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Scene III.
—The Upper Chamber in Holyrood.Mary Beaton seated: Mary Carmichael at a window.
MARY BEATON.
Do you see nothing?
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Nay, but swarms of men
And talking women gathered in small space,
Flapping their gowns and gaping with fools' eyes:
And a thin ring round one that seems to speak,
Holding his hands out eagerly; no more.
MARY BEATON.
Why, I hear more, I hear men shout The queen.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Nay, no cries yet.
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Ah, they will cry out soon
When she comes forth; they should cry out on her;
I hear their crying in my heart. Nay, sweet,
Do not you hate her? all men, if God please,
Shall hate her one day; yea, one day no doubt
I shall worse hate her.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Pray you, be at peace;
You hurt yourself: she will be merciful;
What, could you see a true man slain for you?
I think I could not; it is not like our hearts
To have such hard sides to them.
MARY BEATON.
O, not you,
And I could nowise; there's some blood in her
That does not run to mercy as ours doth:
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Made keener than a knife for manslaying
Can bear strange things.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Peace, for the people come.
Ah—Murray, hooded over half his face
With plucked-down hat, few folk about him, eyes
Like a man angered; Darnley after him,
Holding our Hamilton above her wrist,
His mouth put near her hair to whisper with—
And she laughs softly, looking at his feet.
MARY BEATON.
She will not live long; God hath given her
Few days and evil, full of hate and love,
I see well now.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Hark, there's their cry—The queen!
Fair life and long, and good days to the queen.
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Yea, but God knows. I feel such patience here
As I were sure in a brief while to die.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
She bends and laughs a little, graciously,
And turns half, talking to I know not whom—
A big man with great shoulders; ah, the face,
You get his face now—wide and duskish, yea
The youth burnt out of it. A goodly man,
Thewed mightily and sunburnt to the bone;
Doubtless he was away in banishment,
Or kept some march far off.
MARY BEATON.
Still you see nothing?
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Yea, now they bring him forth with a great noise,
The folk all shouting and men thrust about
Each way from him.
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Ah, Lord God, bear with me,
Help me to bear a little with my love
For thine own love, or give me some quick death.
Do not come down; I shall get strength again,
Only my breath fails. Looks he sad or blithe?
Not sad I doubt yet.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Nay, not sad a whit,
But like a man who losing gold or lands
Should lose a heavy sorrow; his face set,
The eyes not curious to the right or left,
And reading in a book, his hands unbound,
With short fleet smiles. The whole place catches breath,
Looking at him; she seems at point to speak:
Now she lies back, and laughs, with her brows drawn
And her lips drawn too. Now they read his crime—
I see the laughter tightening her chin:
Why do you bend your body and draw breath?
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She will not have him slain.
MARY BEATON.
Forth, and fear not:
I was just praying to myself—one word,
A prayer I have to say for her to God
If he will mind it.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Now he looks her side;
Something he says, if one could hear thus far:
She leans out, lengthening her throat to hear
And her eyes shining.
MARY BEATON.
Ah, I had no hope:
Yea thou God knowest that I had no hope.
Let it end quickly.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Now his eyes are wide
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The blood fills all his face. Her cheek and neck
Work fast and hard; she must have pardoned him,
He looks so merrily. Now he comes forth
Out of that ring of people and kneels down;
Ah, how the helve and edge of the great axe
Turn in the sunlight as the man shifts hands—
It must be for a show: because she sits
And hardly moves her head this way—I see
Her chin and lifted lips. Now she stands up,
Puts out her hand, and they fall muttering;
Ah!
MARY BEATON.
It is done now?
MARY CARMICHAEL.
For God's love, stay there;
Do not look out. Nay, he is dead by this;
But gather up yourself from off the floor;
Will she die too? I shut mine eyes and heard—
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Nay, he is dead and slain.
MARY BEATON.
What, slain indeed?
I knew he would be slain. Ay, through the neck:
I knew one must be smitten through the neck
To die so quick: if one were stabbed to the heart,
He would die slower.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Will you behold him dead?
MARY BEATON.
Yea: must a dead man not be looked upon
That living one was fain of? give me way.
Lo you, what sort of hair this fellow had;
The doomsman gathers it into his hand
To grasp the head by for all men to see;
I never did that.
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For God's love, let me go.
MARY BEATON.
I think sometimes she must have held it so,
Holding his head back, see you, by the hair
To kiss his face, still lying in his arms.
Ay, go and weep: it must be pitiful
If one could see it. What is this they say?
So perish the queen's traitors! Yea, but so
Perish the queen! God, do thus much to her
For his sake only: yea, for pity's sake
Do thus much with her.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Prithee come in with me:
Nay, come at once.
MARY BEATON.
If I should meet with her
And spit upon her at her coming in—
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When God will smite her lying harlot's mouth—
Surely I shall. Come, I will go with you;
We will sit down together face to face
Now, and keep silence; for this life is hard,
And the end of it is quietness at last.
Come, let us go: here is no word to say.
AN USHER.
Make way there for the lord of Bothwell; room—
Place for my lord of Bothwell next the queen.
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