Jean.
Come on,
Why are we dawdling? All the heads are up,
Steepled on spikes above the Scottish Gate,—
Some of the rebels rarely handsome too.
Mary. Won't it be rather horrible?
Katrina. A row Of chopt-off heads sitting on spikes—ugh!
Jean. Yes, And I daresay blood dribbling here and there.
Mary.
Don't, Jean! I am going back. I was
Forbid the gate.
Katrina.
And so was I.
Jean.
And I.
Katrina. But a mere peep at them?
Jean.
Yes, come on, Mary.
Mary. We might just see how horrible they are.