University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene 1.

The same scene as during the First Act. Hannah Kennedy in deep mourning; her eyes are red with weeping, and her whole deportment indicating a deep but calm affliction, is busied sealing letters and packets. She occasionally interrupts herself to weep, and sometimes suspends her occupation, to pray. Paulet and Drury also attired in black enter, followed by a number of servants carrying gold and silver vessels, mirrors, pictures, and other costly objects, and place them at the back of the stage. Paulet delivers to Hannah a jewel casket, and a paper, indicating by a gesture, that the latter contains an inventory of the things collected together. At the sight of these Hannah's grief becomes more poignant; she sinks down overcome with sorrow, while the others silently withdraw. Enter Melvil. Kennedy, perceiving him, shrieks.
KENNEDY.
Melvil, 'tis you! once more do I behold you.

MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.

KENNEDY.
After this long and bitter separation—

MELVIL.
We are rewarded by this bitter meeting.

KENNEDY.
O God, then you are come—

MELVIL.
To take my last,
My everlasting farewell of my queen.

KENNEDY.
To-day at last—to-day, when she must die,
The sight of her faithful servants long denied,
Is now vouchsafed to her. O worthiest sir!
I will not ask how it has fared with you,
I dare not tell how it has fared with us.
Ah! there will come an hour for that sad story.
O Melvil, that we e'er were born to see
The dreadful dawn of such a day as this!

MELVIL.
Let us not with vain tears weaken each other;
Yea, I will weep to the latest hour I live;
Never will I put off death's dismal livery,
Nor ever shall a smile brighten my face.
After to-day I'll weep all days away,
But for to-day, I will not shed one tear;
I will be stedfast—and be you so too,
I pray you; and, howe'er the rest do bear them,
Let us, with faithful fortitude, support
Our mistress' steps, on the dark road to death.

KENNEDY.
Melvil, you are deceived if you believe
The queen doth need our help to perish nobly.
She holds a dauntless pattern to us all,
And Mary Stuart dies a royal heroine.

MELVIL.
How did she bear the tidings of her doom?
'Tis said she barely was allow'd due warning.

KENNEDY.
No, truly was she not; far other fears
Ruffled our lady's breast; not at her death,
But at her bold deliverer she trembled.
Freedom was sworn to us; this very night,
Mortimer should have borne us from this place,
And between fear and hope, trembling and doubting
Whether her royal person and sacred honour
To trust to the daring youth—in fears like these,
The queen sat palely, watching for the dawn.
A sudden uproar sounded through the castle,
Knocking and heavy hammering reached our ears
We thought the hour of our deliverance come,
Hope sprang a-tiptoe, and sweet love of freedom
Rush'd irresistible through every heart;
The doors flew wide, and Paulet stood before us—
And told us that the sounds beneath our feet
Was the noise of building up the hideous scaffold.

[She turns from him, weeping bitterly.
MELVIL.
Merciful Heaven! oh tell me, how endured
The queen this dreadful change from life to death?

KENNEDY
(after a pause in which she collects herself).
Suddenly—without pause—in one dire moment,
The change smote her from that which is of time,
To what eternal is; God gave her grace
In this one instant bravely back to thrust
All earthly hope, and with a stedfast soul,
Made strong by faith, to seize at once on heaven.
No dastard hue of fear, no weak complaint,
Disgraced our queen: only, when first she heard
Lord Leicester's villainous treason, and the fate
Of the true-hearted youth murder'd for her,
And saw the sorrow of his poor old uncle,
Whose latest hope died in his death—then only
The tears flow'd forth, and not for her own fate,
But for the suffering of her enemy.

MELVIL.
Where is she? May I not behold her face?

KENNEDY.
The rest of the night she spent in fervent prayer—
She wrote farewells to her nearest friends and kindred.
And with a firm hand drew her latest testament.
Now she is taking a few moments' rest—
Her last of earthly sleep now gently soothes her.

MELVIL.
Who stays by her?

KENNEDY.
Burgoyne, her highness' leech,
And the women of her chamber.
[Enter Margaret Kurl.
How now, Kurl,
Is our mistress risen?

KURL.
Up, and already dress'd;
She asks for you.

KENNEDY.
I come; nay, follow not,
I must prepare our lady for your sight.
[Exit Kennedy.

KURL.
Melvil! her highness' Master of the Household.

MELVIL.
The same.

KURL.
Alas! nor house nor household more.
Melvil, you come from London; of my husband
Bring you no tidings?

MELVIL.
Yes, he will be free,
So runs the rumour—when—

KURL.
The queen is dead.
The shameless traitor! e'en by him alone
Is our dear lady murder'd; his false witness
Drags her to death!

MELVIL.
'Tis even so.

KURL.
A curse
Deeper than hell seize on his traitor's soul!
For he hath lied, and is a murderer.

MELVIL.
Take heed to your words.

KURL.
Before their judgment seat
I'll swear and prove it—cast it in his teeth,
And fill the whole world with his infamy.
She's innocent!

MELVIL.
God grant she may be so!

[Enter Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE.
Melvil!

MELVIL.
Burgoyne!

[They embrace.
BURGOYNE.
Good mistress Margaret,
Fetch hither for her grace a cup of wine.

MELVIL.
How?—is she sick?

BURGOYNE.
Nay—strong, and of good cheer,
And saith she hath no need to break her fast;
But she has yet much terror to encounter,
And it shall ne'er be said by those who hate her,
That the grim sight of death whitens her cheeks,
When nature fails alone in physical strength.

[Enter Kennedy.
Melvil.
Now will she see me?

KENNEDY.
You shall see her straight.
You gaze around you with astonishment,
And in your glance I read what moves your wonder;
Costly appliances for easy life,
And all these shining precious baubles, gather'd
In the black house of doom. O sir! while living,
Stint and privation daily she endured;
Plenty and splendour have come here with death.

[Enter two of the queen's women dressed in mourning: at the sight of Melvil they break out in weeping.
MELVIL.
Oh, fatal day! oh, what a meeting, Gertrude!
Rosamond!

FIRST LADY.
She hath sent us all away.
Alone, for the last time, she seeks her God.

[Enter Margaret Kurl with a goblet of wine; she sets it on a table, and falls pale and trembling into a chair.
MELVIL.
What ails you, mistress? What new woe befalls us?

KURL.
O God!

BURGOYNE.
What is't?

KURL.
Great God, what have I seen!

MELVIL.
Nay, but compose yourself and speak: what is it?

KURL.
As in my hand the wine goblet I bore,
And slowly mounted the great stairs that lead
From the hall below, a door was open'd wide,
And I beheld—O God! I saw—

MELVIL.
Speak—what?

KURL.
The walls all hung with black; a mighty scaffold,
All wrapped in black, reared itself from the floor;
In the midst a cushion, block, and glittering axe.
The hall was filled with men, who round the scaffold
Thronging, with bloody looks stood greedily,
Waiting their victim.

ROSAMOND.
God have mercy on her!

MELVIL.
Peace now, control yourselves, she comes!

[Enter Mary, splendidly dressed in white; round her neck, fastened to a chain of precious stones, is an Agnus Dei; a rosary hangs at her girdle; she holds a crucifix in her hand; a diadem is on her head, and a long black veil is thrown back from her hair; when she enters, all the others divide on either side, giving signs of the bitterest grief. Melvil, overcome with sorrow, has sunk upon his knee.
MARY
(gazing round the circle with a calm serenity).
Wherefore lament ye? Wherefore weep ye? Rather
Rejoice with me, that my long race of misery
At length is run. My chains have fallen off,
My prison gates stand wide, and my glad soul
On angels' wings soars to eternal freedom!
When to mine enemy's hand I was deliver'd
To endure unworthy insult and contempt,
And thraldom, shameful for a free-born queen—
Then ye did well to weep. Oh, weep not now!
Beneficent and healing, Death draws near,
That solemn friend, under whose sable wings
My sorrow shall lie hid for evermore.
From my deep humiliation honour springs,
Upon my head again I feel my crown,
And in my soul once more a royal pride.
[Seeing Melvil.
How, Melvil here! nay, not so. Good, good Melvil,
Stand up, for to thy queen's last earthly triumph
Thou 'rt come—not to her death. Oh, praised be God
For this unlook'd-for mercy! In this hour
My fame shall not lie in mine enemy's mouth.
Beside me in mine agony shall stand
One witness for me, unto whom I'm known.
Oh, tell me, Melvil, how has all fared with thee
In this unfriendly and ungodly land,
Since thou wert banish'd from thy poor queen's sight?
The thought of thee has ofttimes made me woe.

MELVIL.
I have known but one hardship—only one—
That I no more might see you, gracious mistress!

MARY.
How is it with Didier, my faithful chamberlain?
But I bethink me—it is well with him;
He was an old man; doubtless he is dead.

MELVIL.
God has not granted him so great a mercy;
He lives to weep on your untimely bier.

MARY.
Alas! before I die, not to have known
The joy of clasping one beloved head,
Or strain'd the hand of one of mine own kindred.
But it is well; 'mongst strangers I shall die,
And see at least no other tears but yours.
Melvil, my latest wishes for my loved ones
I lay within your faithful breast:—I bless
My brother-in-law the Most Christian King of France,
And the whole royal house of France I greet;
My uncle cardinal I reverently bless,
And Henry of Guise, my ever noble cousin;
I bless the pope, the holy vicar of Christ,
Who will send back his precious blessing to me;
And the Most Catholic King of Spain, who nobly
Offer'd himself my champion and avenger.
All of them are remember'd in my will;
Nor will they the last tokens of my love
Value the less that they are poor in value.
[Turning to her servants.
I have commended your forlorn estate
To the King of France, my royal brother, who
Will care for you and find you another home.
Tarry not here; let no proud English eyes
Feed their disdain with sight of your despair;
Nor in the dust behold who did me service.
Even by this image of the Crucified
Promise me all to leave this fatal land
So soon as I shall have gone hence for ever.

MELVIL
(laying his hand on the crucifix).
I swear it, in the name of all of these!

MARY.
Beggar'd as I am, all that remains to me—
All that I yet have leave to call my own—
I have divided to you; and I trust
That my last will shall meet with due respect.
These, the sad trappings of my death journey,
I do but borrow. Lend me but once more
Earth's poor adornings, on my way to heav'n.
[To her younger women.
To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamond,
I do bequeath my pearls and my attirings;
Such baubles well become your youthful years.
[To Kurl.
Margaret, thou hast the first claim on my bounty,
For thou of all I part from art the saddest.
That I do not avenge on thee the guilt
Of thy unhappy husband, thou wilt find
By my bequest. My dearest, truest Hannah!
What are to thee jewels of price or gold?
To thee I leave my last remembrance—take
This handkerchief; I have with mine own hand
Wrought it for thee, in my long prison hours;
And many of my tears are therein woven.
Over my eyes bind thou this handkerchief—
When it is time. This last and dearest office
Will I receive from thee, my faithful Hannah.

KENNEDY.
O Melvil, how shall I endure—

MARY.
Come now,
Come all of ye, and take my last farewell!
Fare thee well Margaret, and farewell my Alice;
Thanks, Burgoyne, for thy true and faithful service.
Thy lips are burning hot, poor Gertrude! Oh,
Sore hated have I been—but well loved, too;
Some noble-minded man shall be thy mate,
Whose love shall give thy warm heart happiness.
My Bertha, thou hast chosen the better part,
And Heaven's holy bride shalt thou become.
Haste thou thy sacred calling to fulfil.
How treacherous are the blessings of this earth
Learn from thy queen. Enough; now all is over—
Farewell! farewell! for ever fare ye well!

[She turns herself quickly from them. Exeunt all but Melvil.
MARY.
Thus have I set my earthly house in order,
And hope in debt to no one to depart
Out of this world. One thing alone remains,
Melvil—one thing which the yet fetter'd soul
Craves ere it soars in joy and freedom hence.

MELVIL.
Utter your wish; lighten your loaded heart.
To your true friend and servant speak your care.

MARY.
I stand upon the threshold of eternity;
Before the Almighty Judge soon must I stand;
And yet I have not made my last atonement.
No priest of our Holy Church has access to me;
And from the hand of a false priest I loathe
To take the holy bread of the Eucharist.
In the true faith of my own Church I die,
That can alone give peace unto my soul.

MELVIL.
Then bid your heart be still. Heaven will accept
Your deep desire ev'n as its own fulfilment.
The pow'r of tyrants can but bind our hands;
The soul on its own longing springs to God.
The letter is dead; the spirit, the spirit lives!

MARY.
True, Melvil; but, alas! 'tis not enough;
Weak earthly faith craves for an earthly sign,
By which it makes Heaven's highest boon its own.
For this God became man; for this is clothed
The invisible and heavenly gift of grace,
Mysteriously in an outward visible form.
Our Church alone, the high, the holy one,
Builds up the ladder that we climb to heaven,
The universal Catholic Church, well named!
For the faith of all grows faith of each.
There thousands pray and worship; there the flame
Of adoration glows; and, rapt on wings
Of fire, the spirit is borne away to heaven.
Ah, blessed they! to whom the joy is given
To kneel together in God's holy house!
Deck'd is the altar, and the tapers burning;
Solemnly toll the bells; the incense rises;
The bishop, radiant in his sacred vestments,
Takes forth the cup and blesses it; and lo!
The ineffable wonder of miraculous change!
Prone on the earth before their present God
The people fall, believing and adoring.
Me miserable! I alone am barr'd;
Heaven's gracious gift to all reaches not me.

MELVIL.
Yea, it doth reach thee—yea, it is beside thee.
Trust the All Powerful! the wither'd staff
Can in the hand of faith put forth fresh buds;
And He that from the rock smote living waters
Can in thy prison build Himself an altar,
And change this cup of corporal refreshment
To one that shall give quickening to thy soul.

[He takes the cup from the table.
MARY.
What say'st thou, Melvil? Yea, I comprehend thee.
No priest, no Church, no sacrament is here;
Yet hath my Saviour spoken it—‘When two
Or three are gather'd in My name together,
There am I in the midst.’ The Lord hath said it.
What matters, then, the priest, to the pure heart,
And to th'unspotted soul! Be thou to me,
Though unordain'd a priest, God's messenger,
Bringing me peace; to thee will I confess
Myself of all my sins, and from thy lips
Will I receive my latest absolution.

MELVIL.
Since thus thy soul, mightily urged, doth urge thee,
Know, queen, that to thy comfort God hath wrought
Another wonder. No priest, no Church is here,
No sacrament say'st thou? Yea, but the Priest
And Sacrificial God are present here.
[He uncovers his head, and shows the tonsure, and also discovers the holy wafer in a golden casket.
I am a consecrated priest: to hear
Thy last confession, and on death's drear path
To bring thee peace, have I upon my head
Received the sevenfold sign; and this blest bread—
By the Holy Father blest—I bring to thee.

MARY.
Oh, even on the threshold of grim death
I meet a heavenly joy prepared for me!
Hither th'immortal minister descends
On golden clouds—as erst the glorious angel
Who set the Apostle from his fetters free!
Him can no bolt oppose, no gaoler's sword;
Through close-barr'd portals in his might he walks,
And 'mid the deepest dungeon darkness shines.
Even so hath Heaven's messenger surprised me,
By every earthly friend left and betray'd;
And thou, my servant once, art now become
Servant of the living God, who speaks through thee.
As wont thy knees of yore to bend to me,
So in the dust I now to thee bow down.

[She falls on her knees.
MELVIL
(making the sign of the cross over her).
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
Queen Mary, hast thou search'd thy heart? Swear'st thou
The truth to utter to the God of truth?

MARY.
My heart lies open before thee and Him.

MELVIL.
Speak, what offence doth conscience point to thee
Unreconciled since thou didst last confess?

MARY.
My heart hath been brim full of cankerous hate;
Fierce thoughts of vengeance in my breast have burn'd;
For God's forgiveness, sinner! I dared hope,
And could not mine own fellow-sinner pardon.

MELVIL.
Dost thou repent this sin? Art thou resolved
In charity with all to leave this earth?

MARY.
Yea, as I hope by God to be forgiven.

MELVIL.
What other sin cries from thy heart against thee?

MARY.
Ah, not through hate alone, through sinful love
Have I offended even yet more deeply.
My foolish heart was riveted to one
Who hath betray'd and utterly forsaken me.

MELVIL.
Dost thou repent this sin, and is thy heart
Turn'd from its idol-worship back to God?

MARY.
Harder than all the rest, that strife is over,
And riven in twain is this last earthly tie.

MELVIL.
What more against thee doth thy conscience witness?

MARY.
An early stain of blood, long since absolved,
Rises again to fill me with new terrors;
Now in this hour of supreme reckoning
The murky shadow darkens Heaven's doors—
The king, my husband, gave I up to murder,
And paid th'assassin with my heart and hand;
Sorely with holiest rites I made atonement,
But in my soul th'undying worm still gnaws.

MELVIL.
Does thy heart challenge thee for other sins
Not yet confess'd by thee, not yet absolved?

MARY.
Thou knowest all—thou hast my soul's whole burthen.

MELVIL.
To the Omniscient think how near thou art;
Think of the sentence of our holy Church
Against untrue confession—that it is
The sin to everlasting doom decreed,
The awful sin against the Holy Ghost.

MARY.
So may the Everlasting mercy grant me
Victory in death as I have kept back nothing.

MELVIL.
How! wilt thou, then, deny to God the crime
For which the wrath of man is wreak'd upon thee?
Nought hast thou utter'd of thy partnership
In Babington's and Parry's bloody treason?
For this must thou abide thine earthly death;
But wilt thou dare for this thy death eternal?

MARY.
Lo, I am ready for eternity;
Though I should stand before God's judgment seat
Before the minute hand moved on the dial,
Still have I nought to say but—all is said.

MELVIL.
Beware! the heart is desperately deceitful;
Hast thou not with a cunning double drift
Forborne to utter words that might condemn thee,
While in thy soul thou didst partake the guilt?
But be thou sure no craft can now conceal
Thy inmost thoughts from the searching eye of Heaven.

MARY.
All Europe's sovereigns have I call'd upon
To set me free from these unworthy fetters;
But never, or by word or deed, have I
Aim'd at the life of her, mine enemy.

MELVIL.
Thy secretary, then, hath borne false witness?

MARY.
What I have said is true—what he has sworn
Be God the judge of!

MELVIL.
Then thou goest hence
Firm in thine innocence, to mount the scaffold.

MARY.
God grant me grace that this unmerited doom
May atone the heavy blood-guilt of my youth.

MELVIL.
Depart in peace, and, dying, be thou purified!
Fall at the altar a self-offer'd sacrifice!
Blood may atone the guilt of blood-shedding;
Womanly frailty hath undone thee here,
But in the everlasting realms of light
No mortal stain clings to the blessed spirit.
Strong in the strength that is bestow'd on me
To bind and to unloose, I here pronounce
Of all thy sins the plenary absolution;
Be it unto thee according to thy faith.
[He gives her the wafer.
Take, eat this body offer'd up for thee—
[He takes the cup of wine from the table, and offers it to her; she hesitates, and waves it from her.
Take, drink this blood that has been shed for thee—
Take it; the pope allows thee this great favour,
In death shalt thou enjoy the highest privilege
Of kings, the holy priesthood's special right.
[She drinks from the cup.
And as thou now in this thy earthly body,
Mysteriously art to thy God united,
So mayst thou in the realms of heav'nly joy,
Where is no guilt, nor any weeping more,
A fair and glorious angel be united
To the bless'd host of the redeem'd for ever!

[He sets down the cup. A noise is heard without. Melvil covers his head and goes to the door; while Mary remains on her knees absorbed in prayer.
MELVIL.
A struggle sharp and fierce awaits thee yet;
Hast thou the strength to conquer every throb
Of bitterness and hatred?

MARY.
I fear nothing:
My love and hate are offer'd up to God.

MELVIL.
Be ready to receive the Lords of Leicester
And Burleigh; they are at hand.

[Enter Leicester, Burleigh, and Paulet; the first remains in the background with his eyes cast down; Burleigh, who observes his demeanour, advances between him and the queen.
BURLEIGH.
I am come, Lady Stuart,
To receive your last commands.

MARY.
My lord, I thank you.

BURLEIGH.
It is the will of our gracious queen, that nothing
Within the scope of reason be denied you.

MARY.
My will contains my latest wishes; that
I have committed to Sir Amias Paulet;
I trust it will be faithfully fulfill'd.

PAULET.
Be sure it shall.

MARY.
I beg that all my servants
Be left in freedom to return to Scotland,
Or else to France, as they themselves desire.

BURLEIGH.
That shall be as you wish.

MARY.
And since my body
Must not be laid in consecrated ground,
Let these my faithful followers be allow'd
To bear my heart to France, to my own kindred.
Ah, it dwelt ever there!

BURLEIGH.
It shall be done:
Have you bethought you—

MARY.
To the queen of England,
Carry a sister's greeting from me—for my death
Tell her I do forgive her heartily,
And for my passionate words of yesterday
Heartily beg her pardon. God preserve her!
And send her happily to reign!

BURLEIGH.
Have you, madam,
Bethought you better of the chaplain's presence?

MARY.
I have made my peace with heaven. Sir Amias Paulet,
Innocently I have caused you heavy grief,
And robb'd you of the prop of your old age;
Oh, let me hope you will not curse my memory!

PAULET
(gives her his hand).
May God be with you, and go hence in peace!

[Hannah Kennedy, and the queen's women rush in with signs of terror; they are followed by the Sheriff with his wand of office; a guard of armed men is seen through the open door.
MARY.
What ails thee, Hannah? ay—even so—is't time?
The sheriff comes to marshal me to death;
And it must be fulfill'd—farewell! farewell!

[The women cling round her with passionate grief.
MARY
(to MELVIL).
Most worthy sir, you and my truest Hannah
Will keep me company unto the end;
My lord, you'll not deny me this poor comfort.

BURLEIGH.
I have no power to grant it.

MARY.
How, my lord!
Have you power to refuse so small a boon?
Show some respect to my sex at least; by whom
Is the last service to be render'd me?
Never can it be my sister's will in me
To outrage womanhood, by suffering
That the coarse hands of men should touch my person.

BURLEIGH.
It may not be; no woman can ascend
The scaffold with you; with her tears and cries—

MARY.
She shall not weep: I will myself be surety
For the stedfast courage of my truest Hannah.
Be merciful, my lord, and do not now
Separate me from my faithful nurse;
Into her arms she first received my life,
Let her kind tender hand lead me to death.

PAULET.
Oh, let it be!

BURLEIGH.
So be it!

MARY.
In this world
Nothing remains. (Kissing the crucifix)
—My Saviour! my Redeemer!
As once thine arms were stretched upon the cross,
Open them wide in mercy to receive me!

[She turns to go, and suddenly perceives the Earl of Leicester; she trembles, her knees give way, and she is about to sink to the earth; Leicester catches her and supports her in his arms; she looks at him in silence; he turns his eyes away; at length she speaks.
MARY.
You keep your word, Lord Leicester; you did promise
Your arm should lead me from this prison forth—
And in my need you lend it to me now.
[He seems annihilated; she proceeds in a gentle tone.
Yes, Leicester, and it was not freedom only
I thought to owe thee; it was freedom, dear
Because thy gift; 'twas life, rich with thy love.
Now that I am upon my way to heaven
A blessed spirit to become, who never
By earthly love can be again assail'd,
I can confess the weakness that is conquer'd.
My cheeks, already pale with the cold wind,
That blows upon them from my open grave,
Shall not grow red to tell thee how I've loved thee.
Farewell! and if thou canst, mayst thou be happy!
It was thy fate to choose between two queens:
A tender, loving heart hast thou betray'd
And lost, to win a hard and haughty one.
Kneel at the footstool of Elizabeth,
May thy reward not prove thy chastisement!
Farewell! the bitterness of death is past!

[She goes out, preceded by the Sheriff, and supported by Melvil and Hannah; Burleigh and Paulet follow; the others remain weeping and watching her till she is out of sight, they then disperse through the side doors.
LEICESTER
(alone).
And yet I live! I can endure to live!
This roof above my head falls not to crush me.
No yawning chasm opens itself in the earth
To swallow the most loathsome wretch upon it.
What have I done! What precious pearl of price
Have I flung from me! What pure heavenly bliss
Have I juggled with and lost. She goes—she goes,
A sainted soul to peace, and I remain
With the despairing anguish of the damn'd!
Where is the firm resolve that I brought hither
To stifle the heart's low wail of love and pity,
And see her head fall with unwinking eyes?
Her glance of light quickens my dead remorse,
And even in death she winds me in love's fetters.
O fool! 'tis not for thee—'tis no more time
To melt away in soft and womanish pity.
The bliss of love blooms not upon thy path;
In iron harness triple case thy breast,
And be thy forehead like a rock of brass,
If thou wouldst not the guerdon of thy baseness
Even now let slip. Fulfill thy appointed task;
Strangle this puling grief. With eyes of stone
Look on her death. I will—I will behold it—
[He goes with determined steps towards the door through which Mary had passed, but stops halfway.
In vain—in vain! Hell's terrors seize upon me.
I cannot look upon that hideous spectacle.
I cannot see her die. Hark! what was that?
They are already there; beneath my feet
The bloody work of slaughter is prepared;
I hear their voices—hence, away! away!
Forth from this house of horror and of death!
[He rushes to one of the doors and finds it fastened; he returns.
My feet are riveted to this fatal floor.
What! must I hear that which I dare not see!
The chaplain's voice! he is exhorting her.
She interrupts him—hark! she prays aloud
With stedfast voice—all 's still again—all 's still.
Sobbing alone I hear, and woman's wailing.
She is disrobed. Hark! now they roll away
Her seat, she kneels upon the cushion, and bows
Her head—

[After speaking the last words with increasing emotion, he remains breathless for a moment; then suddenly, with a shudder of horror, he starts and falls fainting on the ground. A prolonged confused acclamation of voices is heard from below.

Scene 2.

The same chamber in the Palace as in the Fourth Act. Enter by a side door Elizabeth, whose countenance and gestures betray the utmost disturbance.
ELIZABETH.
Yet no one here! No one—when comes the evening!
The sun stands still on the highway of heaven,
And I must yet lie stretch'd upon the rack.
Is't done?—or not? I dare not ask—the yea
And nay fill me alike with terror. Leicester
Comes not, and Burleigh tarries too. They had
Command to see fulfill'd the utmost sentence.
If they are gone from London it is done.
The shaft is sped—it flies—it has struck home!
Not for my kingdom can I longer hold. Who's there?

[Enter a Page.
ELIZABETH.
Art thou return'd alone? Where are the lords?

PAGE.
My Lord of Leicester and the Lord High Treasurer—

ELIZABETH.
(breathless).
Where are they?

PAGE.
Not in London, madam.

ELIZABETH.
Gone!
Where are they gone?

PAGE.
No one could tell me, madam.
Before the day dawn'd, suddenly and secretly,
They left the city.

ELIZABETH
(exclaims suddenly).
I am Queen of England!
[She walks up and down in extreme agitation.
Go call to me—no—stay—she's dead at last!
And I have room to live upon the earth!
Why do I shake? why does this terror clutch me?
The grave holds all my fear, and who dare say
I did it? Tears! she shall have tears enough;
An ocean of them. Why art thou standing there?
Bid hither instantly my secretary
Davidson; send for Lord Shrewsbury—he's here!

[Exit Page. Enter Shrewsbury.
ELIZABETH.
Welcome, my noble lord! what brings you hither
At this late hour? It must be weighty matter—

SHREWSBURY.
Great queen! my careful heart, troubled for your fame,
Drove me to-day to the Tower, where Kurl and Nau,
The secretaries of Mary Stuart, lie.
Once more I sought their testimony's truth
To sift. Amazed and much unwillingly,
The Lieutenant of the Tower admitted me,
But only did so upon sternest threats.
God, what a fearful sight there met my eyes!
With wild disorder'd hair and maniac glances,
Like one possess'd by the furies, on his bed
The Scotchman Kurl lay prone; hardly the wretch
Beheld and knew me, ere upon the earth
He grovell'd at my feet, embraced my knees
Like a writhing worm, and shrieking in despair
Adjured me to make known to him the fate
Of the Queen of Scots, his mistress; for a rumour
That she was doom'd to death had made its way
Into those iron walls. I told him 'twas the truth,
And that she died upon his witness 'gainst her;
Whereat he sprung up foaming, and falling on
His wretched fellow-prisoner hurl'd him down
To the earth, with all the giant strength of madness,
Striving to strangle him. We hardly tore
The miserable creature from his gripe,
When 'gainst himself his fury turn'd; he smote
His breast with his clench'd hands, and cursed himself,
And all the company of the fiends of hell.
He has borne false witness, and the fatal letter
Written to Babington, to which he swore,
Was forged; he did himself write down the words
Other than those the queen did bid him write,
And urged the wretched Nau to the like villany.
These things confess'd, he flung the window wide
With furious force, and call'd aloud in the street,
Down to the throng, who gathering ran together
That he was Mary's secretary—the wretch
Who wrongly had accused her—the accurs'd
False witness!

ELIZABETH.
Nay, but he was mad, indeed!
The words of a raving madman can prove nothing.

SHREWSBURY.
The madman's madness though proves all the more;
O madam, I implore you without delay,
Give order for a new examination.

ELIZABETH.
I will do so, my lord, at your request,
Not that I may believe that overhastily
My peers have judged this matter; but for you,
And the quieting of your mind, let there be given
Order for a new examination: 'tis well
There yet is time for it! on our kingly honour
No shadow of a doubt shall linger; now—
[Enter Davison.
The sentence that I gave into your hand,
Where is it?

DAVISON
(in the greatest amazement).
The sentence!

ELIZABETH.
Ay, that I gave
Yesterday to your keeping.

DAVISON.
To my keeping?

ELIZABETH.
The people clamour'd for the signing of it,
And to their will compell'd to yield, I sign'd it,
By them urged to the deed; and to your hand
I gave the paper, meaning to give some respite
Of time, as I told you then; now give it!

SHREWSBURY.
Good sir, deliver it; things are much alter'd;
A new examination must be held.

ELIZABETH.
Dream not so long about it; where's the sentence?

DAVISON.
I'm breathless with amazement and dismay!

ELIZABETH
(hastily).
Now I well hope, sir—

DAVISON.
I am ruin'd, lost!
I have it not.

ELIZABETH.
How! what!

SHREWSBURY.
Great God in heaven!

DAVISON.
Since yesterday, Lord Burleigh has possess'd it.

ELIZABETH.
Wretch! is it thus thou hast obey'd my words?
Did I not bid thee hold it for thy life.

DAVISON.
That was not your command, madam!

ELIZABETH.
How, villain!
Wilt thou gainsay me, reptile that thou art?
When did I bid thee give it to Lord Burleigh?

DAVISON.
Not in those very words—not clearly—but—

ELIZABETH.
Villainous slave! hast thou dared make my word
Of thy own bloody thought interpreter?
Woe be to thee if evil has befallen
From this thy self-usurp'd authority!
Thy life shall pay for it! My Lord of Shrewsbury,
You see how my name is palter'd with.

SHREWSBURY.
I see—O Heav'n!

ELIZABETH.
Say you?

SHREWSBURY.
If Master Davison
Has done this deed upon his own allowance
And risk, without your knowledge or consent,
He must before the high court of the peers
Be straight arraign'd, and to all future time
His name be given up to execration.

[Enter Burleigh, who kneels to the queen.
BURLEIGH.
Long live my sovereign queen and mistress! May
The enemies of these island realms all fall
Like Mary Stuart!

[Shrewsbury covers his face; Davison wrings his hands despairingly.
ELIZABETH.
My Lord Burleigh
Had you received command of death from me?

BURLEIGH.
No, royal madam, but from Davison.

ELIZABETH.
In my name did he give it? in my name?

BURLEIGH.
No, my dread lady, but—

ELIZABETH.
And you have dared
To do this deed without our will being known.
The sentence was a righteous one, the world
Dare wag no tongue against it; but for you,
Who have thrust yourself between it and our mercy,
We forthwith from our presence banish you.
(To Davison.)
For this fellow, a sharper doom remains,
Who boldly daring to o'erstep his duty,
A holy trust has ventured to betray.
To the Tower with him! he shall stand his trial
For life and all he is possessed of! Noble Talbot,
Thou—thou alone of all my counsellors
Have I found honest; henceforth thou shalt be
My friend and guide!

SHREWSBURY.
Nay, madam, drive not from you
These your true friends; cast not in prison those
Who have wrought for you, and are silent now
For your sake only. But for me, great queen!
Give leave that I return into your keeping
The seal, which for twelve years you have trusted to me.

ELIZABETH.
Shrewsbury, thou wilt not at this hour forsake me?

SHREWSBURY.
Forgive me, madam! I am grown too old,
And this right hand might prove too stiff, I fear,
To seal your latest deeds of sovereignty.

ELIZABETH.
So he that saved my life abandons me.

SHREWSBURY.
'Tis little I have done; your nobler life
I could not save; live, and reign happily!
Your foe is dead, you have no more to fear,
Nor further need to use dissimulation.

[Enter the Earl of Kent.
ELIZABETH.
Call hither the Earl of Leicester!

KENT.
Madam,
The earl has suddenly taken ship for France.