University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene 1.

The Palace in Westminster. Enter the Earl of Kent and Sir William Davison, meeting.
DAVISON.
Is't you, my Lord of Kent, from the tournament
So soon return'd? Is all the bravery over?

KENT.
How, were you not at the jousting?

DAVISON.
That might not
The duties of mine office well allow.

KENT.
Then you have lost the finest spectacle
That ever taste devised or wit conducted.
There was display'd how the fortress of Chaste Beauty
Is by Desire besieged; the Lord High Marshal
And the Chief Justice, the Seneschal, and ten
Of the queen's knights, defended the fair fortress;
And the French cavaliers attacked its walls.
First there appeared a herald, who did demand,
In a choice madrigal, the tower's surrender;
And from the wall the Chancellor replied;
Thereon th'artillery play'd, and flowery wreaths
And costly perfumed essences were fired
From the dainty mimic ordnance—but in vain;
The storm was driven back—Desire retreated.

DAVISON.
A sign of evil omen sure, my lord,
For the French marriage suit; is it not?

KENT.
Nay, this was but a jest. I think in earnest
That the fair fortress will surrender.

DAVISON.
Do you?
So do not I, my lord.

KENT.
Why, the hardest
Articles of the treaty France agrees to:
Monsieur will in a private chapel hold
His own religious ceremonies, and openly
The faith of the land swear to preserve and honour.
Had you beheld the people's joy when these
Good news were spread abroad! for this has been
The constant dread of all the land—that the queen
Should without issue die, and so the realm
Papist become again, if to the throne
The Stuart should succeed.

DAVISON.
That fear is needless;
One to a bridal chamber is bound, the other
To her grave.

KENT.
The queen!

Enter Elizabeth, ushered by Leicester, followed by Count d'Aubespine, Bellievre, Shrewsbury, Burleigh, and other French and English lords.
ELIZABETH
(to AUBESPINE).
Count d'Aubespine, I pity
These noble gentlemen, whose gallant zeal
Hath led them hither o'er the sea; full sorely
Must they miss here the glories of St. Germain's;
My poor court ill can furnish feasts of the gods
Such as the royal Mother of France commands.
A glad and a good people, who whene'er
I come abroad among them throng around
My litter with their blessings—this is all
The lordly show, that with some pride I give
To foreign eyes. The noble maiden loveliness
That blooms round Katharine like a flower garden
Throws into shade me, and my homely merits.

AUBESPINE.
The court of Westminster shows but one lady
To the amazed stranger; but in that one
Every enchanting charm of her sex is gather'd.

BELLIEVRE.
Most gracious Majesty of England, deign
To grant us leave humbly to take our leave,
And make our royal master the Duke of Anjou
Glad with the joyful tidings that we bear.
In Paris would not his impatient heart
Suffer him to abide—he waits at Amiens
The messengers of his happiness; yea, even
As far as Calais have his posts been sent,
Swift, as with wings, to bear the gracious word
Of your consent, soon as your royal lips
Speak it, to his intoxicated ear.

ELIZABETH.
Press me no further now, my Lord Bellievre;
This is no time, again I say it, wherein
To kindle the joyful hymeneal torch.
Dark hangs the threatening sky above the land,
And mourning garments would become me better
Than the gay splendour of a wedding gear,
For near and heavily a woeful blow
Threatens my heart and house.

BELLIEVRE.
Your promise, madam—
Vouchsafe us that; and happier days shall bring
The glad fulfilment.

ELIZABETH.
Slaves of their state are kings!
And never may they take their heart for guide.
It was my dearest wish to die unmarried—
Therein, indeed, had I set my chiefest glory—
That graven on my tomb it should be read:
‘Here sleeps the Virgin Queen;’ but so my subjects
Will not have it. Already they devise
For the time when I shall be no more; the present,
With all its blessings, cannot satisfy them,
And to their future weal I must give up
Myself, and what I prize my highest good—
My maiden freedom; so will my people have it;
And so they put a master over me.
Well do they prove they hold me but a woman!
And yet I thought I had ruled them manfully—
Yea, like a king. Well wot I that they serve
Not God the best who spurn the law of nature;
And those did well who filled this seat before me,
Who opened wide the cloister doors, and sent
Back to the holiest duties of their kind
Thousands of superstition's pining victims;—
But a queen, whose days never in idle pomp
Were wasted, who unweariedly fulfils
The heaviest of all labours, she, methinks,
From nature's common yoke might be exempt.
One half of the human species holds the other
Subject.

AUBESPINE.
Each several virtue, royal lady,
Have you honour'd on your throne; yet none is greater
Than that you show the sex whose pride you are,
The shining pattern of their especial glory.
Well I believe there lives no man on earth
Worthy thy freedom's costly sacrifice;
And yet if royal blood, and noble virtue,
And manly comeliness, may mortal man
Make worthy of that honour, then—

ELIZABETH.
No doubt,
My lord ambassador, that an alliance
With France's royal son would honour me;
Moreover, I will openly confess,
If it must be—if I can do no other
But yield to my people's importunity
(And much I fear 'twill stronger prove than I),
Then, in all Europe know I of no prince
To whom with less unwillingness I could
Surrender the fair jewel of my freedom.
Let this confession satisfy you, sir.

BELLIEVRE.
Fairest of hopes—it is but hope; my master
Would fain crave more.

ELIZABETH
(draws a ring from her finger and looks at it thoughtfully).
What more? Shall a queen have
No greater privilege than a citizen's wife,
Exchanging equal signs of equal troth-plight
And equal bonds? Marriage is made with rings,
And chains are made of rings too; bear this token
To his highness; it is yet no chain, nor binds me;
But it may be a link of one that will.

BELLIEVRE
(kneeling to receive the ring).
In his name, mighty queen, kneeling, I take
This token, and the kiss of humblest homage,
Lay on my lady's hand.

ELIZABETH
(to Leicester, whom she has been observing during the foregoing dialogue).
With leave, Lord Leicester.
[She takes the order of the George from him, and hangs it round Bellievre's neck.
Invest his highness with this knightly badge,
And bid him swear the Order's oath to me:
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense!’ for ever vanish
Mistrust between our nations, and a bond
Of closest confidence henceforth combine
The crowns of England and of France!

AUBESPINE.
Great queen, this is a day of joy—so be it
Fully and perfectly! and may to-day
No tears be shed throughout this land! Mercy
Shines in thy countenance; oh, let the rays
Of its blessed light fall on a wretched princess,
Who, near allied alike to France and England—

ELIZABETH.
No further, count—let us not mix together
Two wholly separate matters. If indeed
France holds our union dear, then must she needs
Embrace my cause, nor be my enemy's friend.

AUBESPINE.
France were unworthy in your own eyes, madam,
If she forgot, in the hour of this alliance,
The hapless widow of her king—the daughter
Of her own faith. Humanity and honour
Alike demand—

ELIZABETH.
Sir, I accept your words
As a decorous, seemly intercession;
France doth discharge the duty of a friend,
That of a queen must be to me conceded.

[She bows to the French lords, who, with their suite and all but the following persons, respectfully withdraw. Manent Elizabeth, Leicester, Burleigh, Talbot. The Queen seats herself.
BURLEIGH.
Illustrious sovereign! you to-day have crown'd
The dearest wishes of your faithful people!
Now, for the first time, may we well rejoice,
And feel the blessings of the fortunate days
You give to us, now that no more with trembling
We look towards a tempest-brooding future.
One only care now weighs upon the land,
One victim that all voices clamour for.
Grant you but this, and ground from this day forth
On an assured foundation England's weal.

ELIZABETH.
What will my people further?—speak, my lord.

BURLEIGH.
They ask the head of Mary Stuart: if
You to your people would most surely give
The precious gift of freedom, and the light
Of dear-won truth—she must no longer live.
If for your sacred life we must not quake
With daily fears, your enemy must fall.
Well do you know your subjects do not own
One common creed; and Rome's idolatry
Claims many a secret votary in the land,
Who feed their hopes with thoughts of bitter hate.
On Mary Stuart hang their hearts: they are
All bound in secret to the Lorrain princess,
Irreconcilable enemies of your name.
This raging faction have against you sworn
War to extermination, with hell's weapons.
In Rheims, the seat of the Cardinal Archbishop,
They hold their arsenal and forge their bolts;
There regicide is taught, and busily
Forth send they hither from that goodly school
Upon their mission resolute fanatics,
Shrouded in every guise: already thence
The third assassin has been hither sped;
And unexhausted from this noisome den
The tribe of hidden foes for ever rises.
And yonder sits, in Fotheringay Castle,
The Até of this endless war, who with
The torch of love sets the whole land on fire.
For her, who flatters each with a false hope,
Youth doth devote itself to certain death.
To set her free, that is their hope—to seat her
Upon your throne, that is the aim of all.
For by the House of Lorrain your sacred right
Stands unconfess'd—to them you will for ever
Be an usurper, crown'd by chance alone;
By them, inspired with folly, did she sign
Herself the queen of England—there's no peace
Possible between you and them: you must
Suffer or strike the blow, and to the end
Her life is death to you—her death your life.

ELIZABETH.
A heavy office have you chosen, sir.
I know the honest purpose of your zeal,
And that you utter nothing but pure wisdom;
But the wisdom whose decree is blood-shedding
I do abhor—yea, from my inmost soul.
Bethink you of some milder counsel. Noble lord
Of Shrewsbury, let us hear your thinking.

TALBOT.
A worthy praise, madam, you have bestow'd
Upon the zeal that fires Lord Burleigh's breast;
My heart with no less loyal duty throbs,
But the great gift to speak it is not mine.
Still may you live to be your people's joy,
And to prolong in this land the reign of peace;
Never hath England happier days beheld
Since it hath known a lawful sovereign's sway.
May this prosperity cost no jot of honour,
Or if it must, may Talbot's eyes ne'er see it!

ELIZABETH.
Now Heaven forfend our honour should be stain'd!

TALBOT.
Bethink you, then, upon some other means
To save your kingdom, for Mary Stuart's death
Is an unrighteous means. You cannot sentence
One who is not your subject.

ELIZABETH.
My council errs then,
My parliament doth err, and each tribunal
Through the whole land that sanctions it, doth err?

TALBOT.
Mouth honour, madam, is no proof of right;
England is not the world, her parliament
Is not a gathering of all the nations,
This hour, to-day, is not all future time,
Neither is it the past. As you incline
The wills of others, so doth sink or rise
The unstable wave of judgment: never plead
That you obey a stern necessity
And your people's urging; even when you will,
Yea, in that instant, may you prove and find
The freedom of your will. So prove it—show
That blood appalls you—that your sister's life
You will not sacrifice; show unto them
Who counsel otherwise your royal wrath;
Then will this phantom of necessity
Vanish, and what seemed right shall straight be wrong.
You are the judge alone—upon this reed
That bends beneath you 'tis in vain to lean.
Faithfully follow your own milder instinct.
God sow'd not strength in woman's gentle heart;
And they who framed our goodly government,
Trusting to woman's hands the reins of rule,
Meant not stern strength should be the virtue paramount
Of kings who reign over this English land.

ELIZABETH.
How warm an advocate is my Lord Shrewsbury
For one who is mine and my kingdom's enemy!
I choose the counsel that doth love my welfare.

TALBOT.
No advocate was granted her; none dare
To speak in her behalf, and set himself
Against your wrath unarm'd. Mine be it then,
Who, old, and tottering on the brink of the grave,
Can feel no more the lure of earthly hopes,
Thus to defend the utterly forlorn.
Be it not said that in your kingdom's councils
Passion and selfishness may cry aloud,
And only mercy have no leave to speak.
Banded against her everything conspires;
You never have beheld her countenance,
And nothing in your heart pleads for the stranger.
I name not now her guilt. It has been said
Her husband with her cognisance was murder'd;
Certain it is, she wed his murderer.
A heavy crime! and yet when it befell
The times were dark, and full of luckless deeds.
In the fierce stress of furious civil strife,
Where weak and helpless she beheld herself
With vassal violence hemm'd in and threaten'd,
She cast herself into the strongest arms,
Compell'd, who knows by what a cunning force,
For woman is a frail and fearful thing.

ELIZABETH.
Woman is not weak! strong souls enough, I ween,
Are to be found among us. In my presence
Nothing of woman's weakness will I hear.

TALBOT.
To you misfortune was a school of strength;
Life turn'd not upon you its smiling aspect;
No throne beckon'd you from afar, but at your feet
A grave for ever yawn'd. In Woodstock's shades,
And in the Tower's gloom, the merciful Father
Of our dear land taught you, through sorrow's discipline,
Duty's stern lore. No flatterer sought you there.
Wrapt in itself, your spirit, undisturb'd
By the wild uproar of the world, betimes
Learn'd to reflect, and prize this life's real treasure.
No God so rescued her. A little child,
She was transported to the court of France,
That court of vanity and thoughtless pleasure,
Where in one endless revel of delight
She never heard the sober voice of truth;
Dazzled by vicious folly's glittering pomp,
And swept away upon corruption's stream,
To her was beauty's idle crown allotted,
Blooming, she far outshone all other women,
And her fair face no less than royal birth—

ELIZABETH.
Come to yourself, my Lord of Shrewsbury!
Bethink you that we here in council sit.
Forsooth, those must be wondrous charms indeed,
That thus can set a hoary head on fire;
Lord Leicester, you alone keep silence still,
That which lets loose his tongue, perchance binds yours?

LEICESTER.
Madam, amazement only keeps me silent
That terrors such as these should fill your ears;
That the idle tales in London streets, believed
And dreaded by the credulous mob, should find
An echo in your council chamber walls,
And busy wise, grave men with foolish rumours.
Yea, I confess, I'm seized with admiration,
To think this landless Queen of Scots, who could not
Keep her own petty throne in her possession—
Her vassals' scorn—from her own country driven—
Is made to fright you even from her prison.
But in Heaven's name! what makes her to be fear'd?
That she lays claim to this kingdom, and that you
Her kinsmen Guise acknowledge not its queen?
But can the Guises' will annul the right
Given by your birth, and by our Parliament?
Is she not by King Henry's latest testament
Rejected silently? and will this land,
Happy in the enjoyment of new light,
Cast itself back into the Papist's arms,
Turning from you their worshipp'd queen, to her,
The murderess of Darnley? What means this haste,
That while you yet live scares you with your heir—
That cannot fast enough in wedlock fetter you
To save from sudden ruin Church and State?
Are you not in your bloom of youthful vigour,
While towards her grave she withers day by day?
God send you long above that grave to tread,
Without the need of thrusting her into it!

BURLEIGH.
Lord Leicester has not always counsell'd so.

LEICESTER.
No; it is true, my voice was for her death
When we in judgment sat: we're now in council,
And here the question is no more of right,
But of expediency. Is this a time
To fear her dangerous when France forsakes her,
Her sole defender, to whose son your hand
Is promised, while a royal race already
In the people's hope blooms once more o'er the land?
Why put to death one who is dead already?
Contempt is absolute death—beware, lest pity
Call her again into a dangerous life.
My counsel therefore is, that she remain
Under the sentence late pronounced upon her.
Beneath the headsman's axe still let her live;
When the first hand is raised in her defence,
Let it come down.

ELIZABETH
(rising).
I have your counsel, lords,
And thank you for your zeal. With Heaven's help,
Which doth the souls of kings enlighten,
We will consider them, and on the best
Determine. Hither comes Sir Amias Paulet.
Now, worthy Paulet, what wouldst thou with us?

[Enter Paulet and Mortimer.
PAULET.
Most glorious Majesty, my nephew, late
Return'd from distant travel, at your feet
Casts himself with his youthful fealty;
Graciously deign to accept it, and let him grow
In the good sunshine of your royal favour.

MORTIMER
(kneeling).
Long live my sovereign Mistress, and may glory
And happiness circle her brow for ever!

ELIZABETH.
Arise! you're welcome back to England, sir.
You've trod the great highway, visited France
And Rome, and rested too at Rheims,
And so can tell what webs our foes are weaving.

MORTIMER.
Confound them, Heaven! and back to their own breasts
Direct the arrows aim'd against our queen!

ELIZABETH.
Did you see Morgan? and that plot-spinner
The Bishop of Ross?

MORTIMER.
With all the Scottish exiles,
Who forge at Rheims their plots against this island,
I held acquaintance, crept into their trust,
That I might gather something of their aims.

PAULET.
Secret epistles for the Queen of Scotland,
Written in cipher, were entrusted to him,
Which faithfully he gave into my hands.

ELIZABETH.
What now resolve they?

MORTIMER.
Like a thunder-clap,
France's desertion from their cause, and bond with you,
Fell on them. Now towards Spain they turn their hopes.

ELIZABETH.
So Walsingham writes me.

MORTIMER.
And there came to Rheims,
Even as I parted thence, Pope Sixtus' bull,
Launch'd from the Vatican against your highness;
'Twill reach our shores with the first ship that anchors.

LEICESTER.
England no longer trembles at such weapons.

BURLEIGH.
They may be dangerous yet in fanatic hands.

ELIZABETH
(looking searchingly at MORTIMER).
You have been accused of studying in the college
At Rheims, and there forswearing your first faith.

MORTIMER.
I thought it well to assume that safe pretence,
And so far went my hope to serve my queen.

ELIZABETH
(to PAULET, who presents a paper to her).
What tenderest thou there?

PAULET.
To your grace's hand
The Queen of Scotland sends—

BURLEIGH
(hastily extends his hand).
Give it to me, sir!

PAULET.
By your leave no, my Lord High Treasurer.
Into my royal mistress' hands I swore
I would deliver this; so was I bidden.
Though I am not the Queen of Scotland's friend,
Yet am I but the enemy of her guilt;
Therefore whate'er behest of hers may fit
With my duty, I hold also fit to do.

[Elizabeth takes the paper and reads it.
BURLEIGH
(to PAULET).
What should it signify? idle complaints,
Wherewith the gentle heart of our noble mistress
Again shall be disturb'd and put in doubt.

PAULET.
She did not hide the matter from me, but
Confess'd she had implored her grace to see her.

BURLEIGH.
Never!

SHREWSBURY.
Why not? methinks she prays right well.

BURLEIGH.
Grace to behold the royal countenance
The murderess hath forfeited! Shall she
Who sought the life of our queen approach her presence?
Who truly loves and serves our royal mistress,
Will give her no such counsel.

SHREWSBURY.
Nay; but if
Her highness' heart inclines to show her mercy,
Will you turn back the gentle stream of pity?

BURLEIGH.
My lord, it suits not with her grace's honour
To entertain in personal conference
One whom the laws already have condemn'd;
To the axe belongs the head of Mary Stuart,
And if she may come nigh to the queen's presence,
The sentence cannot be fulfill'd: for mercy
And pardoning grace flow from the sov'reign's countenance,
And whoso looks upon her face must live.

ELIZABETH
(wiping her tears after reading the letter).
O earth! O men! O wretched human fortunes!
Where are your roots, prosperity and greatness?
Whither is she fallen, this so lofty lady,
Whose pride was fed with such high hopes of glory?
Call'd to the oldest throne of Christendom,
In vain imaginings fed with the dream
That she should wear three crowns upon her head.
In humble speech, I trow, she sues for one
Who dared to assume the royal arms of England,
And suffer'd the fawning things about her court
To call her sovereign of these British Isles.
By Heaven! my lords, it cuts me to the heart,
And pity and amazement strive within me,
When I behold these shifting tides of chance,
And feel the whiff and wind of these blows of fate,
Striking a royal head so near my own.

SHREWSBURY.
Oh, madam! God speaks thus to your heart; incline
Your ear to His heavenly teaching. Heavily
Hath Mary Stuart atoned her heavy guilt,
Reach forth a hand of mercy to her now;
Into the darkness of the grave which holds her
Descend, and be to her the angel of light.

BURLEIGH.
Madam, be steadfast, nor allow the smart
Of a praiseworthy pity to mislead you;
Do not your own hands bind, so that hereafter,
That which you would and must, you cannot do.
You cannot show her mercy—may not save her;
Then give no room to have it said, that you
In scorn and unrelenting hardness went,
To look unmoved on her, whom you condemn'd.

LEICESTER.
My lords, let us confine ourselves within
Our measured duties; our most gracious queen
Needs not our aid or counsel to determine
What worthiest and best is to be done.
The meeting of two royal kinswomen
Has nought to do with the solemn march of justice.
The laws of England, not our mistress' will,
Have sentenced Mary Stuart, and 'tis worthy
The great and noble spirit of our queen,
The gentle impulse of her heart to follow,
Even though the law fulfil its stern decrees.

ELIZABETH.
Leave us, my lords; we shall the method find
To join with seemliness what pity urges,
And what necessity doth lay upon us.
Now leave us. Mortimer, a word with you.

[Exeunt all but Elizabeth and Mortimer.
ELIZABETH
(after observing him keenly for some moments).
You have shown a daring spirit, and for your years
A most unwonted power of self-command.
Who the hard science of dissimulation
So early learns to use, is ripe betimes,
And o'erleaps years of life's apprenticeship.
Fate beckons you to an exalted path—
I prophesy it; and for your better fortune
I can myself fulfil the prophecy.

MORTIMER.
Exalted sovereign! all I have, and am,
Is to your service utterly devoted.

ELIZABETH.
You have learnt to know the enemies of England,
Their hate irreconcilable towards me,
Their inexhaustible bloody plots against me.
Thus far th'Almighty has protected me,
But still the crown must totter on my brows,
While she yet lives from whom their fanatic zeal
Borrows at once its hope and its pretext.

MORTIMER.
She lives no longer when you so decree it.

ELIZABETH.
Ah, sir! I thought that I had reach'd the goal,
But find myself no nearer than at first.
I thought to have let the law deal with her,
And keep mine own hands free from blood the while.
The sentence is pronounced; what have I gain'd
While it is not fulfill'd? and my command
Alone fulfils it, Mortimer. And I
Must meet the odium of the deed, and cannot
By any means escape the ill-seeming act.
That—that is worst of all!

MORTIMER.
What matters it
How evil may appear that which is right?

ELIZABETH.
You do not know the world; each man is judge
Of what each man appears; no one is judge
What any truly is. I can convince
None of my right; the more must I take heed
That my share in her death be kept close secret.
Double-faced deeds require the screen of darkness;
The perilous step is that which we acknowledge;
And nothing's lost but that which we surrender.

MORTIMER
(significantly).
Then, had it better been—?

ELIZABETH
(quickly).
Better? ay, best!
Proceed, fulfil, and bring it to an end—
You are rightly earnest—in the right direction.
Another sort of man are you from your uncle!

MORTIMER.
Did you reveal to him your wishes, madam?

ELIZABETH.
I did so; and I rue it.

MORTIMER.
Pardon him!
The old man's weight of years has made him cautious;
Such venturous deeds require the bolder spirit
Of youth.

ELIZABETH.
May I dare trust you?

MORTIMER.
To your deed
I'll lend my hand. See you to your own fair name.

ELIZABETH.
That will I, when the day shall dawn that brings you
To greet me with the welcome words, ‘This night
Is Mary Stuart, thy deadliest enemy, dead.’

MORTIMER.
Madam, depend on me.

ELIZABETH.
But when—when shall I
Lay down my head securely and in peace?

MORTIMER.
The next new moon shall see your fears all ended.

ELIZABETH.
Be cautious, sir; and let it nothing irk you,
That I must hide my gratitude to you
Under the veil of darkness. Silence ever
Is guardian god of happiness; and bonds
Sweetest and closest are by mystery tied.
[Exit Elizabeth.

MORTIMER.
Go, get thee from me, false dissembling queen!
I cheat thee, even as thou cheat'st the world;
And to betray thee is a righteous deed.
Bear I a murderer's visage? didst thou read
Upon my forehead custom of fell deeds?
Yea, trust my arm! do but hold back thine own;
Assume the lovely glamour shape of mercy
To the world's gaze, whilst thou in secret reckon'st
Upon my murderous help; so shall we win
A blessed respite for deliverance.
Thou wilt exalt me! and from far didst point
To some high guerdon, offer'd to my hope;
Nay, but wert thou the prize—thou, and thy favour,
What were such prize to me?—what canst thou give?
No idle vanity seduces me.
Near her alone life's aspect wears a charm;
Round her for ever hovers the divinity
Of grace, and loveliness, and youthful joy;
The bliss of heaven blooms upon her breast,
And dead and wither'd are thy proffer'd gifts.
Highest of earthly joys that earth can grant,
Is where one heart, enchanting and enchanted,
In self-oblivious ecstasy bestows itself
Upon another heart. A woman's crown
Was never thine, for thou didst never yet,
Loving thyself, give rapture to a lover!
I must seek out Lord Leicester, and deliver
Her letter to him; 'tis a hateful task;
I bear the shining courtier small good will.
I can alone deliver her; and mine
Be danger, glory, and the precious prize!

[Enter Paulet.
PAULET.
What said the queen to thee?

MORTIMER.
Nothing; that is—
Nothing of any moment.

PAULET.
Hear me, Mortimer;
The ground on which thou tread'st is slippery smooth;
And princes' favours have a beckoning aspect
To youth athirst for honour and for fame.
Let not ambition lead thy feet astray.

MORTIMER.
Was't not yourself who brought me to the Court?

PAULET.
Well wish I that I had not done so. Not
At Court was the honour of our house built up.
Nephew, stand steadfast! purchase not too dear;
Wound not thy conscience.

MORTIMER.
Uncle! why, how now—
What means this sudden apprehension?

PAULET.
Heed not the queen's fair promises of greatness;
Trust not her flattering words. She'll disavow thee
When thou hast obey'd her; and to wash
The stain from her own name, she will avenge
The bloody deed that she herself commanded.

MORTIMER.
The bloody deed!

PAULET.
Away with thy dissembling!
I know that which the queen demanded of thee.
She hopes thy youth, greedy for self-advancement,
Will prove more pliant than my stiffer age.
Say—hast thou promised? hast thou—say?

MORTIMER.
Why, uncle—

PAULET.
And if thou hast, I curse and cast thee off!

[Enter the Earl of Leicester.
LEICESTER.
One word with your nephew, worthiest sir, allow me;
The queen is graciously inclined to favour him,
And wills the person of the Lady Stuart
Shall be entrusted solely to his keeping.
On his uprightness she depends implicitly.

PAULET.
Does she so?—good!

LEICESTER.
What say you, sir?

PAULET.
The queen
Depends on him, it seems; and I, my lord,
Will on myself depend, and trust my eyes.
[Exit Paulet.

LEICESTER
(astonished).
What ails your worthy uncle?

MORTIMER.
Nay, I know not;
Perchance this unexpected trust of the queen—

LEICESTER
(observing him attentively).
And are you, sir, one to be safely trusted?

MORTIMER.
I might reply in your own words, my lord.

LEICESTER.
You've something to impart to me in secret, then?

MORTIMER.
First give me some assurance that I may.

LEICESTER.
And who for you shall give me like security?
Pray do not take my slight distrust amiss;
Here in this court I see you wear two faces;
One is of course a mask—but which is not?

MORTIMER.
Even so my lord of Leicester seems to me.

LEICESTER.
Which of us two shall trust the other first?

MORTIMER.
He that has least to venture.

LEICESTER.
Then, speak you!

MORTIMER.
Rather, speak you my lord! your testimony,
You, the all-powerful, all-favour'd noble,
May fell me to the earth, mine could do nothing
Against your lofty station and great favour.

LEICESTER.
Sir, you're deceived: in all respects but one,
I am powerful here; but on that tender point,
Which I must now deliver to your faith,
I am in all this court the least secure,
And who is treacherous to me there can ruin me.

MORTIMER.
From you to me, Lord Leicester, such avowal
Exalts me from my humbler state so far,
That I may venture to assume more honour,
And give you a magnanimous example.

LEICESTER.
So do; I'll follow without faltering.

MORTIMER
(hastily drawing forth the letter).
The Queen of Scotland sends you this, my lord!

LEICESTER
(eagerly and apprehensively seizing it).
For God's love, sir, speak low! What do I see!
Ah, 'tis her image!

[He kisses the picture and remains gazing at it.
MORTIMER
(observing him searchingly while he reads).
I believe in you, my lord.

LEICESTER
(after rapidly reading).
Are the contents of this known to you, sir?

MORTIMER.
No, I know nothing.

LEICESTER.
Ha! yet she has doubtless
Trusted—

MORTIMER.
Nothing; she said you'd solve the riddle
Of this strange mystery, therefore give me leave
To speak th'unfeign'd amazement of my mind,
That you, her open foe, her persecutor,
One of her judges, and Elizabeth's favourite,
Are he from whom the queen looks for deliverance!
And yet it must be so, for your eyes speak
Clearly enough what your heart feels for her.

LEICESTER.
First let me know whence comes the fiery zeal
You spend upon her cause? and by what means
You have deserved the confidence she shows you?

MORTIMER.
For that few words suffice. I changed my faith
At Rome, and to the House of Guise swore fealty,
And a letter from the Archbishop of Rheims
Commended my poor service to the queen.

LEICESTER.
I knew of this conversion of your faith,
It first invited me to trust in you;
Give me your hand, and pardon my suspicion!
Too cautious can I hardly be, for Walsingham
And Burleigh hate me, and I know their nets
Are stretch'd for me; you might have been
Their instrument or creature to decoy me to them.

MORTIMER.
What, are the courtly gyves so strait, the bonds
So narrow that Lord Leicester's steps are shackled?
My lord, I pity you!

LEICESTER.
Joyfully then,
I cast myself upon your friendly breast,
And throw aside the long-oppressing burden.
You are amazed, sir, at the sudden change
In the feelings I profess towards Mary Stuart;
But I was never her real enemy,
Though the strong current of events opposed me to her.
Destin'd to me long years before, to Darnley
They gave her hand—then, with a throne for dower
I would not wed her—now, in captivity,
Even to the gates of death I seek and claim her.

MORTIMER.
Why it is nobly done!—

LEICESTER.
The times are alter'd—
Then vainly did the crown of Scotland beckon me,
And with it the youth and beauty that adorn'd it,
For in my ambition's eager grasp I thought
To clutch a greater prize—the crown of England.

MORTIMER.
It is well known you were preferred to all.

LEICESTER.
It seem'd so, sir; yet now, after ten years
Of creeping, cringing, crouching, crawling slavery,
Base years! for ever wasted—oh, my heart
Will to my lips heave up its bitterness!
Yea, doubtless, all men count me fortunate.
Oh, if they knew the galling weight of the chains
They envy me! Daily, for ten long years,
Have I my life to this vain idol offer'd,
Each hourly change of fierce despotic humour
Bent, bow'd, and turn'd me to—the wretched play-thing
Of each fantastic whim, of wayward wantonness,
Fondled and fool'd with short-lived tenderness,
Thrust back with cold and insolent disdain,
Tormented by her passion or her pride,
The close-watch'd prisoner of her lynx-eyed jealousy,
School'd like a boy, and chidden like a groom;
Words have no utterance for this ten years' hell!

MORTIMER.
I pity you, my lord!

LEICESTER.
And now the prize,
E'en as I touch the goal escapes my grasp—
Another comes and reaps my hard-earn'd harvest,
A blooming boy-consort seizes my right,
And I must now come down from the lofty stage
Where for so long I shone i' the foremost place;
For I shall lose her favour with her hand—
Of that the new comer will rob me too,—
He is a proper lover—she's a woman!

MORTIMER.
Katherine de Medici's son in a good school
Has learnt the art of wily flattery.

LEICESTER.
So fall my hopes! but in this wreck I seek
The plank of rescue that shall save my fortunes;
Towards my fair early hopes I turn mine eyes,
And Mary's image in her beauty's splendour
Rises before me: grace and loveliness
Again assert their right—no cold ambition—
But my heart's sentence of comparison
Points to the jewel I had cast away.
With horror I behold the misery
In which she's plunged—plunged even by my guilt,
And once again the hope awakes in me,
That I may yet both rescue and possess her.
Through some trustworthy hand it now behoves me
To lay before her eyes my alter'd heart.
And in this letter you have brought I read
That she forgives, and will bestow herself—
Fair prize!—upon me, if I rescue her.

MORTIMER.
Meantime what have you done to rescue her?
You have allowed her trial to proceed,
And given your own voice to her final sentence;
A miracle must happen—the light of truth
Must be reveal'd suddenly to me—
To me, the kinsman of her prison keeper,
From Rome—from the chambers of the Vatican—
Must heaven summon her deliverer,
Or never had deliverance come nigh her

LEICESTER.
Anguish enough, good sir, her fate has cost me!
From Talbot's Castle brought to Fotheringay,
She was transferr'd to your uncle's vigilant guard,
And all approach to her barr'd and impossible;
Still was I fain in the world's eyes to seem
The enemy and persecutor—yet never
Believe that I had suffer'd her to perish:
I hoped—I hope—to snatch her yet from death,
The final thrust of this dark doom to parry,
Until some means are found to snatch her from it.

MORTIMER.
Then they are found—Lord Leicester, to your trust
I answer with like faith—the means are found
For the queen's rescue,—therefore am I here;
All is prepared, all thought for, all begun,
And your great name ensures a happy ending.

LEICESTER.
Death and dismay! what is't you say? my name!

MORTIMER.
By open force will I unbar her prison,
And those whose hands are eager for the task,
Banded with me—

LEICESTER.
Confusion—a conspiracy!
In what a net art thou entangling me?
What, do thy followers possess my secret?

MORTIMER.
Oh, set your heart at rest, my lord, our plan
Had been well knit, and you ne'er laid a finger to it,
But that the queen, forsooth, would owe her life
To none but you.

LEICESTER.
In your secret conference
My name has ne'er been utter'd?—swear it.

MORTIMER.
Never!
How cautious is my Lord of Leicester grown—
How cold, to one that brings his best hopes help!
What! is it you would save the queen and wed her,
And when her faithful servants spring to meet you,
And Heaven fits instruments to your very hand,
You show far more confusion and dismay
Than joy?

LEICESTER.
No—not by open force—by violence;
This suddenness is dangerous—

MORTIMER.
Delay
Is dangerous too.

LEICESTER.
Sir—sir—it cannot be;
'Tis not to be thought on.

MORTIMER
(bitterly).
Not by you, my lord,
Who love and would possess the queen; but we,
Who only seek to set her free, may venture it.

LEICESTER.
Young man, you are too rash to find a way
Through such a thick set path of perilous thorns.

MORTIMER.
And you in the road of honour—most considerate.

LEICESTER.
I see the snares by which we are beset.

MORTIMER.
I feel the strength to break my way through them.

LEICESTER.
Foolhardiness and madness is such courage!

MORTIMER.
And a weak prudence hardly valour, lord.

LEICESTER.
Hast thou a mind to die the death of Babington?

MORTIMER.
You have no mind to rival Norfolk's glory.

LEICESTER.
Norfolk embraced the bloody axe—not Mary.

MORTIMER.
He show'd the world that he was worthy of her.

LEICESTER.
If we should fail, we drag her down with us.

MORTIMER.
Hugging our safety will not conquer hers.

LEICESTER.
Nay, but you hear not—you consider not—
And will, in blind impatience, overthrow
What was e'en now so fairly on the way.

MORTIMER.
So fairly on the way—by you made ready?
But say, what have you done to rescue her?
Say rather, what, had I been fool enough
To murder her, as e'en now Elizabeth bade me,
(And at this very hour believes 'tis done),
Speak! say, what had you done to save her life?

LEICESTER
(amazed).
The queen gave you that bloody order?

MORTIMER.
Yes, sir—
Elizabeth's as much deceived in me
As Mary is in you—they both are cheated.

LEICESTER.
So then, you promised her compliance, did you then?

MORTIMER.
Lest she should borrow other hands, I offer'd
To lend her mine.

LEICESTER.
Why, that was wisely done;
That gives us space and room to move; relying
Upon a bloody secret service, she
Will let the sentence unfulfill'd remain,
Meanwhile we are gaining time.

MORTIMER
(impatiently).
No, we are losing it!

LEICESTER.
She reckons upon you, and all the less
Will scruple to assume the mask of mercy;
Perhaps by courtier-craft I may persuade her
Her rival's countenance once to behold,
And such a step must bind her hands for ever;
Burleigh is right, if once they meet, the sentence
Can never be fulfill'd. It shall be so;
I'll venture all to bring them face to face.

MORTIMER.
And then what have you gain'd when she beholds
Her hopes in me deceived? If Mary lives
Shall not all things remain as they are now?
Will she be free? Never! her mildest fate
Must be but this life-long captivity.
In Heaven's name! do you not see an act
Of daring must at last be her redemption?
Choose, then, at first, the noblest way to win her.
You have the power, a host starts at your call,
Of your own followers and retainers only;
Mary has many secret, faithful friends;
The noble house of Howard, and of Percy,
Have heroes ready still to die for her,
Did but a powerful hand uplift her standard.
Away with cunning! open be the warfare!
Like a true knight set lance in rest for your love,
And fight one loyal fight to win your lady;
Why, if your will were set to a deed of daring,
Elizabeth's person might you well surprise;
Not seldom to your castles and your mansions
She has deign'd to come a guest, let her remain
A prisoner for awhile, then play the man;
Speak, for she then must hear, nor set her free
Till Mary's freedom you have won from her.

LEICESTER.
Amazement! horror! whither does madness urge thee!
Know'st thou the earth that thou art standing on?
Deemest thou what 'tis to breathe here in this court?
And the tremendous spell this woman's rule
Has thrown o'er all men's faculties? would'st seek
For the free spirit that once lived in the land?
It is lock'd up, the key at a woman's girdle,
And every wing of noble daring fetter'd.
Follow my warning—nothing venture rashly.
Some one draws near; leave me.

MORTIMER.
And Mary hopes!
Is this the empty comfort I must bear to her?

LEICESTER.
Bear her my vow of everlasting love!

MORTIMER.
Bear it yourself! instrument of her rescue
I hither came—not your love messenger.
[Exit Mortimer.

[Enter Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH.
Who parted from you there? sure I heard voices.

LEICESTER
(with sudden alarm and confusion).
'Twas Mortimer.

ELIZABETH.
How now, my lord, what ails you?
You're all amazed!

LEICESTER
(commanding himself).
Oh, well may I be so
By the dazzling splendour of your loveliness!
Never more beauteous did these eyes behold you.
Ah!—

ELIZABETH.
Wherefore do you sigh?

LEICESTER.
I have cause,
Madam, for no rare merriment methinks,
When, looking on the beauty that enslaves me,
I am reminded of my grievous loss.

ELIZABETH.
Thy loss?

LEICESTER.
You have I lost, your precious self;
Soon in the arms of a youthful bridegroom, you
Shall forget all, but your own full content,
And he shall have your undivided heart.
He is of royal race—so am not I—
And yet bear witness, Heaven! if this earth's round
Holds one that worships you as I do! He,
The Duke of Anjou, never has beheld you;
Your fame, your pow'r, your greatness, he may love;
Alas! but I love you; had you been born
A shepherd lass, and I the king o' the earth,
From my great height I had come down to you,
And laid my crown beneath your feet.

ELIZABETH.
Ah, Dudley!
Blame me not—pity me—I dare not question
My heart, its answer do I know by heart:
Oh! how I envy those more fortunate women
Who may make great the men they love. I may not
Divide my throne with him who owns my heart;
Yet Mary Stuart might—she was so happy—
Her heart went with her hand, she crown'd her husband,
And mingling love and power in one deep draught
Of perfect joy, she drank her fill.

LEICESTER.
And now
She drinks the dregs of sorrow drop by drop.

ELIZABETH.
She heeded not men's judgments, she; to her,
Light was the burthen of her light life; never
Did she bow down her neck to the heavy yoke
That I have stoop'd to; I, too, might have seized
Days full of happiness, and nights of pleasure,
But rather chose the kingly servitude,
And royal task of righteous government;
But ev'n for that, because she never strove
To be more than a woman, she has now
All men to be her lovers and her servants,
And leads in willing thraldom old and young:
Such are ye men! wantons, I trow, at heart,
Wantonness only is your proper lure,
And to 't ye fly, where'er it beckons you,
Nor ever love what will be honour'd too.
Did not old greybeard Talbot glow to a flame
While talking of her loveliness, forsooth?

LEICESTER.
Poor gentleman! he was her keeper once.
She hath bewitch'd him with her honey'd speech.

ELIZABETH.
Can it be true that she is still so fair?
I'm weary hearing of this goodly favour,
And could be well content to trust my eyes,
Rather than lying pictures and reports
In this weighty matter; why dost look at me
So earnestly?

LEICESTER.
Methought I saw you standing
Beside the Queen of Scots. I would I might
Behold you so indeed! for then, dear mistress,
Should you a woman's proper victory know.
With envious eyes, and envy's eyes are keen,
I saw her running o'er the fair assemblage
Of your good graces, which should show to her
Beauty's own image fitly framed in virtue.

ELIZABETH.
She is the younger of the two.

LEICESTER.
Indeed!
No one would think it; but her sorrows doubtless
Have aged her looks something before the time.
It might, indeed, be doubly bitter to her
Now, as a bride, first to encounter you;
The joys of life are far behind her fled,
While you behold them towards yourself advancing;
The bride, too, of the King of France's son—
Of France, upon whose kindred and assistance
She has so proudly and securely reckon'd.

ELIZABETH.
I'm much besought to visit her.

LEICESTER.
As grace
She prays it, let it be her punishment;
True, you can send her to the bloody block,
But not the axe shall give so sharp a stroke
To her body, as your aspect to her soul;
As seeing her own light put out by yours,
As is each petty paling star by the sun.
Thus shall you pay her back those stabs she sought
To give you—and do keener execution
On her than could the headsman—showing her
The triumph of your loveliness and glory,
With reverence crown'd, as well as pow'r, and greatness;
Clothed and embellish'd by that spotless fame
Which she did wantonly strip off and cast from her;
The splendour of your crown, and love's soft radiance,
Making a brightness round you. When she thus
Beholds you—then, that is her hour of doom!
And why not even now? for in this hour,
Arm'd as for victory I see you stand,
And saw you ne'er more fair! This very hour—

ELIZABETH.
This very hour!—now! No, no, Leicester, this
Must be well thought on; I must speak with Burleigh.

LEICESTER.
Burleigh knows nought but reasons of the state!
Unto your womanhood some rights belong,
And to judge in this matter is your right.
And reasons of the state approve it too;
The common voice shall cry well done to it,
That you with pity visit your deadly foe,
Howe'er the law shall deal with her hereafter.

ELIZABETH.
Natheless methinks it were not well to see
My kinswoman brought to such low estate;
'Tis said, indeed, I know, she lives not royally,
And scarcely may receive a royal visit
With honour to us both.

LEICESTER.
Over the threshold
Of her prison you need not step; but hear my counsel—
Chance serves us to a wish; the hunt to-day
Leads towards the neighbourhood of Fotheringay.
Let Mary Stuart have leave to walk abroad,
And in the park, what hinders that you meet her,
When none shall think the act premeditate?
Nay, if your majesty deign'd not to speak—

ELIZABETH.
Servant, if this approve itself a folly,
Thine be the blame, not mine! To-day,
No wish of thine will I gainsay—I owe thee
Some compensation for this French betrothal;
Be it as thou hast said. Liking weighs not
Each several grace it grants, else 'twere no liking;
So, my good Leicester, we'll towards Fotheringay.

[Leicester throws himself at her feet; the curtain falls.