Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 24

by Unknown

XXIV.

THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.—SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick; RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc.

SCENE I.—A Street—the Market-place.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD and HENRY (his sons), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, and others of the People.

Provost Ramsay.—Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a holy alliance wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he demand us to surrender!—to gie up our toun!—our property!—our lives!—our liberty!—to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen! While we breathe, we will breathe the breath o' Freedom! as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned are upon anither—here!—the power to defend this market-place is mine!—and here will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my side!

Sir Alex.—Fear not, good provost; I through life have learned To live with honour, or with honour fall.

Richard.—And as the father dies, so shall his sons. What sayest thou, Henry?

Henry.—I would say but this—
(If one with a smooth chin may have a voice)—
When thou dost nobly fall, I'll but survive
To strike revenge—then follow thy example.

Provost Ramsay.—Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve.

Hugh Elliot.—-In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles—
In every street, each corner of the town,
Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed;
From every house the children's wail is heard,
Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother,
Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by!
My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements;
'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch,
Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound,
Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls:
The casements fell in atoms, and the bed,
Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion:
I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!—beheld
My wife's fair bosom torn—her heart laid bare!
And the red stream came oozing to my feet!
Is this a time for smiles!

Provost Ramsay.—Your wife! Heaven preserve us! Weel, after a', I hae reason to be thankfu' I hae neither wife nor bairns on a day like this!

Sir Alex.—Behold an envoy from the English camp, Sent with proposals, or some crafty truce.

Hugh Elliot.—Let me entreat you, then, most noble sir,
Give him all courtesy; and if his terms
Be such as we in honour may accept,
Refuse them not by saying, WE WILL DIE.

Enter EARL PERCY and Attendants.

Percy.—Good morrow, my Scotch cousins!
My gracious sovereign, your right lawful master,
Hath, in his mercy, left you these conditions—
Now to throw wide your gates, and, if ye choose,
Go walk into the Tweed, and drown your treason;
Or run, like scapegoats, to the wilderness,
Bearing your sins, and half a week's provision;
Or, should these terms not meet your approbation,
Ere midnight we shall send some fleeter messengers.
So now, old Governor, my master's answer?

Provost Ramsay.—The mischief's in your impudence! But were I Sir Alexander, the only answer your master should hae, would be your weel-bred tongue sent back upon the end o' an arrow; an' that wad be as fleet a messenger, as ye talk about fleet messengers, as ony I ken o'.

Percy.—Peace, thou barbarian! keep thy frog's throat closed. I say, old greybeard, hast thou found an answer?

Sir Alex.—Had my Lord Percy found more fitting
phrase
To couch his haughty mandate, I perhaps
Had found some meet reply. But as it is,
Thou hast thine answer in this people's eyes.

Hugh Elliot.—Since we with life and honour may depart, Send not an answer that must seal our ruin, Though it be hero-like to talk of death.

[Enter LADY SETON, listening.

Bethink thee well, Sir Governor: these men
Have wives with helpless infants at their breasts;
What husband, think ye, would behold a child
Dashed from the bosom where his head had pillowed,
That his fair wife might fill a conqueror's arms!
These men have parents—feeble, helpless, old;
Yea, men have daughters!—they have maids that love them—
Daughters and maidens chaste as the new moon—
Will they behold them screaming on the streets,
And in the broad day be despoiled by violence?
Think of these things, my countrymen! [Aside to PERCY,
Now, my Lord Percy, you may read your answer.

Percy [aside].—So thou art disaffected, good Sir Orator: Well, ply thy wits, and Edward will reward thee— Though, for my part, I'd knight thee with a halter!

Sir Alex.—Is this thy counsel in the hour of peril,
Milk-hearted man? To thee, and all like thee,
I offer terms more generous still than Edward's:
Depart ye by the Scotch or English gate—
Both shall be opened. Lade your beasts of burden—
Take all you have—your food, your filthy gold,
Your wives, your children, parents, and yourselves!
Go to our Scottish king, and prate of courage!
Or go to Edward—Percy will conduct thee.

[LADY SETON advances forward.

Lady Seton.—Spoke like thyself, my husband!
Out on thee, slave! [To ELLIOT.
Or shall I call thee traitor? What didst thou,
On finishing thy funeral service, whisper
In my Lord Percy's ear?

Elliot.—I whisper, lady?

Lady Seton.—You whisper, smooth-tongued sir!

Percy [aside].—Zounds! by the coronet of broad Northumberland,
Could I exchange it for fair England's crown,
I'd have my bodyguard of woman's eyes,
And make the whole sex sharpshooters!

Provost Ramsay.—Wae's me! friend Elliot, but you have an unco dumfoundered-like look after that speech o' yours in defence o' liberty, and infants, and fair bosoms, maiden screams, and grey hairs, and what not.

Sir Alex.—Percy, we hear no terms but death or liberty. This is our answer.

Percy.—Well, cousins, be it so. The wilful dog— As runs the proverb. Lady, fare-ye-well. [Exit.

Sir Alex.—On with me, friends—on to the southern ramparts! There, methinks, they meditate a breach. On, Scotsmen! on— For Freedom and for Scotland! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Town Ramparts.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, HENRY, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, and Populace.

Sir Alex.—To-day, my townsmen, I shall be your leader;
And though my arms may lack their wonted vigour,
Here are my pledges [pointing to his sons] placed on either side,
That seal a triumph youth could never reap.
To-day, my sons, beneath a father's eye,
Oh give such pride of feeling to his heart
As shall outshame the ardour of his youth,
And nerve his arm with power strong as his zeal!

[Exeunt all save HUGH ELLIOT.

Elliot.—Thanks to my destiny!—the hour is come—
The wished-for hour of vengeance on mine enemy!—
Heavens! there is neither nobleness nor virtue.
Nor any quality that beggars boast not,
But he and his smooth sons have swallowed up;
And all the world must mouth their bravery!—-
I owe a debt to Scotland and to him,
And I'll repay it—I'll repay it now!
This letter will I shoot to Edward's camp;
And now, ere midnight, I'm revenged—revenged!

[LADY SETON appears from the window of the castle, as
ELLIOT is fixing a letter on an arrow.

Lady Seton [from the window].—Hold, traitor! hold,
Or, by the powers above us, this very hour
Your body o'er these battlements shall hang
For your fair friends to shoot at!

[ELLIOT drops the bow.

Elliot [aside].—Now fleet destruction seize the lynx-eyed fiend— Trapped in the moment that insured success! Thank fate—my dagger's left!—she has a son!

Lady Seton.—Go, worthless recreant, and in thickest fight
Blot out thy guilty purpose: know thy life
Depends on this day's daring; and its deeds
And wounds alone, won in the onset's brunt,
Secures my silence.

Elliot.—You wrong me, noble lady.

Lady Seton.—Away! I'll hear thee not, nor let my ears List to the accents of a traitor's tongue. [Exit ELLIOT.

SCENE III.—An Apartment in KING EDWARD'S Tent.

Enter EDWARD and PERCY.

Edward.—Well, my Lord Percy, thou hast made good speed. What say these haughty burghers to our clemency?

Percy.—In truth, your Grace, they are right haughty
burghers.
One wondrous civil gentleman proposed
To write his answer on your servant's tongue—
Using his sword as clerks might do a quill—
Then thrust it on an arrow for a post-boy!

Edward.—Such service he shall meet. What said their governor?

Percy.—Marry! the old boy said I was no gentleman,
And bade me read my answer in the eyes
Of—Heaven defend me!—such a squalid crew!
One looked like death run from his winding sheet;
Another like an ague clothed in rags;
A third had something of the human form,
But every bone was cursing at its fellow.
Now, though I vow that I could read my fate
In every damsel's eyes that kissed a moonbeam,
I've yet to learn the meaning of the words
Wrote on the eyeballs of his vellum-spectres,
But the old man is henpecked!

Edward.—Prythee, Lord Percy, lay thy fool's tongue by, And tell thy meaning plainly.

Percy.—Nay, pardon me, your majesty; I wot Your servant is the fool his father made him, And the most dutiful of all your subjects.

Edward.—We know it, Percy. But what of his wife?

Percy.—Why, if the men but possess half her spirit, You might besiege these walls till you have counted The grey hairs on the child that's born next June.

Edward.—And was this all?

Percy.—Nay, there was one—a smooth-tongued oily man—
A leader of the citizens; and one
Who measures out dissension by the rood:
He is an orator, and made a speech
Against the governor: the people murmured;
And one or two cried out, "Behold an Antony!"
But he's a traitor; and I'd hang all traitors!

Edward.—Ha!—then doth the devil, Disaffection,
With his fair first-born, Treason, smooth our path.
So we have friends within the citadel.
Sent they no other answer?

Percy.—I did expect me to have brought the whole,
Like half-clothed beggars bending at my heels,
To crave your Grace's succour; but, behold,
Ere I could bid them home for a clean shirt,
That they might meet your majesty like Christians,
Out stepped her ladyship, and with a speech
Roused up the whole to such a flood of feeling
That I did well 'scape drowning in the shout
Of Scotland and Seton!—Seton and Scotland!—Then
did she turn and ask me, "Are you answered?"
I said I was!—and they did raise a cry
Of Death or Liberty!

Edward.—They shall have it—death in its fullest meaning.
Haste, ply our cannon on the opening breach.
Forth!—they attack the camp! Now, drive them back,
Break through their gate and guards,
Till all be ours! [Exeunt

SCENE IV.—The Ramparts.

Scots driven through the gates in confusion.

Sir Alex.—Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is thine.
Where was the caution ye but preached this morn,
That ye should madly break our little band,
And rush on certain ruin? Fie on thee, man!
That such an old head is so young a soldier!
Here, guard this breach, defend it to the last;
Henry shall be thy comrade. On, my friends!
They cross the river, and the northern gate
Will be their next attack.

Elliot [aside].—"Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is
thine!"
So says our Governor! 'Tis true!—'twas mine!
Though I have failed me in my firm, fixed purpose,
Once more he's thrown revenge within my grasp;
And I will clutch it—clutch it firmly, too;
I guard the breach! and with his son to assist me!
The Fates grow kind! The breach! he said the breach!
And gave his son up to the power of Edward!

Henry.—Why stand ye musing there? Here lies your duty!

Elliot [aside].—'Tis true! 'tis true! my duty DOES lie there!

Henry.—Follow me, Elliot. See—they scale the walls! A moment lost, and they have gained the battlement.

Shouting.—PERCY and Followers leap upon the battlement.

Percy.—On! followers, on!—for Edward and for England!

Henry.—Have at thee, Percy, and thy followers, too! For Freedom and for Scotland! On, Elliot! on! Wipe out the morning's shame.

Elliot [aside].—Have at thee, boy, for insult and revenge!

[ELLIOT strikes HENRY'S sword from his hand.

Henry.—Shame on thee, traitor! are we thus betrayed?

[Percy's Followers make HENRY prisoner.

Elliot.—Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!—one then is in their grasp!
A truce, Lord Percy. See thy prisoner safe,
Ere his mad father sound a rescue—off!
Thou wouldst not draw thy sword upon a friend?

[SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, PROVOST RAMSAY, and others, enter hurriedly.

Sir Alex.—Thanks, Elliot! thanks! You have done nobly!—thanks! Where is your comrade?—speak—where is my son?

Elliot.—Would he had been less valiant—less brave!

Sir Alex.—What! is he dead, my good, my gallant boy? Where is his body? show me—where? oh, where?

Richard.—Where is my brother? tell me how he fell?

Elliot.—Could I with my best blood have saved the youth, Ye are all witnesses that I would have done it.

Provost Ramsay.—Indeed, Mr. Elliot, if ye refer to me, I'm witness to naething o' the kind; for it is my solemn opinion, a' the execution your sword did was as feckless as a winnle-strae.

Sir Alex.—Where is my poor boy's body?

Elliot.—I did not say he died.

Richard.—Not dead!

Sir Alex.—Not say he died?

Elliot.—See yonder group now hurrying to the camp, And shouting as they run. He is their prisoner! [Aside] Feed ye, friends, on that.

Sir Alex.—Cold-blooded man! them never wert a father.
The tyrant is! he knows a father's heart;
And he will play the butcher's part with mine!
Each day inflicting on me many deaths,
Knowing right well I am his twofold prisoner;
For on the son's head he'll repay, with interest,
The wrongs the father did him!
"He is their prisoner," saidst thou?" Is their prisoner!"
Thou hast no sons!—none!—I forgive thee, Elliot!

Elliot.—Deeply I crave your pardon, noble sir;
Pity for you, and love for Scotland, made me
That I was loath to speak the unwelcome tidings;
Fearful that to attempt his rescue now,
Had so cut off our few remaining troops,
As seal immediate ruin.

Provost Ramsay [aside].—Preserve us a'! hear that. Weel, to be sure, it's a true saying, "Satan never lets his saunts be at a loss for an answer!"

SCENE V.—Apartment in EDWARD'S Tent.

Enter EDWARD and PERCY.

Edward.—How fares it with these stubborn rebels now? Do they still talk of death as of a bridal, While we protract the ceremony?

Percy.—I learn, my liege, we've got two glorious allies— Two most right honourable gentlemen— Aiding the smooth-tongued orator: Disease and Famine have espoused our cause, And the said traitor Elliot is their oracle.

Edward.—Touching this man, we have advice from him,
In which he speaketh much concerns the wants
And murmurings of the citizens: he, too,
Adds, they hold out expecting help from Douglas,
And recommendeth that we should demand
The other son of Seton as a hostage,
In virtue of a truce for fourteen days:
This is his snare. The sons once in his power,
Their father yields, or both hang up before him.

Percy.—'Tis monstrous generous of our friendly Scot; And what return expects he for his service?

Edward.—On giving up the father's head—his place.

Percy.—I fear the lady will have his head first.
Did you but see her eyes!
I'd bet my coronet 'gainst our friar's cowl,
Man wink not treason in his bedchamber
But she detect it. Then her ears, again;
'Sdeath! she can hear the very sound of light
As it does steal, i' the morning, through her curtains.
Should our friend wear his head another week,
His neck, I'll swear, is not as other men's are.

Edward.—How fares it with the son, our silent prisoner?

Percy.—Poor soul, he leans his head against the wall,
And stands with his arms thus—across his breast—
Pale as a gravestone, gnashing at his teeth,
And looking on his guards just as his mother would!

Edward.—'Tis now the hour that Elliot has proposed
To stir the townsmen up to mutiny.
Take our conditions, and whatever you please;
Get but the son as hostage!—get but that!
And both shall die a thief's death if he yield not;
He is a father, Percy—he's a father!
The town is ours, and at an easy purchase. [Exit

Percy.—And she's a mother, Edward! she's a mother!
Ay! and a mother; I will pledge my earldom,
And be but plain Hal Percy all my life,
If she despise not gallows, death, and children,
And earn for thee a crown of shame, my master!
In sooth, I am ashamed to draw my sword,
Lest I should see my face in its bright blade;
For sure my mother would not know her son,
As he goes blushing on his hangman's errand.

SCENE VI.—A Street—_the Market-place.

Enter_ ELLIOT and Populace.

Elliot—You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious governor
Did talk to us of honour—! you all heard him!
Can any of you tell us what is honour?
He drinks his wine, he feeds on beeves and capons;
His table groans beneath a load of meats;
His hounds, his hawks, are fed like Christian men!
He sleeps in a downy couch, o'erhung with purple;
And these, all these are honourable doings!
He talks of liberty!
Is it, then, liberty to be cooped up
Within these prison walls, to starve from want,
That we may have the liberty—mark it, my friends!—
The wondrous liberty to call him Governor?
Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had,
You'd to the castle, take the keys by force,
And ope the gates to let your children live.
Here comes your provost—now appeal to him.

Enter PROVOST RAMSAY.—The people demand bread.

Provost Ramsay.—Gie you food!—your bairns dee wi' hunger!—and ye maun hae bread! It is easy saying, Gie ye! but where am I to get it? Do you think there's naebody finds the grund o' their stamachs but yersels? I'm sure I hae been blind fastin' these four-and-twenty hours! But wad ye no suffer this, and ten times mair for liberty, and for the glory and honour of auld Scotland?

Elliot [to the people].—He, too, can cant of liberty and honour!

Provost Ramsay.—I say, Mr. Hypocrite! it is my fixed and solemn opinion that ye are at the bottom o' this murmuring. I ken ye're never at a loss for an answer; and there is anither wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up. Do ye mind what a fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week, about getting ower the bed—and your wife's bosom being torn bare—and the blood gushing to your feet, and a' the rest o't? Do ye mind o' that, sir? Do ye mind o' that? I daresay, townsmen, ye've no forgot it? Now, sir, it's no aboon ten minutes sine, that the poor creature—wha, according to your account, was dead and buried—got loose frae her confinement, and cam fleeing to me for protection, as a man and a magistrate, to save her frae the cruelty o' you, you scoundrel. Now, what say ye to that, sir? What say ye to that? What do you think o' your orator now, friends?

Elliot.—'Tis false, my friends—'Tis but a wicked calumny devised Against the only man who is your friend.

Provost Ramsay.—Saftly, neebor, saftly! have a care how ye gie the lee to what I say; or, it is my solemn opinion, this bit sword o' my faither's may stap you frae gien it till anither.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER and RICHARD.

Ye are weel come, Sir Alexander: here is Orator Elliot been makin' a harangue to the townsfolk; and ane cries for bread, and anither for meal—that it is my opinion I dinna ken what's to be done.

Sir Alex.—What would you have? what is it that you wish?
Would ye, for food, sweet friends, become all slaves;
And for a meal, that ye might surfeit on it,
Give up your wives, your homes, and all that's dear,
To the brute arms of men, who hold it virtue
To heap their shame upon a fallen foe?
Would ye, that ye might eat, yet not be satisfied,
Pick up the scanty crumbs around their camp,
After their cattle and their dogs have left them;
Or would ye, for this favour, be content
To take up arms against your countrymen!—
For this! will fathers fight against their sons?—
Sons 'gainst their fathers?—brethren with each other?
Those who would wish it may go o'er to Edward!

[Sound of French horns without

Provost Ramsay.—Ay, here comes mair proposals—the sorry proposal them! I wish them and proposals an' a' were in the middle o' the Tweed.

Enter EARL PERCY and Attendants.

Percy.—Save ye, my band of heroes; by St. Cuthbert,
Your valorous deeds have wrought a miracle,
And turned my master's hatred into mercy;
For, deeming it a sin that such brave fellows
Should die a beggar's vulgar death from want,
He doth propose to drop hostilities,
And for two weeks you may command our friendship:
If in that time you gain no aid from Scotland,
Renounce the country, and be Edward master;
But, should you gain assistance—why, then, we
Will raise the siege, and wish you all good-bye.

Elliot [to the people].—Urge the acceptance, friends, of these conditions.

Omnes.—We all accept these terms.

Sir Alex.—It is the people's wish; and I agree.

Percy.—And you, in pledge of due performance, sir, Do give up this your son into our hands, In surety for your honour———

Sir Alex.—What! my son!
Give him up too—yield him into your power?
Have ye not one already?—No! no! no!
I cannot, my Lord Percy; no, I cannot
Part with him too, and leave their mother childless!

Provost Ramsay.—Wad ye no tak me as a substitute, Lord Percy? I'm a man o' property, and chief magistrate beside; now, I should think, I'm the maist likely person.

Percy.—Good master magistrate and man of property, I like thy heart, but cannot take thy person. Give up the youth, or here must end my truce!

Richard.—Fear not, my father. I will be their hostage, For Scotland's sake, and for my father's honour—

Sir Alex.—My boy, my boy, and shall I lose you thus?
What surety does cruel Edward give,
That, keeping faith, he will restore my sons
Back to my arms in safety? Tell me, Percy;
Gives he his honour as a man or king?

Percy.—As both, I hold it.

Sir Alex.—And wilt thou pledge thine?

Percy.—This is my master's business, and not mine.

Sir Alex.—'Tis an evasion, and I like it not.

Richard.—Farewell! farewell, my father! be the first
To teach these men the virtue of self-sacrifice.
Commend me to my mother. I will bear
Both of your best loves to our Henry.
Farewell! Lead on, Lord Percy. [Exeunt.

SCENE VII.—Apartment in SETON'S House.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, and others.

Sir Alex.—Would Heaven that all go well with my dear boys!
But there's that within me that does tear
My bosom with misgivings. The very sun
To me hangs out a sign of ominous gloom!
A spirit seems to haunt me, and the weight
Of evil undefined, and yet unknown,
Doth, like a death's-hand, press upon my heart.

Provost Ramsay.—Hoot, I wad fain think that the warst is past, and that there is nae danger o' onything happenin' now. But do ye ken, sir, it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that, before onything really is gaun to happen to a body, or to ony o' their friends, like, there is a kind o' something comes ower ane—a sort o' sough about the heart there—an' ye dinna ken what for.

Sir Alex.—Have ye beheld how they are raising bastions,
Flanking fresh cannon, too, in front the town,
Gaining new reinforcements to their camp,
And watching all our outgoings? Do you think
This looks as Edward meant to keep his faith?
I am betrayed, my friends—I am betrayed.
Fear marcheth quickly to a father's breast—
My sons are lost! are lost!

Provost Ramsay.—It's true that King Edward's preparations, and his getting sic fearfu' additions to his army, doesna look weel. But what is a king but his word mair than a man?

Enter Servant.

Servant.—Lord Percy craves an audience with your honour.

Sir Alex.—Conduct him hither. 'Tis as I boded!

[Exit Servant—enter PERCY.

You look grave, my lord.

Percy.—Faith, if I can look grave, to-day I should:
None of my mother's children, gossips said,
Were born with a sad face; but I could wish
That I had never smiled, or that her maid
Had been my mother, rather than that I
Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings.

Sir Alex.—'Tis of my sons!—what! what of them, Lord Percy? What of them?

Percy.—Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak!— They live—they're well!—can you be calm to hear me? I would speak of your sons.

Sir Alex.—I feel!—I feel!
I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!—
Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den,
Murder its whelps, and say to it, Be calm!
Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart!
'Twas kindly said!—kind! kind! to say, Be calm!
I'm calm, Lord Percy! what—what of my sons?

Percy.—If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked—
Choked with my shame and loathing—I will tell thee!
But each particular word of this black mission
Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth.

Sir Alex.—Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst; My ears can hear—my heart can hold no more!

Enter LADY SETON.

Percy.—Hear them in as few words as I can tell it:
Edward hath sworn, and he will keep his vow,
That if to-day ye yield not up the town,
Become his prisoners, break your faith with Scotland,
Ye with the morning dawn shall see your sons
Hung up before your windows. He hath sworn it;
And, by my earldom—faith as a Christian—
Honour as a peer—he will perform it!

Lady Seton [aside].—Ruler of earth and heaven! a mother begs
Thy counsel—Thy protection! Say I mother!
No voice again shall call me by that name—
Both! both my boys!

Sir Alex.—Ha! my Matilda!
Thou here! Dry up thy tears, my love! dry up thy tears!
I cannot sacrifice both sons and mother!
Alas, my country! I must sell thee dearly!
My faith—mine honour too!—take—take them, Percy!
I am a father, and my sons shall live!—
Shall live! and I shall die! [Unsheathing his sword.

Lady Seton.—Hold! hold, my husband—save thy life and honour!
Thou art a father—am not I a mother?
Knowest thou the measure of a mother's love?
Think ye she yearns not for her own heart's blood?
Yet I will live! and thou shalt live, my husband!
We will not rob this Edward of his shame;
Write—I will dictate as my sons had done it—
I know their nature, for 'twas I who gave it.

Sir Alex.—Thou wait'st an answer, Percy—I will give it. [Sits down to write.

No; I cannot, Matilda.

Lady Seton.—Write thus:
"Edward may break his faith, but Seton cannot!
Edward may earn disgrace, but Seton honour!
His sons are in your power! Do! do as ye list!"

[He starts up in agitation.

Sir Alex.—No, no! it cannot be—say not my sons!
Lord Percy, let your tyrant take my life!
Torture me inchmeal!—to the last I'll smile,
And bless him for his mercy!—but spare, oh spare my children!

Provost Ramsay.—Really, Sir Alexander, I dinna ken hoo to advise you. To think o' gien up the toun to sic a monster o' iniquity, is entirely out o' the question—just impossible a'thegither; and to think o' the twa dear brave bairns sufferin', is just as impossible as to flee in the air. I tell ye what, my lord—and it is my opinion it is a very fair proposal (if naething but deaths will satisfy your king)—I, for ane, will die in their stead—their faither will for anither; and is there ane amang you, my townsmen, that winna do the same, and let your names be handed down as heroes to your bairns' bairns, and the last generation?

Percy.—Thou hast a noble heart, old honest Scotsman; but I cannot accept your generous offer.

Lady Seton.—Mark this, my husband!—that we may still be parents—
That we might have two sons to live and scorn us—
Sell country—honour—all—and live disgraced:
Think ye MY SONS would call a traitor father?—
They drew their life from me—from me they drew it;
And think ye I would call a traitor husband?—
What! would ye have them live, that every slave,
In banquet or in battle, might exclaim,
"For you, ye hinds, your father sold his country?"
Or, would you have them live, that no man's daughter
Would stoop so low as call your sons her husband?
Would you behold them hooted, hissed at,
Oft, as they crossed the street, by every urchin?
Would ye your sons—your noble sons—met this,
Eather than die for Scotland? If ye do love them,
Love them as a man!

Sir Alex.—'Tis done! my country, thou hast made me bankrupt! And I am childless! [Exeunt

SCENE VIII.—The river, and boat. Time midnight. Enter one habited as a friar.

Friar.—-'Tis now thick midnight. All round me sleep,
And not a star looks from the curtained heaven.
The very sentinels cease to pace their round,
And stand in calm security. I'll brave them.
What though the bridge be guarded, and the river
Rush like a tiger?—love has no such fears,
And Heaven is stronger than its waters!

[A bell tolls slowly.

Ha! that slow-tongued bell, that speaks of death,
Falls on my ears as would a solid substance,
Pressing my heart down! Oh cruel speed!
Already they prepare their execution!
But they shall live, or I with them shall die!
THOU, who beholdest me, and lookest through
The darkness of Thy heavens upon Thy suppliant,
Let not a tyrant stain Thy earth with blood—
The blood of innocence! Thou, who art mercy,
Spare a father's tears! Thou, who art love,
Look on a mother's anguish! Thou, who art justice,
Save! oh, save their children! Thou, who art power,
Strengthen my hands to-night. [Rises.
Now, may an angel's hand direct my skiff
Straight to their camp, till with one blow I strike
Their freedom and my country's!

[He leaps into the boat and pushes off.

SCENE IX.—The English camp. A fire in the distance. Enter HENRY and RICHARD, fettered and guarded.

Henry.—Would it were morning, and the hour were come. For still my heart misgives me, lest our parents Do, in fond weakness, save us by dishonour!

Richard.—Rather than purchase life at such a price,
And have my father sell his faith for me,
And sell his country, I would rather thou,
My brother in my birth and in my death,
Should be my executioner! We know them better!

Henry.—Now I seem old and weary of this life,
So joy I in our death for Scotland's sake;
For this death will so wed us to our country,
We shall be old in years to all posterity!
And it will place a blot on Edward's name,
That time may blacken, but can ne'er efface.

Richard.—My heart, too, beats as light as if tomorrow
Had been, by young love, destined for my bridal;
Yet oft a tear comes stealing down my cheek,
When I do think me of our mother, Henry!

Henry.—Oh speak not of our parents! or my heart Will burst ere morning, and from the tyrant rob His well-earned infamy.

Richard.—Oh! I must speak of them:
They now will wander weeping in their chamber,
Or from their window through the darkness gaze,
And stretch their hands and sigh towards the camp;
Then, when the red east breaks the night away—
Ah! what a sight will meet their eyes, my brother!

Henry.—My brother! oh my brother!

Enter FRIAR.

Guard.—Who would pass here?

Friar.—A friend! a friend!—a messenger of mercy!

Guard.—Nay, wert thou mercy's self, you cannot pass.

Friar.—Refuse ye, then, your prisoners their confessor?

Guard.—Approach not, or ye die!

Friar.—Would ye stretch forth your hand 'gainst Heaven's anointed?

Guard.—Ay! 'gainst the Pope himself, if he should thwart me.

Friar.—Mercy ye have not, neither shall ye find it.

[Springs forward and stabs him—approaches RICHARD and HENRY, and unbinds their fetters.

Friar.—In chains as criminals! Ye are free, but speak not.

Richard.—Here, holy father, let me kneel to thank thee.

Henry.—And let me hear but my deliverer's name, That my first prayer may waft it to the skies.

Friar.—Kneel not, nor thank me here. There's need of neither; But be ye silent, for the ground has ears; Nor let it hear your footsteps.

[He approaches the fire; kindles a torch and fires the camp.

Henry.—Behold, my brother, he has fired the camp! Already see the flames ascend around him.

Friar.—Now! now, my country! here thou art avenged! Fly with me to the beach! pursuit is vain! Thou, Heaven, hast heard me! thou art merciful! [Exit.

SCENE X.—Apartment in SETON'S House.

Sir Alex.—Oh, what is honour to a father's heart?
Can it extinguish nature—soothe its feelings—
Or make the small still voice of conscience dumb?
My sons! my sons! Though ye should hold me guiltless, there's a tongue
Within me whispers, I'm your murderer!
Ah! my Matilda! hadst thou been less noble,
We both had been less wretched! But do I,
To hide my sin, place't on the mother's heart?
Though she did hide the mother from men's eyes,
Now, crushed by woes, she cannot look on mine.
But, locked in secret, weeps her soul away,
That it may meet her children's! I alone,
Widowed and childless, like a blasted oak
Reft of its root and branches, must be left
For every storm to howl at!

[ELLIOT enters with a dagger.

Ah, my sons!
Could anguish rend my heartstrings, I should not
Behold another sun rise on my misery!

Elliot [springing upon him].—By Heavens, mine enemy, I swear thou shalt not!

They struggle. Shouting without. Enter FRIAR and SETON'S SONS, PROVOST RAMSAY. FRIAR springs forward.

Friar.—Down! traitor, down! [Stabs ELLIOT.

Sir Alex.—My sons! my sons! Angels of mercy, do you mock my sight! My boys! my boys!

Provost Ramsay.—Save us a'! save us a'!—callants, come to my arms too! Here's an hour o' joy! This, in my solemn opinion, is what I ca' livin' a lifetime in the twinklin' o' an ee. And what think ye, Sir Alexander! The English camp is a' in a bleeze, and there they are fleeing awa helter-skelter, leaving everything behind them.

Sir Alex.—What! they fly too!—thank Heaven! thank Heaven! My cup of joy o'erflows, and floods my heart More than my griefs!

Richard.—'Tis true, my father—
To this, our unknown saviour, do we owe
Our life and yours!—'twas he, too, seized the torch,
And bid the bonfire blaze to Scotland's freedom.

Sir Alex.—Forgive me, reverend stranger, if that I,
In the delirium of a parent's joy,
O'erlooked the hand that saved me:
Kneel, my sons,
And with your father, at this stranger's feet,
Pour out your thanks, and beg his blessing also.

[They kneel around the supposed friar, who casts off the disguise, and is discovered to be their mother.

Lady Seton.—A mother, in her children's cause, fears nothing,
And needs not thanks—
A woman, in her country's cause,
Can dare what man dare! [They start up.

Sir Alex.—What! my Matilda!

Richard.—My mother!

Henry.—Ha! my mother!

Lady Seton.—Joy, joy, my sons; your mother's done her duty! And joy, my husband, we have saved our honour.

Sir Alex.—Matilda, thou hast ta'en my heart anew, And with it, too, my words!

Provost Ramsay.—The like o' this! I may weel say, what, in the universal globe, tempted me to be a bachelor! [Exeunt.