SCENE III.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Margaret, with the Young Prince Edward.
Marg. Why, that's well done, my boy!—so—cheerly, cheerly!
See, too, the angry storm's subsiding:—what,
Thou canst not be a-weary, Ned?—I know,
Thou'rt more a man.
Prince. Sooth, now, my legs ache sadly!
My heart is light and fresh though; and it mocks
My legs for aching. I would I had your legs,
And you my heart.—Your heart, I fear me, mother,
Is heavier far than mine.
Marg. Dost think so, Ned?
Prince. Ay, and I know so too:—for I am in it.
Marg. My dear, wronged child!
Prince. Pr'ythee now, mother, do not grieve for me;—
I warrant I shall live to be a king, yet.
Marg. Alas! poor monkey! thou hast little cause
To be in love with greatness: thou hast felt
Its miseries full early.
Prince. Then, you know
I've all its good to come.
Marg. May Heaven grant it!
For thou dost promise nobly, boy. This forest
Will screen us from the hatred of our enemies.
Here, till the rage of war has ceased around us,
I will watch o'er thee, Ned; here guard thy life;—
Thy life! the hope, the care, the joy of mine!
And when thy harrass'd limbs have gain'd their pliancy,
We will resume our task: for I must lead thee
A painful walk, across Northumberland,
As far as Berwick, boy; where we may meet,
Again, our Scottish friends. What sayest thou Ned,
Shouldst joy to see thy father there?
Prince. Ay, mother;—
And, though we know he has escaped the traitors,
Were we but sure to find him there, I could
Set out directly.
Marg. Rest a day or two:
For hadst thou strength, the danger that surrounds us
Prevents our venturing.—Come!—on a little—
We will go look some moss-grown cavern out,
And there thou shalt repose thee, sweet.—
Enter Gondibert.
Come, boy! come, take my hand——
[Gondibert approaches, with his Sword drawn.
Gondi. Advance no further.
Marg. Ha! Who art thou, that comest, with murderous look,
Here, in the dusky bosom of the wood,
To intercept our passage?
Gondi. One of those
Who, stript of all, by an oppressing world,
Now make reprisals: if my looks be dark,
They best explain my purpose.
Prince. Fly! fly! mother!
The villain else, will kill us.
Marg. Let us pass.
Thou know'st us not; else would there so much terror
Still strike thee of our person, that—no matter.
What cause hast thou to stay me?
Gondi. Biting want;—
An oath sworn to my fellows;—disappointment;—
Despair.—I came not here to parley, lady;——quickly,
Yield what you have, or go where I command.
Marg. Command! base slave! reduced to this!—Command,
From thee? thou worm!
[Making majestically past him, with the Prince.
Gondi. Nay, nay; you fly not, lady.
[Holds his Sword, over them.
Marg. Oh, Heaven! my boy! strike not, on thy allegiance!
Save him, I charge thee, fellow! Save my son;—
The son of thy anointed king.
Gondi. My king!
[Drops his Sword at their Feet.
Marg. Ay, look, and tremble, slave.
Gondi. I do indeed!—
And tho' my sword has never been unsheathed,
Since fate has link'd me to a lawless band,
But to intimidate, not harm the passenger,
I rather would have plunged its naked point
In mine own bosom, than have raised it thus.—
I do beseech your pardon:—and, if aught,
Wherein I may be capable of service,
Can make atonement, you shall find me ready,
Be it at what blind and perilous risk soever:—
For I have heard the fate of this day's battle;
And should a guide, whose dark, and haggard fortune,
Wraps him in humble seeming, be thought worthy,
In this the time's extremity, to direct
Your wand'ring steps, my zeal will prove itself
Warm, and unshaken, madam.
Marg. Thou makest amends:—
And the strong tide of evils, rushing in,
With rapid force, upon us, well might urge me,
Like sinking men who grasp at idle straws,
To accept thy service. Yet, thou may'st be false,
And lead my boy to his destruction.—Say,—
What sureties, fellow, have I of thy truth?
Gondi. Think on the awe-inspiring air that marks
A royal brow, and makes the trait'rous soul
Shrink at its own suggestion.—And, when care,
With envious weight, invades the diadem,
To aim an injury then—'twere monstrous baseness!
Oh! long, and ever, ever be there seen
A heaven-gifted charm round Majesty,
To draw confusion on the wretch, who, watching
A transient cloud, that dims its lustre, dares
Think on his sovereign with irreverence!
But, more to bind me, madam, to your confidence,
Know, I have been your soldier; and have fought
In this proud cause—some, haply, may remember me—
When fortune's sunshine smiled upon it.
Marg. Now—
For greatness ever has its summer friends,
Who, at the fall and winter of its glory,
Fly off like swallows—thou'lt betray me.
Gondi. Never.
Wrong me not in your thoughts, beseech you, madam;
For I will serve you truly;—truly guard
Your royal son.—He is but half a subject,
Who, in the zeal, and duty, for his monarch,
Feels not his breast glow for his prince's welfare.
And, in the moment when the time's rough trial
Calls, loudly, on my sworn allegiance,
And summons it to proof, if I abandon either,
May Heaven, when most I stand in need of mercy,
Abandon me!
Prince. Let us go with him, mother.
Gondi. I know each turn and foot-path of the forest:—
Can lead you thro' such blind and secret windings,
That will perplex pursuers, till they wander,
As in a labyrinth.—West of this a little,
There stand some straggling cottages, that form
A silent village; and whose humble tops,
Deep shadow'd by the dark o'erhanging wood,
Escape the notice of the traveller.
Thither, so please you, I'll conduct you, madam.
I have a friend,
Lowly but trusty, who shall tend upon you;
While I will scout the country round, to gain
Intelligence of your divided party.
Marg. [Taking up the Sword which Gondibert dropped.]
Then, take my boy!—for I will trust thee, fellow.
I must perforce;—but mark;—for still I doubt:—
If for a moment—mark me, fellow, well!
Thou givest me cause to think thy damn'd intent
Aims at my dear child's life, that very moment,
Tho' that the next should be my last, I'll plunge
Thy weapon to thy heart.
Gondi. Fear not.
Marg. Lead on.
[Exeunt:—Gondibert leading the Prince, and Margaret following with the Sword over Gondibert's Head.