University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A room in Hamilton's country house, near the mountains.
Craigburn, Brycefield, and Hamilton discovered.
Bryce.
The night is bitter.

Ham.
Heap the fagots higher,
Let's have a glow as fierce as the brave hearts
That kindle at the stroke of wrong, to fire!

Craig.
Was that the tramp of horse?

Bryce.
No; but the roar
Of the swoll'n torrent in the pausing wind.

Ham.
How long, just Heaven, wilt Thou forbear to smite
These sons of Belial? In the book of time
No page of bloody tyranny is writ
More foul than theirs. Our people hunted down,
Put to the sword, or from the cruel rack.
Borne to the scaffold! Why? Because they cleave
To Scotland's ancient faith, and will not brook
The claim of England's Church to bind their souls.

Craig.
Woe to these wolves of Edom! Double woe
To this licentious king, who desolates
The sanctuary he swore to spare!

Bryce.
To spare!
Nay, to defend. But what to Charles are oaths?
False to his friend as to his land, what boon
Requites the wealth my father lost for his?
Our home, seized by his foes, Charles repossess'd
But not restored. A wanton and a flatterer
Divide our fief between them!

Ham.
Peace, John Brycefield!
Too much thou broodest on a private wrong,
Too little on a suffering Church.

Bryce.
My injuries
Are warrant for my truth.
[A distant report of carbines.
Ah! now your ears,
That was no brawl of rivers.
[Another and nearer volley.
There again!
Mars, sirs, is up! I've known his strain from boyhood.

Ham.
Put by this heathenish lingo.

Bryce.
Heathen names
Consort with heathen deeds. The ring of hoofs—
They come!

Ham.
[Drawing.]
Then death to him who enters first!

Craig.
Too hasty, Robert! What are cloaks for?
See!

[He snatches his cloak, and conceals his sword under it; the rest do the like.
Bryce.
The tramp grows fainter—now it dies away;
They hawk at other quarry.

Ham.
Footsteps!

[A low knocking is heard at door, and twice repeated.
Craig.
Hist!
'Tis Allan's signal. Quick! unbar the door.

[Brycefield opens the door, and admits John Balfour of Burley, and Andrew Keith.
Ham.
Burley!

Bur.
The same.

Ham.
[Giving his hand.]
You're welcome, and your comrade—
What, Andrew Keith! More outrage!

Bur.
[To Keith.]
Speak thou, pastor,
And be thy speech the trumpet which proclaims
The pouring forth of vials.

Keith.
To the vale
Our scatter'd children, eager for the food
Which more than bread sustains, their footsteps bent;
A strain of supplication blent with praise
Rose with one voice from hundreds, when a cry
Rang from the hills—“The foe!—the oppressor!—hence!”
Unarmed, we fled; but malice, swifter far
Than love of life, pursued. From throats of fire
The deadly missile leapt. Some sank in flight:
Others with upraised hands, whose happy souls
O'ertook their mounting prayers. Then midst our band
Plunged the destroyers. With fierce yells they cried,
“The Test, the Test!” The lifted sabre fell
On all who spurned that oath; the goodly youth—
The old man's prop—dropped from him and expired;
The mother's arm, locked round her boy, relaxed,
And left the orphan to the orphan's God!

Ham.
And how escaped you?

Keith.
Their impetuous haste
O'erleaped the spot I stood on, and the thirst
Of carnage drove them onwards. When they passed
By the ravine, I sought for shelter here,
And so encountered Burley.

Ham.
Have we hearts,
And hands, and bear this? Shall no blow be struck
To tell the oppressors we are men?

Craig.
There shall:
But yet be wary, learn our strength. How stand we?

Bur.
Hundreds await my signal, humble folk
The most part; but in resolution fixed,
By trial bred to patience. Most we need
Wealth and high names to aid; and yet I count
On Cochrane, Mowbray, Hume, and you methinks
[To Hamilton.
A convert pledged whose aid outweighs them all.

Craig.
Whom?

Bur.
Halbert Strathmore.

Craig.
Strathmore! are you mad?
You never broke this enterprise to him!

Ham.
I did—why not?

Craig.
He's of a line whose boast
Is fealty to the Stewart—the near friend
Of that malignant Rupert Lorn, betrothed
Unto his daughter!

Ham.
Grant this, and then add
What Strathmore is himself. I know him best,
So best can speak him—generous, firm, and just.

Keith.
My much-loved pupil
While he was yet a child. He still hath been
Temperate and mild, and though by birth allied
To the oppressors, oft hath curb'd their hate.

Bur.
What answer made he?

Ham.
That he needed time
And thought for his decision. In deep strife
'Twas plain his spirit travailed. Custom, name,
The ties of kindred and of love—that sense
Of nearer kin than blood—together leagued
Against his struggling conscience.

Bryce.
Of such war,
Too clear the issue. Strathmore will disown us,
Perhaps betray.

Ham.
Betray! You think of Brycefield
And speak of Strathmore.
[A low knocking, as before.
Allan! Hush!
[He admits Allan.
Your news?

Allan.
A messenger from Strathmore; he brings letters.

[He goes out.
Ham.
From Strathmore! Did you heed? He has decided:
The issue shall condemn, or free me. Come,
Our frugal meal is spread; while that recruits
Our bodily strength, I trust for news shall fire
Our souls with hope and vigour!

Keith.
Peace prevail
If peace consist with duty.

[All go out but Brycefield, who lingers behind.
Bryce.
So, so, friends,
'Tis thus ye guerdon service! Hamilton
Distrusts and taunts me; Craigburn just endures;
The vengeance that I bear to ingrate Charles
Had need be deep, that I should brook these taunts
And write my soldier name upon the list
Of these fierce bigots. Yet, will I be true
For my own ends. Oh, bitter curse when pride
Is slave to want, and crawls; but crawls to climb!

[He goes out.

SCENE II.

A spacious apartment in Lorn Castle.
Katharine Lorn seated at embroidery; on the opposite side, Isabel. Henry Lorn stands by his wife's chair. Sir Rupert paces the room in thought.
Hen.
And you knew Grammont?

Isa.
The dear Count! These eyes
Have brightened in his glance, this hand has lain
Within his own a good half-hour—don't frown;
We danced together at the Court, the dance,
That dear cotillon! [Rising as if to practise it.]
I've quite lost the step.
'Twas said in London I'd a well-turned foot;
It did look fairly in tight amber hose,
With sky-blue cloaks. Ah me! I dance not now!
And what's the worth of a fine instep here,
With no one to admire it but one's husband?
London, rare London! Oh, what days, what nights,
What dresses, what gallants! Think—Buckingham,
Rochester, Robert Sydney, Jermyn, Russell,
The peerless Hamilton!

Hen.
[Laughing.]
Add fifty more,
And ask if all be worth one husband, Bell;
Am I not constant to thee?

Isa.
Yes, in sooth.
Your love's the proper pattern; but one dress
Makes not a wardrobe.

Hen.
Jilt!

Isa.
I wore my lovers
Even as my robes—a change for every mood.
To-day I put on scarlet—in a soldier;
A courtier—for my purple velvet, next;
The third, a skirt of spangles—in a wit.
You frown again! nay, love, for common wear
There's nought like that drab constancy of thine!
You'll not be angry?

Hen.
Can I, when you smile?
Oh, what a vassal is this despot—man,
Rul'd by a smile, his sceptre but the sign
Of an imperial slave!

Isa.
That's the true faith
Which, prythee Kate, teach Strathmore when you wed.
Dost mark me, girl? He has long been a truant,
And must be punished.

Kath.
[Looking up.]
Punished! That might make him
Still more the truant.

Sir Rupert appears at door at back.
Isa.
Well, you bear it meekly!

Kath.
Bear what?

Isa.
His absence, which in other maids
Would waken doubt.

Kath.
Doubt! Do we doubt the sun
When he is absent? Know we not he shines,
Though unbeheld awhile, and will return
In his bright course, to cheer us? So will Strathmore!

Sir R.
[Coming forward and breaking in.]
Heaven grant it, and in time to save his honour!
Myself, your brother—all true hearts go forth
To serve the king, while only Halbert Strathmore,
The royal trumpet sounding in his ear,
Forbears a soldier's answer.

Hen.
Pardon, sir!
You judge my friend too harshly.

Isa.
So I think.
Strathmore's of noble lineage, and in him
Sedition were more treason to his blood
Than to his monarch.

Sir R.
So it should be. Yet,
He shows too fair a front to schism, hints
At mediation and redress—redress
For this base swarm of canters gendering wrong
From their own spleen to charge it on the law!
Oh, I'd redress them!

Hen.
I own Strathmore lenient,
But not disloyal.

Sir R.
What withholds him, then,
From us—from me, his father's friend—from her
His late betrothed? She is the fairest shoot
Of this rude trunk; yet would I rather blight
Should canker root and bough, than see one leaf
Plucked for a traitor's garland.

Isa.
Katharine,
You love this man; defend him!

Kath.
You have said
I love him.

Isa.
Well?

Kath.
That's my defence. I'll not
Assert in words the truth on which I've cast
The stake of life! I love him, and am silent.

Sir R.
These doubts torment me. He, brave Strathmore's son!
I'll to his house at daybreak, and extort
His hidden purpose.
Strathmore enters behind, unperceived.
I'll be answered; nought
Shall serve but yes or no. Speak, Strathmore—thus
Will I demand him—friend or foe? true man,
Or recreant? You shall not evade me, Strathmore!

Strath.
[Coming forward.]
And did I ever? You'll not take my hand?

Sir R.
First tell me, can it grasp a sword?

Strath.
[After a moment's pause.]
It can,
When duty bids it.

Hen.
Ah, I said so.

[Katharine rushes up to Strathmore.
Strath.
Wait,
Wait, Katharine! I said I never stooped
To subterfuge, nor will I. What is duty?

Sir R.
We owe it first to Heaven; next to the powers
Which Heaven ordains on earth.

Strath.
When these conflict—
The earthly with the heavenly—where points duty?

Sir R.
Serve you the king?

Strath.
I'd shed my blood to guard him.

Sir R.
Your father did.

Strath.
I'd guard his life, but still more guard his justice.
When cruel impious men in the king's name,
As I believe without his gracious will,
Slaughter his subjects for no crime but this,
That they would worship Heaven as conscience prompts,
I hold him loyal who takes heart to say—
“This blot on the king's honour goes no further.”

Sir R.
Enough, you stand a traitor by my hearth,
And yet I draw not! Sir, I cannot pledge
This temperance long; the path of safety's there.

[Pointing to the door.
Strath.
He who has dared your anger and her grief
Can meet all after-perils.

Hen.
Strathmore—friend,
You are deluded: these mad hypocrites
Provoke their fate. The Government exacts
No heavy tribute—a mere change of form
And ritual in the Church. How little then
Submission costs.

Strath.
It costs no gold, no sweat
Of brow, no toil of limb. It costs the man.
What is man without conscience?

Sir R.
Talk no more!

Hen.
Misguided, lost, farewell for ever!

Kath.
Stay!
[To Sir Rupert.]
Will you surrender thus the only son
Of your lost friend? Let me plead with him; leave us!
You'll not refuse me, Halbert, some brief words,
Perhaps our last! [To Sir Rupert.]
Oh, by your ancient love,
Permit this intercession!

Sir R.
Be it short.
So much I grant his father in the grave:
Resolve you soon, I shall return anon.
My gallant boy! My precious Isabel!

[He leads her out, followed by Henry.
Kath.
[After a pause, laying her hand on Strathmore's arm.]
Halbert, speak to me! You'll not speak, shall I?

Strath.
Yes, speak.

Kath.
Then answer; but not rashly, for my doom
Is in your breath—you love me?

Strath.
Katharine!

Kath.
You do, and know what love is—that it draws
Into itself all passion, hope, and thought,
The heart of life, to which all currents flow
Through every vein of being, which if chill'd
The streams are ice for ever?

Strath.
Even so.

Kath.
Was this your love for me?

Strath.
Was it?

Kath.
It is!
Thanks for that dear rebuke. You'll not renounce me?
No, I defy you, Strathmore!

Strath.
Ah! you may;
Discords may sever, pathways may divide,
'Midst all God's creatures I may never more
Gaze on that unit which could fill for me
A vacant world—yourself! And you may learn—
I do not think you will, but you may learn—
The strain of bitter tongues, reproach or scorn
For him who quits you now; but through all change,
Time, distance, suffering, shall this tide of love
Sweep ebbless to your memory!

Kath.
Yet you quit me!
Love speaks in deeds, not words; you never loved me.

Strath.
I never loved you, Katharine!

Kath.
Oh, forgive me!
My anguish spoke.

Strath.
And would there not befall
A keener anguish, could the man you loved
Prove false to right? [Taking her in his arms.]
So, on my shoulder, sweet,
The old way yet once more. We know that grief
Must try true hearts; but from its fire they're plucked
Here or hereafter, and the stamp of God
Is set on them for ever. All is well
At last for those who do well; nothing well
For those who, to be well, would shrink from duty.

Kath.
From duty?

Strath.
Katharine, duty. I have seen
Men pious, loyal, brave; do I say men?
Nay, wives and children perish, gashed by stabs,
Or pierced by ball, or drop into the grave
A-swoon from the rack's torture, their sole claim
To serve in freedom Him who made them free.
Could I see this, and know that gallant hearts
Were leagued against such wrong, and stifle mine?
I struggled, for I loved; but everywhere
My conscience tracked me. In the woods the leaves
Quivered reproaches; the peaks frowned; the stars
Gleamed down in wrath, and life with every tongue
Cried, “Man, do right; be worthy of thy world!”
I turned in thought to thee; thine eyes of truth
Rebuked my swerving spirit, “Man, do right;
Be worthy of thy love!”

Kath.
Delirium
Has warped thy reason. Halbert, strive, oh strive
Against this madness! It will pass, but think
That it may pass too late!

Strath.
Farewell!

Kath.
Be silent?
I will be heard. Perhaps I might have borne
To lose thee; but thou leav'st me for dishonour,
And that's past sufferance! Base and traitorous men
Must henceforth be thy comrades—shouldst thou fall,
I cannot weep a hero!

Strath.
Katharine!
Life rarely knows its heroes. Obloquy,
Like dust, defiles the champion; still he strives,
And at the grave, the sullied vesture falls
From his worn limbs, his memory takes its stand
Upon the tomb, and the world shouts—“A Hero!”

Re-enter Sir Rupert.
Sir R.
Have you decided?

Kath.
[Clinging to Strathmore.]
Oh, no—no!

Strath.
I have.
Sweet, we must part! What strength is in the clasp
Of these soft arms! I must unwind them, love,
These fibres of my heart that bleeds to rend them.
There, gently! Take her, sir! Farewell—farewell!

[He rushes out; she sinks into Sir Rupert's arms.