University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—Dumfries. The Greyfriars Church.
Enter Bruce and Comyn of Badenoch.
Comyn.
I thought you were in London, cousin mine.

Bruce.
And still would have me there, or anywhere,
But by your side.

Comyn.
Why is your tongue so harsh,
Your eye so big, your face so dimmed with ire?

Bruce.
Why falter you? Why has your colour fled?
Why, but because my tongue still speaks its thought;
Because my face wears not the darker show
Of death's grimace upon a spear's long neck,
Grotesquely ornamenting London Bridge;
Because my limbs are not the bait of crows,
The gazing-stock of crowds in Scotland's towns;
Because I live and am at liberty:
These are the reasons why you tremble now.

Comyn.
Not so; it is because I think you mad:
These monstrous breathings are insanity:
You shake with passion, hissing out your words.
I fear you; and I will have witnesses
Or no more conference.

[Going.
Bruce
[seizing his arm].
With honest men
God is sufficient witness. Are you true?
You know my ground of wrath as well as I.

Comyn.
Your words are like your brow, darker than night.

Bruce.
Be this the sun that shall illumine them.
[Exhibits a scroll.
Sun, said I! rather inky light of hell,
Whereby you may behold your treachery.
I see it's true what I have heard of men,
Who, knowing right, pursue a wrongful course:
Custom uprears athwart the source of shame
A fragile dam; but when another marks
The waves that beat behind, they swell and burst
The sandy sea-wall of hypocrisy,
Like a packed gulf delivered by the moon.
That flood is in your face: you blush like fire.

Comyn.
I blush to be accused of this great wrong.

Bruce.
Comyn, you lie. Look, see, the very words
Of that compact, which we with aching hearts
Drew up and signed and swore in Stirling town.
Have you forgotten how we wept hot tears
Condoling over Scotland's misery?
Its fertile plains, that richer were than gold,
Burnt up with fire, salted with tears and blood;
Its cots and palaces confounded low
In stony litters that the soil reclaims;
Its wealthy towns and pleasant places sacked;
Its people?—Ah! we could not sound our grief
For wives made widows; husbands, left alone;
And children, blighted by too early bareness
Of parents' comfortable snowy wisdom:
Death and destruction feasting everywhere.
We found ourselves to blame; therefore we wept,
Repenting of our jealousy and strife.
This pact united us in sacred bonds
For ever to oppose the English rule.
We prayed that our conjunction, like two stars
Meeting auspiciously for Scotland's weal,
Might yield its war-worn people prosperous peace;
And o'er the border cast calamities
Of such deserved and overwhelming woe,
That England never more should be inclined,
Nor have the power to wage a conquering war.
We then embraced, and you with trembling breath
Thanked God that Bruce and Comyn now were friends.
Two copies of our compact we endorsed.
Here is a third that's neither yours nor mine:
King Edward sent it me; whence had he it?

Comyn.
Unless King Edward sent it back to you,
You having given it him, I cannot tell.

Bruce.
God keep my hands from blood! O soulless wretch!
Obtuse, unthinking liar! Could I note
The shape of good that dances in your brain
To be matured for service by denial,
Perhaps that might extenuate your lie.
But knowing nothing save your treachery,
And hardened daring of a damning fact,
Relentless hate expels all dreams of love
That harboured once toward you within my heart.

Comyn.
If, then, your rage is for the present spent,
A few plain words may hope for audience.
What proof have you that Edward had this writ
Through me or mine? Impartial sense would blame,
Not me, who ever have been Scotland's friend,
And foremost in opposing Edward's power,
But you, the truckling lord, inheriting
And practising your father's policy,
Which was to follow at the Longshanks' heel,
And fawn for smiles, and wait his Highness' whim
To pay the lacqueying with a dirty crown.

Bruce.
This idle mockery becomes you well.
Did any doubt remain of your dark sin,
The hunting out a mote within my eye
To poise the beam that does disfigure yours,
Would make me sure.

Comyn.
What legal proof, I say?

Bruce.
The laws of God, honour and loyalty
Condemn you traitor to their interests.
I judge you guilty, for I know right well
King Edward never had this scroll from me,
And no one else could give it him but you.
Your heart condemns you, though you brave it thus.

Comyn.
And yet I say again, I swear by Heaven,
I never saw that paper till to-day.

Bruce.
Talk not of seeing!—Come to the altar here.
[They advance to the altar.
Now lay your hand upon the traitorous sheet,
Call God to witness that you speak the truth,
And swear once more you have not broken faith.
Beneath your feet the dust of true men rests,
Your ancestors and mine; this lofty roof,
These consecrated walls and columns high
Are wont to hear the sounds of sacred song,
The gospel of the holy Christ of God;
This is God's house; this altar is God's throne.
Now, can you swear? You will not do it, sure.

Comyn.
And what shall hinder me while I have breath?
Without my instigation or connivance
Our compact reached the King. If God's in heaven,
And I speak false, may I this moment die.

Bruce
[stabbing Comyn, who falls].
God is in heaven, and my hand wields his wrath! . . . .
What have I done? A madman's dreadful deed! .
I was engulfed, and now I'm cast ashore.
O, in our passionless, reflective hours
We lock emotion in a glass-walled jail
Of crisp philosophy; or give it scope
As far as prudence may enlarge its steps!
But to some sense a small distraction comes—
Across the sight a butterfly, a flower—
The fetters snap, the prison crumbles—off!—
To clasp the air where shone our will-o-wisp!
For no gewgaw have I burst reason's bonds,
But to avenge a gross iniquity
That clamoured brazenly to heaven and earth.
O, it was human!—It was devilish!
Here on the altar—O, the sacrilege!
That man of my own blood, whom I adjured,
By every holy thing, to speak no wrong,
I do wrong, slaying. O, heinous sacrilege!—
Perhaps he is not dead. Comyn, look up;
Speak; make some sign. Alas! that fatal blow
Was aimed too surely at my cousin's heart!
I used God's name too when I struck him dead!
O horrid blasphemy! The sacrilege!

[Going.
Enter Kirkpatrick.
Kirkpatrick.
My Lord!

Bruce.
I fear I have slain Comyn.

[Goes out.
Kirkpatrick.
Ha!
You fear!—Then I'll make sure. He opes his eyes.

Comyn.
False—foolish—dying—guilty—perjured—lost!

[Dies.
Kirkpatrick
[stabbing Comyn].
Something to staunch your muttering. No fear, now.

Enter Sir Robert Comyn with his sword drawn.
Robert Comyn.
Stop villain! Hold your hand, rash murderer!

Kirkpatrick.
I only gave a grace-thrust to your nephew
To end his agony. Put up your sword.
He died a good death on the altar-steps.

Robert Comyn.
Kirkpatrick, you have aided in a deed,
Unseconded, even in these fearful times.

Kirkpatrick.
Strong words and stiffly spoken. Does your sword
Keep pace with your sharp tongue?

Robert Comyn.
We'll try.

Kirkpatrick.
Come on!

[They fight, and Robert Comyn falls.
Robert Comyn.
Is this the day of judgment for our house?
Kinsman, I was your follower on earth,
And now I am your henchman through death's vale.

[Dies.
Enter Edward Bruce, Sir Christopher and Sir John Seton, and other gentlemen.
Sir Christopher Seton.
Two Comyns dead! Bruce only spoke of one.

Kirkpatrick.
I slew the other. He would have me fight.

Sir John Seton.
Alas! and could it be no other way?
There was enough dissension in the realm
Without a feud between these families,
Highest in state and strongest in the field.

1st Gentleman.
Comyn is dead, and Bruce has laid him low.
The dead may slay the living. What say you?

2nd Gentleman.
I say so too. The stroke that Comyn killed
May yet recoil upon his murderer.

Edward Bruce.
Judge not, my friends. A murder has been done
With outward signs of most unrighteous wrath.
But think who did the deed—the noblest Scot,
The knightliest chevalier, the kindliest friend,
The prince of brothers. I, who know, say this.
The very horror and the sacrilege
That frame the crime with dreader circumstance,
Cry out the doer was insane the while,
And recommend him to your lenience.
Therefore, take warning; and before you judge
Let your bloods cool, lest you be guilty too
Of foolish rashness in your condemnation.
My brother left a message for you all:
He asks you who are friends to visit him
To-morrow at Lochmaben; where he means
To lay the matter of his crime before you,
And take your counsel on the consequence.

1st Gentleman.
It's fair we should withhold our judgment, sirs,
Until we be possessed of this event,
The cause and manner of its happening.

[Shouting within.
Enter Nigel Bruce.
Nigel Bruce.
The people buzz and clamour to be led.
The news of Comyn's death has made them mad;
If blood were wine, and they had drunk of it
To fulness, they could not be more mature
For any mischief that the time suggests.

Edward Bruce.
Good mischief, if the English suffer it.
I'll be their captain. Cæsar pricked his horse
Across the Rubicon, defying Rome.
Bruce pricked John Comyn over death's dark stream,
Defying England. Cæsar triumphed: Bruce
Shall triumph too. And now begins the fight.

[All go out.