University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

A Pass in the Forest among Rocks.
Enter March and Shepherd.
Mar.
Shepherd, 'tis wearing late, and nought appears.

Shep.
This way they're bound to pass;—No other path
Leads from the forest to the halls of Crawford,
Or to the tented hill.—They'll come anon.

Mar.
The sun looks pale to-night, grizly and broad,
Blench'd and unsightly like a beamless globe.—
What does it bode, good shepherd?

Shep.
God knows!—'Tis awful!

Mar.
Dost ever think of this life's end, young man;
Or of the world to come?

Shep.
Certes, and oft, my lord—What is't you aim at?

Mar.
Think'st thou that many view that parting sun
Who ne'er shall see him rise?

Shep.
Haply there may, my lord.

(Seriously.)
Mar.
It is a weary world; a sad, sad world!
A scene of woe, of wickedness, and death:
We fume a while, then turn to nought again.
Yes, shepherd, many a thought-set eye shall view
Yon setting sun, that ere the morning dawn
Shall sleep the sleep of death: And many a form,
Now sensible and warm, ere then shall lie
As senseless as that turf.—O, it is madness
To rear such fair forms, to be food of passion
And prey of worms at last!—If aught remains,
'Tis an unbodied nameless thing, that flies
On our last breath, and, mixing with the wind,
Flits evermore along the voids of heaven.
A dreaming ghost, a—

Shep.
O sir, for heaven's sake, forbear, desist!

Mar.
What is it ails thee?

Shep.
Thou'st put my frame in motion; every inch
Stirs like particular life.—O talk not, sir,
Of ghosts in such a place as this!—
Good God, protect us!

Mar.
You are surely raving.

Shep.
Either I am, or else I heard a voice
Boom from that rock, where foot of man ne'er trode.
Hark how it speaks again!

Mar.
By heaven I heard it!—This is wonderful!
That the grey column'd rock should ope its jaws,
And blab in human phrase!—Look to the pass:
It is some echo.

Shep.
They come, my lord; it is the hunter train,
Whose clamorous glee has waked the slumbering sprites
That harbour in the rock, from their day-dream,
To mock and mimic them.

Mar.
Abide thou here unseen;
I'll draw him from the throng, and question him
With all address.—Watch thou; but come not nigh:
Of family secrets we may chance to talk.

(Exeunt severally.)
Scene changes.
Enter March and Badenoch.
Bad.
I marvell'd much to meet you here, my lord;
And started, thinking I had seen a spirit.
I hope you're come to join us in the chase?

Mar.
Alas! my lord, I came on worse employ;
Grievous to me, and to yourself I ween:—
My only child, thy favourite, Elenor,
Wo's me, is lost.

Bad.
Lost! did you say?—how?—when?

Mar.
Some five weeks past, while I was in the south,
A villain came and stole her from my tower,
And holds her in concealment and dishonour.

Bad.
I'm sorry for't; but till the frame of woman,
Her passions, and her nature, all are changed,
Such things will be.—You must not think of it.

Mar.
Not think of it!—My lord, you have not proved
Such pure untainted love as mine for Elen.
Her image was engraven in my frame,
And ever present here: Whene'er I toil'd,
Rode at the ring, or fought
In fields of blood, or foraged on the Tyne—
'Twas all for Elen.—
Not think of it!—
Yes, I will think of it, while the last gleam
Of mind lightens this weary waning frame!
And when 'tis out, my lips and tongue shall move
To the old theme by rote.—
Not think of it!

Bad.
Bootless to pine for that we cannot mend.
She was to blame—I own she was to blame:
So is the knight who hath transplaced her,
Though haply not so much as may be construed.

Mar.
Think of the heart that could destroy my Elen,
Infringe the laws of honour, and of trust,
And rob us both of all!—Is not that man
Most barbarous, and for ever damn'd, my lord?

Bad.
(Aside.)
O pleasure, thou hast shafts abiding thee,
That rankle in the heart, and give more pain
Than thy most potent ecstacy's delight!
How shall I rid me of this injured parent?
'Tis not in nature to direct a task
More trying or repugnant—I must do it.—
Be of good cheer;—your daughter may be found.—
Good b'ye, my lord.

Mar.
(Stopping him.)
Found! did you say?—O cherish not the hopes
You cannot feed!—Know you aught of my Elen?

Bad.
No—nothing.

Mar.
Nor seen, nor heard, of one resembling her?

Bad.
None—that I think of. With your leave, my lord.

Mar.
Well; list, my lord—I saw her this same hour.

Bad.
(Aside.)
Then I am bay'd indeed—
(To him.)
Where did you see her?

Mar.
Hard by.

Bad.
Then she's not lost. You best had take her home.

Mar.
Sir, speak'st thou thus to me? A parent's wrongs
Must otherwise be answer'd.

Bad.
Am I to blame? She's a sweet playful maid,
And given to frolic: hints and jibes were vain;
She would not wait behind.—She's a good girl,
But volatile and light as morning cloud,
Or thistle-down, that dances in the sun:
Could I give nayword to her blythsome mood,
Of mating me a while?—I'm not to blame.

Mar.
Jesting apart, my lord—Art thou content
To make the best compense that now remains,
By honour'd spousal?

Bad.
You'll pardon me, my lord; that cannot be.
Wed Elen?—No, as yet you must not name it.—
With your good leave, my lord, I must be gone.

Mar.
No; not yet.

(Seriously.)
Bad.
What! darest thou bar my way, and bend such looks
Upon thy betters?—Dost thou brave, old man?

(Draws.)
Mar.
Yes; and I'll brave an hundred such as thee,
In such a cause.—Thou, lost to honour, truth,
And every feeling that ennobles man;
O, thou shalt feel how this old arm can right
An injured child!

Bad.
(Aside.)
Curse the old ruffian! I'll not trust his rage;
My frame is all unnerved; I scarce can grasp
The sword within my hand. I did not deem
That guilt could so unman me.—Well, I see
One of us two must die, else I must yield.
I am a prince—the matter is decided—
I must get rid of him:—Now for the means.

Mar.
Thou wretch! thou poltroon! dar'st thou not?

Bad.
(Smiling.)
I do not chuse to hurt my Elen's father:
I did but jest, to move your honest pride;
I mean to wed your daughter.

Mar.
O, I'm a fool; a headlong, rash old man;
But I'm a father, and you must forgive me.
My heart's so full, I know not—

(As he is sheathing his sword, Badenoch springs forward and stabs him.—He falls.)
Bad.
Take that, old dotard, for thy courtesy.
Now blab thy own, and thy lewd minx's wrongs,
And mar my honours if thou can'st.

(Stabs him again.)
Mar.
O wretch! O monster! Coward that thou art!
'Twas hard, thus to take short a poor old man;
An injured man! Thy cup is full, and thou
Shalt drink it to the lees.—My child! my child!
My kind, heart-broken, helpless Elenor!
O pity her! thou God of mercy, pity her!

(Dies.)
Enter Shepherd, running.
Shep.
O shame! O shame! O shame! (Looking at the Body.)
'Tis o'er! 'tis o'er!
Wilt thou e'er show that dastard face again
Among the sons of men?—I saw it all.

Bad.
Did'st thou? Then here's for thee.

Shep.
Hast thou a stomach for more blood? 'Tis well;
There's more to do for thee.

(They fight. The Shepherd strikes away his sword, knocks him down, and continues to lay on, till enter Hunters, Pages, Servants, &c., with swords. He exchanges a few blows with them, and then flies, pursued by all the Servants.)
Omnes.
Pursue him! Cleave him to the ground!

(They raise Badenoch.)
Ron.
How is it with thee, sir?

Bad.
O I am bruised most wofully.

Ron.
How happ'd this grievous and wild affray?

Bad.
That gusty earl, our house's latent foe,
Beckon'd me courteously aside to talk,
Then drew on me forthwith, in furious guise.
I warded all his blows, right loath to hurt
A rash old man: But, driven to extremes,
I gave the wound I rue, but could not shun.
Just as I stood in tears for what I'd done,
That ruffian came behind, and with a blow
Stunn'd me outright.

Ron.
It grieves me much this lord's untimely death;
Though stern, he was a warrior often tried.
What quarrel put he on you?

Bad.
Nought distinct:—
He talk'd of you, and wrongs, and dire revenge.

Ron.
'Tis very strange he should be here
Amidst this wilderness, in such a mood!
It has been madness all.
Re-enter part of the Servants.
Have you secured the ruffian?

Ser.
Sooner you'll catch the wind, or the fleet deer;
The swiftest steed that neighs within your stalls
Could not o'erhie him on his native steep.
He is some hind, a very devil incarnate:
When one outstript the rest, he seem'd to fail,
Urging him on; then turn'd he round at once,
Knock'd that one down, and fled. Here come my mates
O'erspent and maim'd.

Ron.
He well deserves his life.—Look to the body,
And let us on to Crawford.

(Exeunt.)