University of Virginia Library

ACT SECOND.

SCENE I.

Court before a Castle.
Enter Crawford.
Cra.
They go on rarely, in despite of me!
What fool am I, thus to be braved—outfaced
In my own castle, by such foragers;
By things like meteors hovering in a wild,
To lure the poor inhabitants to ruin,
Unknown their frame or substance? If I wist
(As much I dread) Matilda knew their lineage,—
O I would mince them all!—Thus to be bated
By hildings, leechers, nobles of a day!
Ah! were that all, 'twere nought! But she I love
Dearer than life;—dearer than this wrung heart
Can ever feel for aught in earth or heaven—
There is a thrust indeed!
Her hand she freely gave;—mayhap that was
Because our good late king so will'd it.
Gave she her heart? Of that I've had small test!
But ne'er till now ween'd I that heart was false.
Heaven grant I prove deceived; but 'tis as plain,
As proof-abiding that there is connivance,
As shines the day. Nay, I have heard them hint
Of things long past which both of them knew well.
It is so!—Is't indeed? Then what am I?
Yes;—How rank I in being's kalendar?—
Full low indeed!—The veriest downfall'n fiend
That preys on anguish, and delights to gnaw
The immaterial vitals of the soul,
Need not malign my state:—I'll do a deed
Shall make the guileful heart of woman quake
In future ages;—ay, when not a bone
Nor fragment of a skull remains of him
That did it,—when the whole of this proud frame
Heaves in a molehill!—
(Pause.)
Peace, my heart!—They come.

Enter from the Castle, Matilda, Lords, Pages, &c. with bows and arrows.
Bad.
You're ready first, my lord.—O, you shall see
How I'll outdo you with the shaft and bow.

Cra.
You will!

Bad.
List, nobles all. 'Tis known that I,
As master-archer, sit your king forthwith
Till one outdoes me. Then, good sirs, attend:
The tinckell's up from Ganna to Glen-Ocher;
Watch we the roads of Daur; and should the deer,
By greyhounds bated, or by beagles bay'd,
To different districts run, we all may part.
Well, then, let each man dine as best he may,
By crystal spring or on his saddle-bow;
At night we sup here with my Lord of Crawford.

Cra.
Nay, pardon me, sir king, I do not chuse
Thus to be bachanall'd and dinn'd o'nights.
Your late wakes and loud catches do not suit
With my slow-motion'd soul: My dame and I
Would rather be alone.—Pardon, good lords.

Mat.
That's a fair jest: 'Tis well we know my lord.
Trust me, he would not lack your company
To-night, for all the deer that range Glen-Ocher.
Come all, and welcome, and your cheer shall be
The best this wild affords. My lord, you'll come?

Bad.
Doubtless I will, when you desire it.

(Exeunt all but Matilda and Badenoch. Crawford lingers at the side scene.)
Mat.
I would not lose the news of this day's hunt;
I would not miss you at my side to-night,
For aught I think of;—I had almost said,
(Loud.)
Not for my lord himself.

Cra.
(Aside.)
Shall Crawford bear this? No; by yon heaven,
We shall not all sup here to-night!

(Exit.)
Mat.
My lord, did'st ever see so rude a churl?
O, my cheek burns with shame.

Bad.
He's jealous of us to extremity:
See how he looks behind him.

Mat.
O, I rejoice in't.—Closer yet, my lord,
Come closer still; nay, kiss me if you will:
O! I will teaze him till his heart-strings crack.
Jealous of me!—I'll teach him to beware!
Bred in a court as I was, I wont be
Domesticated like a jack by man!

Bad.
Charming Matilda, how I love to see
This spirit in you! Let me clasp thee thus!

Mat.
Nay, now my lord is gone, I list it not.
Calm thee; but hark,—Pray keep his archery down;
Claim every hit—outface him—swear you did it.
If he sit king to-night our sport is spoil'd.

Bad.
Fear not, I'll deal with him.

Mat.
But say, my lord, have you no page nor groom,
To bear your bow and quiver?

Bad.
I had a pretty little wayward boy,
But he is missing.—I'm not sorry for't,
For reasons known between us.

Mat.
(Calls.)
Claude, I say.
Enter Boy.
Go, tend that gentleman to-day.

(Exeunt severally.)

SCENE II.

A Glen of the Forest.
Enter Elenor.
Elen.
Does this world hold a human thing so wretched,
So truly low, as poor devoted Elen?
I marvel much how man can thus give up
To everlasting shame, to woe and want,
The heart that loves him. Most abandon'd wretch!
Ruthless destroyer! how thou hast betray'd me!
I've found thee out too late, when all is lost.
O! I was happy in my father's home
As heart could wish, or innocence could be!
Oft by his side I've kneel'd, with heart devout,
And heard him pray to God for his poor Elen;—
Yet I could break that tender parent's heart,
All for the sake of a cold-hearted prince,
Whom foolishly I loved!—Now I am spurn'd,
My sex discover'd, all my shame exposed!—
O, I am rightly served! and yet my heart
Still clings to my destroyer.—'Tis a curse
Imposed on woman, guerdon of her guilt,
And scourge for inborn modesty infringed.
Here I'm without a home in this wide world,
Or friend on earth:—O! might I hope, that still
I had one yonder! (Looking up.)
I would lay my head
In the cold grave in peace.—
(Weeps.)
Where shall I hide me?

Enter Shepherd.
Shep.
Give you good-day, sweet master; you, I guess,
Are a shrewd hunter; sure you may not trow
That deer are lurking here. What aileth thee?
Thou art not crying, sure?

Elen.
No, shepherd.

Shep.
(Aside, imitating her voice.)
No, shepherd.
How well a lie becomes some people's mouths!
(To her.)
I am very sorry for you, master: Can I be
Of any service to you?

Elen.
No, indeed, you cannot.

Shep.
What has befallen you, sir? Are you unwell?
Or have you done offence, for which you grieve?
I fear some one has used you very ill.

Elen.
Shepherd, I may not tell you all; but I
Have been most cruelly used.

Shep.
More shame to him that did it.
You do not look like one would do much harm;
I fear you are right far, too, from your friends.

Elen.
I have no friends on earth.

Shep.
Yes, but you have.—Have you no home?
No parent?

Elen.
I had both, but I have lost them.

Shep.
Well, I have both, thank Heaven; and they shall be
Parents to both of us; and my home thine,
Until you find a better.—Come, you shall
Be very welcome.

Elen.
Kind shepherd, I will trust thy honest heart,
For thou seem'st good:—I am a woman.

Shep.
A woman!

Elen.
Yes,—a lady born.

Shep.
A lady!—I beg your pardon, Madam:—
(Pulls off his bonnet, and sets his foot on it.)
Then you will not go to our house?

Elen.
Ah, shepherd, if you knew me, you would fly
Far from me: I have broke a parent's heart.

Shep.
Nay, that was bad; you should not have done so.
What was it tempted you to such a deed?

Elen.
My inexperienced heart,
In hour of blindfold levity, was snared
By flattery and love. Fondly it trow'd
The sacred oaths that gilded o'er the toil;
But when the fluttering, panting captive lay
Coil'd in the net, and look'd to these for aid,
They lessen'd to her view, and at the last
Were given remorseless to the winds of heaven.

Shep.
It seems your lover has betray'd you then?

Elen.
I left my father, in concealment lived,
Still trusting my false love, in honour bound
To make me his; till late he urged his suit,
(Shameful device!) that I in this disguise
Should to these mountains bear him company.
Zealous to please, and weary of confinement,
I came; and now he spurns at me, derides me,
And holds me up to scorn.—Another love,
More lawless still, his whole affection sways,
And I must hide my wretched head forever.

Shep.
You have a father: He will not disclaim
His poor repentant child.

Elen.
I would not look my father in the face,
Disgraced as I am now, not for this world.

Shep.
(Heaving his staff in the attitude of striking.)
Lady, do you see this? I'll ware it on
The man who thus has wrong'd you; I will bast him
Until I leave him scarce the power to cry,
Hold, ruffian, hold!—I care not for his sword;
I'll smash it all to pieces, thus!—O how I'll knab him!
Come home with me, sweet stranger, you shall be
Most kindly welcomed.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

Another part of the Forest.
A Deer lying, with an arrow stuck in its side.
Enter Badenoch and Crawford, from opposite sides.
Cra.
Thy boasted skill has lagg'd behind to-day
Brag of thy archery now; thou wert more near
Than I was by a third.

Bad.
Well, what of that? I slew the deer.

Cra.
You! You slew the deer!

Bad.
Certes I did, my lord: I slew the deer;
And will maintain it.—Who is't says I did not?

Cra.
Such insolence was never paralleled!—
Well, to confute thee, view the shaft; its length
Will prove it mine.

(Badenoch pulls out the Arrow, and breaks it in pieces.)
Bad.
The shaft is mine, 'tis plain; and shall not be
Bone of contention 'twixt us. (Waving his sword.)
I'll maintain
My word 'gainst any he that dares deny it.

Cra.
Presumptuous, paltry thing! art thou aware
Whom thus thou beardest! O, were thy shallow might
But worthy of my sword, how I would blast
And mildew thy rank flesh!—

(They fight.)
Bad.
My lord, I say; my lord!
(Crawford gains upon him, driving him round the stage.)
Hold, my good lord!—My lord, I say!

Cra.
Nay, keep thy fence; trust me, thou scap'st not thus.

Enter Garnet, who rushes between them, striking up their Swords.
Gar.
Damnation on thy frenzy!—Madmen! fools!
Why this infuriate strife?—Hold off, I say.

Cra.
Stand back, Glen-Garnet; thou shalt witness be
How I will gall this braggart.

Gar.
Knowest thou, sir, whom thou gallest?
Or knowest thou me?

Cra.
No, faith, I do not; yet thee I honour, Garnet,
And often think, that I have elsewhere seen
That warrior form, by other name or title.

Gar.
Yes, thou hast seen me, where—

(Badenoch stops him.)
Bad.
Hold, on thy life!—Thy honour, every pledge
That manhood claims, front thee in stern array,
And beckon thee to silence.—Sooth, my lord,
'Twas but a jest; a banter: Nought I meant
Of insult or of strife.—The shaft was yours:—
I'll claim it still; swear it was mine; outface you;
You shall not gain the honour of that hit,
Do as you will. Have with you for the next.

(Exeunt Badenoch and Garnet.)
Cra.
So! I am baulk'd again, and my revenge
Turn'd on me for a foil!—That surkle lord
Will learn to know his betters: he had nigh
Paid dearly for his jest.—My mind is weary
Forming conjectures who these strangers are.
By what dropt from Glen-Garnet, it is plain
That they are men of note. Then, too, 'tis plain,
Their motions point to ill—else why disguised?
I'll to the Cave of Merlin: He'll unfold,
In riddles and in rhymes, each guest's degree,
And all th'events that on their purpose hang.

SCENE IV.

Another part of the Forest.
Enter March, musing.
Mar.
If these sleek menials may be believed,
Who waste and riot in yon gaudy tents,
Then I am sore misled, and this gay band
Are not the men I seek.—I'll not believe't:
Plain circumstance and reason both agree
In pointing their retreat. I will not hence
Till I have seen them face to face, and heard
Each yeoman's voice. Not all their borrow'd locks,
Strange guise, and uncouth titles, shall avail;
Nay, though they mask them in the scarf of hell,
Some of them I shall note.—And should I find,
As sore I dread, my fair ungrateful Elen
Disgraced and soil'd;—my beauteous virgin rose
Torn from its parent stem, just in the bud,
Ere yet its glowing breast had dared to ope
Its blushing beauties to the summer's eye,
Cropt by a villain's hand, and cast aside
All sullied in the dust,—O, I will pawn
This heart's blood for revenge!—Cold though it be,
A parent's feelings warm it, till each drop,
Each creeping rill that sheds its living tinge
Through this dejected frame, thrills at the thought,
And rouses me to action.—Yonder comes
A homely swain; mayhap he can inform
More of these stranger knights. I'll go and task him.

(Exit.)

SCENE V.

Another part of the Glen.
Enter Shepherd.
Shep.
O my heart's heavy for that beauteous dame!
Her case is most unmeet!—All hopeless here;
Lost in the very outset of her journey,
Ere she had learn'd to note the onward path
From those that lead aside, the shift of winds,
And all the marks experienced travellers know.
Is't not unmeet, that one should thus be marr'd,
Storm-staid in life, ere yet the summer months
Are well begun?—It is.—We are unjust;
Man's most unjust; and I will prove it on him
From every law of nature.—In his progress
Man loses oft his path; alas, how oft!
But then he may regain it;—he's at freedom,
Nor one gainsays.—But lovely, tender woman,
Making one step aside; but one false step!
Is jostled off for ever.—O, 'tis unjust!
Man first decoys her easy heart astray,
And then laughs at the helpless wanderer!—
Those little flowers along the forest sward,
And all those blossoms nodding on the trees,
Will soon fall down dishonour'd in the dust;
Yet these the year will timeously renew.
But once the flower of all the world is cropp'd,
Where lives the principle that can renew it?
There is no southland breeze can ever blow
Again to bid the blemish'd stem revive;
Nor shower, that rainbow beckons from the west,
Fall on its opening blossom evermore!—
(Weeps.)
But there's another world to sojourn in,
Where lovely woman will not thus be treated!
(Enraged.)
O, what a heart that high-born lord must have!
I count him fiend whom honour does not bind;
He has less feeling than the savage hind
That roams the desart, thus to treat such beauty!
(Piteously.)
When she had given him all that she could give,
Trusted his honour with her fame and heart,
Her little all!—to make her serve him thus,
Disguised as a page, run by his side,
And wade the cold deep waters, while the lords
That him consort, took each his real page
Up him behind.—
(Weeps—then enraged.)
O, I could find, here, so
To maul that cruel knight, as not to leave
Inch of his frame unskathed.—Yes, I will go,
And face the injurious craven this same night.
How my brain maddens at him!—By yon heaven!
I will so wrong him, his repentance shall
Grow to a parallel with his misdeeds:
I'll strike his sword to pieces, thus;—
(Strikes furiously in the Air.)
Enter March.
And then
I'll fly at him, and seize him thus!—

(Seizes March.)
Mar.
Madman, forbear!—Unhand me, maniac.

(They part suddenly, and look long at each other.)
Shep.
I fear I have committed grievous error.
Sir, I was raving, and I crave forgiveness:
Frenzied with rage, my reason, for a moment,
Was overcome.—It was not rage at you,
But at those hunters:—Pardon me, good knight.

Mar.
So, then, you are not mad?

Shep.
Sometimes a little; when I think of those
Who feel but for themselves, it maddens me;
But I grow well anon.—I'm not quite safe
As yet, for I bethink me of some hunters,
That have done deeds of such vile character
That nature blushes for them, and directs
Each child of hers to shun, or chasten them;
And I do shrewdly guess, that you are one
Of that cursed gang.

Mar.
'Tis absolute misprision.
But say, good youth, what quarrel have you there?

Shep.
What quarrel, sir?—take care how you assay
To blow the trembling spark; it lies on tinder.
Are you not one of them?—Be sure; for if
You are, I would not now be in your place,
No, not for—

(Puts himself in the attitude of striking March.)
Mar.
Have I not told you? let your eyes inquire;
Hold consult with your memory, if I,
In mien or habit, aught resemble them.

Shep.
You are not clothed in green, 'tis true, as they;
But then you're some great man,—haply you seek them;
If so, 'tis for no good.—What quarrel, said you?
Mark me, sir knight, and give me serious answer.
If you had flocks, and were those flocks your all,
How would you list to see them driven astray;
Maim'd, scatter'd, and destroy'd?

Mar.
Not well, I do confess.

Shep.
If you had loved a wife, to you more dear
Than is your own existence, would you list
To see her very virtues, by the power
Of studied, deep deceit, turn'd to her bane,
And point to paths of ill? To see her love
Estranged from you, and her unweeting heart
Lured into slumbers of depravity?
Or say you had a daughter, knight; the child
Of your breathed vows; one bred beside your knee,
Who wont to sit thereon, and clasp your arm
In her young bosom, climb your chair, and throw
Her little arms around your neck, and kiss you!
Nay, say that daughter were your only hope,
The sole remaining comfort of your age—
You tremble! had you ever a daughter, sir?

Mar.
Yes, yes, O yes!—I had a daughter.

Shep.
Then you can judge.—But did you love that daughter?

Mar.
Love her?—O yes; he who perceives the heart
Knows how I loved her.— (Aside.)
O eternal heaven,
What bears he on? my soul's in agony.

Shep.
Could you endure to see that innocent
Vilely betray'd, disgraced, and then thrown out
Derisive on a cold injurious world?
Could you bear this, sir?—For my part I cannot;
No, and I will not bear it. I will go,
And dare such things! What, are you weeping too?
Then you are good, and God will bless you for it.

Mar.
Shepherd, I do much long to meet those men.

Shep.
Then so do I.—Come, we'll go seek them straight.

Mar.
I fain would baulk discovery.—If thou
Wilt lend me thy attire, then will we go
And meet them forthwith.

Shep.
Thou shalt have suit of mine.—Come home with me.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

Inside of a Shepherd's Cot.
Old Shepherd. Wife. Elenor dressed in clean russet attire.—To them enter March and Shepherd.
Mar.
Peace to this cot, and every honest heart
That beats within it! Heaven's peace be with you!

Old Shep.
The same to you, sir.

Mar.
An earnest curiosity impels me
To view, unknown, this jovial hunter train
That live pavillion'd on the dark Badlewe,
And chace the mountain deer. Meeting your son,
He proffer'd me a suit of shepherd's weeds,
Which I long much to prove.

(Here March discovers Elenor, who sinks own, and leans to the side-scene.)
Mar.
O, everlasting shame! The blasting truth
Bursts on my view, and all my hopes are past!—
And thou, old dreg of sin! who could have judged
Thou wert a pander?

Old Shep.
A pander? What is that, please you, sir?

Mar.
Hast thou not for a guilty poor reward,
At peril of thy soul and heaven's curse,
Lodged in thy cot this most unhappy girl,
In fair connivance with a certain lord?
O, thou old gangrene, thou shalt smart for this!

Shep.
What is't you say, sir? one such other word
In the same style to that old man, who is
My father, or to that young beauteous dame,
Who lately here sought shelter, and I'll lay
You flat as that same hearth you stand upon—
Mark that.

Mar.
Tell me then calmly, where you found this minx,
This shame of maidhood and nobility?
Who brought her hither?

Shep.
'Twas I, sir;—how doth that concern your pride?

Mar.
Calmly, I say—where did you find her?

Shep.
I found her in the wild, fled from the scorn
Of cold indifference, from guilt and shame;
Weeping she sat within a little dell,
Her bright tears trickling on the sward—her sighs
So deep and soft mix'd with the passing winds,
Till the old birch that waved above her head
Seem'd weeping too.

Mar.
Weeping alone! and fled from guilt and shame!
There is a tone of feeling there, that seems
To sound in unison with every chord
That vibrates round this fond corroded heart.
(He pauses, and looks at her affectionately. She lifts her eyes fearfully, and withdraws them.)
Wilt thou not speak, my lost lamented Elen?
Look but that look again, and say, “My father!”
And this fond heart that yearns o'er thee will melt.

Omnes.
Her father!—

(She weeps.)
Mar.
Nay, this I cannot bear—Come to my heart;
For though thy stains were of the Ethiop's hue,
Thou art my daughter still! These tears of thine
Bespeak thy mind unseared.

(He embraces her.)
Elen.
O, my indulgent parent, do not! do not!
Nor kiss me, nor embrace me: I'm a stain
To thee and thine! This kindness wounds more deep
Than would thy anger and most stern reproach.

Shep.
I am very glad to see you, sir; right glad
That you are come. Do you remember, once
I told you something of a wronged daughter?

Mar.
Yes, I remember; and I now perceive
Thy virtuous kindness.—Blessing on thy head!

Shep.
You found me raving, sir; it was of Elen.
Now you and I shall bring that lord to reason.

Mar.
Yes, I'll go with thee, shepherd: No disguise
I now shall need—my way's perceptible:
Where it may terminate is hid from view;
But this I know, there is no other one.
Tell o'er thy injuries, I yearn to hear them.

(To Elenor.)
Shep.
O spare her heart; I know them all, and will
Recount them by the way. Suppose the worst—
Muster up each abhorrent degradation
That guilt may frame, or heart of fiend can hatch,
And still you're far, far short of Elen's wrongs.

Mar.
If I find not redress, there is no rule
In this bad world; and heaven smiles indignant
At all the petty feuds and woes of man.
Lead on, good shepherd.

Elen.
O best of parents, let me beg of thee;
Yes, on my knees I'll beg—Go not to-day.
What can thy suit avail—when all the floods
That roll their crystal torrents to the main,
And fountains of the everlasting deep;
Nay, all the blood of his licentious race
Can ne'er wash out my stain?—Stay till your rage
Is calmed and softened into reason.

Mar.
Yes, I'll be calm as night; but it shall be
The calmness of a winter evening,
Which shifting winds may rouse into a tempest.
Comfort thee, Elen: In a cause like this
'Tis vain to sue.

(Exeunt Shepherd & March.)
Elen.
O, my foreboding mind!—
There was a time when heart could not have deem'd
That I was born a curse to all my race!

(Exit.)

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.)

SCENE VIII.

Inside of the Shepherd's Cot.
Enter Elenor, Shepherd's Wife, &c.
Elen.
Have they not staid a weary, weary time?
How far is it to Crawford?

Shep. Wife.
A good way, lady: More than half way gone
They cannot be to Crawford.

Elen.
Where lies the pass they talk'd of, where they said
The hunters needs must come.

Shep. Wife.
A short way hence, deep in the glen of Campdale;
'Tis scarce a mile.

Enter Old Shepherd, who whispers his Wife apart.
Elen.
Do you not see, nor hear them coming, sir?

Old Shep.
They've not had time; they will be here anon.
Be comforted, dear lady.

Elen.
The weight that hangs upon my heart tonight
Is all unbrookable: Would it were broke!
The dead have peace and rest! Have they not, shepherd?

Old Shep.
Yes, they have rest; peace to their souls, sweet lady.

Elen.
Their home is very still. Of all beyond
'Tis dangerous to conjecture: Mind is lost
On shoreless tides, or wanders darkling on
O'er vales immeasurable, till it shrinks
Back to the blaze of time, giddy and blind.
Yet they do sleep so sound, so peaceably,
So calm, so unmolesting, side by side,
No one to wrong them, and no sin to lure,
That I have often thought they were most happy
Whom the Eternal Wisdom chose to call,
In early life, from this most wicked world.
O yes, the dead are happy: I'll believe't
With my whole heart. Yes, yes, the dead are happy!

Old Shep.
I joy to find thee in this holy frame,
Thy mind resign'd, and poised o'er worlds to come;
For thou hast much to bear. My son's return'd;
But so o'ercome with grief, he'll not approach.—
Thy father—is not with him.

(Pause.—Elen starts and fixes her eyes.)
Elen.
O God!—My father!

Old Shep.
Thou hast no father, lady; he is slain
In most foul wise, by that injurious lord.

(Long pause.—Elen shrinks, as if wounded, shudders, and stoops forward; then, after some convulsive moans, faints in their arms.—Scene closes.)