[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!