University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Room in Stravithie House, as before, Lumsdaine, Norman Lesslie, Pitmillie, Strang, and Anstruther. To them, enter Carmichael.
CARMICHAEL.
'Tis done, done, done!—Th'unutterable deed,
At which the earth did shudder, and the Heaven
Rain'd tears of sorrow down, is finish'd, finish'd!—

NORMAN.
Tell it all out, Carmichael, tell it out.—
Why, we have ears, man, that can stand the brunt
Of news of bloody, bold atrocities:
We are not women, to grow faint and puke
At such reports; no, no, our blood is up,
And congregated all into our hearts,
Tumultuously mad for quick revenge
Upon the too-long tolerated doers.

CARMICHAEL.
O virtue! O religion! what art thou?—
A butt for scorn, in this much-sinning world!
A laughing-stock! a persecuted thing!
The foot-ball of the wicked, toss'd about
Contemptuously, and kick'd from earth to heaven,
Thy proper seat, by cursed, cursed feet!
Alas, for human nature and ourselves;
Weep, weep, my dear friends, that we should be men!

NORMAN.
Nay, nay, if we're to have a weeping-bout,
Though I detest all weeping, it must be,
Not that we're men, but that, by God, we're women,
To live beneath such flaming outrages!

CARMICHAEL.
Ah me! I've seen it all—I stood to see,
I put on iron hardihood to see,
My bosom-friend, him whom I loved as life,
With whom I used to converse as a brother,
Wrapt in the volumes of red clasping fire,
And molten, molten into ashes down!
Horrible vision! would my daring eyes
Had never hazarded to look upon it!
For it shall live by night and day; it shall
For ever play in hideous representment
Before my haunted and disordered fancy!

LUMSDAINE.
So he is dead, the man of God is dead?

CARMICHAEL.
The man of God is dead, and is in heaven!
And we on earth, yet vengeance is asleep!
O city, city! what a guilt is on thee,
To weigh thy strutting turrets to the dust!
Murder is in thy ways; each street of thine
Is vicus sceleratus, slaughter-street;
The blood of saints bedaubs thy palaces
Indelible, till the red burning hand
Of retribution dash them to the ground:
The day is on the wing that shall behold
Thy temples' pinnacles, that now upshoot
Half-way to heaven their golden coronets,
Stoop down their glory to be trampled on,
Amid the graves of dead men strew'd below:
Upon the places where thine altars stand,
Splendent with tapers, shall tall nettles grow,
To sting the feet of quest'ning passengers;
Ruin's red flower shall root her in thy walls
As in her garden; and thy ample streets,
In bare depopulation's solitude,
Shall be enrich'd with hemlocks and with docks!
So shall it fare with her whose very stones
Are dabbled with the blood of slaughter'd saints.

NORMAN.
Tuts, Peter, the poor stones are not to blame,
That they should be displaced and rush to ruin;
Man is the agent, and his head alone
Deserves the thunderbolt that is preparing.

CARMICHAEL.
Indulge me, friends, that my nigh-frenzied mind,
From that dire spectacle yet glowing hot
With perturbation, works prophetically.
My soul is cooling—I'll soon tell it all.

NORMAN.
Yea, tell events—I'm sick of prophecy.

CARMICHAEL.
No sooner had th'appointed moment come,
When from the Castle's gate the gentle saint
Appear'd, all radiant with sweet smiles of joy,
Amid a threat'ning multitude of spears:
His hands were shackled, yet his lips were free
To utter blessings on the guards about him:
Their ruffian faces, as they heard his words,
Stream'd down a river of unwonted tears,
Beseeching pardon, they were thus enforced
To do their office so unmercifully.
Two beggars stood by the wayside, and craved
An alms; I have no hands to-day, he said,
To give an alms, but God will give his blessing.
Thus onward all the way, serene as if
He was to mount the pulpit, not the scaffold,
Till he arrived at the prepared place:
And then he kiss'd his executioner,
Who blubber'd sorrow, as he chain'd him to
The stake, and lighted the first faggot up;
Which when the crowd saw flaming, all its mass,
Out from the nearest to th'extremest circle,
'Gan heave throughout with surly agitation,
Like ocean by a sudden whirlwind whipt:
Then shouts of “shame,” and cries of “murder,” rose;
Then had they forward press'd, and trampled out
At once both headsman's life and faggot's fire,
But that they saw, high on the Castle's walls,
The cannoniers a-tiptoe, with their reeds
Just hov'ring for th'explosion, and the mouths
Metallic, that were glutted rich with death,
Frowning upon them, ready at one volley
To sweep th'encumber'd street from end to end.
Meantime the heavens had pall'd themselves all round
In mourning of funereal thunder-clouds;
And, just as that first faggot was lit up,
Wept such a show'r of heavy drops, as soon
Quench'd into blackness the obnoxious flame.
Thrice was it fired by man, and thrice again
Heaven's rain descended to extinguish it;
Till, at the last, man's stubborn hate prevail'd:
At which the thunder mutter'd down to earth
His indignation, and the eastern sky
Let loose a blast upon the town, that shook
Men-cover'd steeples, walls, and tottering roofs,
Whereby all hearts were terrified, lest God
Was loosening the foundations of the world.

NORMAN.
And what were Beaton and his pack about,
Amid this elemental hurly-burly?
Stood he beside the pile to ply the bellows?
Or sat he in his painted room at ease,
Playing at cards, and cheating Paisley's Abbot?

CARMICHAEL.
I saw the villain—he was thrust upon
Mine and the people's eyes obtrusively:
I watch'd his look, his gestures, as he lay
Prank'd in his Romish ceremonial robes,
On tufts of purple, o'er his western window,
Marking with hellish curiosity
The progress of the saint-devouring flame;
I saw him and his prelates laughing loud,
And wagging to each other, where they lay,
(O monstrous!) nods of execrable triumph,
As round the suff'rer, waving red and high,
The flames reluctantly came narrowing,
And closed him in at last amid those spires,
Whence his just spirit bounding sprung to heaven!

NORMAN.
Abominable outrage! tell it not
Again, Carmichael, in fair Scottish ground;
Lest stones and turf should rise up in our faces,
And brand us publicly with cowardice;—
Nay, tell it every where—sound it about
From tops of hills, from parish-churches' spires,
At borough-crosses, ferries, and firesides,
That men may rise in mass exasperated,
And rush into our county, rating us,
Crying, Lives there a Sheriff in this shire,
That like a stream injustice so runs down?
Or are there men, or are there milksops in it?—
Ay, there's a Sheriff, 'twill be said, but he
Wears breeches only, not the sword of justice;
He swaggers in his words, a well-tongued braggart,
But Card'nal's big hat is the bug for him;
It scares him as the scare-crow does the bird.—
O shame, shame, shame! I will not brook it longer;
I will be at him greedily to-morrow;
I will not sleep till I have purged our shire,
And made it cleaner by the scoundrel's death!
What say you to it? Shall I go alone,
And through some port-hole worm into his castle?
Or will ye be my pioneers, to break
Way through his doors, with lever and with axe?
Were I but in, I'd hang him on his bed-post;
He is too vile for stabbing now, I think!

CARMICHAEL.
To-day, whilst I was walking through the town,
One came and whisper'd me a stratagem,
The random thought of some obscure poor burgher,
Of which we safely may avail ourselves.
Each day o'the week a hundred artizans
Are now a-busy building Beaton's fort:
When the sun glimmers in heaven's eastern ring,
Arousing men to labour, they do muster,
Girt with their limy aprons, 'fore the gates,
With hammers and with trowels in their hands,
Asking admission, which full soon is given.
With these immixt a party of our vassals,
Transform'd like hodmen bearing mortar troughs,
Unchallenged may steal in, and dispossess
The porter of his keys and government
That done, what hinders us at once to rush,
Each let removed, o'er draw-bridge and through gate,
And up to burst each interposed door,
And rummage every chamber, every bed,
Until our searching and insatiate swords
Shall ope a dozen doors into the flesh
Of this proud purpled Eglon of our land?

NORMAN.
'Twill do, Carmichael, any thing will do
Whereby we can discharge our ire upon him;
I'd be a mouse to creep into his couch,
And eat into his liver and his heart-strings;
I'd be a gnat to fly into his gullet,
And strangle him with my extended wings;
A noble purpose glorifies mean means;
And Honour, perch'd upon a splendid issue,
Casts her own lustre on the stratagem,
Whereby, though winding wilily, we reach her:
To horse, then—quick to horse—let's in together,
Against this King of Moab in a band;
Ehud is ready with his dagger here,
Two-edged, and underneath his garments girt;
Have you your vassals ready with their trowels
And leathern-aprons tightly tuck'd about,
Ehud is here.—

KIRKALDY.
The sun is now gone down,
And with him to the bottoms of the world
Has borne his light to our attempt adverse.
The night is vaprous too, and from the sea
Sucks a thick ugly dew, which on the land
She spits again to double-darken it.
The weather friends us thus, auspiciously
Muffling in murky mist our bold design.
Learmont and Lindsay, and our friends in town,
Will stretch to us the hand of joyous welcome,
And bid us prosper—Come, let us away.

NORMAN.
Ay, to the work, my heroes, one and all!

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Castle.
Enter Cardinal Beaton and Robin Caldcleugh.
CARDINAL.
Sirrah, to-day I did admire thee much,
Maugre thy evil-favour'dness of front:
Thou proved'st thyself no fumbler at thy trade,
But with thy brimston'd match didst counter-work
Most dext'rously the drowning drops of rain,
That seem'd to pelt at thee in contradiction.
'Twas tidily accomplish'd; only I
Liked not the tears that gush'd out at a time,
Slubbering thy uncouth cheeks with sympathy.
Had I then been beside thee, sirrah Robin,
I should have slapp'd from thy woe-writhen face
Th'impertinent and unbecoming pity.
Yet let that pass: Now, I've another turn
Just ready for thy hand executive:—
Hark ye, good Caldcleugh, thou'rt a man of trust,
I've known thee long, a very honest fellow,
And faithful to thy master as his shadow;
Thou hast, you know, below stairs, cabin'd snug,
A poor sea-captain, rotting quietly,
O'ergrown already with the grave's white mould.
He is not worth condemning in a diet,
Or being staked up as a burning-show;
Yet not the less he merits, from his deeds,
If not an honourable fire, at least
The clinch of some dishonourable rope:
My goodly Robin! Thou hast ropes in store
For such by-work; I hope thou'st not mislay'd
The cord that at one pull disqualified
Friar Roger's throat from yelping heresy.
Unbox it once again, and cast it on;
One twist—the thing is done, withouten noise
Or tumult, and will sleep till Doomsday with thee.
See then that this small bit of work be done
Ere morning sun shine on us from the sea:
See that the skipper 'scape not, as the knave
Buchanan 'scaped through th'iron-barred window,
Fooling the sharpness of your custody.—

CALDCLEUGH.

Well-mindet, my Lord—that George Buchanan was the
slipp'riest fallow I ever had within my clutches—I needna

be taunted wi' the loss o'him.—He was sae souple and
slithry, wi' his wit an' his lear, there's nae wonder he slippit
through my fingers—what's done canna be mendit, my
Lord—but gin I catch him again, I'se sattle him for the
Franciscanus. But, let him be scribblin' awa in France
yonder—we'll mind our canny jobs at hame here—Gin ye
dinna find Captain Strang lyin' a bonny straught corps, a'
ready for the straikin', the morn's mornin' afore sax o'clock,
you may e'en chap aff Robin's auld head, an' set up his
face on the Wast-gate as a sort o'worrikow remembrancer
to his successor, my Lord.

[Exit Caldcleuch.

CARDINAL.
A tongue-pad villain this, but sternly true
To his nice duties of executive!
His face, which seems carved out from Caucasus,
Is but the index of his flinty heart:
Let him be gone.—Now, I shall have a rouse;
Now that my Sea-tow'rs clear'd of enemies,
And my affairs go swingingly successful,
I'll celebrate carousal with my friends,
Making this mirthful night e'er memorable.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—A Room in the Provost's House.
Enter Sir James Learmont, Sir D. Lindsay, Norman Lesslie, Moneypennie of Pitmillie, Lumsdaine, Melvil, Kirkaldy, &c.
LEARMONT.
Lesslie, 'tis right—I say, 'tis just and right,
That he who pitches up his Romish hat
In opposition to the Scottish crown,
Beneath its broad outlandish shadow working
Tyrannic bloody deeds, without the least
Semblance of recognized authority,—
I say, 'tis right that he should be lopp'd off,
As a destructive, mortifying limb,
From preying on the body politic:
He is no better than the murderer
That prowls upon the high-way, whom who slays
Does to his fellow-citizens a service.

NORMAN.
Speak not upon it more—I'm mad to think
That one of us sign'd over to the death
By this usurper, should sit idling thus,
Scrupling and shilly-shallying here about it.

MONEYPENNIE.
The question is, shall this man, unopposed,
Thrust his illegal poniard in our hearts?
Or shall we rise above the law for once,
To vindicate that law so sinn'd against,
And save ourselves, whom law is bound to save?
If Brutus' hand was justified in slaying
His dearest friend, because he dispossest
The law, and put his person in its place—
Having to Brutus no malevolence;
Are we not more, who do not only find
This man enthroned in blood upon law's tomb,
But know his malice busily at work
To murder us, and all our country's friends?—
The love of country recommends the deed,
The law of self-defence does more, requires it.

CARMICHAEL.
Yea, tooth for tooth, and eye for eye, God says:
He that in public places has deprived
The saints of life, hath forfeited his own;
And had the wicked man a hundred lives,
Their sum could not compensate one just man's.

SIR D. LINDSAY.
I own 'tis right, my friends—you're justified
Before both God and man in this complot;
But yet—

NORMAN.
Home to your Mount, Sir David, home
With your But yets, and scruples, and demurs!
'Tis always so with you, milk-liver'd bards,
From Cic'ro downwards, him who lost his head
For vacillation, it hath aye been so:
Why, to peruse your tomes and tragedies,
That are so daub'd with massacre and gore
Enough to make a reading damsel scream,
One might exclaim, These poets sure must be
Huge heroes, swingeing swordsmen at a strife!
Alack-a-day! their hero'sm is all lodged
Within the hollow of their poor goose-quills;
Their warlike fancy cuts tremendous capers,
Foining and fencing with unreal swords;
But shew them one of palpable good steel,
Sir Bard becomes a maiden with green sickness,
And Cic'ro sneaks into his study, leaving
Brutus and Casca to perform the feat
Which in his next nice volume he will praise:
Gang your gaits, Lindsay—when we've wrought with steel
This plot of ours, e'en write a Tragedy,
And make the plot your own with pen and paper!
[Exit Sir David Lindsay.
Now, that cold Scruple's gone, and hot Zeal left,
Let us carve out the work.

MELVIL.
Our hinds already
Stand metamorphosed into barrowmen,
Girt with fair aprons red with lime and sand,
In expectation of being soon required.
They know their task, and will not pillow down
Their heads to sleep until it be accomplish'd.

KIRKALDY.
Let us all muster in the Abbey Church-yard,
With our false workmen, by the break of day;
Thence let us issue, when the Castle-gates
Are open'd, and the draw-bridge lower'd down
T'admit the real artizans to work.
I with a few will first advance, and hold
Some parley with the porter, to while off
His notice from suspicion, till you join me,
And enter'd numbers make us confident.
Then shall we seize the keys, turn out unharm'd
Workmen and all that lodge within the place,
And so obtain possession.

NORMAN.
Excellent!
All excellent, Kirkaldy; but remember,
When you have overleapt and got command,
Bar every passage, block the postern up,
Watch every wicket, port, and gutter-hole
Through which the water runneth to the sea,
Lest Card'nal Fox should slily slip away,
And leave the goodly greyhounds at a fault,
Worrying themselves to death for missing him.

KIRKALDY.
To guard each outlet shall be my concern.

NORMAN.
And mine shall be to ferret out the knave
From his most secret corner of concealment,
Ev'n were he sleeping coffer'd 'mid his gold,
Or refuged up the chimney 'mid the soot.
This dagger shall explore each hiding-place,
Until its point be housed in his heart.

CARMICHAEL.
Well, you have each chalk'd out his fitting part;
I hope I'll stumble on some choice one too,
Which I shall leave to Providence; and yet
I would fain give this slayer of the saints
A salutary lecture ere he die.

LEARMONT.
I'll keep the town from tumult, which, perhaps,
Rising from some fore-flying chance-report,
Might stop or interrupt the enterprize;
But, when 'tis done, I hope you'll hoist him up
Somewhere on high, to ascertain my sense,
Our Prelate has been quietly dispatch'd.

NORMAN.
'Tis all adjusted then; we'll meet at five
At the Church-yard:—till then let us be cool,
And force our spirits into some constraint!

CARMICHAEL.
I'll to the fatal spot where Wishart died,
There to inflame me with wild melancholy,
And keep the sharp edge of my spirit up,
Until he be revenged.
[Exit Carmichael.

LEARMONT.
Let us, my friends,
Refresh ourselves until the break of day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—Abbey Church-yard.
Enter Gordonsha, Drumrawk, Blacklaws, and other Tenants of Melvil and Duncan.
GORDONSHA.

Weel, here we're met again, lads, for some braw wark,
and by special appountment; mair chappin' and lounderin',
I houp, ere we gang down to the coast.

DRUMRAWK.

We maun e'en do as we're bidden, Gordonsha—but I
would fain houp our wark's no to be o'the bluidy sort—
I'm no fond o'bluid. I wadnae gie a gill o'gin for a barrelfu'
o'bluid ony day, mickle mair on a raw druikit mornin'
like this.—But it's a guid for the beer-seed this rook.

BLACKLAWS.

Fient a fear for the beer-seed, but mickle for oursells,
I misdoubt,—what wi' thae aprons an' lime-troughs, and
ither mason trumphery, I dread we'll get into some scrape.

GORDONSHA.

I'se get into nae scrape, as lang as my twa arms can
wallop frae my shouthers. I'm a man to bring ither folk
into scrapes, takin' aye tent to keep clear o'them mysel, at
least wi' God's will.

DRUMRAWK.

I houp it'll a'end weel; but I wad fain be i'my bit
housie i'the muirs again. Fient a wink hae I sleepit this
hale night; what wi' seeking backets and mason's auld
duds, I've had a sair traikit night o't.

GORDONSHA.

Mair a fool you, man—I've been weel enterteen'd by
my auld friend Bob Kennedy, that bides i'the Market-street,
yonder—we'd a half-mutchkin o'punch thegither,
though he's no a drinkin' man, Robert; but he's like mysel,
nae friend to the Cardinal and Bishops. He lent me
this bonnie auld apron, and his warst workin'-jacket, forby
this crunkled waur-for-the-wear hat, and his best hammer

—I think, wi' a'this braw apparel o'his, I look as like
a mason as ony workin'-chap in a'St Ayles's.

DRUMRAWK.

Tie up your apron right there, Blacklaws; it's hingin'
ajee, no like a man o'real stane-an'-lime business—you'll
mak us be suspeckit, man.

BLACKLAWS.

I think I set my apron and my mare as weel as you
your apparel. I've a marefu' o'as good lime here as ever
cam out o'a lime-kill—there's nae fear o'it—it'll never be
suspeckit. It might hae done for Solomon's Temple, let
alane Beaton's brothel-house.—But here comes the Laird.

MELVIL,
(approaching.)
Ho, lads, come forth! the time requires you now;
Your brethren of the trowel, now uproused
To labour by the crowing of the cock,
Assemble thick before the Castle-gate,
In expectation of the lower'd bridge;
Come, let us join them, that amid this crowd
Unnoticed we may enter to the work.

GORDONSHA.

Now, now, let's be gane. Blacklaws, up wi' your auld
mare there.

BLACKLAWS.

Ay, ay, here I maun tak up the auld mare, but at Airdrie
the auld mare maun tak up me. Words are a'whumbled
wi' this transmugrifyin' wark.

DRUMRAWK.

I houp we'll hae a gude affcome.

GORDONSHA.

I'm for the good oncome, deil a fear for the affcome.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

—Cardinal's Bed-room in the Castle.—Cardinal in his night-gown, starts suddenly and alarmedly from his couch.
CARDINAL.
Horror, oh horror!
What was't I saw? It was a dagger sure!
I saw it in clear vision o'er my neck;
I saw its point blood-thirstily held down;
I saw its handle grip'd, horribly grip'd,
By some strong hand, whose shoulders were enwrapt
In darkness that conceal'd the murd'rer's face!
Yet 'twas a hand, methought I knew, 'twas one
Which I had often touch'd familiarly,
Which oft had eat from the same platter with me.
I'll think no more on't—'twas an idiot dream
That so awaked me.
A dream! can dreams so frighten? can a fume
Blown through the brain so terrify the spirit?
It can't be so—by heaven, there is a ruin
From some obscurity impending o'er me,
And conscience, conscience, damn'd unpitying conscience,
Spontaneously, as knowing her deserts,
Foretokens thus, and testifies my doom:
I see it yet—this dagger—though awake!
I cannot gripe it, yet it glitters still
In terror irremoveable before me.
I'll try to sleep again—Sleep! who can sleep,
Encompass'd with such hideous glaring sights?
O, I've endured to-night more racking pains,
More burning twinges of mind's agony,
Than he, whom yesterday yon fire consumed:
His body burn'd, his spirit was in bliss;
My spirit burns unquenchably, inflamed
Into a foretaste of the burning lake,
By Conscience, kindling all her hottest brands
To persecute me for that cruel death:
I've seen the man a thousand times to-night;
My curtains round me seem'd to flare with fire,
And shew his tortured count'nance staring out
Fiercely upon me wheresoe'er I look'd;
I could not bear to look upon his face,
It was so ghastly, and so full of threats;
And yet it met me at each change of gaze.
Hark!—
Is this a noise I hear? or has my dream
Shifted its vanity from eye to ear?—
It is a noise indeed; I'll see what 'tis—
[Looks out of his window.
Ha, uproar in my court!
Servants and workmen flying in alarm!
[He throws up the casement and cries down.
Ho, ye! what means this shouting, this alarm?
[A voice is heard from below answering,
My Lord, your castle's ta'en, your castle's ta'en
By Norman Lesslie, and a band with him!
CARDINAL, (continues.)
My castle taken!
By Norman Lesslie too, my castle taken!
That is the name I fear, the very worst
And hatefullest of mortal names, of which
It could be said, My lord, your castle's taken?
His was the weapon that to-night I saw;
He comes t'interpret by his act, my dream—
Unless I cheat him by escape—I'll try
The secret stairs that lead into the postern—
[He opens a concealed door, through which entering, he disappears for a little, and returns in extreme agitation.
All barricaded, all beset, all block'd
With weapons, and with faces frowning death!
Death! ha! a scurvy word—I'll bolt him out
[Bolts the door.
As long's I can. This too, I'll hide, perhaps
'Tmay buy me off—
[He hides a box of gold.
They're here, by heaven, already!

[The tumult of the Conspirators is heard gradually increasing as they approach the door of his apartment, till at last they assault it violently for admission; amid which is heard from behind the voice of
NORMAN LESSLIE.
My Lord, my Lord! admit me to your levee;
I come to pay my morning salutations,
Not by a foolish grasping of the fist,
And gaping out Good-morrow to your Grace!
Good sooth, I have a better recompence
Here in my hand, for those kind benefits
Whereby you have obliged us all, and heap'd
Large coals of fire on good George Wishart's head!
Open, my Lord! I must and will be in,
Despite of all forbiddance by your Grace!

CARDINAL.
What dost thou mean, sir, by this rude assault?
I know thee, Norman Lesslie,—thou wert once
My friend—

NORMAN.
Ay, so I was, when Beaton was my friend,
My father's and my country's—but now, now,
When Beaton is the foe of all the three,
I am his enemy, and must be in.

CARDINAL.
I will not open to the man that asks
Admission to me as an enemy!

NORMAN.
To none but enemies, my Lord, thy door
Shall open, be it with thy hand's good will,
Or by the up-breaking violence of mine.
Of these thy enemies, for thee to have
The choice, is not becoming: What needs choice
When all are one in action and design?

CARDINAL.
If ye but spare my life, I'll let you in.

MELVIL.
Haply we may, my Lord, if ye're but kind,
And entertain us strangers hospitably,
Admitting us at once into your heart.

CARDINAL.
Swear by God's wounds, that you will spare my life,
And I'll unbolt.

NORMAN.
By heav'n, I'll not swear so;
I should be perjured-guilty and blasphemer,
T'unswear by such an impious startling oath
What I have sworn more piously, and more
Conform'dly to the customs of good men.
Open, my Lord, I cannot trifle longer—

[They break open the door, and rush in.
CARDINAL,
(falling into a chair.)
Oh, Norman Lesslie, wilt thou murder me?
Spare—I was once thy friend—I'll give thee gold,
Lands, houses, any thing, but spare my life!

NORMAN.
Gold, houses, lands! No, no, I'm not the man
To barter vengeance for a candle's snuff;
I do not come a pedlar to your chamber;
I come th'avenger of myself and country.
Card'nal, I'll not detain you long;—thou hast
Upon thy hand a journey tedious long,
(Though not to Falkland—that is superseded;)
The pale hell-follow'd horse stands at thy gate,
With pendent stirrups ready for thy feet
T'ascend and seat thee in the vacant saddle;
I hear him neighing for thee in thy court;
Therefore I shall be brief. Card'nal, thou know'st
This paper, this poor-written, crooked scribble—
[Takes out and shews him the list of names marked in his hand-writing for death.]
Kenn'st it? The crank o'the writing, kenn'st thou it?
Seest thou my father's name, my uncle John's,
Mine own, all damnably consign'd to death,
By some most cowardly and cruel foe,
Whom, could I once find out, and see before me,
I'd rate him to the teeth with his misdeeds,
Till his teeth chatter'd with the chill of death;
I would unsheath mine honest poniard at him,
And stab him—thus.—

[Stabs him.
CARDINAL.
Fy, fy, I am a priest—

MELVIL.
Yea, so indeed
Thou art, but one of Satan, not of God;
The priest of God died yesterday, and rode
To Paradise upon his wheels of fire.
The priest of Satan only dies to-day,
Though he deserved long ago to die,
That so the priest of God might yet have lived;
In part 'twas my neglect, which to atone
I give it thee, though late.

[Stabs him.
CARMICHAEL.
Hold, hold, my friends, though wrathful, hold a space;
Too hotly Passion, for such serious act,
Inflames and irritates the body's nerve,
Casting a shade of blame on that which ought
To be all blameless as fair Justice is.—
O wicked man, repent thee ere thou die,
Of thy most cruel murder-stained life!
Lo, lo, the dry white ashes of God's saint,
Seen from thy window, yet lie heaped high,
Crying to heaven for thy nefarious blood,
To slake and satisfy and keep them down
From being scatter'd by the scoffing winds!
Here then, before my God, I do protest,
That nor thy person's hatred, nor the love
Of thy large-treasured wealth, nor any fear
Of danger from thy lawless boundless power,
Move me to this; it is because thou art
Th'obstinate foe of God, and of his saints,
And of his holy gospel and his law,
That I have urged my long-demurring soul
To this revenge, so cool, so unimpassion'd,
For God, and for his Church.

[Stabs him.
CARDINAL.
Fy, fy, oh, all is gone!

[He dies.
NORMAN.
Ay, all is gone;
All cruelty, all wickedness, all lust,
Through which our poor land hath been weeping long,
Happily gone, evanish'd with thy life!
Men now shall breathe in Scotland; they shall read
Their Bibles on the house-tops all aloud
Unto the passers-by; and lovers now
Shall 'spouse their pretty virgins, quite secure
From violation ere the nuptial night:
All these abominations are gone down
To Tophet with thee, to perfume thy soul
With very quintessence of sin's rank odours,
And make it dear to Satan!

STRANG.
How he died
Like to a coward!

CARMICHAEL.
Like a fool he died;
Heard you him recommend his flying soul
Unto his Maker? Not a word of that;
His thoughts and his regrets were fixt alone
On loss of life and lucre, hugging them,
Poor worldlings to the last.

LUMSDAINE.
E'en let him go;
Now that we're fairly done with him on earth,
Let him e'en pass away into his place,
Without unworthy words of contumely.
All blotch'd with sinful vileness as he is,
In pace requiescat: So I say.

KIRKALDY OF GRANGE,
(entering.)
Surely he's caught; he 'scaped not from my postern.

CARMICHAEL.
See the wolf slain that raged in God's fold!

KIRKALDY.
'Tis but a bloody sight, and yet, my friends,
I give you gratulation for myself
And for my country!

STRANG.
Yea, except the Guise,
And her oppressive Frenchmen, who will not
Be merry at the news?

CARMICHAEL.
But see, the people,
Alarmed and anxious, are collecting fast
Before the gate, to know what's going on;
To satisfy and quiet them, let us
Uplift for exposition on the window
The body of the man, who yesterday
Gazed from that very place upon the death
Of one his malice had condemn'd to fire;
Ah! little boding his own sudden end!
So shall his cruel blood, like Jezebel's,
Be sprinkled on the wall; and linger there,
Its stains unwash'd by future winter's rains
For many a generation, that our sons,
And our sons' sons, may take good note of it,
And passing say, Yet see upon these stones
The blood of him who slew the Saints of God!

[Curtain falls.

SCENE VI.

—Court-yard of Beaton's Castle.—Gordonsha leading Captain Strang, Strang of Balcaskie, Melvil, &c.
GORDONSHA.

A prize, a prize, your worships! If there's been ae man

fell'd i'the upper story o'this castle, there's been anither
saved i'the cellar. So it's a'ae woo; the warld's nae the
poorer for't a'—what's been wastit ben the house, has been
hained but—Here's a tint friend for you!

[Shewing Captain Strang.
STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
Mine honest Captain, I am glad to see you;
Though squalid in your garb, and long in beard
Which clamours loudly for a pair of shears,
Thank God, you're yet alive to trample on
Its bushy length.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
I'm yet alive, thank heav'n,
And this brave man, its instrument, who came
Most opportunely half an hour ago,
To rescue me from being basely choked
By a rope's end; the knot was cast about
My gullet by the swabber of this castle,
(A fellow with a porpoise-looking face,)
Who gnash'd his teeth upon me like a shark,
And said, Now die, Tarpawlin heretic!
He then 'gan draw the clinch, so that my throat
Being tighten'd, sobb'd and rattled horribly;
Then was I one foot fairly in the grave;
When, all at once, this my deliverer, sent
By my good angel in the thrott'ling nick,
Shot through the door, and with his handspike's stroke
Capsized my hangman, making him lie wreck'd,
Keel uppermost—at which I was relieved;
And now come forth from my abhorred hold,
Where I have long been stow'd up like a truss
Of stinking flax from Holland: Sirs, excuse
My unwash'd face, my beggarly vile raiment,
My Jew-surpassing beard, which from my stem
Hangs dangling like the colours from the poop
Of my good ship the Betsy.

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
We excuse them,
In joy of your so strange deliverance.
It was a marvellous 'scape; you stood upon
The razor's edge of death; had Card'nal lived
Another hour, these rags had been your shroud,
And that long beard had strapp'd you round and round,
To keep you snug and motionless i'th'tomb.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
Yea, I had gone to bottom, to be sure,
Ship, cargo, rigging, all. Therefore I'm glad,
That he who cubb'd me under hatches so,
And ruled the helm himself so tyrannously,
By this hard gale hath been blown overboard
Into the floods of death; and that I live
To entertain you with my narrative.
I'll have me wash'd, and go to sea again
In quest of gin and flax, and Luther's books,
Despite of Mary Guise and Card'nal's ghost.

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
It is all well; the sooner then you shave,
And wash, your comforts will accelerate.
Your wife and daughter still are sojourners
In this crazed town, awaiting your release;
They won with Widow Yule, whose house you know;
There you will find them.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
I skip high with joy,
At thought of meeting my dear wife again
And daughter, who have both been sobbing long,
Wringing their hands for my poor sorry sake.—
Come, my deliv'rer, wilt thou go with me?
As yet my legs do totter, woundy stiff
With dungeon-rheum; lend me your hand, I pray,
And shore my frail lapse-sided vessel up
When stemming through the crowd.

GORDONSHA,
(handing him.)
Here then, good Captain.

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
I'll see you at your lodging-house, anon.

[Exeunt differently.

SCENE VII.

—Castle Wynd of St Andrews.
Enter Janet Geens and Katie Tervat, as they pass with staves in their hands, and drest in their red plaids up the lane.
JANET.

Hech na, Katie, here are we ance mair i'our auld wynd
agen!

KATIE.

Aweel, we've haen a fine straik, an' are now safe hame
agen; I'm a wee forjeskit though, wi' trachlin' sae lang.

JANET.

But haena we been weel awa frae this town baith this
mornin' an' yesterday? Siccan a strabash as has been in't

syn we left it! Ae good man brunt to ase, and ae wicket
man sticket an' slachtered. Dinna you see him hingin'
out o'his grand window yonder, like a speldet calf? He's
wallopin' bonnily by the heels yonder—He needs nae velvet
cods below him the day to haud him saft.

KATIE.

It's but a pitifu' sight, Janet.

JANET.

Nae sic sights an' sic brulzies down on the coast-towns
yonder—a'quiet peaceable-livin' buddies yonder—no a
single cheep in Anster an' Cellardyke—frae the beathel
up to the minister, as quiet's pussie, the hail tot o'them.

KATIE.

It's the Cardinal's wyte, a'this brulzie-business. Now
that he's gane, we'll hae quietness. See how the very weather's
cleared up syn he was slachtered. It was a raw
dauky sour-lookin' mornin' when we set out, but it's a bra
sunny day now.

JANET.

Hoot, woman, the sun's glad to pap his gowden nose
out, an' get a good smell o'the caller warld, now that the
rogue's gane. It stank sae muckle when he was alive, that
it's nae wonder the sun scunnered.

KATIE.

Young hizzies now will marry without ony fashery, an'
decent douce auld women like oursells, will ance mair lick
up sappy sermons at the Scores an' dykesides, in spite o'
the auld deil an' his cleckin' o'grayfriars.

JANET.

Deil gin a banefire were but made o'them only!

KATIE.

I'd gie a peck o'gude spunks to that fire mysel, Janet.

JANET.

Ah, will-a-wins, Katie, look yonder to the ase o'the fire
that brunt guid Maister Wishart yesterday! See how
they're spread out, a mickle white midden afore my door!

KATIE.

I think I'se hae a pickle o'them—I'se keep them for
the honest man's sake a'the days o'my life.

[Picks up a few of the ashes.
JANET.

A guid thought, Katie; I'se treasure up some too, for
a keepsake, (Picks up some ashes.)
I sall sleep wi' them
below my head i'the night-time—I sall lock them up i'
my kist i'the day-time; an' we'll hae sweet dreams by
night, an' a blessin' by day, e'en for their very sake, Katie.

But let's now stap inby to the house, an' rest oursells—
we'se hae a bannock an a poot to our dinner.

KATIE.

Weel I wat an' I'm gay yap after my walk; it's een a
lang trachle frae the Kirk Wynd in Anster, to the Castle
Wynd in St Andrews.

JANET.

Gang in than, Katie, we'se hae the bannock an' the
poot this mament.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

—Mrs Yule's House near the Cathedral.
Enter Strang of Balcaskie, Captain Strang, Mrs Strang, Beatrice Strang, Seaton of Kingsmuir, and Gordonsha.
CAPTAIN STRANG.
I'm so rejoiced, I scarce can bear the load
Of gladsomeness that overfreights me so,
Seeing my best friends all encircling me
For gratulation and sweet shake of hand.
My swelling heart seems gushing from my breast,
And 'scapes in tears, God help me, from my eyes!

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
Mine honest Captain, weep your fill of joy;
Th'occasion justifies the sweet excess;
Our tragic plot has terminated well
You see, for you, our country, and us all.
One part, however, rests unfinish'd yet,
Requiring your assent to be perform'd,
That two dear persons, whose betrothed hearts
Together chime in Love's blithe unison,
Yet patiently have waited this glad hour,
May be conjoin'd in bliss connubial.
There is a daughter, fair as summer-dawn,
Sweet as the musk of zephyr, pure as heaven,
A little angel, in whose pretty bosom
Are lodged religion and divinity,
Her father's very darling and delight;
She has a lover, faithful, honourable,
Fond to a fault, if it can be a fault
To love too much a faultless little witch;
You know them both—

CAPTAIN STRANG.
I know, I see them both;
I do rejoice, Balcaskie, to fulfil
In this, your pleasure, which has long been mine;
I do transfer my sweet dear kindly girl
Into your hands, for all; as thou'rt her kinsman,
Dispose of her thyself to this her lover;
The gift, all dear and precious as it is,
Gets double value, coming from the hands
Of one I so respect and venerate.

MRS STRANG.
A mother's sanction and a mother's blessing
Attend this union too, to prosper it,
And make it rich of earthly happiness!

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
My pretty Beatrice, permit me then,
Having the power thus to me delegated,
To make you over, in your father's name,
And in your mother's, to the man you love.—
Accept, dear Seaton, the angelic prize
You next to heaven so long have coveted.
I join your hands, precursor to the priest,
Who shall with due solemnities confirm
And formalize this union—we shall have
The ceremony done with banquetting,
And harmless revel at Balcaskie-house.
There is a faithful vicar whom I know,
A conscientious priest, and honest man,
Who does his duties holily at church,
And yet is harmless happy at the board;
We'll have him up—He will rejoice to come,
To bless our banquet, and to knit this pair
Into a happiness indissoluble.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
I know the man, you'll find no better vicar
In Fife, in Scotland, nay, in Christendom;
I've known him long at pulpit and at board,
And he at both is apostolic stuff;
Get him, for God's sake! we can't do without him.

SEATON.
Accept, dear friends, collectively, in few,
For this perfection my imperfect thanks;
My spirit labours with its joy too much
To let my tongue go picking straggled words
Wherewith to thank you each respectively
As each deserves, for this the goldenest
Of earthly benefits, this my Beatrice,
My pretty blesser, my beatitude,
Whom I'll hold fast for ever.

BEATRICE.
Nought becomes
A duteous daughter like submissiveness;
And 'tis a double bliss when heart accords,
As it does here, so happily with duty.

CAPTAIN STRANG.
Come, my preserver, thou, whose cudgel's swing
Jump'd in so pat with lucky intervention,
To fracture to the death my hangman's pate,
And saved me to enjoy this happy day,
Which in its worth outweighs a thousand others;
Thou must go with us—I'll not let thee off
From sharing in our marriage-merriment:
There will be room for thee too at Balcaskie;
'Tis a large house, and well I know its owner
Has a large heart.

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
Come, honest fellow, come;
Be sure there will be set a cup for thee,
None of the smallest.

GORDONSHA.
An' I houp, guid Laird,
There will be routh o'liquor in the samin;
For, be't brown yill, or be't red-cheekit wine,
Or punch of brandy, gin, or usquebaugh,
Be certain, I sall hae nae mercy on't;
For mickle do I long to drink the health
O'this discreet young woman, guid an' fair,
An' wish her happy wi' her canty joe!

STRANG OF BALCASKIE.
Hence let us then, all downward to the coast,
To meet again at fair Balcaskie-house!

[Exeunt omnes.