University of Virginia Library

ACT IV

SCENE I.

—A Room in the Earl of Buchan's Castle.
Enter the Earl of Buchan.
Buchan.
This is not jealousy. I only ache
With sorrow that my trust has been reposed
In falseness; and I feel—I fear I feel
The whole world's finger, quivering with scorn,
Stream venom at me. If I cannot sleep,
It is no wonder, for the laugh I hear,
Like icy water rippling—cold and true
As tested steel—so wise, so absolute—
Is learned from those that know me by the fiend
Who watches with me nightly. Jealousy?
If it possessed me, mortal sickness, bonds,
Nothing in heaven or hell, would hold me back
From sating it with blood—with hers and his.
But I will not be jealous, like poor souls,
Whose vanity engrosses every thought,
And calls itself nobility; not I.
I will devise some vengeance, some just means,
Some condign punishment, the world will praise.
Thinking of me more highly than before
This miserable time.

Enter Fife.
Fife.
Brooding again!
Pluck up some sprightliness, for I have news.
Pembroke has routed Bruce in Methven wood,
And captured many leading rebels. Bruce,
Who showed himself a gallant warrior,
Proved in retreat wise as a veteran,
Escaping to the North.

Buchan.
My wife?

Fife.
They say
That she and other ladies northward too
In Nigel Bruce's charge escaped with speed.

Buchan.
And is this sure?

Fife.
I well believe it. Come,
Question the man who told me.

Buchan.
If it's true
We'll join our powers and hunt the rebels down
Like noxious vermin, as they are.

Fife.
Be cool.
What means this bitter passion?

Buchan.
Am I hot?
But you'll combine with me?

Fife.
Assuredly:
It is a noble chase; the quarry, game
To wind us over Scotland. Tally-ho!

Buchan.
Now you are thoughtless. Come, the messenger.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—The Wood of Drome. Scotch soldiers about a watch-fire.
1st Soldier.
What clouted loons we are! Royal beadsmen! Eh?

2nd Soldier.
The king's as ragged as the rest.

1st Soldier.
That's true.
To-day I hunted with him, and I thought,
Seeing his doublet loop-holed, frayed, and fringed;
His swaddled legs and home-made shoes of pelt;
His barbarous beard and hair, and freckled face,
That manhood's surely more than royalty;
For through this weedy, nettle-grown decay,
A majesty appeared that distanced us,
Even as a ruined palace overbears
A hamlet's desolation.

Enter Bruce, unperceived.
3rd Soldier.
He's a king
By nature, though descent were lost in churls.

2nd Soldier.
Ay, ay; but mark: I'll reason of our state.
Here many days we've wasted in the wild,
Chased by the English like the deer we chase,
Exposed like them, without their native wont,
Beneath this fickle, rigorous northern clime,
Ill-fed, ill-clad, and excommunicate;
While decent burghers—Scots as true as we—
Live warm, and prosper with their families.
I think we're fools.

1st Soldier.
Fools for ourselves, maybe,
But wise I hope for Scotland: and the folk
In every town and village think us wise,
And bless and pray for us.

Bruce
[aside].
A brave heart that.
[Advancing.]
Good evening, comrades. Can you guess the time?

1st Soldier.
An hour past sunset. Look, your Majesty;
Barred by these trunks the cloudy embers burn
Where day is going out.

Bruce.
Faintly I see.
Your fire's so bright it dims the distant glow.
Sit down again, good friends.

1st Soldier.
A story, sir?

2nd Soldier.
O, pray you tell us one!

Bruce.
I think I will.
I've told you many tales of chivalry,
Of faerie, and of Greeks and Romans too;
But now I'll tell you of a Scotchman—one
Who lived when Rome was most puissant here.
The Roman governor, a valiant man,
Agricola, in whom ambition paused
Whenever prudence thought the utmost done,
Reconquered all the southern British tribes,
And drove his enemy beyond the Forth.
The noble Galgacus then swayed the realm
That stretches northward of that winding stream;
And while the Roman, building forts and walls,
As was his wont, secured the bird in hand,
He mustered from his glens a skin-clad host
To fight for freedom.
Ardoch they call it, where the armies met.
Ere the battle joined,
Firm on his chariot-floor with voice aflame,
The Scottish chief harangued his thirty thousand.
“Brothers,” he cried, “behold your enemies!
Gauls, Germans, Britons—mercenaries, slaves!
In conquest, one and strong; but in defeat,
So many weaklings, heartless, hopeless, lost.
One signal victory to us were more
Than all the battles that our foes have won:
Their confidence is in their leader; ours,
In our cause. Hearken!—had I a voice,
Like heaven's thunder, I would shout across
This battle-field to be, to yon mixed throng,
And tell them they are Britons, Germans, Gauls:
Bid them remember how in haughty Rome
Their free-born countrymen are taught to serve
The wanton fancies of luxurious vice
In perfumed chambers or in bloody shows;
Think of their wives and daughters, all abused;
Think of themselves, leagued with their conquerors
Armed and opposed against consanguine folk,
Placed in the van to bear the battle's brunt,
That Rome may triumph, and her blood not shed:
Then would they turn and rend with us the foe.
What need has Rome of Britain? we, of Rome?
We, the last lonely people of the North,
A morsel merely, perilous and far,
Incite the eagle appetite of Rome,
Uncloyed until she gorges all the world.
No other need has Rome. Poor, desolate,
Shrouded with mists, with cold empanoplied,
At war among ourselves, fighting with beasts,
We yet are freemen; and we need not Rome:
We are the only freemen in the world.
Here, in the very bosom of our land—
The last land in the world—we meet the power
That rules all other lands but ours. Even here
Let Rome be stricken. Brothers, countrymen,
Freedom has taken refuge in our hills.
She has a home upon the streaming seas,
But loves the land where men are hers. Let not
The word go forth on woeful-sounding winds
That Rome has driven freedom from the earth:
Sprite you with lions' hearts; like baleful stars
Inflame your eyes that their disastrous glance
May palsy foes afar; pour your whole strength
In every blow, nor fear a drought: the power
Of each is great as all when all are one.
Rush like a torrent; crash like rocks that fall
When thunder rends the Grampians. Liberty!
Cry ‘Liberty!’ and shatter Rome.”
The Scots were worthy of their gallant chief,
And fought as if they loved death, courting her
By daring her to opportunities;
Which she—a maid o'er-wooed—resented oft,
And strained their cooler rivals to her breast;
But discipline—that rock that bears the world,
Compactly built—a city on a cliff
Breaking disorder back like unknit waves—
Founded the Roman power; and on its front
The Scots beat, shivered by their own onset;
And evening saw them ebb, calmed, vanquished, spent.
Yet that lost battle was a gain: our hills,
That battle, and the ruin of her fleet,
Held Rome behind Grahame's dyke, and kept us Scots.
All south of us the Romans, Saxons, Danes,
And Normans, conquering in turn, o'erthrew
From change to change; but we are what we were
Before Æneas came to Italy,
Free Scots; and though this great Plantagenet
Seems now triumphant, we will break his power.
Shall we not, comrades?

1st Soldier.
Yes, your Majesty.

2nd Soldier.
But might it not have been a benefit
If Rome had conquered Scotland too, and made
Between the Orkneys and the Channel Isles
One nation?

Bruce.
A subtle question, soldier;
But profitless, requiring fate unwound.
It might be well were all the world at peace,
One commonwealth, or governed by one king;
It might be paradise; but on the earth
You will not find a race so provident
As to be slaves to benefit their heirs.

1st Soldier.
At least we will not.

Bruce.
By St. Andrew, no!
Enter Nigel Bruce.
My brother Nigel! Happy and amazed
I see you here. Why left you Aberdeen?

Nigel.
For several ends. And firstly, I have news.

Bruce.
Come to our cave.

Nigel.
No; for a reason, no.

Bruce.
Mysteries, secrets!—Well; retire good friends.

[Soldiers go out.
Nigel.
Perhaps my news is stale.

Bruce.
Little I know
Since in the flight from Methven, panic-struck,
We parted company.

Nigel.
Learn then that Haye—
Hugh de la Haye; John is with you, I know—
Inchmartin, Fraser, Berclay, Somerville,
Young Randolf, Wishart, trusty Lamberton
Are captives.

Bruce.
Half my world! But is it true?

Nigel.
So much is certainty. Rumour declares
Young Randolf has deserted us; that those
I named will ransom; but that some, unknown,
Have died the death of traitors.

Bruce.
Noble souls!
Randolf—poor boy! What more?

Nigel.
A price
Is on your head.

Bruce.
That matters not.

Nigel.
I know.
Still, have great heed of whom and how you trust.
That's all the evil tidings. Hear the good.
The queen—Ah, this is she! I'll leave you now.

[Goes out.
Enter Isabella.
Bruce.
My dearest!

Isabella.
I couldn't wait, my husband.
The Lady Douglas and the Lady Buchan
Are in your cave. We rode from Aberdeen
This evening, learning you were cantoned here.
Douglas was sleeping when we came. His wife
Bent o'er him, and she slipped into his dream;
For when he waked he wondered not at all
To see his lady there, till memory
Aroused him quite to find the vision true.
Nigel was seeking you; but when I saw
The joy these two partook, incontinent
I hurried out myself to find like cheer.
My dear wayfaring hero, I have come
To share your crust, and rags, and greenwood couch:
I'm deep in love with skied pavilions:
I'll be your shepherdess, Arcadian king.
This evening's journey lay throughout a wood:
The honeysuckle incensed all the air,
And cushats cooed in every fragrant fir;
Tall foxgloves nodded round the portly trees,
Like ruffling pages in the trains of knights;
Above the wood sometimes a green hill peered,
As if dame Nature on her pillow turned
And showed a naked shoulder; all the way,
Whispering along, rose-bushes blushed like girls
That pass blood-stirring secrets fearfully,
Attending on a princess in her walk;
I think with rarely scented breath they said
A loving wife was speeding to her lord.
Why are you silent?

Bruce.
I am thinking, dear,
That I'm the richest monarch in the world.
Possessing such a universe of love,
The treasure most desired by kings and clowns.

Isabella.
What universe, dear lord?

Bruce.
Simplicity!
You are my universe of love, you know.

Isabella.
Then keep your universe, and do not waste
In empty space the time. I'll stay with you;
Surely I can? Come, tell me all your plans.

Bruce.
I've none. What I desire I know; and think
Firmly and honestly my wish is right.
Plans are for gods and rich men: I am poor.

Isabella.
In spirit? So you may be blamelessly;
But are you, sir?

Bruce.
I hardly know. Just now
I tried to cheer a whining fellow here,
But stood myself in greater need of hope.

Isabella.
I know—I understand. You need to think
Of other things, my dear. I've heard of men,
Great men, exhausted even to lunacy
By just those labours that were beating smooth
A thoroughfare for ever to success,
Repair themselves with youth's prerogative
That stops time and the world deposes, all
In favour of a dream; or spend a while
With children or the simplest souls they knew.
Come, you must be amused. But, tell me, sir,
Am I to stay?

Bruce.
Yes, dearest pilgrim, yes.

Isabella.
Oh, I am happy! We will live like birds.

Bruce.
And in the winter?

Isabella.
Winter? What is it?
This is the summer.

Bruce.
Winter is—

Isabella.
Hush!—hark!
What birds so late fly screaming overhead?

Bruce.
Stout capercailzies, hurrying to their hills,
Sated with fir-tops.

Isabella.
Ah! But, dearest lord,
Are you quite well? I haven't asked you yet.

Bruce.
I am very well. And you?

Isabella.
See—look at me:
You used to know by gazing in my eyes.

Bruce.
My wife, my lover, you are well indeed.

Isabella.
The fire is nearly out. Come to the cave,
And there we will devise amusements, dear.

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—Another part of the Wood of Drome. The Earl of Buchan alone.
Buchan.
God help me and all jealous fools, I pray!
The plagues of Hades leagued in one raw scourge
Might minister diversion to my soul,
Assailing through my flesh. No thought at all
Of starry space or void eternity;
Nor love, nor hate, nor vengeance, nor remorse—
My cousin's murder!—I've forgotten it!—
No sound of horns crackling with riotous breath
The crisp, rathe air; no hounds; no beckoning tunes
With notes of fiery down; nor singing girls
Whose voices brood and bound; nor chanting larks,
Nor hymning nightingales can touch my soul.
Nothing but torture unendurable
Wrought in the flesh has power on jealousy.
Slay him with agonies? A passing swoon!
I'll kill my wife!
Her blood is Lethe if oblivion be
Save in more high-strung anguish of my own.

Enter Fife.
Fife.
What is it? You have news.

Buchan.
They are together—
The outlaw and your sister. They're at hand—
Three miles away—no more. A trusty spy
Told me just now.

Fife.
Is there a band?

Buchan.
Some score.

Fife.
Then we will take them.

Buchan.
Yes.

Fife.
About it straight.

[Goes.
Buchan.
I'll follow—Ho!
Enter Spy.
I thought you still were near.
I haven't thanked you yet. [Gives money.]
How did she look?
Was there about her not a thievish air,
A truant aspect, frightened and yet free,
Shame-faced, but bold, and like an angel lost.

Spy.
Who, my good lord?

Re-enter Fife.
Buchan.
The queen—the outlaw's wife.

Spy.
O no, my lord! She laughed, as she rode past
Where I lay hid, at something gaily said
By my good lady, your good lordship's wife.
They both looked happy, riding in the sun.

Buchan.
Aye; that will do.
[Exit Spy.
I'm coming, Fife.

Fife.
Stay yet.
Why did you try to lead him off the scent?
You meant my sister when you questioned him.
Tell me, what makes your jealousy so strong?
You never were in love with her I think.

Buchan.
Nor am not now. I think—I know—I feel
What I have heard: true love is never jealous.
I am like other men; I love myself.
I cannot speak. I mean to act. Come on.

[They go out.

SCENE IV.

—A Cave in the Wood of Drome, with a fire the back. Bruce, Edward, Nigel Bruce, Douglas, Crombe, Isabella, Countess of Buchan, Lady Douglas, and others.
Bruce.
Who would build palaces when homes like these
Our kingdom yields us bosomed in her hills!
What tapestry, where the gloss and colour fade
From some love-story, overtold and stale,
Or where a famed old battle stagnates dim,
Befits a room before these unhewn walls
Whose shifting pictures lower and shine and live,
Ruddy and dark in leaping of the fire.
No homely mice in cupboards cheep; the night
Is here not soothed by any mellow chirp
Of crickets, happily, devoutly busy;
But in the ivy and the hollow oak
The owl has heard and learnt through day-long dreams
The wind's high note when pines in ranks are blown,
Bent, rent, and scattered with their roots in air,
And sounds his echo loud and dwindling long,
Fearfully as he flutters past our door;
The wild-cat screams far off in the pheasant's nest;
The wehrwolf, ravening in the warren, growls.
Night is no gossip here, watching the world
Sick-tired, heart-sore, sleep weariness away;
But free and noble, full of fantasy,
Queen of the earth, earth-bound, ethereal.

Isabella
[aside].
His spirit rises. We must hold it up.—
My lord, shall Lady Douglas sing?

Bruce.
She shall.
Lady, I beg you sing us something sweet.
No trumpet notes, no war—
[1st Soldier appears at the entrance of the Cave. Douglas whispers with him.
What does he want?

Douglas.
He comes as spokesman for his fellows.

Bruce.
Well?

1st Soldier
[advancing].
I hope your Highness will be patient with me.
My mates have bade me ask a favour, strange
And difficult to ask; but not so strange
If it be thought of well, nor difficult
If I can keep my head.

Bruce.
Go on.

1st Soldier.
My lord,
For this great while we have seen no woman's face,
My mates and I: your Highness knows that well.
When we beheld these ladies enter here,
A longing seized us all to look on them;
To see their faces and their gentle shapes;
And even to have them turn their eyes on us;
Perhaps to hear them speak. We are true men,
And honest in our thought.

Bruce.
Bring them all in.

[Exit 1st Soldier.
Countess of Buchan.
I know the mood that holds these men: brave lads!
If they were wed to women worth their love,
They would be nobler heroes than they are.

Isabella.
We'll speak to them.

Countess of Buchan.
I'll kiss that knave who spoke.

Lady Douglas.
Will you?

Countess of Buchan.
Yes; and I'll do it openly.

Enter Soldiers.
Bruce.
Welcome all, heartily, most heartily.

Countess of Buchan
[to 1st Soldier].
Have you a wife?

1st Soldier.
I have.

Countess of Buchan.
You love her?

1st Soldier.
Yes.

Countess of Buchan.
Is not the truest love the most capricious?

1st Soldier.
I cannot tell. True love is fanciful.

Countess of Buchan.
You long to kiss your wife?

1st Soldier.
And if I do,
What matters to your ladyship?

Countess of Buchan
[whispering].
This, sir:
I also long to kiss one whom I love;
Perhaps I never shall; but I think now
In kissing you that I am kissing him.

[Kisses him.
1st Soldier.
Thanks, noble lady. If you were my wife
I'd kiss you thus.

[He embraces and kisses her.
Bruce.
Well said and bravely done!

Countess of Buchan.
And can you fight
As deftly as you kiss?

Bruce.
I warrant him!
Your song, my Lady Douglas; sing it now;
A love-song, something homely if you can.

Douglas.
Sing “If she love me,” sweetheart.

Lady Douglas.
Shall I? Well.
But you should sing it rather.

Douglas.
SONG.

Enter a Forester.
Forester.
A thousand men are on you, fly!

[Going.
Bruce.
Stand, there!
Hold him! What thousand men? who lead them? speak.—
Put out the fire—stamp on it, some of you.

[The fire is trampled out and the Forester seized.
Forester.
I know not; but I saw them in the wood
Stealthily marching.

Bruce.
Are they near?

Forester.
An hour
By time, for they are stumbling out a way.
There's half a mile or so of wood between.
If I had been their guide they had been here.

Bruce.
You know the paths so thoroughly?

Forester.
Blindfold.

Bruce.
Could you lead safely to Kildrummie Castle
A band of twenty?

Forester.
When? to-night?

Bruce.
Just now.

Forester.
I think I could. But tell me, sir: they say
That you're the king. Now are you?

Bruce.
I am he.

Forester
[awkwardly].
What must I do?

Bruce.
Wait patiently.—Good friends,
We'll yet postpone farewell. A little way
Together in the wood—

Edward Bruce.
But must we fly?
Ten are a thousand in a coward's sight;
And they may be our friends. Defence even here
Were not too rash against a hundred. What!
Is not despair achievement's mother? Why!
The high, black night, a shout, a sudden charge,
And we dispel this sheep-heart's fearful dream.

Bruce.
Upon us march the Earls of Fife and Buchan,
With many hundred men. They have hunted us
For days, and I have known. My spies are caught
I fear, or they had not arrived so close
Without our knowledge. [To Forester.]
We must thank you, friend,
For timely information of our plight.
The plan I formed still holds, and this is it.
Kildrummie will give shelter to our wives;
Nigel will take them there: Douglas, one way,
And I, another, as we may decide,
Splits up the scent,—and we shall all escape.

Edward Bruce.
Brother and king—

Bruce.
No more. In straits like these
Counsel's a Siren: if the leader list,
Wreck follows. Errant paths, straightly pursued,
Soon reach the goal; while wiser, well-thought ways
Wander about for fear of miry shoes.
And shall I hear one rasher than myself,
When wisdom would be folly!—Isabella,
A little way together, then farewell.—
[To Forester.
Friend, go before us.—Follow close. No word
Above a whisper.

Isabella.
Must I leave you then?
Why are we made so that we trust our hopes!

[All go out.