University of Virginia Library

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