions to the goal. My project
Is gone to sleep, like yon unbusied town
With all the ashen hearths. I cannot choose
But look to it—Halloo! The darkness cracks!
The die is cast.

(Kirk o' Fields is blown into the air)
Paris
(Falling flat on the ground)
Alas, a thunderstorm
In one affrighting clap. Monsieur, what is't?

Bothwell
Oft have I wrought great enterprises, never
They struck me with a fear like this. The pit
Of dun destruction gapes and all the noise
Of torment makes acclaim about my ears.
Hay, Hepburn, is it over? How the air
Was tranquil it invades! I give my deed
A voice, I hear it cry. Up, fellows, run!
Quaking, you fools? It is accomplishment
That shouts and triumphs. Hepburn, lend a torch!
I see the stones, no bodies.

Hay
Crushed like rats,
I warrant them.

Hepburn
Off, off!

Bothwell
The rocks have heard.

Hepburn
The people will not sleep.

Bothwell
Away, away!

Exeunt in flight

Scene VII

—Holyrood; a misty, dismal morn: the Queen paces her bed-chamber distractedly
Queen
How the great theme has shattered me! The bride
I put to bed is coy, reluctant, dull;
I could not give her counsel as a wife—
One who is disenchanted, tolerant,
Gentle to imperception—who am still
Aggressive and audacious in desire
As any unsunned girl, and, since my marriage,
I know not why, more full of reverie.
She wearied so and vexed me that there was
No mood in me to sleep; but, lying down
In my loosed ruffles for a little rest,
I dropped so sheer off into fantasy
That I began i' the middle of a dream,
Where I was dancing fast to give the tune
To one who touched a deaf, worm-eaten lute,—
Until there came a booming through the air;
And then it seemed that we were thrown together,
Stepping most blithely, and I turned to greet
My sunny David—but the face was Bothwell's,
And with a bitter shrieking I awoke.
They said my baby had been laid to rest
I' the dressing-room; it will remove my thoughts
From all that happened at that bloody stair
If I no longer face the tapestry
Of Venus' bleeding Love. (Going to the cradle)
How soft he sleeps,
Scotland's small king—a lovely, lusty lad!
And now he opes his eyes and smiles,—a sweet,
Young, morning welcome. (Taking him up)
As the blessèd Queen,
Although the sword has pierced her very heart,
Can take her babe to sport upon her lap,
And see him catch at cherries, we will laugh
And love together till the angels come
On tiptoe to espy us.
Enter Mary Seton
Mary, Mary!
What terror strikes you? I have nearly dropped
The child; there is a mortal agony
About your lips and eyes. Deliver us
Your message, and remember we are royal,
We can give audience to calamities,
And keep our state.

Mary Seton
Lady the king, the king!
Lord Bothwell comes.

Enter Bothwell
Bothwell
With sudden, fearful news.
(to Mary Seton)
Take the young cub away.
Exit Mary Seton with the child
My queen, the heavens
Have thought upon your wrongs, and by the shock
Of earthquake, or by sulphurous thunderbolt
Blasted the Kirk o' Fields. You are a widow.

Queen
The king is dead? Let me take thought awhile—
My husband . . .

Bothwell
David Riccio's murderer
Is lying in his night-shift on the ground.

Queen
How slain?

Bothwell
(Apart)
The marble creature! But she caught
Her breath; 'tis not all horror.—I was roused
From my new rest by a great, breaking cry,
Not of men's voices—as it seemed, a nightmare
Of heavy earth that cried out in her sleep,
Convulsed with struggle: then the roaring crowd
Pressed up to me; I ran out in the streets,
And found men swarming round what seemed the mouth
Of an abyss, for 'mid the tumbled walls
Few dared to pass: but I broke through the ring,
And, groping wildly with my torch, half-stumbled
Against a body, which the slanted light
Showed lying scarless.

Queen
I had supped with him,
But for remembrance of the bridal hour.
Oh, horrible! he lies there as one murdered,
(Pacing away and throwing open the door of the supper-room)
Flung from his bed dishonoured. (Apart)
Heaven has crept
Into my ancient thoughts, and done the deed,
I, David—I half-prompted in my prayers
When I besought God's pity on your soul.
I am a guilty woman. At the hour
I learned the truth, that the king's missing sword
Was found stuck deep in Riccio's breast, I nurtured
A hope that waxed, almost as waxed the bones
Of my young child, that he might be exposed
To some vast ignominy and distress.

Bothwell
(Coming nearer)
He lies, a heap, 'mid dislocated beams,
And nether stones cast sunward.

Queen
(Apart)
I forgave him;
Yet at my heart there was a reticence,
A strange dissatisfaction.

Bothwell
You rejoice
The elements have granted this divorce
Without your stir?

Queen
I am more pitiful
Than aught beside. I feel his jewelled hand
That held mine at the altar.

Bothwell
(In a low mutter)
Fire of hell!
Talk not of trifles! I can see him lie,
Just his white back, beyond the muddled heap
Of stones, and mould, and rafters.

Queen
We are dazed.
Hepburn, a death makes terrible, new knowledge
For brains to hold. This stroke has overthrown
All constancy of reason: I am blind.
Yet, earl, there is no storm-cloud in the sky;
A mist that drizzles, seeming innocent
Of flame as old men's tears, mere wretchedness,
Inept and with no rage.

Bothwell
True, true! Perchance
It was some accident.

Queen
How? With what means?

Bothwell
Some stores of gunpowder are thereabouts;
The clap was rather earth-born in its voice,
Methought, than of the air.

Queen
It burst on slumber,
As judgment on the dead. I seemed to hear
It leap upon the hill-tops, gather breath,
Then shout a zigzag 'larum—while a sickness
Came o'er me as of earthquake, though the posts
O' the bed stood rigid round me as I woke.
My ears yet rumble. But I could not know
The kernel of that uproar was a corpse,
Which called me wife and dearest yester eve,
A sick, close-clinging boy: this makes me shudder
More than the hideous ground-swell. I have loved
Its victim: God, who registered our troth,
Can make good my affection; it was tried
By wild devices on my husband's part,
Repulse of the outgoings of my love,
If I but leant his way. Oh, I am shaken
To think of my late rancour and impatience,
That found relief in a futurity
Which was without him, brighter, unimpeded,
And blank from his affronts.

(She throws herself in a chair and covers her eyes, tearless)
Bothwell
She feels some guilt,
Soon shall we be incorporate in the crime,
This woman and myself. At Kirk o' Fields
Our banns have just been published. Ha, the thump
And mettle of my blood! (Aloud)
He, who is stark
Amid the shrubs, was by all sorts contemned,
Contemned by the indifferent 'mong your subjects—
A despicable husband.

Queen
In his eyes
Last night a ruined youthfulness asked pity,
His kiss had soft demands. For many weeks
In disposition he has altered; humble
And penitent he has been tossed from sleep
To death. (Rising)
My lord of Bothwell, I had rather
Lose life and throne than that this cruel deed
Should stay unpunished. Vengeance rigorous
For God's grace and my comfort shall be dealt:
By witnesses the fact shall be confronted,
And have clear trial.

Bothwell
'Tis impossible
That anything but accident or bolt
From out the sky is guilty.

Queen
Could I think so!
My thoughts misgive me.

Bothwell
Fie, there is no treason
Has ever wrought a pomp of such destruction
As only comes by thunder.

Enter Huntly
Huntly
Madam, madam,
Words have been scared away.

Queen
And tears as well;
Something is rolled against the gates of weeping.

Huntly
You press the bed-post. I shall send your Maries
To nurse this sorrow.

Bothwell
(To Huntly)
You and I will hasten
To guard the spot, and see the body laid
Within some private house.

Huntly
(To Bothwell)
It was a mine
That did the business.

Queen
Traitors among men,
Not the mysterious sky! Their punishment
Pertains then to my birthright as a queen.
Make strict examination. (To Bothwell)
You, my lord,
Our flawless subject, think our crown dishonoured
Until the authors of this factious mischief
Be brought to law and judgment.

Bothwell
(Apart)
She has looked
Her old way at me, not a broken glance,
But full and straight, a jasper seal of favour,
With no complicity. (Aloud)
Your will is law.
Come, Huntly, I will join you in a moment,
When I have had some drink.
Exit Huntly
(As he moves to the door)
I never felt
My courage cold like this, nor firmer too:
I see no future but the shaken ground
On which I march to kingship.

Exit
Enter the Maries
Queen
How I change!
Tears soak my calm—a river with the ice
Turning to river also. It is early.
Light the fire: do not speak. I must lie down,
And think of a great nothing. Is this grief?
I shiver and am conscious of the light,
As if 'twere yesterday begun again,
And yet forgotten. Beg them in the house
To make no noise; that is lord Bothwell's step,
A sounding tread. Death sets such bitterness
In conscience; 'tis his sting! My Maries, kiss me;
Ye put my black dress on when I was married.
We said his hair curled gallantly. Your mouths
Make the past warm that haunts me as a ghost.
Unwrap my sables.

Mary Fleming
Now the fire springs bright!