University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—One of the Dungeons of the Sea-tower of Beaton's Castle.
Captain Strang
discovered sitting on the ground, his dress and person unclean and squalid, as from long confinement.
So here I'm stranded, honest Captain Strang,
Here grounded, cast ashore a total wreck;
Although a decent fellow, one whose heart's
Each timber is as sound as British oak;
Here am I buried, bound, and bottled up
In this abominable Tophet-hole,
This rotten pump-sink of your Card'nal Beaton;
Where darkness, damp and stench between them fight,
Which most t'annoy my body's every sense.
I wish to God some land-lubber aloft
Would clap his pump down to this castle's keel,
And pump me out into the sea, my element!
There should I wash me clean again, and shine
A jovial shipmaster as I was wont,
When bounding in my proud brig all the way
From Frith of Forth to noble Rotterdam.
Here am I vilely used, as if I'd been
A graceless Turk that knelt to old Mahoun,
And not a church-attending Christian man.
I have no hammock where to swing at night;
I have no biscuit to rejoice my teeth;
I have no gin to vivify my heart;
I am a woe-begone and weary wight,
Dying, I dread me, too; for this my lean
Sunk belly's clung with famine to my back;
My weary back has lost its uprightness;
My poor legs tingle with the rheumatism;
My dungeon'd eyes scarce see—yon little mouse,
My fellow-pris'ner, that comes creeping out
To dine on the sole-leather of my shoe:
Good morning, mouse, thou'rt welcome to your meal—
Thou'rt now my mate; and when Sir Caldcleuch comes
With his cold water and his bit of bannock,
(The devil take him and his ugly face,
But leave his water and his bit of bannock,)
I'll give you then a feast, we'll mess together;
We'll govern in the hold here, you and I;
Let Card'nal and his crew command aloft,
And mount the slipp'ry ladder of the shrouds.
Yet, 'tis most villainous hard, that I should thus
Be cubb'd and cramp'd up here with crawling mice,
Merely for fost'ring, as they call it, heresy,
By ferrying, in my sinless vessel, o'er
Some dozen books and godly tractates writ
In crabbed Latin or fair mother-tongue,
'Gainst Card'nal and his grim good friend the devil.
It is a blackguard shame for any church
To punish honest men like me for heresy!
I am no heretic—I ne'er damn'd the Pope;
I ne'er encouraged damning in my ship,
Except the damming salt sea-water out.
Yet here I stink and rot, a rich perfume—
A very posy in your Card'nal's nose!
God help me!—But here comes my hemlock friend,
I know him by the clatt'ring of his keys;
What brings him now? 'Tis not yet bannock-time.

Enter Robin Caldcleuch, with Mrs Strang and Beatrice Strang following him.
CALDCLEUCH.

Good den to ye, honest man! I houp ye're sittin dry
and warm on your pickle saft strae—It's a seat for a king,
let alane a Pittenweem skipper! I've brought you at my
back here twa weel-kent auld friends. You're awing me a
pint o'gin for this forgatherin, the neist time your brig
sails to Schiedam, whilk'll happen when the king's arrow's
ta'en aff her, if that'll ever happen. See now your wife
and bairn!

CAPTAIN STRANG.
My wife! my daughter!
[They embrace each other.
God in his gracious goodness bless you both!
I little thought, when last time we did part,
To meet you here—

MRS STRANG.
My husband! O my husband!
Thus to be couched on a truss of straw!
Alas, I thought not when I last busk'd up
My bed with the new Holland sheets you brought
Last time our vessel sail'd to Rotterdam,
That such should be the change, this, this the meeting!

CAPTAIN STRANG.
Weep not, my dear! God wills not we should weep;
I never yet caused man to shed a tear;
When honest men have wept, I've dried their tears
With comforts and with kindnesses and love;
No cause have I to weep—though when I think
Of you and of my family in tears,
I must e'en weep—God pardons that I weep!

BEATRICE.
O father, be of comfort! He who sent
His angel down to ope the prison-doors
Of Paul and Silas, as I oft have read
To you on Sabbath evenings by the fire,
Will in his own good season grant relief,
And send you gladden'd from this house of tears.
He disappoints not those who trust in him,
Rewarding well their confidence with joys
Proportion'd to their trials, well endured.
Father and mother! then wipe off your tears;
Let me embrace you, father, and kiss off
These honourable sorrows from your cheeks;
Woes me! it is not fit that you should be
Thus—thus—so sordid.—But I'll tend you here;
I'll be your handmaid—I will minister
To you in food, in raiment, and in prayer,
In reading from the holy Testaments—

CALDCLEUCH.

He's had eneugh o'that sort o'readin already. Nae sic
readin's tolerate here in my lord's castle.

BEATRICE.

—If this good man that holds the keys permit.

CALDCLEUCH.

A discreet young woman, 'pon my conscience, and her
face nae the warst part o'her, as mine is o'me—I'd ance
a sweeter sort o'a countenence, but sin' I was set to keep
this sea-tower, it's become transmogrify'd, I kenna how,
from hinney to hemlock. The poor students o'St Leonard's
use to say that the Cardinal bapteezed me wi' his
ain holy water, into this sour-lookin', mortclaith-bodin'
countenance. It's a place, say they, for ravens to nestle
on, for vipers to crawl on, for jadrals, taeds, puddocks, an'

cormorants to jump an' mak their daffin on. Awa wi' their
college-clavers! Lassie, what's your wull?

BEATRICE.
O sir, if you'll allow me here to tend
My father in this house of misery,
I will reward you very bounteously;
God will reward you too, who to St Paul's
Converted jailor gave a heart renew'd,
And made him taste strange joys he never knew,
Believing and baptized with all his house.

CALDCLEUCH.

Na, na, lass, nane o'your deceivin' words for me! I'se
no lose my post o'Cardinal's head-turnkey for the bonniest
lass in Fife. I'm a man o'some integrity—I tak nae
bribes, like your bishops and vicars, that'll pray ony dead
man's soul out o'purgatory for sax shillings, an' curse a
livin' man's intil't for a plack—I'm a man o'conscience.
Ye'se no steal wi' your pauky prayers thae good keys out
o'Robin's auld hand.—But quick, hae done, hae done—
your time's out.

MRS STRANG.
O little knows this stony-hearted man
How dear to me this passing interview!
Else he would grudge not this poor span of time.
O husband, I am grieved for your sake;
Sad terrors vex me for your precious life.
There is a cloud of mischief in the sky,
Ready to drop its hail on some poor head;
Nor know I well if yours shall be secure.

CALDCLEUCH.

That I dinna ken neither—There are faggots gatherin',
sticks splittin', coals drivin', stakes rammin', gun-powther
pokes crammin', a'about the Castle and Priory puffin'
an' blawin' wi' business. The auld smith, Thamas Cairns,
that lives i'the Heukster's Wynd, has been bringin' out
his biggest brawest bellowses—it took three men to lift
them—they're a'lyin' ready i'the Castle Wynd yonder;
and there's a pile o'sticks an' coals that'll roast a'the
skippers in Pittenweem, forbye Anster and Cellardyke.
Now, a'this wark is no done for naebody and naething—
heretics maun burn—it's a law i'the kirk—they that will
to Cupar maun to Cupar.

MRS STRANG.
Oh do not, with your croakings raven-like,
Increase to an intolerable load
Those fears with which already I'm oppress'd;
I pray thee comfort me with better omens,
If thou must speak.

CALDCLEUCH.

Honest woman, mine office is no ane o'comfort, but
born out of the very bowels of misery and discomfort. Indeed,
folk say that on the night I cam into the world, four
black craws cam down my father's lum, an' sat cockin' an'
croakin', ane on ilka bedpost—sae you see, e'en from the
womb, I'm but an ill-omen'd man.

MRS STRANG.
May heaven avert, and throw back on your face,
Their proper resting-place, these gloomy threatenings!

CALDCLEUCH.

Dinna say it's me, madam—I never flang a heretic i'
the fire—the Pope does that; I'm but the iron tangs
wherewi' he grips the poor bodies. Mair attour, if folks
will read thae new-fangled Bibles an' Testaments, an' bring
ship-laeds o'the devil's books frae Flanders, their ain skins
maun e'en suffer for't. Lord Cardinal's no a man to play
wi' i'that sort—he does a'his things wi' a birr, frae his
highest spiritualities down to his laighest carnalities, as
the poor students speak.

BEATRICE.
I'll go myself, dear father, to the man
That holds dominion of this prison-house.
I will put off a blushing maiden's fear,
And clothe me in assumed confidence.
I will beseech him by a daughter's love,
A mother's tears, and all the charities
That are bound up within a fleshly heart,
That he may loose thee to our loves again,
And bless us by his kind benevolence.

CALDCLEUCH.

An' what'll you mak o'that? See what John Roger
the black friar's auld mither made o'her fleechin' an' intercedin'
for her douce son Preachin' Johnnie? I left him
at night here, in this very room, at his prayers, as vive and
as hale as ever he was in his life; an' neist mornin' afore
day-break, there was he, honest man, lyin' a'his length a
cauld corp amang the round stanes at the bottom o'the
Castle. It was a cauld, snifterin' mornin', about the back
end o'February—I scraped the caller snaw aff him, an'
happit him weel up in his braw, spleet-new flannen winding-sheet,
a cozie bield for a dead man, whare he lies snug an'

warm till this day. Some said his craig was as blue as a
blawort, as gin a bit string had been casten ower't; but its
no my business to inspeck dead corps. At ony rate, I
had nae hand in that pye, whaever beuk it; I make it aye a
pount never to fash my thumb about ither folk's business.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
Out with your murd'rous stories and your tales
That smell of horror and of hemlock, like
Your face, whose copied likeness would make out
A bugbear, to scare even fell Death withal!

CALDCLEUCH.

Grip you weel till't then, my man, for aiblins ere the
morn pass you'll need some scar-crow to frighten aff the
grim carl wi' the scythe. But he'll no come to you, as I
expeck, wi' a scythe, but wi' a het-burnin' low i'the ae
hand, an' Thamas Cairns's big bellowses i'the other—an' its
a'ane whether a man be reduced to ashes in ten minutes,
tied to a wood stake and brander'd like a beef-stake, or
moulders awa for ten years in a cauld grave beside worms
an' ettercaps, its a'ae upshot—ashes, ashes are the finish.
But hae done, hae done—The quarter o'an hour's out by
my sand-glass—let's awa, the door's open.

BEATRICE.
Good night, my father; and the peace of heaven
Rest on your heart, to keep its sorrows down,
Till a kind Providence remove them all!

MRS STRANG.
Husband, farewell! May God administer
Sweet comforts unto you, and to myself!

CAPTAIN STRANG.
Good night, dear wife and daughter!—
[Exeunt Cald. Mrs Strang, and Beatrice.
They are gone;
And I am left in solitude again,
To eat my spirits up in misery.
Alas, alas! I've stood both waves and winds
On ship-board, when my vessel labour'd sore,
And reel'd beneath the ocean's buffetings;
But for this piteous tempest of the soul
I am unfit. I cannot bear it out
As strong men do, who have no tenderness.
But I confide my sorrows, and my life,
To Him, who in his hand holds human souls,
And heals the sorrows of the innocent.
On Him I'll rest and pillow my sad heart,
Expecting, patient, in this gloomy cell,
The brightness of his glad deliverance!

Curtain drops.

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Provost's House.
Enter Sir James Learmont, Duncan, and Melvil.
LEARMONT.
I, too, should have been there along with you,
As Lumsdaine's letter was significant,
And full of urgency; but this mine office
Of Provostship detains me, t'over-rule
And keep the peace of this community;
Which now is more endanger'd by th'afflux
Of strangers, clerk and lay, that stream in fast,
Heated with hostile passions; which might soon,
Coming into such dangerous contact,
Explode in some disturbance.

MELVIL.
I will go,
And catch the Sheriff's tidings from the west:
He does not bustle for a bauble so;
There must be something special and of weight,
That he convenes us so imperiously.
I'll make excuse for you, Sir James; and will
Anon be with you, to communicate
What is disclosed, or what concerted there.
Till then, farewell.

LEARMONT.
Good night to thee, good Melvil.

[Exit Melvil.
DUNCAN.
And I will tarry in this town a while,
T'observe the diet's doings, and to watch
If yet some golden chance may not betide
Of rescuing him I love.

LEARMONT.
Remain with me,
Amid such comforts as my city-house
Can well supply.—Come, let us to the hall.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Room in the Castle.
Enter Cardinal Beaton, Principal John Annan, and the Master of Lindsay.
CARDINAL.
The thing's resolved. No chance shall intercept
The fixed resolution of the Church:
Let Lauder word his accusation well,
And mouth it with a comely impudence;
Unbashfully with charge on charge confronting
This Gospelizing, meek, reformer-man,
That he may be confounded in his lore,
And into silence and disorder dash'd
Before th'Assembly, that shall sign his doom.—
Master of Lindsay, to your hands is given,
Being head-bailiff of our Priory,
The care and conduct of the execution;
Near to my windows let the spot be chosen,
Whence—

MASTER OF LINDSAY.
O, Lord Card'nal, if no otherwise
The Church can rid her of her enemies
Than by condemning them to die by fire,
I pray thee, let the thing be quietly done
In hollow cellars, damp and chimneyless,
Whence scarce the evidence of smoke can 'scape,
Not in our streets, beside the market-cross;
Where curious multitudes, assembled round,
Catch from the reek, that blows upon their faces,
Contagious heresy, and whisper round
One to another sympathetic words,
Imparting wrath up-treasured 'gainst the doers,
And disaffection to St Peter's chair.

CARDINAL.
No, not in corners and in darksome cells,
As if ashamed for the perpetration,
Shall we, like cravens, shrink to do our duty.
'Tis murder that is done in secret places;
So robbers steal, and so assassins slay:
'Tis for example, and the public good,
That th'authorized gibbet, near the way,
Exhibits to the sun his prey in chains.—
Be the death public as the crime hath been;
As he hath preach'd upon our public ways,
E'en let him perish on his preaching-place,
As murd'rers hang where they have done their job.
Let the fire flare th'infliction that it gives
In the sun's face, and its sky-dimming smoke
Tell to the clouds what cause hath sent it up!

MASTER OF LINDSAY.
Lord Card'nal, when a villain stabs his neighbour,
The public weal, which in the safety lies
Of each particular, requires the death
Of that aggressor, as its safety's pledge;
But when Opinion, in her shifting soul,
Colours and frames imaginary crimes,
Affecting nor men's lives nor their estates,
'Tis idle, then, 'tis barb'rous, 'tis absurd,
To castigate and chase, by torture's force,
Out from the brain, together with the life,
Their prejudices, or their dreams away.
'Tis not a warning then, it is a folly
And barbarism, that forces out compassion!

PRINCIPAL ANNAN.
Sir, 'tis a golden canon of the Church,
Sanction'd by councils, and confirm'd by usage,
That whoso dares th'inexpiable sin
Of poisoning human souls by heresy,
Must pay his life in fire, as forfeit due
To th'Holy Father, and to Christendom.
The law is merciless, and asks her fine.

CARDINAL.
And she shall have it too, my Principal,
Paid to th'exactest grain of flesh and bone,
Despite of sec'lar wrath and sympathy!

MASTER OF LINDSAY.
My Lord, I am a plain unletter'd man,
Gifted with mean and homely utterance;
I am not dipt in books like learned clerks,
Whose tongues are richly coated and behung
With twice ten thousand saws and sentences.
But I can gather from my simple soul
An untaught rhetoric, to plead the cause
Of this defenceless, wrong'd, God-fearing man.
He has not murder'd on the king's high-way;
He only preach'd against the men that murder:
He has not been the matron's debauchee;
He only preach'd dear purity of life:
He has not purloin'd gold from house or church;
He only preach'd clean-finger'd abstinence:
He is the man whose heart has not devised
The breach of any of God's Ten Commands;
And his bold tongue, that cries and shouts aloud
Against corruption in our very streets,
Commits no violation of that ninth—
Thou shalt not bear false witness 'gainst thy neighbour.
Lord Cardinal, look again to it, I pray;
'Tis wisdom sometimes to be merciful.

CARDINAL.
Hey, my sweet Master! Now thou hast been, sure,
At school with him of Byres, and of the Mount,
Thy kinsmen, and the pedagogues of treason!—
We must be lectur'd by you, and submit
Our souls, forsooth, unto thy tutorage!—
Lindsay—my Master, Lindsay—have to-morrow
Your bonfire lighted opposite my gate;
For we must celebrate with merry blaze
St Peter's triumph o'er the Lutheran.—
Dear Annan, see that in the Priory
All seemly preparations may be made—

Enter Dishington, Captain of the Castle.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, a messenger hath, at the gate,
Handed me this seal'd packet for your Grace.

[Gives the Letter, and exit.
CARDINAL.
[Opens, and begins to read.]
—Sirs, with your leave—Sweet sirs, I give you leave—
Good night, we've much to think on ere to-morrow.—
[Exeunt Annan and Master of Lind.
Now, here's a scroll of pure impertinence,
Cramm'd with hot buzzing words from end to end—
Ay, Norman! thy young blood is up on high,
All on a flash, like usquebaugh on fire!—
Now, thou'rt a lad of promise; and full soon
The small thin bonnet of the Earl of Rothes
Will rive to greatness on thy doughtier head!—
A dagger too!—What raves the silly boy
About a dagger? Hath he been to steal
His tailor's bodkin to let out my life?—
(He reads the Letter.)
“Sir, I beg leave to tell you, that I know
Your many mischievous and damned plots
Against the state, and me, and honest men;
And I forewarn you, like an honest man,
That, if your wicked plots are not forborne,
My dagger shall be drawn, and in my hand
Shall rest dissatisfied, till it shall rid
Me and my country of a foe and villain.”—
A pithy scribble this, and to the point!—
Then I must put my Card'nal's hat aside,
And buy a head-piece from the brazier,
To save my temples from the killing dints
Of this fierce Sheriff, and his gang of squires!—
Come on, my son of Rothes! I am ready
To catch the hungry dagger from thy hand,
And give it breakfast in its master's blood!—
So, so!—how proudly perkest thou, O son
Of John of Rothes, in thy sheriffdom!
Faith, thou'rt a pretty serpent; and thy head
Towers high, and glistens o'er thy other bulk,
That coils and crawls quite useless on the ground.
Thy tongue is forked, too, and spitteth out
Large venom, whereby quiet men grow mad.—
I'll bruise thee yet, my basilisk! I'll squeeze
Even into clotted dirt thy glancing crown!—
Then, for your Lairds, that huddle round you thick,
Like newts and lizards round th'arch-cockatrice,
One handful poison, thrown into their hole,
Will make them puke and spawl themselves to death.—
Courage, Lord Cardinal! the Church's weight
Is with thee; and thy titles are the hinge
Whereon the state's huge folding-door revolves.

Enter Dishington, Captain of the Castle.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, a damsel at the castle gate,
Of decent garb, and honourable presence.
Has dunn'd me for admittance to your Grace,
Alleging special and important business.

CARDINAL.
Captain, I think thou knowest that my gate
Drops all its bars before the gentle tap
Of a sweet girl?—Admit the suppliant.
[Exit Dishington.
The night o'erflows with business; every moment
Spawns a new incident of some account.—

Re-enter Dishington, with Beatrice Strang.
DISHINGTON.
My Lord, here is the damsel that has long
Besieged, beseechingly, your castle gate.
[Exit Dishington.

CARDINAL.
Good e'en, my pretty maiden!—I rejoice
To see the tapers of your glancing eyes
Illume my room!—'Tis ever so with me.
I would not give, for light of sun or moon,
The merry splendour of a lady's eye:
Young Cupid rides upon it to my heart,
And whips me mad with burning fantasy!

BEATRICE.
Oh, my Lord Cardinal, forbear on me
Words that belong not to the piteous state
Of a poor, down-cast, melancholy maid.
Alas! I come not in the idle mood
Of one, who hangs her showy colours out
To lead men's captivated eyes away.
Tears crowd my eyes too full to suffer them
To wander vagabond in glances, such
As May-day maids wont merrily to make.
Once I was joyful on a May-day too;
When the sun shone upon me as I led,
In dance, my flow'ry-kirtled playfellows:
Now I am weary-woeful; and the sun,
That calls my comrades to their annual mirth,
Shines only sorrow to my changed heart.—
Oh, good my Lord, thou art the man, whose word
Can make the sun shine sweet on me again,
And bless one mourning family with joy.

CARDINAL.
Marry, my maid, thou art importunate,
And full of circuits and of roundabouts,—
Prithee, wind up in brief your small affair.

BEATRICE.
Here, on my knees, my Lord, I do entreat
And conjure thee, with nature's loudest voice,
By the afflictions of a forlorn spouse!
By a dear daughter's ever-truest love!
By tears of children, weeping woefully!
By all the loving-kindness which our God
Hath bound up in the noble human heart!
By your own greatness, noble Cardinal!
Give, give, to daughter, spouse, and family,
Him whom thy dungeons, for a thing of nought,
A bauble of scarce punishable fault,
Hold, barr'd in darkness from the light of life!—
Thou know'st my father!—

CARDINAL.
Strang?—I know the man,
Who wafted o'er, in his unholy ship,
A cursed cargo of soul-damning books,
And scatter'd them, as pedlars do their ballads,
Among the people; tainting every finger,
That rambled 'mid th'obnoxious, sinful leaves,
With vice more hideous than the green-eyed plague!—
I know him well; he does his penance here,
In this my castle's gloomiest purgatory:
His soul will soon be rinsed pure and clean
From its contamination, as I hope.
Thou would'st not pluck him out, my girl, before
His purifying term is at an end?
Marry, it would not do; he'd soon grow foul
Again, with rust and sinful verdigrease,
E'en like some half-scour'd utensil of brass.—
Fie, speak not on't!—

BEATRICE.
Oh, I will speak of it,
For I can speak of nothing else but it;
And I must speak and wail aloud for it.—
My Lord, thy greatness, as an eagle, should
Soar high, and challenge the world-warming sun;
Not stoop, and lower its sky-climbing flight
To the low range of unambitious birds,
Fastening degradingly its royal claws
On little, lowly, and ambiguous prey.
The mighty are before thee; choose them out,
And ravish glory from that nobler chase;
But leave to silence, peace, and happiness,
The mean obscurities of weaker men.

CARDINAL.
Fie, wench!—Am I not, then, to snap the fly,
That rounds my temples with eternal plague,
Because, forsooth, it is a thing ignoble
To crush in death such paltry persecution?—
A man of power, my lady, has two hands
To use in battle with his adversaries:
His right hand grapples stiffly with the proud;
His left serves wondrous well to sweep away
The cobwebs of destruction, woven about him
By the small cunning of his spider-foes.

BEATRICE.
A man of power, my Lord, is like the wind
Of Heaven, that smites, in its nobility,
Obstinate towers, that do confront its rage,
And splits the trunks of sky-defying oaks;
But o'er the pliant grove of bulrushes
Rides without harm, and sings upon the reeds.

CARDINAL.
Vex me no more with such importunacy!—

BEATRICE.
If then my lord declines this quest of mine,
As being bold and too importunate;
O suffer me at least (this sure is nothing)
To tend him in his house of melancholy,
With all a daughter's tenderness and care.
Grant me the small poor boon to visit oft
His loneliness, that I may solace him
With ministrations as a daughter should.
His durance-term will thence be not abridged;
Its rigour only may be mitigated.

CARDINAL.
Marry, my maiden, that would still be worse;
The beauty of a penance lies not more
In its term's length, than sweet severity.
Has he not got a turnkey to rub down
And feed him tenderly and faithfully?
One who too well the dungeon's duties knows
To cheat him of his corn or curry-comb?
Knew I the tender-hearted dog play'd false,
By over-dosing or in sap or solid,
I'd pack him off to live with Harry Eighth,
And send a ship to Barbary for a better!
Then speak not on't—'tis quite unmannerly.

BEATRICE.
My lord, if for thy purple's honour, and
The nobleness that decorates thine office,
Thou wilt not yield thee to my gentle prayers,
O, by the mercy that adorns the name
Of Christian, as its richest rarest jewel—

CARDINAL.
Tush, tush, my miss! I think thou'rt too well read
In christian catechisms, and such like books;
Instead of spinning nightly by the fire,
And darning stockings for your grandmother,
Thou hast been spelling Davie Lindsay's plays,
And singing godly ballads to your father!
I fear, I fear, thou'rt in for heresy.—
(aside ...)
Faith she's a handsome heretic, however;
I like her, and her pretty pouting mouth,
That for her father chirps so charmingly:
By'r Lady! I do think the plaguy quean
Would warm a Card'nal's bed luxuriously. (... aside)

[To Beatrice.
Marry, my sweet! I do impeach you here
Of stealing boldly, in my very house;
Thou hast out-pluck'd and pocketed somewhere,
Even to my face, a portion of my heart;
I cannot live without it—I must search
And catch it, if I can, my pretty thief;
I'll have it, here—

[Kisses her.
BEATRICE.
Lord Cardinal, my lord!
Toyest thou thus thy dignities away?

CARDINAL.
My child, when lily-bosom'd things like thee
Creep into churchmen's chambers, that they may
Confess their sins, or proffer supplications,
'Tis understood in every Christian land,
That to the Confessor or Holy Priest,
(As the wave-breast to Jewish Aaron fell,)
Fall the first fruits, as to his office due,
Of maidenly and blushing innocence.
Nay, do not wince, my dear—there is no stain
Where church absolves; the layman's damning sin
Shines out a lustre on a churchman's soul;
Thou'lt be true gainer by th'imagined loss;
If then thou wishest to thy suit success—
If thou wouldst see my dungeon ope its jaws,
And give thy father back to friends and freedom,
Grant me thyself—

BEATRICE.
Hence! avaunt, seducer!
In thine own chamber, out on thee, I say,
Thou man of stony, corrupt, lustful heart!
Stand thou aloof, O sinner, lest I blast
Thee with my virgin looks of chastity—
Alas, I'm but an idle suppliant here!
I will go home and comfort my poor mother,
And say with her my better prayers to Him
Who hears the widow's and the orphan's cry:—
Alas, for thee, my father!

[Rushes out.
CARDINAL.
Go your ways,
Thou pert, proud daughter of a heretic:—
Why, how the minx turn'd up her saintly nose
Against the kisses of my Card'nalship,
As if her lips were far too rich to give
Their dew to any but a Wickliffite!
Now, she'll go gadding all the city round
A carry-tale, venting in every nook
Where giggling gossips and old women meet,
Against me scandals, which shall make them sip
With greater gust their good sack-posset drinks,
That their old lungs shall rive and gasp with laughter
At Card'nal's fumbling for a vanish'd kiss.
By'r lady! she'll not croak against me long;
I'll have her dish'd, and all her family,
Dish'd in one platter for Destruction's teeth
To champ and make a meal of.—
Hang her! nay, hang her father, let him dance
Th'aerial jig for this indignity.
Fie, fie upon it all—Card'nal, thou think'st
Too much of this—'tis but a sorry thing;
'Tis nothing.—
Thine enemies require thy care and caution;
This Norman Lesslie—take good heed of him,
He is a mad young devil at his best;
His dagger sticks into my memory;—
Enter Mrs Marion Ogilvie.
CARDINAL continues.
Salve Regina, sweet my queen, all hail!
Salve Regina cordis mei, hail!
I have been thinking much of thee, my Marion,
And fretful for thy coming—I have need
Of nightly solace, and sweet recreation
From molestation of rough day-light rubs.

MRS MARION.
O my dear lord, thy aspect and demeanour
Shews as if some sharp viper of vexation
Were biting at the bottom of thy soul.
What is the matter? Let me know it all;
Ere now thou hast imparted unto me
Thy cares, thy joys, thy hopes, and thy ambition;
And I have heighten'd all thy taste of good,
And I have mellow'd all thy taste of bad,
By correspondent harmony of soul.
Lord Card'nal, what is it?—

CARDINAL.
It is a nothing,
A shadow of vexation crossing o'er
My shining sun of happiness. What's the news
Abroad? Amid this tumult of the city,
This confluence of folks and crowding in,
What talk is blazed abroad, and wherewithal
Are the rude mouths of the mobility
Amused in their voracity for tales?

MRS MARION.
The talk, my lord, is loud and dissonant,
And full of boisterous and surly threats,
Portending to the land convulsion:
Faction is at her busiest, and disjoins
Fam'ly from family, and friend from friend:
Hearts, that have long been kindly knit as one,
Now split into hostilities, and stand
Vindictively and savagely aloof,
Praying not only in this world red curses,
But exquisite damnation in the next.
Religion's poison'd; and she walks about,
Not in the bloom of apostolic beauty,
Winning poor sinners into happiness,
As when she charm'd St Peter and St John;
But bloated with distemp'rature: her face
Ugly with passion, and bespotted foul
With the green fest'ring boils of heresy,
The dagger of damnation in her hand.—

CARDINAL.
A dagger in his hand! Pray, who has seen him?
Is he in town? I have not heard of him—
Are my gates barr'd?—

MRS MARION.
You dream, my dear, dear lord,
Your mind is swallow'd up, and all entranced
By some besetting fancy, that has wrought
Itself into dominion of the brain;
Rouse thee, my lord; 'tis supper-time; we'll go
To supper—

CARDINAL.
I'll not stir an inch for him—
Have I not with me all the house of Guise?
Is not hot Huntly ready at my word
Out from the north to rush like its own whirlwind,
And sweep into the toils, that I have laid,
Him and his troop? Huntly shall hunt them in;
I'll be the slayer—I'll make ven'son of them;
Falkland's a royal palace—hath a park—
The game is all mine own—
Ha, ha! my brain is reeling—Pardon, sweet,
This ecstacy of spirits—I am wont,
Of late, thou knowest, thus to wander oft;
I'm so turmoil'd with secular concerns—
Let's go, my love—But do not speak a word
Of Falkland—for much danger lurketh yet
In that small word.

MRS MARION.
To supper then, my lord,
Dean Annan is awaiting us within.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—A Garden near the Cathedral.
Enter Beatrice Strang.
I've seen my mother to her couch to rest,
And I have said my evening prayers with her;
And now I seek this flow'ry solitude,
To entertain my desolated mind
With moonlight, and the garden's silent scenes.
How beautiful, above the sea, the moon
Has lighted up her sky-adorning torch,
Dimming th'abashed stars, and paving all
The bay's expansion, as with twinkling sheets
Of silver fluent on the flutt'ring wave!
Nearer, the hillocks, valleys, rocks, and shores,
Flame out in night's best glory; and the spires
And copper-garnish'd roofs and pinnacles
Of yon Cathedral, gleam and tower on high,
As if exulting to give back the moon
Her image, and requite her with a sight
Of her own glory flung amended back
By roofs the brightest that she sees on earth.
The garden, too, is proud, and plumes herself
On her fair early flowers, which she expands
Full to the moon, as bragging how her brother
Has busk'd her out, though she regrets not now
His absence in his sister's sweeter beams.
Welcome, sweet light, and with thee welcome too
Thoughts of divinely-soothing melancholy,
That slide, as if by stealth, into the soul,
And fill it with a stillness calm as thine!
The day, with all its flashy glaring light,
Its brawl of bus'ness, shouts, and din of wheels,
Is well away and buried in the sea.
To me, and to the sorrowful of heart,
And to the pious saint, and to the lover,
This lonely hour comes on more peace-giving,
And more accordant to their museful mood;
For I have been in sorrow all the day,
And having wiped my tears, now forth repair
To feed with thoughts my meditative heart.
Haply he too, to whom my heart is vow'd,
As late he promised, will appear to bless
My solitude with his rejoicing presence.
He knows the house where I am sojourner;
This is th'appointed place, and this the hour
He for the golden interview assign'd.

SEATON,
(appearing through the bushes.)
'Tis she herself—I see the moonlight lie
Asleep upon her neck and on her bosom,
As fain to find such precious resting-place;
Diana is not jealous of her beauty,
Only because she's like herself so chaste;
And therefore does the comely Queen of Night,
As if right merry to behold in her
A maiden so completely her compeer,
Concentre all her yellow streaming beams
To gild my love more ravishingly fair!—
[To Beatrice.
Heaven's richest happiness be with thee, sweet,
And every joy which thy perfection merits!
O let me press to this unworthy bosom
A beauty and a worth so excellent,
It is my ardour only merits it!

BEATRICE.
O, thou art come, my love, in needful time,
To gladden me amid the household griefs
That Heaven hath sent to purify our hearts:
How strange to meet here in a place so strange,
In such an hour and plight so sorrowful!
How diff'rent, when we took our evening walks
By the moon's light upon the lofty shore,
Whence we o'erlook'd the rolling ocean from
The sea-marge to the fiery-beacon'd May!
Then how light-hearted in our happiness!
How little boded we our present cares!
Yet there are yet, I hope, good things for us;
He who commands this stillness, and o'erspreads
Heaven's changeful face with such a robe of light,
Will yet o'erspread our count'nances with joy.

SEATON.
Oh, fair! thou canst not be where joy is not!—
Methinks thy person is enshrined within
An unseen heav'nly tabernacle of joy;
And Love and Honour are the cherubim
That hover o'er thee with their golden wings.
Where goodness is, there must be happiness:
Sorrow may fly across it as a bird;
But in the virtuous bosom, as its nest,
Peace as the halcyon builds, as did the swallow
Within God's altar at Jerusalem.

BEATRICE.
Yea, Peace must be where Patience is; and I
Can keep my spirit patient and submiss,
When God, who gives the grief, requires submission,
As sign of acquiescence in his will;
That I can do, and Heaven requires no more.
But joy's rich cup, though tender'd to my lips,
I cannot, may not taste, but pass it by;
Deferring till a father's doom be clear'd
From doubt and danger, which surround it now,
The darker from to-day's occurrences.

SEATON.
What has to-day begot of darker doubt,
To add to yesterday's as striking perils?
He, whose stern gripe commands thy father's life,
Is cruel, cruel, every day alike.

BEATRICE.
His cruelty is madden'd now by spite,
And indignation of imagined wrong.

SEATON.
What means my fair by these uncertain words?

BEATRICE.
Oh, Seaton! I to-day have dared a deed
Above the venture of a timid maid:
Into thy heart I will confide it all.—
Him, the proud master of yon citadel,
The tyrant of our shire, and of the land,
Whose arbitrary gripe of iron seized
And dragg'd my father to his house of gloom,
Him have I pray'd, and on my knees besought,
Reck'ning too strongly on the fervency
Of a fond daughter's suit, to liberate
His innocent and pining prisoner.
That prayer refused as bold, I did beseech
A little boon—leave to revisit oft,
And cherish him with tender offices.
Alas, a fruitless suit! I might as well
Beseech the blast to blow not, and to spare
The wrecking ship it drives upon the shore.
Nay, his chid spirit, roused and mortified
By my contemning his opprobrious proffers,
Burns now with hotter irritation, which
May fall too fatal on a father's head.

SEATON.
Oh, hideous heart of cruelty and wrong!
Oh, fiend! too worthy of thy hate and mine!
Though well to thee I could have prophesied
That idle supplication's evil issue.—
He is incensed, not only that thy father
Has foster'd what is misnamed heresy,
Incurring thence an honourable blot;
But that Balcaskie's house of Strang, whose name
You share, with distant consanguinity,
Exerts, with all the neighb'ring families,
A bold hostility against his power.
Thence, as if conscious of conspiracy,
He shuts himself in stern relentlessness:
But long he cannot rule. Already he
O'erplays the tyrant, to his own destruction;
Which hovers now, suspended o'er his head
By a thin hair, like Damocles's sword.
Some plot is sprouting, and will ripen soon:
Events must burst; and fate can't labour long
Against the pressure of necessity.

BEATRICE.
Yet, Seaton, if this man upon himself
Compels destruction from the hands of foes,
I cannot bear that thou shouldst be involved
In being party to the fate of him,
Whom thou had'st reason, for thy damsel's sake,
To call and deem a cruel enemy.

SEATON.
My fair one! I revere thee for that word:
Though not the less for thee, and for myself,
And for my country, I might well be clear'd,
In aiding that the murderer may perish,
Who seeks to rid the world of honest men.—
You see how he has summon'd to this city
His crowd of minion priests, that swarming come
To cause to-morrow perish at the stake
A saint, whose vestments are of holiness.
And he has other deaths more manifold
On hand, comprizing all the flower of Fife.
These slaughters can be only obviated,
By crushing the contriver's cursed head:
His own devices must entangle him;
His pit, for others dug, must swallow him!

BEATRICE.
I see the meaning, then, of all this stir
And flocking thither of the laity;
Their broils and bickerings with priestly men;
Their scoffs at girdled friars and mitres passing;
Their mutterings and whispers, where they stand
In lonely lanes, and corners of the streets,
Group'd into gloomy knots, discussing something
Mysterious, and of terrible import.
Even now, we hear at times the distant sound,
As of th'explosion of confined wrath;
Shouts, as of furious quarrellers; and cries,
As of fierce men infuriated with wine,
Assaulting, or assaulted in the streets.
Such signs, I doubt, betoken some black storm
About to agitate this fated town.
Yet those have nought to fear, whom love and peace
Unite and harmonize in holy joy.
As the moon rides serene, regarding not
Earth's petty noises, far beneath her orb;
E'en so, may both our happy hearts, sublimed
Into the orbit of celestial peace,
Look down unharm'd, exulting from their height,
On the black storm of passion as it breaks,
Wrecking the lives of miserable men!

SEATON.
Thy words, my love, are all of heavenly charm,
And too divine for earthly-minded men,
Who borrow from the very dregs they're made of
Inevitable drossiness of soul.
But, see, the moon seems now high-pitch'd above
The glitt'ring-roof'd cathedral's midmost spire,
Flinging its long sharp shadow at our feet,
Reminding us of midnight, and the hour
At which even those who love like unto us
Must—'tis a word I scarce can speak—

BEATRICE.
—Must part.
We have too long made solemn night, with all
Her serious starry daughters of the sky,
A witness of our idle colloquy.
And yet I cannot err while talking with thee;
And yet—Good night!—that word must come at last,
Though long it loiters on a lover's lips.

SEATON.
Good night, my love! Good angels guard you well!

BEATRICE.
Adieu, my boy! sweet sleep bedew your pillow!
And Heaven awake us to sweet peace to-morrow!

[Exeunt severally.