University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene 1.

A room in Fotheringay Castle. Hannah Kennedy, the Queen of Scotland's Nurse; Sir Amias Paulet about to force open an escritoir; Drury, his assistant, is beside him with implements for forcing locks.
KENNEDY.
What mean you, sir, by this new outrage?—hence,
Nor dare t'invade this shrine.

PAULET.
Whence came this gold?
'Twas thrown from above—doubtless to tempt
The gard'ner's honesty. Cursed woman's craft!
Spite of my strict and oft-repeated search,
Yet hidden hoards, yet secret means of mischief.
Where this lay hid more doubtless are conceal'd.

KENNEDY.
Audacious, hence! 'tis the Queen's private casket.

PAULET.
And therefore likeliest holds that which I seek.

[Drawing forth papers.
KENNEDY.
Papers without significance or value;
The mere creations of an idle pen
To cheat the dreary leisure of her prison.

PAULET.
The devil finds business for such idleness.

KENNEDY.
They are writ in French, sir.

PAULET.
All the worse, good madam;
It is the tongue of England's enemies.

KENNEDY.
The copy of a letter to your queen.

PAULET.
I will deliver it. See! what shines here?
A royal frontlet set with precious gems,
And wrought with the fleur-de-lis of France—here, Drury,
Take it, and lay it with the rest.

[Exit Drury.
KENNEDY.
Must we endure this shameful violence?

PAULET.
So long as she possesses anything,
She's to be fear'd; there's nothing but becomes
A weapon in her hands.

KENNEDY.
Good sir, have pity;
Strip her not of this last remaining treasure.
Th'unfortunate cheats her dark present fortune
With this poor relic of her former greatness,
For you have taken from her all but this.

PAULET.
'Tis in safe hands; and at a fitting time
Will scrupulously be restored to her.

KENNEDY.
O Heavens! who, beholding these bare walls,
Could e'er believe a queen had such a dwelling?
No royal dais above her seat; no covering
To keep the rough ground from her delicate feet.
With coarse and scanty tin her table served,
No poorest gentlewoman but is costlier furnish'd.

PAULET.
'Twas thus her husband's board was spread in Stirling,
While she pledged her gallants in cups of gold.

KENNEDY.
Not e'en a mirror's needful ornament.

PAULET.
No; for while she can gaze on her vain image
She will not cease to venture and to hope.

KENNEDY.
No book with wise discourse to cheer her spirit.

PAULET.
She has her Bible, that will cleanse her heart.

KENNEDY.
Her lute ta'en from her, whose kind voice did comfort her
With long-remember'd strains.

PAULET.
Ay, with lewd love-songs.

KENNEDY.
Is this the fate reserved for her who seem'd
Born to be fortune's darling—queen from her cradle—
Rear'd in the splendour of the Medici's court,
Where in an atmosphere of joy she flourish'd?
Is't not enough to rob her of all power?
Must you strip bare her life of every solace?
The load of a great sorrow teaches greatness—
Strength to endure—but the noblest courage fails
From day to day 'neath petty injuries.

PAULET.
Let her divorce her thoughts from vanity.
A life of wanton pomp and luxury
Is best atoned by lowly penitence.

KENNEDY.
And if her youth fail'd to resist temptation,
That lies between her conscience and her God.
England affords no judge with whom she reckons.

PAULET.
Where she has sinn'd there too will she be judged.

KENNEDY.
Your prison bars allow scant room for sinning.

PAULET.
Scant as the room, she has found it wide enough
Thence to stretch forth her arm and hurl abroad
Into our land the torch of civil discord,
And 'gainst our queen, whom God defend, to turn
Th'assassin's steel. From these close prison walls,
Did she not summon Babington and Parry
To the accursed guilt of regicide?
Did her strait fetters hinder her from weaving
Her wily nets round Norfolk's noble heart?
An offering to her craft, fell the best head
In all this land beneath the headsman's stroke;
Nor scared his bloody fate from the same abyss
Those other madmen that she beckon'd to it.
The scaffold loads itself with daily victims,
Given to death for her; nor will this end
Till she, the guilty cause of guilt, ascends it.
Curse on the day when first our shores received
This queen of guiles, this Helen as their guest!

KENNEDY.
Yea, guest-like, with true hospitality,
Has England welcomed the unfortunate,
Who, since the day she landed on your coast,
A fugitive and suppliant, seeking succour
From kindred blood, 'gainst kings' and nations' rights
Is held a prisoner here; in darkest durance,
Has wept away the fair years of her youth;
The dreary hours of her imprisonment
Steeped in the very dregs of bitterness.
And now as a common felon call'd to stand
Before your judgment-bar, arraign'd and question'd,
Challenged to answer for her life—a queen!

PAULET.
Peace! she came hither reeking red with blood,
Hunted by her own people from the throne
That she had stain'd with murder; hither came she,
Sworn enemy to England's weal, to bring
The bloody times of Spanish Mary back,
To make our country popish o'er again,
And give 't into the Frenchman's hand to spoil!
Why has she obstinately still refused
To sign the treaty drawn at Edinburgh?
Her idle claims why doth she not forego,
And with one stroke of the pen unbar her prison?
No; she loves better to lie groaning here
Over the much misuse that tries her virtue,
Than to renounce an empty title's boast,
Because she looks to free herself by summoning
The devil of conspiracy to her aid,
And, weaving her poisonous nets with subtle industry,
Entangle in their meshes the whole land.

KENNEDY.
Sure sir, you jest!—a bitter biting jest—
That lends such dreams to one buried alive,
To whom hope breathes no whisper; whom can reach
No friendly voice from her far distant home;
Who since long years beholds no human face
Save that of her stern gaoler; who within
The last few days sees herself watch'd and guarded
By a new spy, your rude unmanner'd kinsman;
And still new bars to her iron cage are added.

PAULET.
No iron bars can cage her cunning spirit.
What know I but these prison bars are filed,
Ready to break asunder at a touch;
This floor, these walls, that outwardly seem fast,
Bored through to let in treachery while I sleep?
Accursed office fallen to my lot,
O'er this ill-brooding mischief to keep watch!
Fear hunts me up from sleep; all night I walk
Like an unquiet ghost about my castle
To see if the bars be fast and the guard waking;
And trembling I behold each morning break,
Lest it make good the worst of my forebodings.
But it is well—there is some hope 'twill end;
For I would rather watch the damn'd in hell
Than this pernicious Queen.

KENNEDY.
She's here herself.

PAULET.
The crucifix in her hand, and in her heart
Worldliness, wantonness, and boundless pride.

[Enter Mary with a rosary in her hand; Kennedy goes towards her.
KENNEDY.
Oh, madam, we are trampled under foot;
Hard-hearted tyranny knows no more bounds;
And every day heaps some new injury
On your uncrowned head!

MARY.
What is it, Hannah?
What has befallen?

KENNEDY.
See, see here! your casket
Broke open! all your papers! and the last
Poor treasure with such love and reverence guarded,
Sole remnant of your princely bridal gear,
Lie in his hands. Now you have nothing left;
Nothing of all your royal dower—nothing!

MARY.
Be comforted; these toys are not my royalty.
We may be basely used, but not made base.
Much have I learnt in England to endure;
I can bear this. Sir, you have violently
Seized upon that which I had willingly
To-day deliver'd to you. Among those papers
Is a letter to my royal sister; give me
Your knightly word that you'll deliver it
To her own hand, not to the hand of Burleigh.

PAULET.
I will bethink me how to deal with it.

MARY.
Sir, you shall know its import. In it
I crave a weighty boon—even to have speech
With her own self, whom I have ne'er beheld.
By men have I been judged, whom I admit not
My peers, nor know how I should answer. She—
Elizabeth—is of my blood, my rank, my sex;
And unto her—a kinswoman, a queen,
A woman—can I utter my whole mind.

PAULET.
Madam, you've often trusted fate and honour
To men less worthy of your good respect.

MARY.
Another grace have I besought, which surely
Sheer inhumanity alone denies me.
Long in my prison have I been deprived
Of the holy Church's comfortable sacrament:
Those who have robb'd me of my crown and freedom,
And threaten now my life, yet surely seek not
To shut the door of Heaven against my soul.

PAULET.
Whene'er you choose, the chaplain of the castle—

MARY.
No; I will have no chaplain of your castle,
But a priest of mine own faith. Moreover,
Some counsellors and men versed in the law
To help me order my last testament.
The wasting tooth of this long prison sorrow
Gnaws at my life; I fear my days are counted,
And I would settle all things as for death.

PAULET.
That shall not be amiss; such cares become
The case in which you stand.

MARY.
Nay, who shall tell me
That this too tedious dungeon martyrdom
May not be shorten'd by impatient hands?
My last will, therefore, I'll set down, bequeathing
Lawfully what is mine to whom I will.

PAULET.
You may do so; the Queen of England, madam,
Will scarce enrich herself by plundering you.

MARY.
I have from all my loving gentlewomen
And faithful gentlemen been separated.
What has become of them? their services
You have indeed constrain'd me to forego,
But I would fain know how it fares with them.

PAULET.
Madam, your household has been fitly cared for.

[He is going.
MARY.
Are you departing, sir, without one word
To calm this terrible strife of doubt and fear,
Beneath whose joint assaults my spirit quails—
Not one poor word to lift from off my heart
The deadly load of this uncertainty?
Thanks to the watchfulness of your spies, I am
From the whole universe cut off; no tidings
Even of my own doom can pierce these walls.
My life lies in the hand of mine enemies.
A month of dreary hours has oozed away
Since hither came your Lords Commissioners;
Here, in this castle, like fate falling on me,
A court convened with sudden haste—myself
Cited to appear before it, unprepared
By warning—unprovided with defence.
Amazed beyond the use of my own faculties,
I stood before an unknown tribunal, hearing
Their cunningly framed and heavy accusations.
Like ghosts they rose before me, and so vanish'd;
And from that day terrible silence dwells
Upon all lips. In vain I seek in your eyes
To read if mine innocence and my friends' zeal
Or the hatred of mine enemies has prevail'd.
Oh, break this hideous spell, and let me know
What yet remains to fear, or what to hope!

PAULET
(after a pause).
Make your account with Heaven.

MARY.
I trust
In Heaven's mercy, and I also trust
In the justice of my earthly judges.

PAULET.
Doubt not,
All justice will be done you.

MARY.
Is my trial
Concluded, sir?

PAULET.
I know not.

MARY.
Is it possible
They have condemn'd me?

PAULET.
Madam, I do not know.

MARY.
You are apt to make quick work, I know: belike
My murder, like my trial, may be sudden.

PAULET.
Think that it may be so; so shall you stand
With a spirit better arm'd for the event.

MARY.
Nothing can move my wonder, sir, decreed
By the court in Westminster, urged on to sentence me
By Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal; yet know I
Some things the Queen of England may not dare.

PAULET.
From the Parliament and their own consciences
Our sovereigns hold their limit of authority;
And that which justice lawfully decrees,
Fearless of the whole world they will fulfill.

[Enter Mortimer, who addresses Paulet without appearing to notice the Queen.
MORTIMER.
You're wanted, uncle.

[Exit Mortimer; the Queen, who has observed him with displeasure, turns to Paulet as is he about to follow his nephew.
MARY.
Hold, sir; one word more.
If you have aught to impart to me, from you
I will bear much—your age hath privileges;
But I will not endure the insolence
Of that unmanner'd youth; henceforth,
Spare me the needless insult of his presence.

PAULET.
Even for that honest bluntness which offends you,
I prize my nephew, madam. His is not
A heart to melt in wily woman's tears;
Spite of his foreign sojourning in Paris
And Rheims, he's still an honest Englishman,
And all your arts are merely wasted on him.
[Exit Paulet.

KENNEDY.
This to your face—this insolent coarseness!
It is too much.

MARY.
Oh no, it is mere justice.
Oft in the days of my prosperity
I lent to flatterers a willing ear;
Shall I not bear the harsh voice of reproof,
That never speaks save to adversity?

KENNEDY.
Dear lady, wherefore thus cast down and spiritless?
Time was when you would cheer and comfort me,
And I was wont to chide your too much confidence.

MARY.
I know him well; King Darnley's bloody ghost
Threat'ningly rises from his grave before me,
And he will never be at peace with me
Until my cup of misery is full.

KENNEDY.
What thoughts are these?

MARY.
Thou hast forgotten, Hannah;
My memory keeps truer reckoning.
This is that anniversary of horror
Which still I greet with fasting and with penance.

KENNEDY.
Oh, let the evil spirit rest at last!
With years of sorrow and of adverse fortune
Have you atoned the deed: the Church that holds
The keys of loosing and of binding—yea,
And Heaven itself—has pardon'd you long since.

MARY.
Bleeding afresh, the long-forgiven guilt
Throws the light covering from its shallow grave,
And crying for revenge, my husband's ghost
Comes forth; nor to his everlasting bed
Shall ever sound of consecrated bell
Or sight of the host-bearing priest dismiss him.

KENNEDY.
Not yours the deed; you did not murder him.

MARY.
I knew of it; I suffer'd it; and smiling,
Beckon'd him to the death-snare.

KENNEDY.
Your weak youth
Pleads some excuse for you.

MARY.
Yea, youth too weak
To bear the load of guilt I laid upon it.

KENNEDY.
By bitterest injuries were you provoked,
And by your husband's haughty tyranny.
He whom from out his own dim destiny
Your love had lifted as with power divine,
Exalting him, your bridegroom, to your throne,
With all your loveliness endowing him,
And the great ancient glories of your crown—
How could he e'er forget that his high fortune
Was but the gift of all-bestowing love?
And yet he did forget it, thrice unworthy.
With base suspicions he dishonour'd you,
With coarse unmannerly roughness he offended
Your gentleness, and lost favour in your sight.
The charm dissolved that had deceived your eyes,
You fled his rude embraces, and repaid him
Disdain and scorn, his due reward. And he,
Sought he your love again? to soft relenting
Strove he to woo you, kneeling at your feet
With fond humility and fairer promise?
Not he; bidding defiance to your power,
He sought to lord it o'er you—he, your creature.
Before your very eyes, by his command,
Was the fair gentle Rizzio stabb'd to death.
Ah, you but paid with blood that bloodiest deed.

MARY.
And bloody vengeance will come on me for it!
Thou seek'st to comfort me, and speak'st my doom.

KENNEDY.
Because thou hinderedst not, thou didst it not.
Passion's blind frenzy had laid hold of thee,
And bound to the yoke of the seducer Bothwell.
Ah, not alone the villain ruled thy bosom
With man's supremacy of power and will;
But with foul spells, and charms, and hellish potions.
All evil arts—

MARY.
His evil arts were none
But his determined purpose and my weakness.

KENNEDY.
Not so; I say all fiends were leagued with him,
Ere he had cast his devilish glamour o'er thee;
Seal'd were thine eyes and ears to every warning;
And woman's shield of fear thou hadst cast away:
Thy cheeks, the home of blushing modesty,
Glow'd with th'unholy flame of wild desire;
The veil of secrecy thou didst tear off,
And his insolent triumph trampled on thy shame.
With stony brow thou gav'st to the world's eye
Thy passion, to the murderer's bloody hand
Trusting the sword of Scotland, which he bore,
Amid the curses of the common folk,
Through Edinburgh streets proudly before thee.
Beset with weapons was the Parliament house;
And in the very temple of high justice
A bold and bitter mockery of judgment,
Wrung by thy will, proclaim'd th'assassin guiltless.
Yet further didst thou dare—Heavens!

MARY.
Speak it out;
Before God's altar I became his wife.

KENNEDY.
Oh, let an everlasting silence cover
That desperate deed, shameful and terrible,
Worthy alone of an utter castaway!
Yet, oh, thou art not such—thou art not such.
I know thee; yea, e'en from thy childhood upwards
Have I been near thee. Gentle is thy heart;
Thy nature owns the sway of modesty;
Too light a mind is all thy heaviest guilt.
Yet once again I say it—evil spirits
There be, that in th'unguarded breast of man
In fatal hours suddenly make their home.
Terror begins in us their hideous work;
And flying back to hell, they leave behind
Desperate madness in the tainted bosom.
Since that black deed that darken'd all thy days,
Of nothing blameworthy hast thou been guilty.
I can bear witness to thy life's straight course.
Take courage, then, and with thyself make peace.
Nor was the sin thou mourn'st committed here.
Neither Elizabeth nor her English Parliament
Can be thy judges. Violence alone
Here bows thee down; and before their tribunal
With the firm trust of innocence may'st thou stand.

MARY.
Who comes?

[Mortimer appears at the door.
KENNEDY.
'Tis Paulet's nephew; hence, sir! hence!

MORTIMER
(entering cautiously, to KENNEDY).
Withdraw and watch. I must speak with the queen.

MARY
(with anxiety).
Hannah, remain here.

MORTIMER
(giving her a letter).
Read this paper, madam,
And know me better.

MARY.
Heavens! what is this?

MORTIMER.
Good Mistress Kennedy, watch, lest my uncle come.

Mary
(to KENNEDY, who looks doubtfully towards the QUEEN).
Go—go; do what he bids thee (reading the letter).

From my uncle,
The Cardinal of Lorraine! from France—from France!
‘Trust in the bearer of this paper; in England
You have no truer friend.’ Is it possible?
Am I not cheated by some vain delusion?
A friend so near at hand! Now, whilst I lay
Forsaken as I thought by the whole world,
You—you—the kinsman of my prison-keeper—
You, whom I thought my bitterest enemy—

MORTIMER
(throwing himself at her feet).
O queen, forgive the hateful impious mask,
Which to have worn thus long I scarce endured.
Yet I should bless it; to your feet it brings me,
There to swear loyalty, help, and deliverance!

MARY.
Rise; you amaze me, sir! Not suddenly thus
Can I from deepest misery spring to hope.
Speak, sir, and make such joy seem possible.

MORTIMER.
Time flies; my uncle presently will be here;
And with him comes the hated Burleigh hither.
Ere with his dreadful message he suprises you,
Listen how Heaven sends deliverance to you

MARY.
A miracle of its mercy hath it wrought.

MORTIMER.
Forgive if with myself my tale begins.

MARY.
Speak, sir.

MORTIMER.
My twentieth year I number'd, madam,
Having been train'd in straightest paths of duty,
And nourish'd in the deepest hate of Rome,
When an unconquerable wild desire
Drove me to wander on the Continent.
The dreary Puritan house of pray'r, and home,
I left behind me, and with rapid steps
Passing through France, I sought with eager longing
The beautiful Italian land. It was
The Season of the Church's holiest feast;
The sunny roads swarm'd with a host of pilgrims;
Each sacred image wore a crown of flowers,
And all the tribes of the earth seem'd bound to Heaven.
The stream of joyful worship swept me on,
And bore me on its waves even into Rome.
O queen! how fared it with me when amazed
I saw arise before me all the pomp
Of lordly pillar and triumphal arch?
The ruin'd splendour of the Coliseum
Began the spell which soon a nobler shrine,
In its bright world of wonders, fasten'd on me.
Ne'er had I felt the power of art and beauty;
The Church that claim'd me hates the soft enchantment
That binds the senses;—image will it none,
And honours nothing but the bodiless Word.
What then became I, as within the temple
I trode, and heard the strains that come from heaven,
And all the lovely witchery of form
From wall and dome sprang into life before me?
All highest and all holiest influences,
Touch'd by the ravish'd senses, stirr'd within me,
And holiest Faith visibly stood before me,
When I beheld the angel's heavenly greeting,
The Saviour's birth, the lovely Virgin Mother,
Th'ascended Trinity, and bright Transfiguration;
When in his splendour I beheld the pope
Filling his holy office, and the people blessing—
What's the pale glimmering of gold or jewels
Wherewith the kings of the earth adorn themselves?
He only with unearthly splendour shines,
And heaven's kingdom may his house be call'd,
For not of this world is its glorious beauty.

MARY.
Oh, spare me!—say no more!—forbear to spread
Life's fresh and glowing pictures thus before me—
A miserable prisoner!

MORTIMER.
Such was I, madam;
And, lo! my prison doors sprang open—free
Suddenly stood my soul, greeting life's light.
Hatred I swore to my old narrow creed,
With a fresh garland bound my youthful brows,
And full of joy join'd those who did rejoice.
With many noble Scotchmen I consorted,
And lively gallants from the land of France;
They drew me to the dwelling of your uncle,
The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!
Of what a steadfast and a sovereign soul!
How truly born a governor of spirits!
The express model of a royal priest!
A prince of the Church—none other like to him.

MARY.
What! you have seen the noble countenance
Of that revered, that best-beloved man—
The godly guide of my inexperienced youth?
O tell me, does he yet remember me?
How thrive his stately fortunes? Is he still
The pride, the prop, the pillar of our Church?

MORTIMER.
With excellent humility he stoop'd
To be himself my teacher in the faith,
And scatter all the doubtings of my spirit.
He show'd me how man's grovelling reason still
Led him to error only; that the eye must see
What the heart must believe; that the Church needed
One head infallible; and that the Spirit of truth
Rested upon the councils of the Fathers.
How quail'd before his conquering intellect
And the persuasion of his eloquent lips,
The puny forces of my childish faith!
Back to the Church's bosom I return'd,
And in his hands abjured my heresy.

MARY.
So you are one among the many thousands
That he, like the heavenly Preacher of the mountain,
Hath seized with his sacred might of eloquence
And guided to salvation everlasting.

MORTIMER.
Soon after this, summon'd to France, he sent me
To Rheims, where the holy company of Jesus
Piously labour'd, training English priests.
Here did I find that noble Scotchman, Morgan,
And your faithful Lesley, the learn'd bishop of Ross,
Dragging their joyless days of banishment
Out on the soil of France. To these most worthy
I straitly bound myself, and in their fellowship
Strengthen'd my faith. One day it chanced
That in the bishop's dwelling I beheld
The picture of a woman, whose fair image
Made fast my eyes and heart with strange emotion.
My inmost soul was touch'd with the mighty spell,
And powerless o'er myself I stood and gazed.
‘Well may you gaze in wonder and in pity,’
Spake the good bishop, ‘on that gracious face;
The fairest of all women in the world
Is of all earthly women the most miserable;
A prisoner for our holy Church's sake
Languishes in your land this hapless lady.’

MARY.
Oh, faithful heart! No, I have not lost all
While my ill fortune leaves me such a friend.

MORTIMER.
With words that thrill'd my heart then did he paint
Your dreary martyrdom and your foes' bloody hate.
Your royal lineage he laid before me,
And your descent from the high house of Tudor;
Convinced me you alone should reign in England,
And not this after-thought of queen—brought forth
From an adulterous bed—by her own father
Henry cast off for cause of bastardy.
Nor did I trust alone his warrant for it;
I sought the counsel of law-learned men;
I studied nought but genealogies,
And every source of knowledge that I tried
Witness'd the strength of your most rightful claim.
In England are you guilty but of this—
That the land wherein you lie a prisoner
Is your inheritance, your lawful kingdom.

MARY.
Thrice fatal right! sole source of all my wrongs!

MORTIMER.
Now came the rumour that you were removed
From Talbot's castle to my uncle's guard.
The wonder-working hand of Heaven I saw
In this event, and the loud call of fate
To me whose arm was chosen to set you free.
My friends approved my hopes, the Cardinal
Confirm'd them with his counsel and his blessing,
And tutor'd me in the heavy task of feigning.
Quickly the plan was woven, and I turn'd
Homewards to mine own land, where I set foot
Ten days ago, and stood in your royal presence.
You I beheld—no more a painted image.
Oh! what a treasure-casket is this castle;
No prison, but a shrine of precious beauty,
More full of splendour than the English court.
Yea, and thrice happy they who may but breathe
Within these walls the air that you inhale.
Oh, wisely doth Elizabeth here cage you,
Shut from all eyes; she knows that if but once
Your gracious loveliness shone on the land,
England would rise up as one man t'acknowledge you.

MARY.
Oh, well for me had England but your eyes!

MORTIMER.
The world would have them could it but behold you,
As I have done, in your unworthy durance.
With what a royal courage, saintly humbleness,
You hourly suffer wrong and contumely,
A queen amid all griefs and injuries.
Nor can this prison dim your beauty's lustre;
Each ornament of life is wanting here,
But your mere presence makes a light and splendour.
Oh, never does my foot approach this threshold
That my heart thrills not with delight and sorrow,
Beholding you. But the end draws near apace;
With every hour the danger presses close.
I dare no longer pause—no longer from you
Hide the stern fate that threatens you.

MARY.
They've sentenced me?
Speak without fear—I shall not fear to hear it.

MORTIMER.
The two and forty judges have condemn'd you;
The Lords and Commons, and the city of London,
Vehemently demand the sentence be fulfill'd.
Elizabeth still wavers, and makes show
Of greater mercy than her counsellors,
And therein shows false cunning, not true mercy—
Making it seem that they compel her will.

MARY
(with composure).
Sir, you have spoken nothing to amaze
Or fright me; even for such an embassage
I have been long prepared. I know my judges,
And I can well believe that, after all
I have endured, they dare not set me free.
I know how far they'll venture; in some dungeon
All the remainder of my life must waste,
And my revenge and right be buried there.

MORTIMER.
No, no! believe it not: not so will it end,
Nor tyranny leave its damn'd work half done.
Long as you live, Elizabeth's fear lives too;
No dungeon buries deep enough your claim:
Her throne stands safely only on your grave.

MARY.
What! shall the headsman's bloody gripe be laid
Upon the head of a thrice-anointed queen?
She dares not do it.

MORTIMER.
She dares—she dares—she will.

MARY.
Will she thus trample in the mire of infamy
All Christian sovereignty—her own withal?
And fears she nothing the revenge of France?

MORTIMER.
She makes with France fair league and amity,
And gives the Duke of Anjou her hand and crown.

MARY.
Will not the King of Spain take arms against her?

MORTIMER.
She fears no foreign arms while she keeps peace
At home with her subjects.

MARY.
And to those subjects
Will she dare give this hideous spectacle?

MORTIMER.
This land has seen, madam, of late too many
Women of royal state come down from the throne
And mount the scaffold: up those bloody steps
Elizabeth's mother climb'd—and Katharine Howard
And fair young Lady Grey had worn the crown.

MARY
(after a pause).
No, Mortimer—never believe it—never.
The care of your faithful heart blinds you for me,
And conjures a vain terror to appal you.
'Tis not the scaffold, sir, that I need fear;
There be yet other means more safe and secret
Through which the Queen of England may avoid
My claim: before she finds an executioner
It will be easier to find a murderer.
This is the fear that shakes me; and no cup
Touches my lips but, shuddering, I bethink me
It may contain a draught of my sister's love.

MORTIMER.
Oh, fear it not; nor open nor conceal'd
Shall murder to your precious life draw near.
All is prepared: twelve noble English youths,
Bound by one compact all, this very day
Have sworn upon the holy sacrament
With the strong arm of right to set you free.
Count d'Aubespine, the French ambassador,
Knows of our oath, and join'd his hand to ours;
And in his palace is our place of meeting.

MARY.
Ah, through my heart you send a thrill of terror,
Not joy—a horrible forewarning of dismay.
What is't ye undertake? Do ye well know?
Do not the bloody heads of Babington
And Tischbourne, rear'd on London Bridge, affright ye?
Even in such attempts they found their fate,
And only made my chains the heavier.
Generous, and brave, and young, why should ye perish?
Hence, and forget you ever have beheld me.
Already 'mong your ranks Burleigh perchance
Has sown his spies. Leave me, and live; for I
Have had no friend that e'er was fortunate.

MORTIMER.
The bloody heads, set for a grisly warning
On London Bridge, nothing affright my soul;
Nor the disastrous fate of those unnumber'd
Who found their death in the same enterprise:
They found therein an everlasting glory;
And blest are they who die to set you free.

MARY.
Nor force nor cunning can avail to save me.
Powerful and watchful are mine enemies;
And at my prison door not Paulet only,
And his guard keep ward over me—all England
Stands sentinel at these gates: Elizabeth
Of her free will alone can open them.

MORTIMER.
Then hope it never.

MARY.
One man alone might do it.

MORTIMER.
Oh, let me know his name.

MARY.
The Earl of Leicester.

MORTIMER.
Your bloodiest enemy, Elizabeth's darling.

MARY.
If I can yet be saved, 'tis he can save me.
Go to him—haste—speak freely with him, Mortimer;
And for a witness that you come from me,
Bear him this letter—it contains my picture.
[She takes a paper from her bosom. Mortimer starts back, and hesitates to receive it.
Nay, take it. I have carried it conceal'd
About my person, for your uncle's watchfulness
Left me no way to reach him; you are come,
Sent by my guardian angel, to my succour.

MORTIMER.
Oh, madam, deign t'unravel this strange mystery.

MARY.
The Earl of Leicester will unwind it to you.
Trust him; he will trust you—Who comes?

[Enter Kennedy.
KENNEDY.
Sir Amias Paulet, with a lord from court.

MORTIMER.
'Tis Burleigh: call your courage to you, madam,
And with indifferency hear his tidings.

[Exeunt Mortimer and Kennedy; enter Burleigh and Paulet.
PAULET.
Madam, to-day you wish'd for certain knowledge
Of your fate; Lord Burleigh comes to bring it to you;
With steadfastness receive it.

MARY.
Worthily
I hope, as it becomes the innocent.

BURLEIGH.
Commission'd by the council—

MARY.
My Lord Burleigh
Readily lends his tongue to the tribunal
To which he hath already given his spirit.

PAULET.
You speak as though you already knew the sentence.

MARY.
Since my Lord Burleigh brings it, I do know it.
To the business, sir.

BURLEIGH.
Madam, having referr'd yourself
To the judgment of the two and forty peers—

MARY.
Pardon, my lord, that at the very outset
I must arrest your words. I have accepted,
Say you, the judgment of the English peers.
That have I never done!—never; my rank,
The honour of my people, and my son,
And of all sovereigns, could I so deny.
Your laws compel not me—but if they did,
Your meanest citizen, by those laws protected,
Is tried by his peers. Have you a jury of kings
To try me by?—my peers are kings, my lord.

BURLEIGH.
You heard the accusations brought against you,
And therein did acknowledge the tribunal.

MARY.
Through Hatton's cunning craft was I induced,
For my honour's sake, and in unshaken faith
Of the triumphant victory of my cause,
To lend an ear to those same articles,
And the grounds whereon they rested: due respect
I meant to show your lords, but never meant
To accept their right to pass judgment on me.

BURLEIGH.
Whether you admit it, madam, or deny it,
Is a mere form without significance,
Which will in nowise bar the course of judgment.
You breathe the air of England, and enjoy
Her law's protection, and must needs obey
Its power.

MARY.
I breathe the air of an English prison.
Call you that living 'neath the law's protection?
Nothing I know, and nothing seek to know,
Of your law's protection. I am not England's subject,
But the free-born sovereign of a foreign land.

BURLEIGH.
And think you that the title of a sovereign
Can give the right to sow bloody divisions
In the bosom of the land unpunished?
How stood it with the safety of all nations,
If the sword of justice might not aim its stroke,
At a royal guest, as at the meanest beggar?

MARY.
I fear and I refuse no reckoning:
The judges only—I will not accept.

BURLEIGH.
The judges—nay, but, madam—are they then
Drawn from the common herd—a sort of rabble?
Shameless tongue-waggers—to whom truth and right
Are things so vile, that they would bow themselves
Readily to a judgment preordained them?
Are they not rather the first men of the land—
Powerful enough to dare be true, and high enough
To look beyond prince-fear, and all base custom?
Be they not e'en the men who rule this nation
Of free and noble people,—whose mere names
Are warrant against every doubtful thing?
At their head stands the shepherd of the Church,
The holy Primate, Archbishop of Canterbury;
The excellent Talbot, Keeper of the Seals;
And Howard, Admiral of our kingdom's navies.
Say, could the sovereign of this realm do more
Than choose the best and noblest of the realm
To make them judges of this royal question?
Is it to be believed that party hate
Smirches such souls as these?—and can it be thought
That forty chosen gentlemen should join
To give a passionate perjury for their verdict?

MARY.
Wondering I listen to that eloquent tongue,
That still has been so adverse to my fortunes.
How shall an unlearn'd woman like myself
Answer the master of such potent speech?
So, were your judges such, sir, as you say,
I needs must give my cause for lost, it seems,
And call myself guilty, because they condemn me.
And yet these names, by you deem'd of such virtue,
Whose weight of worth must crush me to the dust,
In the records of your country, sir, I see
Filling far other and less noble parts.
I see this high nobility of England—
The kingdom's lordly senate—e'en as slaves
Of a seraglio's sultan, bow to the will
Of my despotic uncle, Henry the Eighth.
I see this immaculate House of Lords, as vile
As the base rabble of the venal commons,
Make and unmake their edicts; bind and loose
The tie of marriage at their king's command;
To-day the daughters of the royal blood
Thrusting aside, with shameful brand of bastardy,
And to-morrow calling them to wear the crown;
And four times, under four successive sov'reigns,
Suffering conversion, for pure conscience' sake.

BURLEIGH.
You call'd yourself a stranger to our laws.
You are well versed in our evil fortunes, madam.

MARY.
And these shall be my judges! my Lord High Treasurer.
I will deal uprightly with you, so deal
With me. 'Tis said you love and serve your country
And queen with true unwearied fealty;
I well believe it. Not self-seeking policy
Sways you, but the high interest of the realm
And its sovereign. Even for that very reason
Should you mistrust yourself, my lord, lest that
Should seem to you justice and right, which is
Indeed no more than a shrewd state policy.
I nothing doubt it, by your side there sit
Among my judges worthy noblemen;
But they are Protestants, and jealous too
For England's weal. Can such men speak true judgment
On me, the Roman Catholic queen of Scotland?
No Englishman deals fairly with a Scot:
'Tis an old saying, and so true an one,
That never before any seat of justice
May Scot or Briton witness 'gainst each other:
Experience made this into law, my lord;
And in old custom lives authority,
So that it should be honour'd. On these islands,
As on a narrow plank floating at sea,
Nature together cast unkindred folk;
Sharing it too unequally between us,
And leaving us to fight out the division:
The narrow Tweed, like a thread, alone divides
The fiery nations, and with mingled blood
Of neighbour foes oft are its waters thick.
For a thousand years on either bank have stood,
Threatening and sword in hand, the adverse races;
No enemy strikes at the peace of England
Who has not for his swift ally the Scot,
No civil war bursts into flame in Scotland
That is not fired or fann'd by an English hand,
And never will this deadly hatred die
Till in one Parliament, the lawgivers,
And under one sceptre, the two peoples, meet.

BURLEIGH.
And such a happiness the Stuart's sway
Had given to England?

MARY.
Why should I deny it?
Yea, I had hope under the olive's shade
Some day to join two free and noble nations,
Nor thought in evil hour myself to be
The victim of their mutual enmity.
The ancient jealousy and envious grudge
I dreamt I happily might quench for ever,
And as my grandsire, Richmond, twined together
The rival roses, the two rival crowns
Of England and of Scotland, I might join.

BURLEIGH.
By an ill way have you walked to reach that goal,
Who have set the land on fire, and sought to climb
Through the flames of civil strife, the steps of the throne.

MARY.
Never, by the great God in heaven, never!
When did I so? where is your proof of it?

BURLEIGH.
I came not here to wrangle, madam; nor is
The case a matter more for idle words.
Of two and forty voices, all but two
Have spoken you guilty, in that you have broken
The statute and decree but last year framed,
By which it is enacted thus:—‘Whenever
Seditious tumult shall be stirr'd in the land,
In the name and behoof of any individual,
The Crown shall exercise its lawful right
Of trial and of prosecution,
Even to the death of any so proved guilty.’
And since it now appears—

MARY.
My Lord of Burleigh,
I nothing doubt that a decree expressly
Made to condemn me, will be used to do it.
Woe to the victim when one selfsame tongue
Ordains the law, accuses, and condemns!
Can you deny it, sir, that this new statute
Was for my special overthrow devised?

BURLEIGH.
Madam, it might have been your special warning;
You have yourself converted it to a snare.
You saw the abyss yawning before your feet,
And warn'd to shun it, cast yourself therein.
You held intelligence with Babington,
The traitor, and his fellow-murderers,
Of all their movements you were cognisant,
And from your prison guided their conspiracy.

MARY.
When did I thus? where are the proofs, my lord?

BURLEIGH.
The proofs were lately laid before the court.

MARY.
Copies of documents by unknown hands:
It must be proved that I dictated them,
That they were dictated in those same words
By me—in the very words read to the court.

BURLEIGH.
They are the same received by Babington,
For he confess'd to them before his death.

MARY.
And why was he not living set before me?
Why was he hustled from the world so fast,
Ere face to face he had been brought with me?

BURLEIGH.
Your secretaries Kurl and Nau depose,
Upon their oath, the words to be the same
Which from your own lips they wrote down.

MARY.
So then,
On my own servants' witness I am sentenced,
Upon the faith and truth of those who swearing,
Betrayed their faith and truth already sworn
To me, their queen and mistress, once before.

BURLEIGH.
Madam, yourself declared the Scotchman Kurl
Upright and faithful, yea, an honest man.

MARY.
And so I might; yet as no man's virtue's proved
Till it hath pass'd the hour of its temptation,
Torture may have affrighted or constrain'd him
To utter he might hardly well know what.
Perchance he thought to save his own poor life,
And not much injure me, by his false witness.

BURLEIGH.
On his free oath he gave his testimony.

MARY.
But never in my presence. How, my lord,
Two witnesses yet live who swear against me!
Let them be set before my face, and let them
Repeat before me what they witness of me.
Will you deny me what a murderer claims?
From Talbot, my late keeper, did I learn
That in this very reign it was enacted
That face to face th'accuser and th'accused
Should stand confronted—but I have been deceived:
Sir Amias Paulet, I believe you honest,
Prove yourself so, and answer me, on your conscience,
Is not this, as I say, the law of England?

PAULET.
Madam, it is; so rules the right with us;
And what is truth I may not disavow.

MARY.
Now, my Lord Burleigh, since with such a stress
Your law is laid upon me to condemn me—
How is it that I may not share as well
The power of your law when it protects me?
Answer me, sir—why came not Babington
Before me, and why am I not confronted
With my two secretaries who yet live?

BURLEIGH.
Not only your confederacy with Babington—

MARY.
Yes; only that have I to answer for,
For that alone the sword of justice threatens me,
Keep to the point, my lord; don't swerve from it.

BURLEIGH.
It is well known that with the Spanish envoy,
Mendoza, you have traffick'd

MARY.
That's not the point;
Keep to the point, sir.

BURLEIGH.
The faith of the land you seek to overturn,
And all the crowns of Europe you stir up
In war against us.

MARY.
No; I have not done so.
But were it true even as it is false,
What then? Here am I held a prisoner,
Against all holiest right of law and nations.
I came not with the sword into your land;
Fugitive, suppliant, I hither came,
Claiming the sacred rights of hospitality
Even in the arms of my kinswoman, your queen;
But violence laid hold on me, and fetters
Were all the safe keeping afforded me.
Speak, is my faith plighted to such a land?
What duty, what allegiance do I owe it?
I do but use the holiest right of nature,
When from these chains I seek to free myself;
Repelling force with force, and all the kings
Of this hemisphere calling to aid my cause.
That which in every war is lawful held,
Loyal and knightly, nothing misbecomes me.
Murder alone—the bloody secret stroke
I may not dare—conscience and pride forbid it.
Mine enemies' murder would dishonour me—
Dishonour, mark me, sir—I did not say
That even that could bow me to your sentence;
For might, not right, has come to be the question
Between myself and England.

BURLEIGH
(significantly).
Do not, madam,
So vehemently on your rights insist.
Stern right is seldom found the prisoner's friend.

MARY.
I am the weaker, you the stronger side;
Use, then, your strength, so be it—murder me,
And to your safety offer up my life.
But let the deed be called not right, but might;
Borrow not justice's holy sword to stab
The enemy you hate and fear; nor wrap
In garments sanctified your bloody violence.
With no such jugglery is the world cheated,
For you can murder, but you cannot judge me.
Cease, then, to strive the fruits of treachery,
And the fair show of justice, to combine,
And what you dare to be—dare to appear.
[Exit Mary.

BURLEIGH.
She scorns us, Paulet, and at the scaffold's foot
Will still defy us. That imperious spirit
Cannot be broken; even her sentence brought not
Perturbation to her soul; with tearless eyes
And unchanged colour did she hear her doom.
She craves no pity from us. Well she knows
The uncertain humour of our English queen,
And that which is our fear, lends her this daring.

PAULET.
My Lord High Treasurer, this idle confidence
Will vanish with the vain pretext that feeds it.
But in this trial—if I dare say so—matters
Have been in an unseemly fashion dealt with.
Into her presence Babington and Tischbourne
Should have been brought; and now her secretaries
Should be confronted with her.

BURLEIGH.
Never—never!
It were not to be ventured! Far too strong
Is the spell with which she sways the souls of men,
And the mighty witchery of her woman's tears.
If Kurl her secretary stood before her
He would deny himself—call back his witness.

PAULET.
So shall the enemies of England fill
The world with shameful outcries on her justice;
And all the solemn pomp of this trial show
But as an insolent outrage on the right.

BURLEIGH.
That is the very care that chafes our queen;
O that this evil genius of our land
Had died or ever she set foot in it!

PAULET.
Amen, I say to that!

BURLEIGH.
Once deadly sickness
Seized on her in her prison.

PAULET.
Verily
Her sickness would have been the health of England.

BURLEIGH.
Yet, had she hence by natural accident
Been snatched—we surely had been held her murderers.

PAULET.
What then? men must have leave to think their thoughts.

BURLEIGH.
Yet were it well—and not so loud a rumour
Would it stir—

PAULET.
What matters it how loud?
Not loud but rightful blame alone can harm us.

BURLEIGH.
Yet highest right sometimes escapes not censure;
Opinion still leans towards th'unfortunate,
And envy follows only those who triumph.
The sword of justice that becomes a man,
Seems horrible in a woman's hand; the world
Believes not in the justice of one woman
Of which another is the sacrifice.
Vainly we judges have pronounc'd the sentence;
With the queen remains the royal right of mercy,
And she must use it—'twould not be endured
That she should bid the sentence be fulfilled.

PAULET.
And so—

BURLEIGH.
And so this woman lives; no, never!
Even this it is that weighs upon the queen,
Scaring her sleep away; in her eyes I read
Her spirits' ceaseless strife; nor dare she utter
The wish that speaks in her careworn troubled looks:
‘Will none of all my servants save me from
The bitter choice—for ever on my throne
To quake with fear, or, with a ruthless hand,
To thrust a queen and my near kinswoman
Under the headsman's axe?’

PAULET.
'Tis even thus;
Of hard necessity, thus must it be!

BURLEIGH.
And yet the queen might deem it need not be,
If she had faithful and observant servants.

PAULET.
Observant!

BURLEIGH.
Yea, such as could understand
The silent meaning of a mute command.

PAULET.
A mute command?

BURLEIGH.
Who, trusted with the keeping
Of a venomous viper, guarded the deadly thing
Not as a holy and a precious treasure.

PAULET
(emphatically).
And such a treasure is the unspotted name
And unsuspected faith of our queen and mistress;
No man can guard it, sir, too sacredly.

BURLEIGH.
When from the keeping of the Earl of Shrewsbury
This wily prisoner to yours was given,
Paulet, 'twas thought—

PAULET.
'Twas thought, my lord, no doubt,
That truest hands should hold the heaviest trust;
By Heav'n! ne'er had I consented to receive
The unwelcome office, but that I thought it needed
As good a man as England could afford!
Let me not think I owe the hateful honour
To anything but my well-known honesty.

BURLEIGH.
Say it were rumour'd that her health is failing,
And day by day she sicken'd, and so sank
Out of the voice and memory of men,—
Your hands are clean.

PAULET.
But not my conscience, too!

BURLEIGH.
Enough! since your conscience is too squeamish, sir,
At least you'll offer no impediment—

PAULET
(interrupting him).
No murderer shall cross this threshold—no!
As long as my household gods protect her head,
Her life is sacred to me; not more sacred
Is the dear life of the queen of England to me.
You are her judge—judge her, and sentence her;
And when the hour is come, send hither, and build
The scaffold—to the sheriff and the headsman
My gates shall be unbarr'd; but until then,
She's trusted to my care, and I'll so keep her
That she shall neither do, nor suffer harm.