University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene 1.

A park outside of Fotheringay Castle; a distant prospect. Enter hastily Mary; Kennedy following her.
KENNEDY.
Whither so fast, madam? You almost run;
I'm cramp'd with age and lack of exercise;
You fly, my old joints ache to follow you

MARY.
Over the greensward, oh, let my feet stray,
Light wing'd with joy as in childhood's bright day;
Cast off thy age as I wipe off my tears.
Have I come forth from that prison of years?
Has the dark vault yielded up its sad prey?
Do I once more greet the splendour of day?
Oh, let me, 'scaped from that den of despair,
Drink in long draughts the free heavenly air.

KENNEDY.
O my beloved mistress—out, alas!
Your prison bounds are but a little widen'd;
You do not see the walls that shut you in
Because the green boughs hide them.

MARY.
Bless them!
Oh, bless them that they hide my prison from me!
Let me dream out my dream of joy, dear Kennedy!
Bid me not wake to weep—I've wept so long!
Above my head the boundless heavens bend smiling,
My eyes roam far, far o'er the distant prospect!
See there! there, yonder! where the misty mountains
Melt in the hazy sky! Beyond lies Scotland—
My land, my home, my kingdom! Look! the clouds
Are hastening to the south, across the sea
They go towards France! look! look! they go towards France!
Fast sailing vapours, ye ships of the air,
Whom are ye steer'd by?—who do ye bear?
Ah, greet for me the sweet home of my youth—
Straight bound in fetters, a pris'ner I lie—
Be ye my envoys, bright clouds of the sky!
Free through the free air ye wing your swift way,
England's proud queen over you holds no sway.

KENNEDY.
Madam! good madam!—finding suddenly
Her long lost freedom, she has lost herself!

MARY.
See on the beach rocks the fisherman's boat!
Oh! on that poor wretched skiff could I float
Far from these shores to a friendlier strand;
Hardly it yields to its owner's hard hand
Bread, with sore toil—I would heap it with gold,
Once should his nets gather treasure untold,
Might but his boat bear me off from this land!

KENNEDY.
Wild hopeless vision! see you not from far
That we are watch'd and follow'd? instant ruin
Glares on each thing that would show pity to us,
And scares it from our path.

MARY.
No, no, good Hannah!
Trust me, my prison bars have not in vain
Open'd themselves at last to let me forth.
This favour shown me is the gracious harbinger
Of justice and of right. It is no mockery;
I know the dear and powerful hand that thus
Gently is drawing me from out my dungeon;
I know it is the might of love, and Leicester,
That loosens thus my bitter prison cords;
They will be slacken'd day by day, until
In a blessed hour they fall away from me,
And I shall be free!

KENNEDY.
And yet I cannot
Make match these contradictions! Yesterday,
Death was announced to you, death close at hand;
'Tis true, indeed, their shackles are struck off,
Who stand on the threshold of eternal freedom.

[Horns in the forest.
MARY.
Hear'st thou the hunter's horn? hear'st thou it ringing
Cheerily sounding through forest and fell?
Oh, on my good horse once more to be springing
Far, far away, over mountain and dell!
Oh! what a doleful echo doth it wake,
That merry music! On the hills of Scotland,
Over the golden gorse and purple heather,
The live-long day how I have followed it!

[Enter Paulet.
PAULET.
Now, Madam! will you say at last, ‘Well done,’
And give me once your thanks?

MARY.
How, sir?—what mean you?
Is it to you I owe this hour of life?—
To you?

PAULET.
I do believe so; to the queen
I gave your letter.

MARY.
You did give it her
To her own hand—indeed—and this great boon
Was thus won for me?

PAULET.
Nor this boon alone,
Be you prepared to welcome a yet greater.

MARY.
A greater boon!—what may this mean?

PAULET.
Do you hear
The hunters' horns in the forest?

MARY.
Sir, you fright me.

PAULET.
The queen is hunting there, and presently
Comes hither.

[Mary falls in the arms of Kennedy.
KENNEDY.
Madam, why, how now, dearest lady?
You are all pale and cold.

PAULET.
What not content!
Falls it not right at last—was't not your suit?
Is't not more quickly granted than you hoped for?
Till now you never lack'd persuasive words.
Do you stand speechless?—now is the very hour
To speak, and to good purpose.

MARY.
Why was I not
Forewarn'd—prepared? Not now—I cannot—no—
I'm lost! I am not mistress of myself—
That which as highest mercy I implored
Fills me with sudden terror and amazement.
Lead me hence, Hannah—my distracted sense
Let me collect.

PAULET.
Nay, madam, you must wait
Her highness here—yet, can I well believe
The sight of your judge appals you.

[Enter Shrewsbury.
MARY.
Not so, sir—
O noble Shrewsbury!—good friend—you're come
Like Heaven's own angel to my utmost need!
I cannot see her—save me—save me from
Her hated aspect—

SHREWSBURY.
I beseech your grace
Come to yourself;—courage, good madam—courage
For 'tis the very hour of fate for you.

MARY.
Oh, I have long'd for it—yearn'd—hunger'd for it—
And wearied God with prayers to bring it on;
For years conn'd o'er my task of humble sueing;
In my long prison nights, said, o'er and o'er,
Each sad and moving plea, wherewith I thought
To touch her heart—it's gone!—it's all forgotten!
Words of entreaty—tears of supplication,
All gone—I can remember nothing,—nothing
But the burning smart of my great injuries!
My heart swells in my breast full of fierce hate—
Of bloody hate—all gentle thoughts forsake me,
And rattling their snaky hair, the furies of hell
Stand round me, yelling frenzy in my ears!

SHREWSBURY.
Madam, for the love of God beat down the rash
Temptation of your agony! Let not the gall
That chokes you, rise to your tongue;—nay, but be patient;
What good can come of it when hate meets hate.
Wrestle, good madam, with your bitterness.
Remember all that hangs on this one hour,
Think of her power, dear queen! and bow yourself.

MARY.
Before her—never!—

SHREWSBURY.
Do it—yea, do it, madam!
Speak to her gently, with self-government;
Be great in patience, and forget your wrongs
Forget your rights too,—this is not the hour,
When they may safely be remember'd by you.

MARY.
I have pull'd down my ruin on my own head:
God curses me with granting of my prayer.
No, we should never meet each other's eyes;
No good can come of it—but dire misfortune.
Water and fire shall lovingly compound,
And wolves and lambs feed friendly side by side,
Ere we can meet in peace; too deep the wound
Has fester'd in my breast,—too heavily
Her iron hand has ground me down. No, never
Can a true reconcilement grow between us.

SHREWSBURY.
Yet stay, and look upon her countenance—
I saw her when from reading of your letter
She raised her eyes, and they were full of tears;
She is not flinty-hearted. Good your grace!
Yourself had gentler thoughts when you writ to her.
That you should dress your speech in kindness,
And meet her sisterly, I have hurried hither
To warn you of her coming.

MARY.
Excellent Talbot!
You ever were my friend. Oh, had I ne'er
Been ta'en away from your house—O Shrewsbury!
My heart and soul quail with dismay—

SHREWSBURY.
Forget—
Look not behind—fasten your thoughts alone
On the blest hope this hour may win for you.

MARY.
Comes Burleigh, too—my evil angel, with her?

SHREWSBURY.
None comes but the Earl of Leicester with the queen.

MARY.
Lord Leicester!

SHREWSBURY.
Nothing need you fear from him.
He wills no evil to you—'tis his deed
Her highness hath consented to this meeting.

MARY.
Oh, I was sure of it!

SHREWSBURY.
What say you, madam?

PAULET.
The queen

[All withdraw on one side, except Mary, who remains leaning on Kennedy. Enter Elizabeth and Leicester followed by her train.
ELIZABETH.
What place is this?

LEICESTER.
Fotheringay Castle.

ELIZABETH
(to SHREWSBURY).
Send on our train towards London, sir; the throng
Chokes all the roads and clamours at our heels.
We'll breathe awhile here, in this leafy stillness.
[Talbot dismisses the train. Elizabeth fixes her eyes on Mary, and continues speaking to Paulet.
This is too much; our good folk love us well,
But lack some measure in their show of love.
So men should worship God, not earthly kings;
And such a loyalty smacks of idolatry.

MARY
(who has continued leaning on Kennedy, raises herself, and turning, her eyes encounter the gaze Elizabeth fastens on her: she shudders, and throws herself back on Kennedy).
O God! no heart looks from those horny eyes.

ELIZABETH.
Who is that woman?

LEICESTER.
May it please your majesty,
This place is Fotheringay.

ELIZABETH.
Ha! who has dared
Do this?

LEICESTER.
By Heaven, madam, are you led hither;
And now, let pity have its perfect work.

SHREWSBURY.
Oh, royal lady, be compassionate!
With mercy look on the unfortunate,
Sinking beneath the terrors of your aspect.

ELIZABETH.
Why, how is this, my lords? ye prate to us
Of one bow'd down in lowliness and sorrow,
But we can see nought save a haughty dame,
Whose pride defies sorrow and us.

MARY.
It must be;
To this humility will I constrain myself—
Bow down, proud head; bend, stubborn knees, to the dust;
And thou my throbbing heart, forget—forget.
[She kneels.
Heaven sides with you, my sister; in your fortune,
I honour its inscrutable decrees;
To your prosperity I bow my misery,
And worship in your power the Power that made it.
But now, be merciful as you are great!
Queen, suffer not your hapless kinswoman
To stoop her forehead to the dust in vain:
O sister, reach to me your hand, and raise me.

ELIZABETH.
Heaven judges justly, and has righteously
Assign'd to each of us our rightful place;
And I may thank its mercy, and not yours,
That I am not laid lower even than you.

MARY.
Oh, yet bethink yourself, how change supreme
Rules all the destinies of human fortunes!
God takes delight in humbleness, not pride.
Fear Him, that King of the kings of the earth,
Who casts me prostrate underneath your feet.
For the sake of those who gaze upon us, honour
Yourself in honouring me, and do not shame
The royal blood of Tudor in both our veins:—
O God of heaven! stand not stony thus,
Like to the inaccessible crag, that throws
The drowning wretch that clasps it back again
To the devouring sea; my hope, my fate,
My life, hangs on my might of prayers and tears;
Loose the hard gripe with which you've seized my heart,
Or how can I touch yours! Your icy look
Freezes my senses up; my tears congeal;
My words can find no voice for this cold terror.

ELIZABETH.
What would you say? You have urged speech with me,
And I forget my state and your devices,
And come to hear you plead—yea, sisterly,
To grant the comfort of my sight to you.
Nought have I hearken'd to but the kind counsel
Of pity; and some blame, moreover, bear I,
That I in this too much demean myself,
And run, perhaps, some danger—for my life
Has not been always safe, for your good will.

MARY.
How shall I speak? wherewith shall I begin?
What words shall I choose to soothe and not offend you?
Give me, my God! persuading speech, and blunt
The edge of every sharp, impatient thought,
That she may feel no touch save that of pity!
And yet—and yet—how can I clear myself
And not blame you? It is impossible!
For you have evil dealt with me—indeed
You have. Am I not even as you a queen?
And you have made a wretched prisoner of me.
I came a suppliant to you, and against
The holy human law of hospitality,
And general law of nations, you have kept me
Lock'd in a dungeon; all my friends, my servants,
Have I been cruelly divided from;
Unworthy niggard stint have I endured
In my daily life—before a base tribunal
Have I been dragg'd—Enough! henceforth for ever,
Let thick forgetfulness hide all I've suffer'd!
Nay, fate has been to blame, not you, or I;
Some evil spirit, from the dark depths of hell,
Has had Heaven's leave to sow this hate between us,
And even from our youth set us at discord;
The bitter root grew with our growth, and men
Like devils, fit to work with devils, fann'd
The evil flame with breath accursed; the madness
Of bigot zeal thrust weapons into hands
Unknown to each of us, against the other;
For 'tis the curse of kings, that their disunion
Divides the world, and in a thousand hearts
Their hate begets more hate. But all is over!
No strangeness hides us from each other now,
We look into each other's eyes at last;
Now, speak, good sister! tell me all my faults,
And I will give you ample satisfaction:
Oh, wherefore, long ago—long, long ago—
Did you not grant my earnest prayer to see you?
It had ne'er come to this—never had we had
A meeting such as this, in such a place.

ELIZABETH.
My better angel kept me from the danger
Of taking to my breast the frozen viper;
Blame fate for nothing! blame the bitter grudge
You've ever borne me—your house's mad ambition,
Which enviously hath still waged war against me—
That insolent priest, your uncle's lust of power,
Whose bold hands have been stretch'd towards every crown,
That he might hope to grasp—he 'twas that fool'd you
To the pitch of daring to assume my arms
And style, crazy defiance casting in my teeth.
Whom hath he not made his allies against me?
The voice of the pulpit, and the people's arm,
The death-devoted knife of frantic ecstasy;
Here in my very kingdom, freedom's seat and dwelling-place,
Hath he blown up the fierce flame of sedition.
But God is on my side! the haughty priest
Hath not prevail'd—another aim, I trow,
He reaches, than the one he reckon'd on;
He struck at my head, but he has struck yours.

MARY.
God's will be done! but yet, I do believe
You will not mark so bloodily your victory.

ELIZABETH.
And wherefore shall I not? and who shall hinder me?
Your uncle hath a good example given,
To all the kings of the earth, how foes are dealt with;
His hallowing of St. Bartholomew's day
Is a rare lesson—yea, and I will follow it.
What tell you me of kindred, and of rights,
Relationship of blood, or bond of kingship?
Go to—go to—your Church can loose all ties,
And perjury or regicide make holy;
I will but practise what your priests do preach.
Say rather, if I were to set you free,
With what lock shall I fasten up your faith,
That may not by St. Peter's keys be open'd?
That I do hold you—that, is my only safety;
What compact shall be made with the serpent's seed?

MARY.
This has been still your bitter policy;
As foe and stranger have you always dealt with me.
Had you, according to my right, proclaim'd me,
Your next successor, you had found in me
A loving, faithful friend, and kinswoman.

ELIZABETH.
Treachery is your friendship—the Pope of Rome
Is your only father, and his priests your brothers;
These are your kinsfolk. Yea, forsooth,
Proclaim you my successor! while I yet live,
Give o'er my people to your damnable creed,
And see the noble youth of my realm all snared
By the crafty sorceries of a new Armida;
Direct th'expecting gaze of my whole kingdom
To the rising sun, while I—

MARY.
Reign, reign in peace!
All claim to your succession I forego;
My spirit's wings are lame and shatter'd—never
Towards any noble aim shall they soar again;
You have your will of me—alas! I am
No more but the shadow of poor Mary Stuart!
My heart is broken by long prison sorrow.
You have done your utmost—in my flow'r of life
You have struck me down, and I shall bloom no more.
Now, make an end my sister! Speak at last
The word you are come to speak—for I will not think
You have come hither but to mock my ruin;
Pronounce it royally at once:—‘You're free;
My power have you felt, now know my mercy.’
Say it—oh, say it! and my life and freedom
Even as a boon, I will receive from you!
One word can give me both—I wait for it;
Let me not wait too long, or wait in vain.
Woe be to you if with that word of mercy,
This dreadful conference does not end!—if you
Depart not like an angel, leaving blessings,
Look you not for the glory of your kingdom;
Nay, not for all the kingdoms of the earth
Would I be what you then would seem to me.

ELIZABETH.
So, then! you own yourself at length o'ercome!
Are all your practices spent? what, no more murders
Hatching? what, not one wild adventurer left
To lift his lance in hopeless battle for you?
Yea, you have said it, all is over now;
And I think well, the world hath other cares,
And worthier, than you, or your lost fortunes.
I think your means of mischief are worn out;
No, no, you will snare no more of my subjects' hearts
With your spent spells; nor will you readily find
One who shall covet to be your fourth husband,
Or your next champion—for you're deadly to them
Alike.

MARY.
God give me patience! sister—sister—

ELIZABETH.
So these, my Lord of Leicester, are the graces
That no man without love might look upon,
Or woman without envy!—verily,
We know of old the worth of general rumour;
But there's some justice in its lying here—
A liberal life trumpets a comeliness
That might have lack'd renown wedded to modesty;
A common fame becomes a common beauty.

MARY.
This is too much!—

ELIZABETH.
Ah! now we see at last
The proper face! before 'twas but a mask.

MARY.
Beware lest ever yours should fall—beware!
Humanly and in youthful heat I sinn'd,
Tempted alike by power and by weakness;
'Tis true, I have not hidden or denied it;
No base pretences have I stoop'd to wear
To cover what was ill in me—the worst
That can be known of me, the world doth know,
And I dare say, I'm better than it counts me.
Take heed if ever from your life be stripp'd
The goodly cloak of decency that hides
The hidden fires of secret lust—take heed!
Your chastity comes not by inheritance,
For it is known what virtues led your mother,
Anne Bullen, to the block.

SHREWSBURY.
O Heaven! what words—
Is this your humbleness—is this your patience?

MARY.
Patience! have I not borne what may be borne
By mortal flesh and blood—patience! away,
Away to Heaven long-suffering, meek humility;
From thy deep hell come forth, imprison'd hate;
And thou, who to the enraged basilisk
Hast given its deadly glance, make thou my tongue
A poison'd dart, to pierce that stony breast!

SHREWSBURY.
Oh she is mad! forgive her—heed her not—
Listen not to the ravings of her frenzy.

LEICESTER.
Hence, madam, hence from this accursed place!

MARY.
A bastard fills the royal seat of England,
And cheats the loyal-hearted English people!
Had fate been just, usurper! you had been
A suppliant at my feet—and I, your queen.

[Exeunt hurriedly Elizabeth, Shrewsbury, and Leicester.
KENNEDY.
What have you done! oh, miserable princess!
She goes in frenzy hence who ne'er forgives.

MARY.
I have struck home! the venom's in her heart!
My tears, my sorrows, my despair, my shame,
Her tyranny, her hate, her insolent scorn,
The bitterness of years—I've heaved it off;
The debt of half a life of injuries,
I have paid it with a word! oh, let me breathe!

KENNEDY.
Before her lover's eyes you have debased her.

MARY.
Before my lover's eyes I've humbled her;
His presence lifted me above myself,
And as I hurl'd defiance at my rival,
Leicester stood by and own'd me for his queen.

[Enter Mortimer; he signs to Kennedy, who withdraws: his whole demeanour is wild and reckless.
KENNEDY.
Oh, sir, here's goodly work!

MORTIMER.
I heard it all.
[Exit Kennedy.
Thine is the triumph! in the dust she grovell'd
Before thy scathing scorn—thine is the victory!
Thou art the queen—the trembling traitor, she.
Thy lovely valour hath inflamed my soul.
I worship thee! yea, a divinity
Art thou to my adoring eyes!

MARY.
You spake
With the Earl of Leicester? to his hand deliver'd
My ring—my letter? Good sir, answer me.

MORTIMER.
How thy bright dazzling wrath flash'd round thy beauty!
Thou art the fairest woman of the whole earth!

MARY.
Nay, I beseech you satisfy my doubts.
What said Lord Leicester?—what have I to hope?

MORTIMER.
Who? he?—the miserable dastard!—he?
Hope nought from him—despise him and forget him.

MARY.
What say you!

MORTIMER.
He deliver—he possess thee!
Why let him! but for life and death with me
Must he struggle first.

MARY.
Then you gave him my ring?
My letter?—all is over.

MORTIMER.
He would live,—
The coward loves his life; who rescues thee
And calls thee his, must have the heart to die.

MARY.
He will not venture for me?

MORTIMER.
Think not on him!
What can he do another may not dare?
Alone I'll save thee—I—

MARY.
What is't you say?

MORTIMER.
Cheat not thyself with idle hopes and dreams;
To-day it stands no more with thee as yesterday.
When the queen parted hence, and your fierce conference
Ended, the end of all was come for thee.
All 's over—every gate of mercy barr'd:
But deeds may yet avail,—daring prevail;
Who may win all may fairly venture all;
Thou shalt be free before to-morrow's dawn.

MARY.
To-night!—this very night!—to-night!

MORTIMER.
Give heed
To what we have done: within a secret chapel
I have assembled those who've sworn to save thee.
A priest took off its burthen from each soul;
For our past sins we have had absolution,
And for all those this enterprise may cost us;
The holy sacrament have we received,
And we are ready for the path of death.

MARY.
Terrible preparation!

MORTIMER.
This midnight
We shall possess the castle—of whose keys
I am already master; they who watch thee
Shall sleep once and for ever; from thy chamber
Myself will bear thee; and that no tongue may tell
What any eye beheld, no living soul
Shall witness to the morrow of that night.

MARY.
And Drury—Paulet—my stern prison-keepers?
Think you they will not be beforehand with you?

MORTIMER.
They'll be the first to fall beneath my dagger.

MARY.
O Heavens, your uncle!

MORTIMER.
I will murder him.

MARY.
Oh, bloody horror!

MORTIMER.
I have absolution
Beforehand for all deeds; the worst of horrors
No more appals me.

MARY.
What a savage frenzy!

MORTIMER.
If the lot to stab Elizabeth falls to me,
I'll do it; I have sworn it on the host.

MARY.
Never for me shall flow such streams of blood!

MORTIMER.
Whose blood, whose life is anything to me,
Weigh'd with thy life, thy love? Nay, let the earth
Lurch from its moorings, and a second deluge
Sweep all things breathing back into one chaos,
Ere I forego my purpose! ere I lose thee
Let universal doom seize the whole world!

MARY.
Merciful Heaven! what words and what a look—
Terror and shame creep like a palsy o'er me.

MORTIMER.
Life's but a moment, death is but another.
Let me be dragg'd to Tyburn, limb from limb
Let their hot pincers tear me,—what care I?
So first I may but clasp thee—

MARY.
Traitor—back!

MORTIMER.
Upon thy breast—from thy love-breathing lips—

MARY.
In the name of God—release me—let me go!

MORTIMER.
Nay, he is mad who clutches not the bliss
Fate gives into his grasp. I'll set thee free;
And if it cost a thousand lives, I'll free thee.
I've sworn it, and I'll do it; but as God lives
If I rescue thee I will possess thee too.

MARY.
All holy saints and angels save—defend me!
Terrible destiny! how am I flung
From one abyss to another! Was I born
To inspire nought but frenzy? Are hate and love
Banded alike against me? Sir, have mercy—

MORTIMER.
Yea, fiercely as men hate, do I love thee!
They'll murder thee, with the sharp shearing axe
They'll sever that delicate throat so dazzling white;
Oh, give thou to the god of joy—to love—
What bloody hate will claim for sacrifice!
With thy warm beauty—thine no more, but death's—
Bless, while thou canst, the slave that worships thee:
With the shining threads of thy golden, glossy hair,
Bind thou in everlasting chains my soul.

MARY.
Must I hear this, and bear it! Sir, my misery
Should make me sacred to you; my great misery,
If not my royal blood, should you respect.

MORTIMER.
The crown is fallen from thy brow; no majesty
Of earthly pow'r enshrines thee now; yet speak
One royal bidding more, and call me thine—
Thy servant—thy preserver! Nought remains to thee
But thy sweet beauty's might of loveliness,
That bids me dare and venture all things for it—
That drives me willingly to the foot of the block

MARY.
Who shall deliver me from my deliverer?

MORTIMER.
A desperate service claims a desperate meed,
Else wherefore doth the hero spill his blood?
To live is not the highest joy of life,
Yet is he mad that gives his life for nothing.
Before I die I'll sleep upon thy heart—

MARY.
I must call out for help against this man—
My only friend!

MORTIMER.
Thou art not cold and hard;
The world has never held thee for unyielding.
The Italian Rizzio didst thou lift to heaven,
And that dark Bothwell clasp'd thee in his arms.

MARY.
Audacious slave!

MORTIMER.
He was thy tyrant; fear
Ev'n more than love did yield thee up to him;
Then, if by terror thou mayst yet be won,
By the God of heaven and hell—

MARY.
Peace, madman, peace!

MORTIMER.
Before me shalt thou tremble—

KENNEDY
(rushing in).
They come! they come!
They are at hand—arm'd men; the park is full of them!

MORTIMER.
Oh, fear not; I'll defend thee.

MARY.
Save me, Hannah!
Save me from him! Oh, miserable, whither
Shall I turn for refuge—seek for shelter?
Insult and violence here, and yonder death.

[She faints. Hannah carries her out. Paulet and Drury rush in. Armed men cross the stage hastily.
PAULET.
Close all the gates, and pull the drawbridge up!

MORTIMER.
Why, how now, uncle!

PAULET.
Where is the murderess?
Hence with her, down to the deepest dungeon vault.

MORTIMER.
Speak—say—what has befallen?

PAULET.
The queen! the queen!
Accursed blow—devilish design! the queen!

MORTIMER.
The queen! which queen?

PAULET.
England's Elizabeth;
She has been murder'd on the road to London!

[He rushes out.
MORTIMER.
Am I gone mad?—came there not even now
One by me crying out ‘The queen is murder'd?’
Nay, but I dream; a sudden fever fit
Brings that as palpable truth before my senses,
With which the swarming thoughts of my soul are full.
Who comes?—O'Kelly; his aspect's full of terror.

[Enter O'Kelly.
O'KELLY.
Fly, Mortimer, fly! All's lost!

MORTIMER.
What's lost?

O'KELLY.
Be brief
In questioning, and think of present means of flight.

MORTIMER.
Speak, man.

O'KELLY.
That madman Savage struck the blow.

MORTIMER.
Then it is true?

O'KELLY.
True, true, and therefore fly.

MORTIMER.
She's dead! and Mary mounts the throne of England!

O'KELLY.
Dead! who has said so?

MORTIMER.
Thou thyself, this instant.

O'KELLY.
She lives; and thou, and I, and all of us
Are dead!

MORTIMER.
She lives!

O'KELLY.
Th'accurs'd knife glanced aside,
And Shrewsbury seized it from the wretch's hand.

MORTIMER.
She lives!

O'KELLY.
To doom us to ten thousand tortures!
Come, come,—the park's already guarded round.

MORTIMER.
Who did this goodly work?

O'KELLY.
The Barnabite
From Toulon; he that was with us in the chapel,
And lost in thought sat listening, while the priest
Read out the anathema, wherewith the pope
Had excommunicated England's queen.
He thought to find a readier, shorter way,
With one bold blow to free the Church from thrall,
Or seize the crown of martyrdom himself;
To the priest alone he utter'd his design,
Which on the London road he meant t'accomplish.

MORTIMER
(after a long pause).
Oh, thou art hunted by a pitiless fate,
Thou hapless one!—now must thou die indeed;
For thy own angel has prepared thy ruin.

O'KELLY.
Say, whither wilt thou fly? To Scotland I;
To the heather hills and black pine woods for refuge.

MORTIMER.
Fly, and may God be with thee in thy flight!
I stay—something may yet be tried to save her,
If not, I can lie down and die upon her bier.

[Exeunt.