C-NRLF 
 
Vot. 
 
ROTH ES AY 
 
 ^V JDratna 
 IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 I* Ufa Q } C I* rJes 
 
 By G. ( 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LOMOND HILLS," ETC. ETC. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 
 GEORGE DRYDEN, 54A LOTHIAN STREET. 
 
 1883. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 KING ROBERT OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ANNABELLA, his Queen. 
 
 DUKE OF ROTHESAY, their Son. 
 
 SIR JOHN RAMORNIE. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM LINDSAY of Rossie. 
 
 DUKE OF ALBANY, Rothesay's Uncle. 
 
 EARL OF DOUGLAS. 
 
 ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS. 
 
 ELIZABETH DOUGLAS, afterwards Duchess of Rothesay. 
 
 EARL OF MARCH. 
 
 ELIZABETH, Lord March's Daughter. 
 
 CATHERINE GRAEME. 
 
 HOST OF THE CASTLE INN, Falkland. 
 
 JOHN WRIGHT, JOHN SELKIRK, WARDENS, GIPSIES, 
 ATTENDANTS, &c. c. 
 
 Scene Various parts of Scotland. 
 
ROTHESAY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. In the Street, before Falkland Castle. 
 
 Enter DUKE OF ROTHESAY. 
 
 ROTHESAY. What ! Warder, ho ! open the castle gate, 
 
 I would an audience of Duke Albany. 
 
 No answer, and no stir? this frowning pile 
 
 Courts slumber early. [Knocks loudly. 
 
 Warder, warder, ho ! 
 
 Art gone to sleep ? Ah ! would that I could sleep 
 
 The slumber of the just, ere kindly night 
 
 Casts her broad mantle o'er the vexed world. 
 
 For me, this is the quickest, busiest hour 
 
 Of all day's busy round. Open, I say, 
 
 Else will I rouse the townsfolks to confound 
 
 Thy coveted repose. 
 
 [Knocks again, and the Warder appears 
 
 inside the gate. 
 
 WARDER. Begone ! You cannot enter here to-night. 
 ROTHESAY. Thou'rt saucy, knave. I seek Duke Albany. 
 WARDER. The duke has gone to rest. The garrison 
 
 Are all abed. The curfew-bell has tolled. 
 
 The folks are housed, all saving silly lads 
 
 A_nd love-lorn maids, and suchlike cumberers 
 
 Whose deeds excuse the honest face of day. 
 
 Come on the morrow, sir ; but now, Good e'en. \_Is retiring. 
 ROTHESAY. Stay, I command. Warder, you know me not. 
 
 The Duke of Rothesay would have entrance here, 
 
 To commune with his grace of Albany. 
 WARDER. Were you the King himself, I would refuse. 
 
 My lord and master is Duke Albany ; 
 
 And this his bidding, "When the curfew tolls, 
 
 The castle gates are closed." 
 
 322 
 
4 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 ROTHESAY.- But not to me ! 
 
 Go ! tell your master that I stand outside 
 
 And would admission. 
 WARDER. I must say thee, Nay ; 
 
 Good e'en, lord duke. {Retires. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Go, churl ; may Satan rob thee of thy rest ! 
 
 My precious uncle, my sweet Albany, 
 
 This is your work ; insult to insult added. 
 
 What next, I wonder? Do I hate this man, 
 
 This brother of my father ? Surely, no. 
 
 It were unworthy me to foster hate, 
 
 And yet I love him not. What, am I wroth 
 
 Because he turns me back on slight pretence ? 
 
 Nay, let me treat the matter lightly ; let me 
 
 To hospitable action shame him. 
 
 Yonder stands 
 
 The Tolbooth, well I know it ; from its wall 
 
 An iron chain depends, that bids the bell 
 
 Summon the townsfolks to their early toil, 
 
 And to their labour's close. I'll to the bell, 
 
 And with unwonted clamour startle forth 
 
 The honest villagers. {Rings briskly. 
 
 Never, O never, 
 
 Rang I so sweetly in the stilly hour 
 
 As now ; and yet I do remember me 
 
 This is my first essay, and I do boast 
 
 When thus I praise myself. I'll change the tune 
 
 Upon my listeners, and toll a knell 
 
 Will make the timid tremble in their beds, 
 
 And bid them, anxious, to their orisons. [Rings slowly. 
 
 And now, a wedding-peal. [Rings briskly. 
 
 Ha ! steps approach, 
 
 The Falconland awakes, and would inquire 
 
 Whence this unwonted clamour. 
 
 Enter from the Castle the DUKE OF ALBANY and certain of 'the garrison , 
 and from their homes several of the townsfolks. 
 
 My lord duke, [To Albany. 
 
 You honour me in coming forth to-night 
 
 To welcome me. For you, my honest folks, [To the towns- 
 If with sweet music I have pleased your ears, folks. 
 
 I make you free and welcome to my art ; 
 And for your recompense in braving thus 
 The chills of night, withdraw ye to the inn. 
 Mine host will in my name Duke Rothesay speaks 
 See to your comfort. I'll be there anon. [The townsfolk 
 
 And now, my lord, you would a word with me ? withdraw. 
 Say on. 
 ALBANY. What madcap prank is this? O nephew mine, 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 When will you cease this folly ? when remember 
 
 Your high estate ? 
 ROTHESAY. 'Twas folly, sure, to pass your castle gate 
 
 And meet your meanness with a sportive act. 
 
 Sir, I am Lord-Lieutenant of the kingdom, 
 
 Next to my royal sire, who delegates 
 
 To me his high authority. When I 
 
 Come to this castle, held for us by you, 
 
 And seek admission, but demand in vain, 
 
 Then are you most disloyal and untrue 
 
 To your high trust, your monarch, and to me. 
 ALBANY. Shall proper watch and ward be not observed 
 
 Because my nephew wanders late o' nights ? 
 
 Whence come you, royal 'sir ? 
 ROTHESAY. A weary way ; 
 
 But welcome such as yours foils weariness. 
 ALBANY. Welcome, your grace, to Falkland, to your own ; 
 
 Although the Lomonds and our spacious park 
 
 May scarde afford the sport that Rossie gives 
 
 A royal visitor. 
 ROTHESAY. I understand 
 
 Your taunt. That you do hate me, Albany, 
 
 I know ; but you are impotent and mean ; 
 
 And what of venom harbours in your sting 
 
 Is purposeless for harm. Leave my amours 
 
 To be discussed by younger men than you ; 
 
 And leave the tales that silly gossips tell 
 
 For idle women, sir. And now, adieu, 
 
 I go to seek my lodging in an inn. 
 
 ALBANY. Stay, stay, your grace, this may not, cannot be. 
 ROTHESAY. I shall not lodge in Falkland Tower this night. 
 
 When next I deign to enter yonder walls 
 
 'Twill be as Lord-Lieutenant of the realm, 
 
 My guard behind me, and my pennon raised, 
 
 The emblem of my state ; and woe to him 
 
 Who dares oppose my way. 
 ALBANY. I do entreat you, be my guest to-night ; 
 
 ,And pardon me if I have done amiss. 
 ROTHESAY. I pardon you. but am resolved to lodge 
 
 Without the castle walls ; and so, adieu ! \Exit. 
 
 ALBANY. Go, haughty lad, the time may come, and soon 
 
 When you will be the guest of Albany ; 
 
 Then shall your state and food and lodging be 
 
 Apportioned to your merit and high rank ! 
 
 Poor youth ! you know not whom you trifle with. 
 
 Expert and quick of fence he needs to be 
 
 Who would oppose him to Duke Albany. 
 
 But more of this anon ; retire we now, 
 
 The evening wears, and this ill-mannered freak 
 
 Of Scotland's royalty mars discipline. \Exeitnt. 
 
6 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 SCENE II. Falkland, before The Castle Inn. 
 Enter SIR JOHN RAMORNIE and CATHERINE GRAEME. 
 
 SIR JOHN. But I love you, Kate; I tell you I love you, and so 
 ardently, that when you are not beside me I pine for melancholy. 
 There is a weight upon my heart, Kate, that bids fair to prostrate me 
 utterly unless you smile upon my suit. My horse, my hawk, my 
 hound, my former pleasures, are uncared for now ! The very face 
 of Nature ceases to smile for me, because I possess you not. Ah ! 
 Love, Love, thou art a wanton, whom I would not kill, not even for 
 all the pain thou hast caused me ! 
 
 CATHERINE. 'Tis the old tale, Sir John. Men are like children, 
 they pine for a new toy ; but when possessed, it is soon wearied of, 
 and cast away. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Nay ! Were I to acquire a pearl of price, I should 
 ever keep it, and wear it proudly and carefully. Sweet Kate, leave 
 this retired home of yours, and come abroad into the busy world with 
 me. You shall be my pearl of price, and men shall envy me the 
 brilliant I possess. 
 
 CATHERINE. You would marry me, then. Sir John ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. Marriage is a ceremonial whose nature I have not 
 yet learned to interpret. What is marriage ? a few words uttered, a 
 few responses said, signs made and symbols given, and lo ! the twain 
 are man and wife. But can marriage be composed of such materials ? 
 Nay ! Love, mutual love, is marriage ; and such love I promise you, 
 as shall rivet the marriage chain more firmly than all the priests in 
 Christendom. 
 
 CATHERINE. I understand you, sir; but by your own telling, 
 without mutual love there can be no marriage. You love me, but I 
 love you not ; and so I say nay to your offer, and bid you adieu ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Perseverance, they say, levels mountains. I'll be 
 even with the jade ere long, unless, indeed, the Prince has been 
 beforehand with me there. But here he comes. 
 
 Enter ROTHESAY. 
 Good-day, Lord Duke, good-day. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Methinks I observed a tight-fitting bodice, and a 
 gay kirtle, with a neatly-turned pair of ankles, vanish like a shadow 
 as I approached. Ah, friend of mine, and mentor mine, is this 
 your philosophy ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. The shrewdest philosophy I am acquainted with. 
 Carpe diem, the ancients preach, and I admire the literature of the 
 past. 
 
 ROTHESAY. True, and I myself am an apt pupil in construing 
 the classics; indeed, although Ramornie be the older man, I vow 
 that Rothesay is the more successsful lover. You are over-serious, 
 friend, when you converse with the sex; over-serious, and over- 
 sedulous to please. Woman is never more easily captivated than 
 when she deems that she herself requires to captivate. This is the 
 
Rot he say a Drama. 7 
 
 great secret, and for now imparting it you ought to return to me a 
 word of thanks. But whence come you ? 
 
 RAMORNIE. I am resident with Duke Albany at the Castle here, 
 and learning that you are lodging in the town, I sallied forth to meet 
 my Prince and patron. We heard of your junkettings with the towns- 
 folks last night, after your refusal to enter the Castle ; and I promise 
 you the Duke is in a white glow of wrath at what he terms your 
 undignified doings. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Let the Duke attend to his dukedom, while I govern 
 my principality. He knows not his position, and shall be made to 
 realise it before the moon has waned. What ! he, forsooth, would 
 censure me ! he, the ancient dotard, whose blood runs cold in his 
 veins, and whose temper is soured because my royal father hath issue 
 of his body! Listen to me, my friend. Since I have been entrusted 
 with the lieutenancy of the kingdom, say, how goes it ? Fairly on the 
 whole, I vow. The people grumble not ; thievery is becoming rare, 
 so are contentions and broils. The nobles hunt, while the commons 
 toil ; and we are at peace with the nations. As for myself, when I 
 show me abroad, I am met with the open countenance, the smile, and 
 the clamour of welcome. Depend upon it, if one governs young, one 
 must govern cheerfully, and take the people as it were into confi- 
 dence. But were my uncle to govern, forsooth, then would the reign 
 of gloom and terror begin. The noble would fret in his stronghold, 
 or war with his peer ; the labourer would hesitate to cast his grain 
 into the soil ; and our adversaries abroad would send forth a screech 
 of defiance against haughty Scotland. But all this by the way. I 
 weary you with my dissertation, yet would have you to know, that 
 although I be careless, there is more thought under my bonnet than 
 my sage uncle ever dreams of when he condescends to sneer at the 
 madcap Rothesay. 
 
 RAMORNIE. I know your abilities, my lord, for you admit me 
 to the proud position of friend and confidant; yet would I have you 
 sober down and wed, because although young in years, you hold a 
 grave position, and were born to lofty responsibilities. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Responsibilities ! a lofty-sounding word. Yet though 
 men in high places are declared responsible, I never see them pay up 
 when loss ensues ; there is ever a scapegoat. Remember, 'tis the way 
 of the world, and I shall pass through it as well as another. And you 
 would recommend me to wed ? you, whom I have but now detected in 
 close commune with some light-footed lass? Ah, Sir John, Sir John ! I 
 vow you are uneasy at my repeated successes with the fair. My poor 
 friend, pray admit that I have sorely overshadowed you, and fully 
 defeated you in the lists of love since first we became boon com- 
 panions and friends. You recollect ? but, no, I shall not continue. 
 
 RAMORNIE. Continue, and welcome ; but, I remind your high- 
 ness, that 'tis my bounden duty in such matters to give place to the 
 blood-royal of Scotland. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Tush ! tush ! there spake jealousy. Well do you 
 know that I am no conceited shallow fool ; but I must needs remind 
 you that, not in love affairs done, but in such as concern a well- 
 
8 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 graced knight, I am well trained, and of as good parts as any in the 
 realm. Which of our young nobility can I not ride against ? tilt, joust, 
 and wield the sword against ? Can I not dance, leap, and sing better 
 than yourself? and who, pray, was my teacher and director-general in 
 such affairs? Yourself, Ramornie, yourself. Only the pupil now 
 surpasses his master, and that master must now content him to remain 
 in the background. However, let this pass. I speak overmuch about 
 my own merits, and the practice of boasting is wrong in principle ; 
 but I am strangely elated to-day. But see! a motley company 
 approaches. 
 
 Enter a Band of Gipsies and Morris Dancers, who salute. 
 
 Now strike up music, and to the dance, my friends. I am no mean 
 judge, observe you, and shall censure faults. \Music they dance. 
 Excellently well danced, my friends. And who be you, my tall 
 fellow, for I see you take the lead here ? 
 
 GIPSY. I am the King, may it please you, Sir. 
 ROTHESAY. The King ! Ha ! I fear your monarchy is limited. 
 Methought there was but one king in fair Scotland, the good King 
 Robert. 
 
 GIPSY. But truly, sir, he is a bide-at-home kind of king, his 
 realm is within doors ; mine is in the wood, on the moor, and on 
 the mountain side. Yonder Lomond Hill is my throne, when I 
 choose to sit in state; but I fear good King Robert never could 
 hirple to its summit, and therein am I a better king than he. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Enough on that score, friend, an' you would have 
 me keep the peace. Now tell us, O King, is Her Majesty the Queen 
 present among your people ? 
 
 GIPSY. Ay, truly ; shall I bid her advance ? 
 ROTHESAY. Nay, nay ! My friend here and I are ardent admirers 
 of beauty, and if you can tell me she carries the palm among the 
 women of your tribe, it will pleasure us to detect Her Majesty without 
 your help. Is she beautiful ? 
 
 GIPSY. Beyond them all, if a husband may say so much about 
 his wife without turning her head. But there they stand ; now let 
 your tongues proclaim the judgment of your eyes. 
 
 SIR JOHN (leading forward a Gipsy girl by the hand]. This, 
 and none other, is the Queen, I vow. (The Dancers laugh derisively >.) 
 Tell me your name, sweet lass ? 
 
 GIRL. My name is Marion, sir, but I am no queen, nor do I 
 aspire to royalty. 
 
 SIR JOHN. If beauty, Marion, were royalty, then art thou royal 
 here. 
 
 ROTHESAY (leading forward another Gipsy girl). Where be 
 your eyes, Sir John ? Behold the Queen! (She smiles and signifies 
 assenf.) Ha ! could I be deceived? You walk a queen, your every 
 gesture betrays you ; and in token of my admiration, I venture to 
 to kiss the cheek of Nature's Majesty. And now, Sir John, I have 
 detected a queen, and for my shrewdness have received my reward. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 9 
 
 Did not I say, and with cause, that the pupil hath beaten his 
 master? 
 
 SIR JOHN. But the master shall receive his reward also. Kiss 
 me, Maid Marion, for my courtesy and for my misjudgment. 
 
 MARION. Nay, nay ! Kissing comes not from my side of the 
 house. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Then I shall steal a kiss from the fairest woman 
 among this company. 
 
 GIPSY. Nay, I love not to see a man steal ; for, to speak plainly, 
 we Gipsies like to keep the art of stealing (a true art) among our- 
 selves. Snatch a kiss, if you will, and if the lass allows it. 
 
 MARION. No, no ! He is a black ill-conditioned man, and 
 if kissing is to be the fashion, I'd rather have a buss from his 
 neighbour. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Bravely spoken, lass, and to be bravely acted on. 
 
 [Advances. 
 
 SIR JOHN (interposing). This shall not be ! Stand back, my lord, 
 you are ever high-handed, and presume upon your place to affront 
 your comrades ; stand back, I say, I brook no interference here. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Well, well, keep down your choler ; 'tis a mistake 
 even to show anger. Let the better man kiss the lass, and let the 
 cudgels prove who is the better man. (To the Gipsy King.) There 
 be good cudgels among you, I observe, lend us a set awhile, so that 
 we may bring this folly to an issue. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Agreed. 
 
 [The cudgels are brought, a ring is formed, and 
 RAMORNIE and ROTHESAY fight. RAMOR- 
 NIE is disabled, and drops his cudgel ; the 
 Gipsies cheer ; and ROTHESAY rushes fonvard 
 and kisses the Gipsy girl. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Thus the better man wins the reward. So sweet is 
 my reward, Maid Marion, that I would fain play another bout for a 
 like courtesy. But after all, Sir John, I need not avow me the better 
 man. If I have beaten thee, 'twas by a cunning turn yourself taught 
 me, and in a moment more thy fate had likely been mine. Give me 
 thy hand, I say, and forget this amicable love-strife of ours. What ! 
 you refuse? Think once again, friend of mine, before you refuse 
 the hand of Rothesay. Well, well, there, your countenance lightens 
 like the face of day after the passing of a thunder-cloud, and we are 
 friends again. (They shake hands.) And now for a cup of good 
 liquor for these good folks. Within, ho ! Come hither, host, I say. 
 
 Enter HOST. 
 
 Here, John Tapster, take this fair company within, give them fair 
 entertainment, feed them with your best, and give them to drink of 
 your best. Give them wine, or mighty ale, or a cautious cup of 
 stronger ware, if any there be among them who desire such ; but 
 treat them generously, John, and at mine expense ; and mayhap I 
 shall join the entertainment anon. 
 
 HOST. Ay, ay, your Grace, Fse do your bidding with alacrity, 
 
10 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 for saving the occasion of a visit from your royal self, there is little 
 stirring here in the way of business for an honest man. 
 
 ROTHESAY. And yet you thrive, mine Host, and you are an 
 honest man. 
 
 HOST. True ! but 'tis different now. God save our good King 
 Robert, but he is a lameter and no sportsman; and the Falconland is 
 deserted by him, totally deserted. Then our Duke Albany likes 
 better to rule men, than to chase the deer in Falkland Park or to 
 hunt down the wolf on the Lomond side; and so he comes but 
 seldom here, and when he does come, he shuts himself up with his 
 retinue, and little comes my way. Ah, 'twas far different in the 
 days of your forbears, young Sir, for when the King came to 
 Falkland to hunt, he brought a train of nobles with him that filled 
 the town, and my poor house to overflowing ; and nothing was heard 
 but the sound of the horn, and the hearty laugh, and the song, from 
 morn to night, with the clink of the cup and the entertainment. 
 But times may mend with the help of your Grace, I trow. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Well, well, lead your company to the house, and do 
 my bidding. Sir John, pray accompany them, and preside at their 
 merry-making until I join you all. 
 
 SIR JOHN. The more willingly, that I may testify how com- 
 pletely my vapours have vanished. Now strike up music, and to 
 the Inn, good folks, to the Inn, and there shall we carouse to the 
 health of Scotland's Prince, the sprightliest Prince in Christendom, 
 the most accomplished and the best. 
 
 [Afusifj and they enter the Inn. 
 
 ROTHESAY \Alone\ I like not his tone ; I like not his words. 
 What! can Ramornie have begun to hate me? There was a flash 
 in his eye, and a frown on his face, e'en now, that I marked with 
 amazement, and love not when coupled with gentle words. Tut ' I 
 am foolish ; he is my closest friend, and a momentary pique at his 
 defeat in a paltry frolic can take no lasting hold on his heart. He 
 is my elder, true ! I used to follow his lead closely, true ! And 
 he likes to lead, and he enjoyed leading the Prince of Scotland. 
 Now I know him for my inferior, and he knows it as well. True ; 
 but then he is large-hearted and generous. We have hawked to- 
 gether, hunted together, travelled together, wandered the wilds 
 together ; have slept side by side, and exchanged the vows of never- 
 dying friendship. He cannot forget the past. No ! Although I 
 love to torment him, yet I love him as David loved Jonathan ; and 
 never shall I deem him mine enemy unless I have proof of his 
 hostility. Even were he mine enemy, why, I am strong enough to 
 look after myself, and to face him and the devil at his back, an' 
 he will. But see 
 
 Enter CATHERINE GRAEME, disguised as a Groom. 
 
 Sweet Kate, would you have me chide? Why, you have kept 
 Scotland's Regent waiting your coming ! In truth, I began to fear 
 you had decided to remain at home. 
 
 CATHERINE. I have come, but am half-hearted in this business, 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 1 1 
 
 and I sought you a short time agone to tell you so, but was unable to 
 obtain speech of you. Oh, must I go ? What shall the honest 
 townsfolk say when they find I have fled with Duke Rothesay ? Oh, 
 my lord, my lord ! I would you had never crossed my path ! 
 And yet, such is your influence over me, that you mould me like 
 wax, and I must do your bidding ! Even yet, allow me to turn back, 
 I pray. I am unobserved, and no harm will be done were I to steal 
 back gently to my home. 
 
 ROTHESAY. And is it for this, Kate, that I have deserted the 
 sister of Lindsay of Rossie ? the fairest maid, saving thyself, in the 
 kingdom of Fife. Is it for this that I have contrived secret meetings 
 with thee ? and believed thy declaration that thou lovest me ? and 
 so utterly, that thou wouldest do my bidding, go where I go, and 
 dwell where I dwell ? Be it so, Kate ; return to thy home. I'll 
 have no lukewarm love from thee, or any woman, and so, farewell ! 
 
 CATHERINE. Oh, stay ! let us not part thus. You know how 
 friendless I am, how unprotected. Sad it is for a girl to dwell 
 retired and aweary ; and if your image fills my soul by night 
 and by day, wherein am I in fault ? Yes, Rothesay, let the world 
 censure as it will, I'll follow thee, confiding my future, my all, to 
 thy care and discretion. Thou hast vowed to cherish and protect 
 me, and to wed me if the law allows. Oh, my lord, my lord! I do 
 believe thy promise ; and in token, here is my hand. I go with 
 thee. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Well said, Kate ! My horses await us at the foot 
 of the Castle Green ; let us put foot in stirrup, and away, away 
 through the oaks of Falkland Park, and never shall we draw bridle 
 until we reach the banks of the broad-bosomed Tay. And so, adieu 
 to Falkland for the present. I'll make thee a lady, Kate, and thou 
 shalt return here anon, in such bravery that thou shalt be the 
 admiration of every man and the envy of every woman throughout 
 the length and breadth of the kingdom of Fife. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in Edinburgh Castle. KING ROBERT and 
 QUEEN ANNABELLA, ALBANY and RAMORNIE. 
 
 KING. You tell me, Albany, the Prince hath fled ? 
 ALBANY. He came to Falkland, and declined to pass 
 
 The portals of my stronghold. In the town 
 
 He dwelt with an unruly company, 
 
 Strollers and gipsies, thieves and vagabonds ; 
 
 And in the end he from that place eloped 
 
 With a young damsel of the common folks. 
 
 But whither they be gone, I cannot tell ; 
 
 Yet there 's a murmur and a discontent 
 
 Among the lieges at this freak of his 
 
 I relish not, and gladly would allay. 
 
12 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 QUEEN. Alas, the reckless boy ! Yet, Albany, 
 
 You clothe your meaning in ill-sorted garb, 
 
 The Prince of Scotland leagues him not with thieves. 
 
 That he is foolish, well his mother knows, 
 
 And careless of his rank, but never yet 
 
 Did he degrade his state, or herd him with 
 
 The vile and infamous. I'll not believe it ! 
 
 ALBANY. Madam, you love your son ; and so, 'tis well. 
 But hither have I brought his closest friend, 
 Sore 'gainst his inclination, to attest 
 What I advance. Ramornie, do I lie ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. The Prince has led a merry life of late, 
 Yet wherefore question me ? I am his friend ; 
 And hither was I brought, as you avowed, 
 To tell their Majesties my humble mind 
 Touching Duke Rothesay's future. 
 
 KING. And hither have we come from the far west, 
 From the retirement of our tranquil Bute, 
 To weigh the future of our careless son. 
 Alas, that ever he was born ! Alas, 
 That I should grudge life to my eldest born, 
 The scoff of Scotland, and his parents' shame ! 
 
 QUEEN. Nay, nay, my lord, have charity, have hope 
 Our son is young. I've marked his qualities 
 Since he was cradled ; though I must confess 
 That he is reckless, rash, and arrogant, 
 Yet there's an honesty of purpose in him, 
 A winning gentleness, with dignity 
 Combined, that gives me hope he yet will carve 
 His name upon the frame of history 
 By honourable deeds. Hither we come, 
 Confessing blame in him, but with the intent 
 Of bettering his life. Say now, Lord Duke, 
 What would you with the youth ? 
 
 ALBANY. Your Majesty 
 
 Speaks to the point; were Rothesay mine own son, 
 I'd bind him fast in matrimony's chains 
 And tame his lusty spirit ; let him wed. 
 
 KING. Will marriage tame him, brother? 
 
 ALBANY. Choose him a wife 
 
 Modest and virtuous, high born and fair, 
 Discreet and pure of soul, my word on it, 
 Her company will work a miracle 
 Upon his restlessness. 
 
 QUEEN. But is there such a maiden in our midst? 
 
 ALBANY. The Earls of Douglas and of March are fain 
 For an alliance with your royal house ; 
 And each would with his daughter give a dower 
 Proportioned to her rank. 
 
 KING. Hast seen these maidens ? 
 
Rot he say a Drama. 13 
 
 ALBANY. No ; but report would have it both are fair, 
 
 And either is a prize for Scotland's Prince. 
 
 It happens, too, that both are resident 
 
 At this same present with the Lord of March. 
 
 Say, shall I summon them to court? 
 QUEEN. Warily, warily, sir. Why, know you not 
 
 That to be won a maiden must be woo'd ? 
 
 Hast seen the daughters of these lords, Sir John ? 
 SIR JOHN. No ; but I learn that both are beautiful, 
 
 So beautiful, that Rothesay often vows 
 
 He'll wander to their homes in quaint disguise 
 
 To estimate their charms, himself unknown. 
 KING. That you are Rothesay's friend, Duke Albany 
 
 Proclaims you, sir. Think you, were Rothesay wed, 
 
 His levity of purpose were subdued ? 
 SIR JOHN. Such is my firm opinion ; let him wed, 
 
 And all is well. 
 KING. We, too, have thought were Rothesay fitly mated, 
 
 His kingly qualities would to the front. 
 
 You know my son, young sir, have studied him, 
 
 As Albany informs us, for his good ; 
 
 Have watched his frolics with a guardian eye, 
 
 And brought him safe from many a senseless broil. 
 
 You love my son, are mentor, guardian, friend 
 
 Combined, say, is it so ? 
 SIR JOHN. I love the Prince 
 
 As if he were my younger brother, sir. 
 KING. Then to Dunbar shall you proceed anon, 
 
 To interview in our behalf and stead 
 
 The maids of March and Douglas ; study well 
 
 Their graces, gait, complexions, and the like. 
 
 I warrant you are apt, Sir John, but more, 
 
 Study their qualities of heart and mind, 
 
 And in all candour then report to us 
 
 If either be fit bride for Scotland's heir. 
 QUEEN. Ay, more ; if both be queenly, we expect 
 
 You shall pronounce in favour of the maid 
 
 Best suited for our son in temp'rament 
 
 And force of character. You know him well ; 
 
 Then study close, and relatively mark 
 
 The dispositions of those highborn maids, 
 
 For much depends on your report and choice. 
 SIR JOHN. Much am I honoured in my mission, madam ; 
 
 And I, the ambassador of love, shall aim 
 
 To gain applause and credit, not alone 
 
 From Scotland's Majesties, but from their son, 
 
 Whose delegate as well as yours I '11 be. 
 KING. Well spoken, sir. Duke Albany shall see 
 
 That your equipment is prepared ; let all 
 
 Be rich and suitable, as best beseems 
 
14 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 The delegate of royalty. For me ! 
 
 I pray to God that Scotland's Prince, my son, 
 
 May marry one with virtue, intellect, 
 
 And power to guide her youthful lord aright. 
 
 For me ! I am a feeble broken man ; 
 
 I weary of this world, its foolishness, 
 
 Its sins, its broils and conflicts ; and would fain 
 
 Withdraw from earthly troubles, were my son 
 
 But fitted to encounter statesmanship. 
 
 But he is careless, and his government 
 
 Makes sport of royalty. Ay, marriage, marriage, 
 
 Tis the best cure for folly. May this step 
 
 Lead him to honour, and myself to peace. 
 
 Farewell, good sirs, with all convenient speed 
 
 Arrange this mission. 
 QUEEN. Carry greetings, sir, 
 
 To one and all from Scotland's Majesty. 
 
 Be wary, most discreet, and politic, 
 
 For delicate your mission ; act it so 
 
 As to conciliate and not offend, 
 
 You thus shall gain our thanks and confidence. 
 
 And now, adieu ! 
 
 \Exeunt King and Queen. 
 ALBANY. Ramornie ! 
 SIR JOHN. I wait your question, sir. 
 ALBANY. You love the Prince ? 
 SIR JOHN. Surely, surely, when royalty decends 
 
 To such as me, and deigns to term me friend, 
 
 Then am I grateful, sir. 
 ALBANY. Once more, Ramornie ! 
 SIR JOHN. The question, royal Duke ? 
 ALBANY. You hate the Prince ? 
 SIR JOHN. Hatred is mixed in quality, and I 
 
 May not define the word, nor analyse 
 
 The feeling. What is hate ? 
 ALBANY. When John Ramornie is carressed one hour, 
 
 And spurned the next ; when he is smiled upon 
 
 To-day, and frowned upon to-morrow ; when 
 
 He finds him worsted by a younger man 
 
 In games of skill, in fence, in love, in all 
 
 That makes life worth possession ; all the while 
 
 Being well aware that in the game of life 
 
 He is this man's superior per force 
 
 Of intellect ; why then, Ramornie hates, 
 
 Can analyse hate in its subtlest sense, 
 
 And is well able to define the word. 
 
 A truce to quibbles, sir, you hate the Prince, 
 
 And so do I ; 'twixt you and me have passed 
 
 Hints of this common feeling ; now, 'tis time 
 
 To speak together plainly, to conjoin 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 15 
 
 Our thoughts inimical with one intent, 
 
 The overthrow of this imperious youth. 
 SIR JOHN. Duke Albany, if one so near akin 
 
 To Scotland's royalty confess thus far, 
 
 Then may my humble self confess in turn 
 
 That Rothesay holds light share of my regard. 
 ALBANY. Spoken with caution, yet enough for me. 
 
 You know that I was Scotland's governor 
 
 Until this youth displaced me, at the will 
 
 Of his fond mother and his doting sire. 
 
 And since his elevation, well you know 
 
 How he has lorded it upon my fall ; 
 
 Has gibed me, mocked me, sneered and scoffed at me 
 
 Before the lords whom I was wont to rule 
 
 With iron hand. Why, his lieutenancy 
 
 He bears so lightly and so gaily, too, 
 
 That rule with him is only sport and frolic. 
 
 We must an end of this, and with your aid 
 
 I'll so immesh him, that he'll wear the coils 
 
 Of my contriving to his bitter end. 
 SIR JOHN. I cannot aid ; my place is humble, sir. 
 ALBANY. Listen. His parents would a mate for him, 
 
 And from their scheme I'll make me capital. 
 
 Depart, I pray thee, on this embassage 
 
 With all convenience, but so manage it 
 
 That you embroil the Prince with one and all, 
 
 Parents and daughters. Be it so contrived 
 
 That you offend the families of March 
 
 And Douglas both, and leave the rest to me. 
 
 I'll rouse the factions into discontent, 
 
 Till civil war ensue ; and in the crash 
 
 Will Rothesay tumble down, to rise no more ! 
 SIR JOHN. My hatred's flame can never leap so high. 
 
 There is no motive adequate to rouse 
 
 My wrath to such an act of treachery. 
 ALBANY. Tush ! I supply the motive ; set me firm 
 
 In the viceregal chair, and gratitude 
 
 Shall place you high among our proudest peers. 
 
 You understand me ? Intellect and wit 
 
 Are yours, but you are young ; so have a heed 
 
 That you fulfil your mission to the letter, 
 
 Nor let your heart betray your head. Adieu ! 
 
 We will confer again upon your mission 
 
 And my design, before you visit March. \Exit Albany. 
 
 SIR JOHN. I'll do your bidding, wily Albany, 
 
 That on your shoulders I may raise myself 
 
 To power and greatness. When I look around, 
 
 I see my fellow-man pursue one aim 
 
 With never-swerving purpose, and that aim 
 
 Is self; and therefore, in this thing I do 
 
16 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 I only run along the beaten track, 
 
 With this incentive, hatred spurs me on. 
 
 For Rothesay, with his careless winning ways, 
 
 His easy grace and supercilious power, 
 
 His consciousness of my infe.ior place, 
 
 His taunting tongue, his scarce concealed pride, 
 
 His thinly veile'd insults, curse them all, 
 
 Hath roused me to a hatred so intense 
 
 That, but to humble him, I'd risk good fame, 
 
 And bargain to my loss. But Albany 
 
 Will place a hidden weapon in my hand 
 
 Wherewith I strike ; if deadly be the blow, 
 
 Then Albany, not I, directs it so. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. A Grove near Dunbar Castle. 
 Enter ELIZABETH of DUNBAR and ELIZABETH DOUGLAS, 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Sweet friend, or sister, rather, let me term thee, 
 
 For we are sisters in affection, say, 
 
 What thinkest thou of this right-royal news 
 
 We have received to-day ? 
 E. DOUGLAS. I understand 
 
 His Majesty, whose feebleness prevents 
 
 His personal attendance, delegates 
 
 A visitor to March, Sir John Ramornie, 
 
 Who bears assurance of the kingly love 
 
 Towards his noble subject. 
 E. DUNBAR. Empty show ! 
 
 There's strategy with courtesy combined 
 
 In this unwonted mission. I have seen 
 
 But now the esquire of Ramornie, he 
 
 Rode hither in hot haste to tell the Earl 
 
 His embassage (if I may term it so) 
 
 Approaches rapidly, and in my ear 
 
 My father whispered that the mission's purpose 
 
 Is to obtain a bride for Scotland's Prince. 
 E. DOUGLAS. And I may greet thee Scotland's future Queen ! 
 E. DUNBAR. Hush ! shall the daughter of Dunbar be bought 
 
 By King's commissioner? Not I, forsooth ! 
 
 Am I a slave, that I am treated so ? 
 
 Is this Ramornie to appraise my form, 
 
 To dwell upon the colour of mine eyes, 
 
Rothcsay a Drama. 17 
 
 To note the texture of my hair, to mark 
 
 My features and complexion, to applaud 
 
 Or disapprove my voice ? I'll none of it ; 
 
 And he who would aspire to hand of mine, 
 
 Must woo in person. Shall I stand apart, 
 
 Shrinking and modest, while this delegate 
 
 Takes stock and invent'ry of this, my person, 
 
 For due report to Scotland's Majesties ? 
 
 And shall I gaze beseechingly on him, 
 
 Imploring with mine eyes' mute eloquence 
 
 His good opinion ? No, I tell you, no ! 
 
 When he begins to fashion his report, 
 
 I'll deal the knave a buffet will astound him, 
 
 And to the King his master send him back, 
 
 A wiser and a more reflective man 
 
 Than when he sought Dunbar. 
 E. DOUGLAS. Have patience, sister, 
 
 The King is sickly, cannot ride abroad, 
 
 Else had he come in person to thy father. 
 
 That he has heard that thou art beautiful 
 
 I well believe. Nor is the King to blame 
 
 That thou hast beauty, birth, accomplishments, 
 
 Which do commend thee for his royal heir. 
 
 If thou art heart-free, sister, wherefore fret 
 
 At this unwonted honour to thy house, 
 
 And to thyself? This high commissioner 
 
 Comes hither but to summon thee to Court, 
 
 To good Queen Annabella. Where's the fault ? 
 
 I do confess, most of our Scottish maids 
 
 Would cry a welcome to Ramornie's mission. 
 E. DUNBAR. Sweet sister, ofttimes I have envied thee 
 
 Thy face, the home of modesty and love ; 
 
 And I do envy thee thy gentleness 
 
 And meekness, that control my haughty thoughts 
 
 When they would wreck me. Let this delegate 
 
 Arrive, all-conscious of his king's behest. 
 
 I shall receive him honourably ; more, 
 
 I shall, when fit occasion serves, propose 
 
 Thyself as fitting bride for the young Prince. 
 
 Thou art a Douglas, and the Douglas blood 
 
 Ranks with the Stewart's. Thou art beautiful, 
 
 More beautiful than I. Say but the word, 
 
 For very friendship I'll transfer to thee 
 
 My influence, so that thou wed this Prince ! 
 
 Nay, look not sad ; I do but jest, and vow 
 
 That neither king, nor prince, nor delegate 
 
 Shall ever cross the current of our loves ; 
 
 But while we live, Elizabeth of March 
 
 Shall be thy sister and unswerving friend ! 
 
 But see ! who comes? 'tis but Ramornie's esquire. 
 
 B 
 
18 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 Enter ROTHESAY, attired as an Esquire. 
 ROTHESAY. I crave your pardon, noble ladies, I 
 
 Await the coming of my chief, and fain 
 
 To view the beauties of this famous spot 
 
 Have wandered hither ; I shall now withdraw. 
 E. DOUGLAS. A well-graced youth ; alas, how pale he looks ! 
 
 Address him softly. [Aside to E. DUN BAR. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Welcome to Dunbar. 
 
 Sir John Ramornie's esquire, art thou not ? 
 
 For I was with my father, and beheld 
 
 Thy coming hither. 
 ROTHESAY. Then I do address 
 
 Lady Elizabeth, Lord March's daughter? 
 
 I thank thee, lady, for thy courtesy. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. You come from Court, how goes it with the King? 
 ROTHESAY. IndifTrent well, his ailments gain on him, 
 
 I grieve to say. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Her Majesty the Queen ? 
 
 ROTHESAY. Alas ! there's in the face of our good Queen 
 
 A look I love not ; care lays hold on her. 
 
 Her form, once lithe and active, seems to droop 
 
 As she were held of sickness. God preserve her ! 
 E. DOUGLAS. The lad has tenderness of heart ; his tones 
 
 Ring gentleness, as if her Majesty 
 
 Were mother to him. [Aside. 
 
 E. DUNBAR And young Duke Rothesay, Governor of Scotland, 
 
 How fares it with him and his government ? 
 ROTHESAY. The Prince is well, for recently I saw him. 
 
 But, lady, I am humble, nor aspire 
 
 To question how the Lord Lieutenant rules. 
 E. DUNBAR. Well said ; you are a courtier. We have heard 
 
 The Prince is careless in his government, 
 
 But, let that pass, can'st thou describe him to us, 
 
 His face, his form ? is he a proper man ? 
 
 Describe him pri'thee. 
 ROTHESAY. Lady, I cannot well describe a man. 
 
 A maiden's charms I love to dwell upon, 
 
 And I describe the sex indiff'rent well. 
 
 As for the Prince, I dare a parallel, 
 
 My humble self is not unlike to him 
 
 In face and figure, so 'tis said at Court ; 
 
 And that Duke Rothesay is a proper man 
 
 Has never been denied. 
 E. DUNBAR. Audacious youth ! 
 
 You tell me you can well describe the sex ; 
 
 Give us a sample of thy boasted art, 
 
 Describe us twain before you. 
 E. DOUGLAS. Halt, I pray ; 
 
 You bring the vivid blush upon his cheek, 
 
 You press him overmuch. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 19 
 
 ROTHESAY. Impossible 
 
 For my poor tongue to syllable the praise 
 
 Of what's beyond all praise. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. How mean you, sir? 
 
 ROTHESAY. I stand in presence of perfection, ladies; 
 
 A comprehensive word, I can no more. 
 E. DUNBAR. The tresses of my sister here are fair, 
 
 While mine are dark as night ; how can both be 
 
 Perfection, when both differ? 
 ROTHESAY. Yet the rose 
 
 Is perfect in its way, so is the lily. 
 E. DUNBAR. And you prefer the lily to the rose? 
 ROTHESAY. I said not so ; the rose is queen of flowers. 
 E. DUNBAR. And the fair lily ? 
 
 ROTHESAY. Empress, to my mind. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Now have I caught thee tripping, for the lily 
 
 Is modesty's design ; thou dost bestow 
 
 Misnomer on the lily, gentle sir. 
 ROTHESAY. Then let me term the lily "Queen of flowers " 
 
 If so it please you, " Empress " be the rose. 
 
 Both are perfection of their different kind. 
 E. DOUGLAS See, on this grassy knoll the harebell grows, 
 
 I better love to name it the bluebell, 
 
 A humble flower, yet passing beautiful 
 
 And worthy of a Scottish maiden's wear. 
 
 I pluck the flower, I place it in thy hand ; 
 
 Give it to her you think it suits the best. 
 ROTHESAY. Thou art thyself a type of Scotland's fairest, 
 
 For Scotland's fairest are blue-eyed ; but yet, 
 
 This flower has bloomed upon the soil of March, 
 
 The daughter of Lord March shall wear the flower. 
 E. DUNBAR What ! Get thee gone, thou malapert, thou knave ; 
 
 Thou art saucy, lad. That foolish tongue of thine 
 
 May bring thee mischief; get thee gone, I say, 
 
 And learn discretion at thy mother's knee. 
 
 How ! art thou rooted to the spot ? Begone, 
 
 Else, woman as I am, I'll lay my hands 
 
 Upon thee lustily. \_She advances threateningly towards 
 
 ROTHESAY, who stands firm. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Ha ! darest thou 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Dare ! by the spirit of mine ancestress, 
 
 Wild Agnes of Dunbar 
 
 ROTHESAY. Enough ! No more ! 
 
 Black Agnes was an honour to our land ; 
 
 She shewed the spirit of a man when war 
 
 Aroused her blood, but in the hour of peace 
 
 She cultivated hospitality, 
 
 Nor spurned the stranger from her castle gates. 
 E DUNBAR. Tis true, young sir ; you have reminded me 
 
 You are my father's visitor, Tis well, 
 
20 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 You shall be honoured in that circumstance ; 
 
 But never bandy words again with one 
 
 Who is entreated with all courtesy 
 
 (As is her due) by all within these bounds, 
 
 Nor tempt the flight of lofty rhetoric 
 
 If you would shun a fall. Your years are few, 
 
 You are a very fledgling in the art 
 
 Of flattery, and needs must plume your wing 
 
 Before you soar with proper strength and grace. 
 
 Come, sister, leave him to his meditation. 
 
 \Exeunt) and ROTHESAY stands motionless, 
 gazing on the ground. 
 
 Re-enter ELIZABETH DOUGLAS. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Poor youth, his pride is wounded ; motionless 
 
 He stands, with knitted brows and pallid face. 
 
 My heart is strangely stirred ; it cannot be 
 
 That I am interested in this boy 
 
 (For very boy he is, or little more). 
 
 There stands he, slim of figure, delicate 
 
 Of feature, proud of aspect, beautiful ! 
 
 What ! dare I make confession to myself 
 
 That he, a stranger to mine eyes till now 
 
 Is comely ? Read thy heart, Elizabeth, 
 
 And quickly summon up the Douglas pride 
 
 To teach thee what is due the Douglas blood. 
 
 What is this youth to me ? Nothing, O nothing ! 
 
 Let me withdraw, he has observed me not, 
 
 And yet, O heart of mine, but thou art heavy 
 
 As lead within my bosom, till this day 
 
 I might not lay my hand upon my heart 
 
 To still its heaviness ; for until now 
 
 I knew not that my heart could bear a load 
 
 Like this that vexes me. I shall withdraw 
 
 No ! I shall stay one moment. Listen, sir ; 
 
 A single word ere I rejoin my friend. 
 
 Give me these bluebells, what ! hast thou forgot them ? 
 
 There, I shall carry them upon my breast 
 
 Until they fade ; and may thine anger die 
 
 Long ere their bloom expires. Now, fare thee well. [Exit. 
 ROTHESAY. Not fare thee well ! we meet again ere long, 
 
 And through thine agency, O gentle maid, 
 
 I'll read the daughter of Dunbar a lesson 
 
 Will serve her for a lifetime. Let me hence 
 
 To meet Ramornie, and encounter him 
 
 With fair excuses for my presence here ; 
 
 For I, a royal, though unbidden guest 
 
 Do mar his embassy. My honoured father, 
 
 'Twas like thyself to choose a bride for me 
 
 By deputy ; may I confirm the choice. 
 
Rot he say a Drama. 21 
 
 A she-wolf, and a maid ? I'll wed the maid, 
 
 And tame the she-wolf to my heart's content. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. A room in Dunbar Castle, ELIZABETH OF DUNBAR alone. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. He dared me to my face, this unknown lad ; 
 And for his pains would I have struck him down 
 Had I but dared. Tis strange ; this quality 
 Of courage in a stranger quells my wrath, 
 Bids me respect him, and remember him 
 To his advantage. Daughter of Dunbar, 
 Art thou turned weakling at a haughty glance? 
 Yet never did I meet a prouder eye 
 Than his ; like a live coal it sudden gleamed 
 In undisguised wrath. I stood disarmed ; 
 And since that moment I have thought on him, 
 And him alone. Now let me analyze 
 My truant thought. What is't possesses me ? 
 Wrath ? Nay, I honour him for his defiance. 
 Hate ? Nay, I cannot hate where I respect. 
 Contempt ? I may not hold him in contempt, 
 In that he is a youth ; and for his birth, 
 He may he noble ; there's that in his mein 
 Proclaims him noble. Tush ! enow of this, 
 I'll think of him no more. When next we meet 
 Let me bespeak him gently. Yet, 'tis strange 
 I 1 deign to think upon a stranger thus. 
 I'll crush his pride ere I have done with him, 
 And bring him to his knees ere he depart 
 Th' inhospitable Castle of Dunbar ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. The Great Hall in Dunbar Castle. Music. Enter 
 Gentlemen of the Household ; then the EARL OF MARCH, leading 
 his Daughter ELIZABETH ; with her ELIZABETH DOUGLAS ; 
 then follow Attendants and Retainers. The Earl and Ladies 
 are stationed at the upper end of the Hall. Flourish, and 
 enter SIR JOHN RAMORNIE, with SIR WILLIAM LINDSAY and 
 DUKE ROTHESAY as his Esquires, then RAMORNIE'S Retinue. 
 
 MARCH. Sir John Ramornie, welcome to our halls ; 
 Welcome to you and this good company. 
 That you, a courtly gentleman, have deigned 
 To honour my poor house, rejoiceth me, 
 The more that you are held in high respect 
 For able counsel, probity, and worth 
 Among the governors of our fair realm ; 
 Ramornie's name grows famous in the State. 
 
22 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Thanks, my good lord. Yeur welcome I accept, 
 
 Not for myself, though you do flatter me, 
 
 The humble statesman, but as delegate 
 
 Of good King Robert, whom God long preserve. 
 
 The ailments of His Majesty increase ; 
 
 His walk grows heavier, his strength declines, 
 
 So that he cannot now proceed abroad 
 
 With that alacrity his youth conferred. 
 
 And yet, his royal interest never flags 
 
 In kingdom, subjects, government, and law ; 
 
 And on those subjects nearest to his throne, 
 
 And dearest to his heart, would he bestow 
 
 The signal honour of a royal visit, 
 
 Did but his strength allow ; but failing this, 
 
 His Majesty laid his commands on me, 
 
 His delegate and representative, 
 
 To visit you, my lord, and give expression 
 
 Of his contentment in your loyalty. 
 
 Here are my letters of commission, sir, 
 
 Under the King's sign-manual. 
 MARCH. I accept 
 
 These letters with all rev'rence. As for you, 
 
 With all respect shall we entreat you, sir, 
 
 Firstly, as royal delegate ; and, next. 
 
 As gentleman of most approved merit. 
 
 Somewhat I learn of this your mission from 
 
 This youthful esquire stationed on your right, 
 
 Who, as you are aware, rode in advance 
 
 To herald your approach. Give us his name, 
 
 For in the hurry of his tidings I 
 
 Have lacked in courtesy. 
 E. DUNBAR \_Aside]. Now shall I learn his name and his degree ; 
 
 If he be noble, I can smile on him. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS [Aside]. Now stay thy throbbing, foolish heart of 
 mine ; 
 
 Whether he's noble, or of low degree, 
 
 Yet there he standeth, nature's nobleman ! 
 SIR JOHN. His name is David. 
 MARCH. And his title is ? 
 SIR JOHN. The Lord of Lomond-side. 
 MARCH. From Stirling's walls 
 
 Have I beheld Ben Lomond's haughty crest. 
 SIR JOHN. The Lomond that entitles him uprears 
 
 Her lowlier head in Fife. 
 ROTHESAY. No more, I pray thee. 
 
 My Lord of March, let me declare myself. 
 
 I am Duke Rothesay ; hither have I come 
 
 Auxiliar to Ramornie and his mission. 
 
 And therein pardon me my heedlessness, 
 
 My boldness, my presumption, in that I 
 
Rotliesay a Drama. 23 
 
 Have crossed your threshold an unbidden guest. 
 
 Ramomie knew not of my coming hither, 
 
 Frown not, Sir John ; my father's delegate 
 
 Lords it supreme above my father's son, 
 
 And therein stands your mission here intact, 
 
 But he will pardon me, when I confess 
 
 That I regret I communed not with him 
 
 Ere I resolved on this unwonted step. 
 
 My lord, upon your hospitality, 
 
 Far-famed and generous, I throw myself; 
 
 Say, am I welcome here? 
 MARCH. Thrice welcome, noble Rothesay ; let this day 
 
 Be ever honoured by the house of March. 
 ROTHESAY. But not your hospitality alone 
 
 Advised me hither. I have heard, my lord, 
 
 The daughter of the noble house of March 
 
 Outshines in beauty Scotland's fairest fair, 
 
 And 'tis my duty as a courtly knight 
 
 To lay upon the altar of her charms 
 
 The incense of my admiration. But 
 
 I stand perplexed. Have you two daughters, sir ? 
 MARCH. Here stands Elizabeth of March, and here 
 
 Elizabeth of Douglas. 
 
 ROTHESAY [ To Elizabeth of March ]. Rumour, O lady, dubbed 
 thee beautiful ; 
 
 But Rumour's thousand tongues were all too few 
 
 To tell, and justly tell, thy countless charms. 
 
 [To Elizabeth Douglas. 
 
 And all by contrast art thou beautiful 
 
 Exceedingly. That both are besom friends 
 
 Have I been told. Doubtless the one exults 
 
 And glories in the other's loveliness. 
 E. DUNBAR. Sir, you have said your say ; and passing well 
 
 The words trip off your tongue. Tis now my turn. 
 
 Know, then, I love no smoothly-spoken man, 
 
 With flattery like to honey on his lips. 
 
 I am the daughter of a warlike race, 
 
 And love to hear a man speak like a man, 
 
 Without the lisp of self-conceited youth, 
 
 But boldly to the point, with ne'er a turn 
 
 Of art to soothe the humour of a maid, 
 
 Or ply her vanity. 
 MARCH. Be quiet, girl ; 
 
 You know not what you say. Your temper twists 
 
 Your manners out of joint. 
 E. DUNBAR. And I stand here, forsooth, to be appraised 
 
 By this sweet-mannered, slender, beardless boy ! 
 
 Go ! be a man before you speak to maids 
 
 Of beauty and their charms. 
 MARCH. Pert lass, enough ! 
 
24 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 The Duke will in due time speak for himself 
 
 In other wise, I trow. Now, let us hence 
 
 Unto the banquet hall ; for you, Sir John, 
 
 And this good company, need food and rest 
 
 After your lengthy road. I lead the way ; 
 
 So follow, one and all. My royal guest 
 
 Shall lead my daughter to the banquet. You, 
 
 Sir John, shall lead her friend, Earl Douglas' daughter. 
 
 So ! all is well arranged. Now let us on. 
 
 [Music. DUKE ROTHESAY takes RAMORNIE by 
 the /land, and conducts him to ELIZABETH 
 DUNBAR. 
 ROTHESAY. Lady, behold the King's high delegate : 
 
 To him belongs the honour of your hand. 
 
 'Tis I am only Prince of Scotland ; I 
 
 Give place unto my sire, to Scotland's King ; 
 
 And with Earl Douglas' daughter shall I follow, 
 
 Provided she thus far shall honour me. 
 
 [Gives his hand to ELIZABETH DOUGLAS. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Proud youth, I read your meaning. Scotland's 
 Prince, 
 
 In absence of the King, might well aspire 
 
 To fill his father's room at such a time. 
 
 Tis well ! You scorn me, you refuse my hand ; 
 
 And offer, in well counterfeited meekness, 
 
 To follow me. This is my answer, sir, 
 
 I take the hand of John Ramornie thus 
 
 And cast it from me with disdain. Away ! 
 
 I'll none of Scotland's delegate, or thee ! [Exit. 
 
 MARCH. Forgive her; she is sore perplexed to-day 
 
 With this adventure. I shall reason with her, 
 
 And bid her crave your pardon on the morrow. 
 ROTHESAY. Nay ! for her anger well becometh her, 
 
 And in her wrath she beams majestical, 
 
 So that I would not lose a gesture of her scorn 
 
 To gain her honied speech. Leave her to time, 
 
 And to herself; her mood will change anon. 
 
 When fiercest blows the storm, we may expect 
 
 The earlier calm. And now, my Lord of March, 
 
 On to the banquet hall. We follow thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Room in Edinburgh Castle^ DUKE ALBANY alone 
 
 ALBANY. The crown ! what is the crown? Oh, rebel thought 
 That from the lines of discipline will burst, 
 To war against my peace. The crown is power ; 
 And I, like other men born to the rule, 
 
Rot he say a Drama. 25 
 
 Exist for power, its triumphs, sweets, rewards, 
 
 And all that centres fame within one man. 
 
 Who stands between the crown and me ? The King, 
 
 A feeble man, in mind and body weak, 
 
 And hasting to his grave. He may be King 
 
 In title, yet I king it over him, 
 
 Were not this heir-apparent in the front, 
 
 A saucy stripling, rude, unmannerly, 
 
 And conscious of his place. With other men 
 
 I bear me hardily ; can beat them down 
 
 With angry word, or frown, or haughty glance. 
 
 But this lad baffles me. He answers sneer 
 
 With doubled sneer ; he meets my glance of hate 
 
 With calm contempt ; he reads Duke Albany. 
 
 Well, let him read ; there's more inside the book 
 
 That comprehends my soul than he can read; 
 
 For to my inner self stands unconfessed 
 
 The history that I shall write for him. 
 
 The royal pair would see young Rothesay wed, 
 
 To sober him, forsooth, for statesmanship ! 
 
 That is, to shelve myself, who long did rule, 
 
 Lieutenant of the King. If Rothesay wed, 
 
 And in the State becomes an active power, 
 
 Then I become a cipher, for this lad 
 
 Has brains and subtlety. I'll none of this ; 
 
 He shall not wed. How stands it at this present ? 
 
 The Lords of March and Douglas, anxious both 
 
 For royal honours, secretly advance 
 
 Their daughters' claims to be our future Queen ; 
 
 And to that end they bribe the King and me 
 
 (For bribe it is) with heavy sums of gold. 
 
 But Douglas bribes the highest. Shall we then 
 
 Restore their bribe to the unwedded house? 
 
 Or to both houses, if this marriage scheme 
 
 Miscarry ? No ! The crown hath need of gold, 
 
 And I have need of gold, for gold is power. 
 
 We keep the gifts, and leave the Prince unwed ; 
 
 And if the jealous, discontented lords 
 
 Enkindle war against their King, not I, 
 
 But Rothesay, has the fall. How now? 
 
 Enter Sir WILLIAM LINDSAY. 
 
 LINDSAY. Your Grace, 
 
 I come with private tidings from Dunbar. 
 ALBANY. Ha! Welcome, Rossie ; that you are my friend 
 
 I know right well. How goes it at Dunbar ? 
 LINDSAY. Bravely, your Grace. You know Duke Rothesay's 
 
 there ? 
 ALBANY. Something of this I heard ; the wings of love 
 
 Are ever ready for the lusty flight. 
 
26 Rothesaya Drama. 
 
 And I have heard that Rossie's shady groves 
 
 Were visited of Cupid and the Prince 
 
 Ere he betook him to Dunbar. Is 't so ? 
 LINDSAY. My bitter curse upon young Rothesay's head ! 
 
 That he seduced my sister, you know well. 
 
 Had it not been so, I had not stood here 
 
 This day your willing spy, and bitter foe 
 
 To Scotland's heir. If you would use me, sir, 
 
 To work your enmity against the Prince, 
 
 Refrain from taunt or gibe, or heedless word 
 
 Upon a subject that nigh maddens me 
 
 When I reflect on't. 
 ALBANY. Pardon me, young sir. 
 
 That you and yours have suffered grievous wrong 
 
 I know, nor shall I indiscreetly touch 
 
 Upon this topic further. Tell me, now, 
 
 How goes our mission to the Lord Dunbar? 
 LINDSAY. That two Elizabeths are there you know, 
 
 The daughters of the Lords of March and Douglas. 
 
 Both are surpassing beautiful ; the one 
 
 Dark as the night, the other fair as day ; 
 
 A very wonder 'tis to gaze on both, 
 
 To doubt which is the lovelier. When the Prince 
 
 Arrived, i'faith, he scanty welcome had 
 
 From March's daughter. Like the gentle dove's, 
 
 Their courtship 'gan in pecking and disdain ; 
 
 But now, they're closer drawn ; and, I am told, 
 
 Their scorn is turned to love. 
 ALBANY. Ha ! here are news. 
 
 And Douglas' daughter calmly stands aside, 
 
 Without a maiden effort on her part 
 
 To win the heir of Scotland ? 
 LINDSAY. So it is. 
 
 Her modesty forbids her to enact 
 
 The part of lover. 
 ALBANY. Wonder among women ! 
 
 Speak you to this of your own knowledge, sir ? 
 LINDSAY. Of my part knowledge, and the private word 
 
 Of John Ramornie. 
 ALBANY. Rossie, I do thank you 
 
 For this intelligence. I shall requite 
 
 This favour with another. Rest assured 
 
 The day will come, and soon, when you shall have 
 
 Full measure of revenge upon your foe ; 
 
 For on the news you bring shall your revenge 
 
 Have resting-place. And now retire, my friend, 
 
 But keep within convenient distance, for 
 
 His Majesty and I have need of you. 
 LINDSAY. If the King's will be coupled with your own, 
 
 I'll do his bidding, and right cheerfully. [Exit. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 27 
 
 ALBANY. So ! he would wed the daughter of Lord March ! 
 But Douglas is ambitious, and would mate 
 His daughter with the Prince. I'll spoil the game, 
 And rouse an enmity between these lords 
 Will kindle Scotland into civil war. 
 
 First, I shall captivate the Douglas' pride 
 With mention of my nephew's preference 
 For his fair daughter ; next, I'll send him on 
 To March, to bear the damsel to her home, 
 Betrothed of royalty. Unless I lure 
 The Douglas on by such-like specious note, 
 Never would he approach his rival's halls. 
 Then, when the explanation comes, 'twere sport 
 To see his fury at his rival's glee ! 
 'Tis war between them ! war ! and to the knife. 
 And next for March. 'Twere easy to delay 
 A marriage with his daughter. Hath not March 
 Been niggard of his gifts compared with Douglas ? 
 And till the royal coffers be surcharged 
 (And mine as well) with much increase of gold, 
 March cannot hope to see his daughter wed 
 To Scotland's heir. A tangled skein is this ; 
 But in my hands I'll draw the thread so fine, 
 That I shall ruin Rothesay with these lords, 
 And with his feeble sire. Mine is the game ! 
 And next, to oust from his lieutenantcy 
 My haughty nephew. Oh, I love him well ! 
 And he shall have due earnest of my love. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. A Room in Dunbar Castle, ELIZABETH OF DUNBAR and 
 SIR JOHN RAMORNIE. 
 
 SIR JOHN. Hear me, lady. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. You dare to speak of love ! You but insult 
 
 My state. Away ! You know me not. 
 SIR JOHN. Alas ! 
 
 Methought that honest love insulted never. 
 E. DUNBAR. You cannot say that yours is honest love. 
 
 Here you remain, the Monarch's delegate 
 
 To win me for his heir ; and yet you plead 
 
 Not for his heir, but for your simple self ! 
 
 You are dishonest in your embassy. 
 SIR JOHN. Nay ! for the Prince is here in person ; he 
 
 Can woo without mine aid. My mission's done. 
 E. DUNBAR. Your mission stands until you are discharged. 
 
 Enough ! and know, Elizabeth of March 
 
 Shall never, saving with an equal, wed. 
 
28 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 SIR JOHN. You aim at marriage with the Prince. Ah's me ! 
 
 That I could touch your cold, ambitious heart. 
 
 Wedded to thee, what could I not perform ? 
 
 I have ambition equal to thine own ; 
 
 And with thy lofty sp'rit to urge me on, 
 
 Oh, I would reach the pinnacle of fame, 
 
 And proudly share my glory with thyself. 
 E. DUNBAR. It may not be ; he who aspires to win 
 
 This hand must be born great. I love thee not. 
 SIR JOHN. But I could teach thee readily to love 
 
 As never woman loved before. 
 E. DUNBAR. O, fool ! 
 
 To prate of love, and to a woman, thus ! 
 SIR JOHN. You love the Prince, but know he loves you not ; 
 
 His heart is given to Earl Douglas's daughter. 
 
 Ha ! you turn pale ; your confidante, your friend, 
 
 Keeps the sweet secret of her maiden love 
 
 In the recesses of her bosom buried ; 
 
 And she can meet you daily, hourly, yet 
 
 Contrive to blind you to her lofty aim 
 
 The hand of Scotland's Prince. You know her not. 
 E. DUNBAR. I know Elizabeth, and I know you. 
 
 Learn, then, ambitious man, that from her lips 
 
 Have I been warned against Ramornie's wiles. 
 
 As you approach me now, her you approached 
 
 With honied words, had woo'd her for your bride ; 
 
 But with disdain, nigh equal to mine own, 
 
 (Though she be meek) she would have none of you. 
 
 And now, forsooth, you, sir, would condescend 
 
 To give me the reversion of your hand ! 
 
 Away ! unprincipled, ambitious churl, 
 
 Else will I bid my father drive you forth 
 
 Despite the armour of your embassy. 
 SIR JOHN. Lady, I go, and with this parting word, 
 
 I'll keep you ever in my memory. \Exit. 
 
 E. DUNBAR. Intrigue is written on that courtly face. 
 
 Much I mistrust the man ; yet is he vain, 
 
 And shallow at the best, when he aspires 
 
 To mate with Scotland's proudest. Said I, proudest ? 
 
 Alas ! where has my pride evanished? 
 
 Since I have made acquaintance with this Prince, 
 
 And learned to love him, all my pride is gone, 
 
 And I am but a humble woman now, 
 
 Prepared to sacrifice my haughtiness 
 
 For Rothesay's love. Yet, shall I give my heart 
 
 To him who to another giveth his ? 
 
 'Tis false ! for he loves me : his tones are soft, 
 
 Like low sweet music, when he speaks to me ; 
 
 While in his eye there gleams a nameless light 
 
 That only kindles at the torch of love. 
 
Rothesay a Drama 29 
 
 And I, alas, am in love's trammels caught ; 
 
 Am tamed, and taught to sigh the hour away 
 
 That keeps young Rothesay from my side ! O, Love ! 
 
 I who despised thee, bend the knee to thee, 
 
 And make confession of thy hidden power. 
 
 Whiles would I bid thee go, and give me peace, 
 
 For there's a heaviness that weights my heart 
 
 Early and late since thou mad'st lodgment here ; 
 
 But I remember that to banish thee 
 
 Kills pleasing pain, and makes existence void ; 
 
 Thus would I have thee stay ; but am I happy ? 
 
 Nay, miserable. O ! what's this youth to me ? 
 
 He's naught to me. Yet surely do I err, 
 
 For I do know he is my all in all, 
 
 My life, my paradise ! Ah, foolish heart, 
 
 How light thou grow'st when Rothesay's by my side ; 
 
 But in his absence thou art weighted down 
 
 As lead, and my sole occupation tends 
 
 To think on him, ponder his every word, 
 
 His accents, trick of talk, his grace of form, 
 
 His gait, and comeliness. Enough of this, 
 
 Else will I in my weakness loathe myself. 
 
 Yet did Ramornie say he loves me not. 
 
 Now, by high heaven, if this be the truth, 
 
 There mixes with my love a jealousy 
 
 That would ordain me to a dire revenge 
 
 On him who hardily would dare to slight 
 
 The honour of my name ! Ah ! jealousy 
 
 Thou'rt kin to love, and yet love's enemy ! 
 
 Who comes ? The Prince ! with him, Elizabeth. 
 
 Now let me act a mean invidious part 
 
 To kill uneasiness, and learn the truth ; 
 
 I'll step behind the arras till they part. 
 
 \_She retires behind the arras. 
 
 Enter ROTHESAY and ELIZABETH DOUGLAS. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Trust not Ramornie, he is dangerous. 
 ROTHESAY. He loves thee, and therein is dangerous 
 
 To his own peace and mine. 
 E. DOUGLAS. Not to thy peace. 
 
 Am I not thine for ever and for ever ? 
 
 Then wherefore fear Ramornie ? 
 ROTHESAY. Ever since 
 
 I first did make acquaintance with the man 
 
 Have I been destined to oppose his aims 
 
 Or thwart his projects. My inferior he, 
 
 In station, birth, and knightly exercise, 
 
 And sorely does he fret to know it so, 
 
 Hence is he dangerous. He hates his friend, 
 
 And friendship turned to hatred rivals hell. 
 
30 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 He loved thee when he first cast eyes on thee ; 
 He loves thee now ; had fain persuaded me, 
 For his own purpose, ere he knew my love, 
 That thou wert all uusuited for my bride, 
 And that thy friend, the daughter of Lord March, 
 Was destined by my parents to be mine. 
 Nay, look not sad ; my royal parents choose 
 As Rothesay chooses. What ! are not mine eyes 
 Mine own, and shall I gaze with borrowed light 
 Upon my future wife ? Thou art my choice, 
 The sweetest, fairest maid in Christendom ; 
 And John Ramornie's welcome, an' he list, 
 To woo and wed the daughter of Dunbar. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Hear me, Duke Rothesay. 
 
 ROTHESAY. David is my name, 
 
 And sweet that name when syllabled by thee. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Yes, thou art David to my inmost soul, 
 But Rothesay to the world. Doubt not my love, 
 For, O, it glorifies and animates 
 My spirit, and I only live for thee ! 
 When thou art present, happiness, content, 
 And joy unspeakable are mine ; but when 
 Thou leav'st my side, the brightness of my sun 
 Is clouded o'er, and borrowed happiness 
 Is only mine by dwelling on thyself, 
 Thy glance, thy smile, and kingly qualities. 
 I cannot think of thee, my future lord, 
 As aught but perfect. Yet, forgive me now 
 If I inquire, hast thou done right in this, 
 To cause my friend, Elizabeth Dunbar, 
 To deem thy love was hers ? Is it not so ? 
 Hast thou not whispered in her secret ear 
 That thou aspirest to her hand ? 
 
 ROTHESAY. 'Tis true, 
 
 But yet I love her not. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. And yet, methinks, 
 
 Love's counterfeit was present in thine eyes 
 When thou didst speak to her. Now, wherefore this ? 
 
 ROTHESAY. Twas in revenge that I have acted thus. 
 When hither first I came, she loaded me 
 With contumely and taunts, until for shame 
 I blushed before mine own inferiors, 
 And thereupon I vowed to be revenged. 
 This, this is my revenge, to cause her love me, 
 And waken to the truth I love another ! 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Alas ! but thou hast done a grievous wrong 
 To my poor friend. Weak is a woman's heart, 
 And slighted love is a sharp instrument 
 That pierces, yes, it may be to the death. 
 Let me, I pray thee, undeceive my friend ; 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 31 
 
 I'll break the tidings to her gently, and 
 
 As woman best to woman can. Alas ! 
 
 That thou hast learned to love me, for 'tis true 
 
 Elizabeth Dunbar were fitter mate 
 
 For Scotland's Prince than I. 
 ROTHESAY. No, thou art feminine : a vixen she, 
 
 A cat, a tigress rather, who would rule 
 
 Her husband and the realm with sharpset claws ; 
 
 But never shall she rule in realm of mine. 
 
 She has the spirit of her ancestress, 
 
 Black Agnes, and (they tell) her face and form. 
 
 Both were born rulers, with this difference, 
 
 Black Agnes's love-shafts pierced to the heart ; 
 
 Black Bess's love-shafts never pierced mine. 
 
 I'll tell her this anon. {Enter ELIZABETH DUNBAR, suddenly. 
 E. DUNBAR. She stands before thee, 
 
 She has heard all ; thy love and thy revenge. 
 
 Rothesay, I know thee now, and thank my God 
 
 That I have listened to the very truth 
 
 From thine own lips, for never else had I 
 
 Believed in the existence of a man 
 
 Self-villified as thou. My passion died 
 
 As thou didst tell thine infamy ! I stand 
 
 Amazed to think that thou. a royal Prince, 
 
 Could'st calmly tell thy baseness, and to her ! 
 
 O ! rare revenge to win a woman's heart 
 
 With hollow vows and protestations vain, 
 
 With the vile object to deride her love 
 
 And scoff at her affection ! Ha ! the blush 
 
 Of conscious shame reddens thy cheek at last. 
 
 No man that's worthy of the name could act 
 
 The part that thou hast done. . 
 
 ROTHESAY. I blush ! 'tis for thy shrewish tongue. Thy love 
 
 Being gone, thy temper reasserts itself. 
 E. DUNBAR. And thou, Elizabeth, my bosom friend, 
 
 My sweet companion, thou could'st stoop to this ? 
 
 Could'st meet me daily, hourly, smile on me, 
 
 And fawn on me, yet steal away his heart ? 
 
 There stands thy lover, art thou proud of him ? 
 E. DOUGLAS. Reproach me not, for I have learned to love him. 
 E. DUNBAR. Have we not been as sisters ? more than sisters ? 
 
 Had I a single thought concealed from thee ? 
 
 By day we parted not, and in the night 
 
 Have we not shared one couch, jealous, I trow, 
 
 Lest sleep might drown our close companionship 
 
 In still oblivion and required rest? 
 
 Well didst thou know my soul's affection turned 
 
 Around this man, for I have told it thee 
 
 A thousand times, and in a thousand ways, 
 
 Yet never once by word or sign hast thou 
 
32 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 Displayed thy passion for this perjured Prince. 
 Go, take thy lover. I despise you both ; 
 And may ye prosper as your loves deserve ! 
 
 Enter the EARLS OF MARCH and DOUGLAS with SIR JOHN RAMORNIE 
 
 MARCH. Daughter, art saucy? When thy voice is raised, 
 
 Methinks a tempest 's brewing. 
 DOUGLAS. I have come, 
 
 Sweet lady mine, to see my daughter's friend 
 
 In her own home. Has not Elizabeth 
 
 A welcome word for me ? 
 E. DUNBAR. Welcome, my Lord. 
 DOUGLAS. Thou hast done my bidding, lass, and welcomed me ; 
 
 I ask no more, yet welcome spoken thus 
 
 Freezes the soul of hospitality. 
 
 Let me withdraw my daughter from this house, 
 
 For if the sire be in this fashion treated 
 
 The daughter may not longer tarry here. 
 MARCH. Have patience, Douglas, I am master here ; 
 
 I bid thee welcome. If thy coming be 
 
 In courtesy to me, treat this my home 
 
 And all therein as thine. As for my daughter, 
 
 This amorous youth has turned her head, I trow, 
 
 By dangling matrimony's golden bands 
 
 Before her eyes. Ah ! saucy daughter mine, 
 
 When thou hast left my home a royal bride 
 
 Thy manners thou wilt mend ; there is no curb 
 
 Like marriage for the temper. 
 DOUGLAS. On my life 
 
 I understand thee not. Duke Rothesay, speak, 
 
 What mystery is this ? What ! silent, sir ? 
 
 Know, my Lord March, it was Duke Albany 
 
 Did notify to me that Scotland's Prince 
 
 My daughter has betrothed ; hither I 
 
 After the announcement came, as her convoy 
 
 To the metropolis, there to abide 
 
 Until the marriage-day. 
 MARCH. Ha ! you soar high. 
 
 Another royal marriage for the Douglas ! 
 
 Now, John Ramornie, by your knighthood speak, 
 
 Since you came here, our Monarch's delegate, 
 
 To seek my daughter's hand for Scotland's Prince, 
 
 Have you not whispered in my private ear 
 
 That Rothesay was enamoured of my child, 
 
 And that a delegate was needed not 
 
 To prompt the courtship ? 
 RAMORNIE. Such was my belief. 
 ROTHESAY. Silence, good Lords, and worthy delegate. 
 
 That there was controversial matter here, 
 
 I do admit. The controversy ends, 
 
Rot he say a Drama, 33 
 
 And in this wise, here standeth my betrothed, 
 
 Elizabeth of Douglas. Say, sweet Bess, 
 
 Art not my promised wife ? 
 E. DOUGLAS. Tis even so. 
 ROTHESAY. And if Earl Douglas deigns to give his daughter, 
 
 The fairest flower mine eyes e'er dwelt upon, 
 
 Into my keeping, I will cherish her, 
 
 And in all honour so maintain her state, 
 
 That none occasion shall she ever have 
 
 To rue she links her destiny to mine. 
 
 Give her to me, my Lord. 
 DOUGLAS. I do consent, 
 
 Elizabeth of Douglas shall be yours. 
 MARCH. God's death ! but this is strange ! Ye brave it, sirs, 
 
 As ye were in the Douglas Castle, not 
 
 Our stronghold of Dunbar. But have a care, 
 
 Ere ye depart I '11 explanation have 
 
 Of this discourtesy to me and mine. 
 
 Ramornie, speak ! did not this royal youth 
 
 (Or have mine eyes deceived me) pay true court 
 
 To mine own daughter? 
 RAMORNIE. So it was ; 
 
 And my Duke Rothesay will admit the fact, 
 
 That in all earnestness I counselled him 
 
 To bring his wooing to a bearing, and 
 
 Entreat betrothal. 
 MARCH. And he answer gave ? 
 RAMORNIE. That though I be King Robert's delegate, 
 
 Yet in the choosing of a bride, himself 
 
 Would act, but never I. 
 MARCH. Presumptuous lad, 
 
 Self-willed and arrogant, you ventured here, 
 
 And with the honour of a noble house 
 
 Tampered, to pass the idle hour away ; 
 
 I '11 reckon heavily with you for this. 
 
 And my Lord Douglas, you too venture here, 
 
 To treat the delegation of our King 
 
 With thinly-veiled contempt, making pretence 
 
 That you obey the King through Albany, 
 
 And his foul stratagems. I see it all ! 
 
 'Tis Albany against his Sovereign set, 
 
 With Rothesay for a cat's paw. I proclaim 
 
 You wholly false, wholly ambitious, 
 
 An evil counsellor, an evil friend ; 
 
 A grasping subject, whom the very throne 
 
 Would barely serve for your ambition. Sir, 
 
 Depart these walls, else will I break the laws 
 
 Of hospitality, and on this spot 
 
 Hold reckoning for your duplicity. 
 
34 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 DOUGLAS. Ha ! you defy the Douglas ! On the word, 
 
 Base lord, I answer your defiance thus 
 
 [DOUGLAS and MARCH draw, ELIZABETH 
 
 OF MARCH steps between them. 
 E. DUNBAR. Put up your swords, and leave this cause to me ; 
 
 Herein have I concern. Ramornie, answer ! 
 
 Not for the King alone, but for his son 
 
 You acted delegate, in that you whispered 
 
 Often and often, in my private ear, 
 
 That he did love me, this you will confess ? 
 RAMORNIE. I had authority for this ; the Prince 
 
 Did so declare. 
 E. DUNBAR. Little experience have I had in love, 
 
 Yet woman's wit is quick, and I have noted 
 
 That you aspired to that fair lady's hand. 
 
 Start not, Lord Douglas, with your haughty house 
 
 Had this ambitious schemer leagued himself. 
 
 Say thou, Elizabeth, did not this man 
 
 Ask thee in marriage ? See ! no answer, lords ; 
 
 Her very silence answers me and you. 
 
 Ramornie, you have dared to love this maid, 
 
 And thought to shield her from Duke Rothesay's love 
 
 (Altho' until this day I knew it not) 
 
 By mating him with me. Hence your poor wiles, 
 
 Your artifice, devices, trickery, 
 
 And sugared messages sent to and fro ! 
 
 But all without avail, for from the sum 
 
 And reckoning you left young Cupid out, 
 
 And he has baffled you. Next, when you saw 
 
 That you were powerless to prevent their loves, 
 
 You dared to cast your eyes upon myself. 
 
 Nay, father, start not, he did honour me, 
 
 This delegate of royalty, whose scheme 
 
 Miscarried, he did honour me, ay me, 
 
 With tender of his hand ! But I declined, 
 
 In all respect, be it said, in all respect, 
 
 The destiny he had in store for me. 
 RAMORNIE. Your heart, poor lady, was not yours to give ; 
 
 You love Duke Rothesay. 
 D. DUNBAR. But you love me not, 
 
 And yet had destined me to be the prop 
 
 And ladder to your greatness. True it is 
 
 I listened to Duke Rothesay, while I thought 
 
 He was sincere, for he did vow he loved me. 
 
 But accident foe to duplicity 
 
 Proclaims the Prince's falsity to me, 
 
 And from my conciousness I cast him off, 
 
 And scorn that ever I did bend on him 
 
 Affection's glance. No, sir, think not I love him, 
 
 The daughter of Lord March can never love 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 35 
 
 Where she remains unloved. Enough of this ; 
 
 Hear me, good father, hear me, one and all 
 
 One moment more, to sum this matter up : 
 
 Ramornie, you are foiled, depart in peace, 
 
 And learn the art of statecraft ; learn true love, 
 
 Ere on a delegation such as this 
 
 You venture forth again. Duke Rothesay, take 
 
 Your blushing bride to the metropolis, 
 
 And guide her tenderly ; she was my friend, 
 
 Unused to deceit till she knew you. 
 
 Earl Douglas, with your daughter hie to Court, 
 
 And give your pride the rein, without one thought 
 
 For your poor daughter's after happiness. 
 
 And you, my father, bid your guests depart, 
 
 As 'tis best fitting them, in courtesy ; 
 
 Think not your daughter grieves the sorry day 
 
 That sees the heir to Scotland pass her by. 
 
 She knows him now, and now she knows herself; 
 
 And in the knowledge, may she strive to be 
 
 A better and a milder-mannered maid 
 
 Than heretofore. The world is wisdom's school, 
 
 And wisdom may be taught e'en by a fool. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Edinburgh Castle. KING ROBERT and 
 DUKE ALBANY. 
 
 KING. Brother, can this be true? 
 
 ALBANY. I grieve to tell it, 
 
 Yet true it is, Duke Rothesay's marriage vows 
 Bind him not to good conduct. For a time 
 The world went smoothly with the wedded pair, 
 And o'er his bride the ardent lover hung 
 Enamoured of her charms ; satiety 
 Succeeded, and he 'gan to treat his wife 
 To frowns and taunts ; next, cold indifference 
 Possessed him, and to win her husband back 
 She strove, poor girl, with all the art she had 
 To keep him by her side. But wreathed smiles 
 And gentle words, and loving tenderness, 
 Were all in vain. He has deserted her ; 
 And in the company of light-o'-loves 
 He wiles the time away. 
 
 KING. Unhappy son of an unhappy sire ! 
 
 O that my Queen were only living now, 
 To point to those unfortunates the way, 
 With footsteps wary and discreet, to wend 
 
36 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 Life's journey ; but she 's dead, alas, she 's dead, 
 And I am left alone. Brother, you know 
 How frail I am, and sometimes I do think 
 This feeble temple of the soul, this frame, 
 Weakens my spirit, and I grow aweary 
 Of life and all life's burdens. Would to God 
 My son were noble-natured, chaste of heart, 
 And firm of government, how gladly I 
 Would cast my crown and royal state aside, 
 And bid him king it in this warlike land. 
 But I misdoubt him ; and the line of Bruce 
 Myself shall represent until the day 
 That sees him cast frivolity aside, 
 And plume his manhood with his royalty. 
 Where is he now ? 
 
 ALABNY. 'Tis thought he is in Fife. 
 
 KING. Lindsay of Rossie 
 
 Is his sworn enemy. Harm may befal 
 My foolish son if he's at large in Fife. 
 
 ALBANY. In Fife or out of Fife, I fear, good brother, 
 He 's equally in danger. His the art 
 Or the misfortune (term it as we will) 
 To raise and to create new enemies, 
 By arrogancy and misgovernment, 
 With every passing hour. The Douglases, 
 The mightiest house in Scotland next the crown, 
 Vow vengeance on him for the Princess' sake, 
 The hapless daughter of their chief; Lord March 
 Is alienate, and utterly ; the Graemes, 
 The Murrays, Crichtons, and a hundred more 
 Of Scotland's noblest, all cry shame on him 
 For his licentiousness and levity. 
 And if your Majesty continues him 
 In his lieutenancy, much do I fear 
 Rebellion will uprear her hydra head 
 Against your royal line ; and all in vain 
 Your kingly influence to hold the Crown. 
 
 KING. Something of this I feared. Advise me, brother, 
 For my son David's sake, and for mine own. 
 What shall I do? 
 
 ALBANY. Depose your son from his lieutenancy. 
 By one bold stroke shall you assert yourself 
 And satisfy the people. 
 
 KING. But my son, 
 
 Is he to abdicate his statecraft thus 
 For ever? That he has good parts I know, 
 And good ability. He condescends, 
 When in the mood, to such effect that all 
 Are captivate. Then his lieutenancy 
 Is good apprenticeship to government, 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 37 
 
 And he is Scotland's heir. If I depose him, 
 
 I care not to resume the reins of power ; 
 
 For I am feeble, and my Queen is dead. 
 
 She, ever ready with a shrewd advice 
 
 To tread my difficulties under foot, 
 
 When I lost her, my strength of purpose died, 
 
 And here I droop and pine, and wonder much 
 
 That Providence created me a king ; 
 
 For who so unambitious as myself, 
 
 Or more unfitted to uphold a throne ? 
 ALBANY. Brother, your grief bids you decry yourself. 
 
 The people love King Robert ; 'gainst the son 
 
 They clamour, not the father. 
 KING. Who shall rule, 
 
 If Rothesay be deposed his high control ? 
 
 His haughty spirit may not brook recal 
 
 Save at the hand of royalty. Say, brother, 
 
 Will you assume the high lieutenancy 
 
 Until my foolish son be brought to end 
 
 His levity and license? You are proved 
 
 In active government, are my right hand 
 
 In all affairs of state ; help me in this, 
 
 And more than brother shall you be to me, 
 
 For much I need your aid in my affliction. 
 ALBANY. I am unwilling to assume the power. 
 
 My nephew may become mine enemy, 
 
 Were I to dispossess him of his sway. 
 KING. Yet who can fill the post so well as you ? 
 
 You know the people, and their crying needs ; 
 
 The nobles and their grievances ; the clans, 
 
 Their feuds and their alliances. To you 
 
 Power is a plaything ; you were born to rule, 
 
 And love the occupation. Happy thought, 
 
 That bids me to depute the power to you, 
 
 And save the honour of my hapless son. 
 ALBANY. Methinks to rule 
 
 Is but a thankless office at the best. 
 
 Press me no further ; I'll have none of it. 
 KING. You love me, brother? 
 ALBANY. Better than myself ; 
 
 And " self," they say, is rooted to the core 
 
 In all mankind. 
 KING. Then by your love for me 
 
 And mine, and by your loyalty, I beg 
 
 That you accept the lord-lieutenancy 
 
 Until my son be unto reason brought 
 
 And credit with the nation. 
 ALBANY. I consent. 
 
 Tis with a heavy heart, for I had deemed 
 
 My active days were o'er ; yet must I ask, 
 
38 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 As a condition of my acquiescence, 
 That when my office is proclaimed you place 
 Within my hands a private warrant for 
 The apprehension of the Prince. I ask 
 The writ for mine own safety ; shall employ 
 The powers entrusted me with lenity. 
 
 KING. You would avoid a conflict with my son, 
 
 And would imprison him pending my pleasure ? 
 
 ALBANY. Ay; and when captured, you shall be advised 
 With all due expedition, so that you 
 May visit him in his captivity, 
 Or order his removal to the Court, 
 As best may please your Majesty. 
 
 KiNa Tis well. 
 
 When we have caged this gay gallant of mine, 
 I'll bring him and his wife into our Court, 
 And with all honour shall entreat the twain 
 As Scotland's fairest, loftiest, and best. 
 It will go hard with me if I be foiled 
 In my attempt to join them heart to heart, 
 As they are joined already hand to hand ; 
 For daily converse strengthens Cupid's darts, 
 And I shall sequestrate them from the world 
 Until they learn to love. 'Tis a rare plan, 
 And suits my humour. Come, my brother, come 
 Into our council chamber, to advise 
 This warrant of arrestment. Albany ! 
 Let him be treated with all gentleness 
 When he is taken. 
 
 ALBANY. With all gentleness 
 
 Shall he be treated, and yourself apprised 
 Where he shall be imprisoned. 
 
 KING. Albany ! 
 
 You love the Prince, my son ? 
 
 ALBANY. He is my nephew, 
 
 Your eldest son, the heir to Scotland's throne ; 
 Need I say more? 
 
 KING. Be very gentle with him 
 
 When he is captive. He is but a youth ; 
 Haughty as youth will be, and proud, mayhap, 
 For high his lineage. Like the eagle, he 
 May fret within his cage. 'Tis understood 
 You send me notice by swift messengers 
 When he is taken ? 
 
 ALBANY. Brother, brother, King ! 
 
 Whence comes this urgency ? Let me depart 
 Unto my private home ; you trust me not. 
 
 KING. Nay, nay, forgive me ; I am sick at heart, 
 And there be times I know not what I say. 
 We do what we decide on for the best ; 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 39 
 
 And so 'tis best. Who shall gainsay my words ? 
 
 Yet he is very dear to me, my son, 
 
 My winsome, haughty, thoughtless, fair-haired lad, 
 
 To whom the world is sunshine, life and love, 
 
 Frolic and happiness. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Life has been only dreariness to me ; 
 
 To me, a very cumberer of the ground, 
 
 Halting in mind and body, weak of soul, 
 
 Irresolute, and shrinking from the world. 
 
 No more on this. Yet, as you Jove me, brother, 
 
 O love my boy ; but I do know you love him. 
 
 We '11 to the council chamber for this warrant. 
 
 Lend me your arm, good brother ; come, come, come. 
 
 \_Exeiint. 
 
 SCENE II. A room in the Castle of St Andrews. EARL DOUGLAS, 
 his son ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS, and SIR WILLIAM LINDSAY. 
 
 LINDSAY. Duke Albany? 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Has gone to Falkland. Like a tiger he 
 
 Crouches within his lair, and waits his victim. 
 LINDSAY. Art sure, my Lord, that Rothesay is in Fife ? 
 E. DOUGLAS. Duke Albany has tracked him into Fife. 
 
 Armed with the royal warrant, he is bold, 
 
 Nor shuns responsibility ; besides 
 
 He's now our lord-lieutenant, for the King 
 
 Has cancelled Rothesay's office, and the Duke 
 
 Grants warrant for his nephew's apprehension. 
 
 Twixt the King's warrant and the governor's 
 
 The Prince's capture cannot be delayed, 
 
 For he suspects not his disgrace and fall. 
 ARCHD. DOUGLAS. O that my sister ne'er had seen his face ! 
 LINDSAY. And I, too, have a sister. 
 ARCHD. DOUGLAS. Yes, he did win my sister by fair speech 
 
 And sweet address ; did boldly gaze on her 
 
 One moment, and the next would glance adown 
 
 As though her very presence dazzled him. 
 
 I marked their wooing ; I believed in him, 
 
 As did my sister ; and I thought he loved her. 
 
 Then came the marriage, then the honeymoon ; 
 
 Next their return alas ! a sad return 
 
 For the young Princess. On his words she hung 
 
 Timid and fearful. Narrowly I scanned 
 
 Her countenance, and I could see she feared him. 
 
 When he was merry, she would laugh with him 
 
 In counterfeited glee ; 'twas pitiful 
 
 To hear her voice. When he turned fretful, she 
 
 Hung o'er him tenderly, and every art 
 
 Essayed to wean him from his savage mood. 
 
40 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 Then she grew pale and thin, and restless too, 
 When he was absent. Evermore her thoughts 
 Seemed to be with her husband ; but the light 
 Within her eyes was not the light of love, 
 But rather fear and sharp uneasiness. 
 I marked it all, indignant, for I pitied, 
 And pity still, my sister for her fate. 
 
 LINDSAY. But in all this you only paint the life 
 Of wedded thousands. 
 
 ARCH. DOUGLAS. Ay, but this victim is a Douglas, sir. 
 One day I entered, unannounced, their room. 
 My sister was in tears, and o'er her hung 
 Her husband ; with his clenched fists he stood 
 Threat'ning and furious. I rushed between them. 
 Her cheek was reddened with a recent blow. 
 I swear it ! from her lips I wrung the truth 
 That the foul dastard dealt his gentle wife 
 A coward blow. Before the Prince I stood, 
 And cursed him in my father's name and mine, 
 And dared him to the combat. For an instant he 
 All undecided stood, but at the sight 
 Of his fair wife, dishevelled and in tears, 
 Wringing her hands, and moaning pitiful, 
 He sheathed his rapier, and the chamber left 
 With hurried step, and casting as he went 
 A baneful glance upon us both. O God ! 
 But I could weep to think our noble house 
 Is to a villain such as this allied, 
 Though he be royal. O that I were set 
 Against him on some wild and lonesome moor, 
 None present save us twain ; with blade in hand, 
 I'd so avenge my hapless sister's wrongs, 
 That through broad Scotland would the tidings ring 
 A wonder to all time. 
 
 Enter DUCHESS OF ROTHESAY and SIR JOHN RAMORNIE. 
 
 E. DOUGLAS. Welcome, Ramornie ; 
 
 Now by your hurried coming you have news 
 
 Of moment to disclose. 
 RAMORNIE. My Lord, the Prince is captured, and by me. 
 
 Near to Strathtyrum was the goshawk trapped. 
 E. DOUGLAS. I joy to hear it. 
 
 ARCH. DOUGLAS. This is the happiest moment of my life. 
 LINDSAY. Would I had been the captor ; would that I 
 
 Were now his keeper. 
 DUCHESS OF ROTHESAY [Aside]. Alas ! 
 E. DOUGLAS [to Duchess]. Now is the time, my daughter, for 
 revenge. 
 
 [To Ramornie\ Tell me the manner of his capture, sir. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 41 
 
 RAMORNIE. In Falkland dwells a certain light-o'-love, 
 
 A former mistress of the Prince, her name 
 
 Is Catherine Graeme. Within this woman's house 
 
 Rothesay has dwelt since he forsook his wife, 
 
 And there had he remained, no doubt, till now, 
 
 Had not the coming of Duke Albany 
 
 Caused his withdrawal. Under cloud of night, 
 
 Wellnigh a week agone, he left the town, 
 
 And leisurely has through the district passed 
 
 Engaged in falconry. We tracked his course, 
 
 Now here, now there, for slender was his escort 
 
 And the way devious ; but 'twas evident 
 
 This castle of Saint Andrews was his aim, 
 
 For since the recent death of Bishop Trail 
 
 He looks upon this castle as his own. 
 
 An armed force, by Albany's command, 
 
 Was mine to intercept the Prince ; we met 
 
 Near to Strathtyrum ; small resistance he 
 
 And his weak escort offered, for amazed 
 
 Were one and all when the King's warrant I 
 
 Produced for his arrestment. Little more 
 
 Have I to add ; he's in this castle now, 
 
 My prisoner ; say, shall we hold him here, 
 
 Or send him on to Falkland to the Duke ? 
 DUCHESS. Here let him bide, for hither have I come 
 
 At his command. This castle is his own ; 
 
 And, till the pleasure of the King be known, 
 
 Shall I be guaranty for his safe-keeping. 
 LINDSAY. Bring him before us ; I'd have speech of him, 
 
 Ere we decide on his disposal. 
 ARCH. DOUGLAS. I 
 
 Shall meet him face to face it is my right 
 
 Within these walls ; and, sword in hand, shall carve 
 
 My soul's revenge upon him ! 
 E. DOUGLAS. Silence, boy ; 
 
 You are a brawler. This shall I advise, 
 
 Nay, more, command, for in this matter we 
 
 Are secondary actors. Who is set 
 
 The Governor of Scotland in the room 
 
 Of Scotland's Prince ? 'Tis now Duke Albany, 
 
 To whom the royal warrant was entrusted ; 
 
 And thus into the hands of Albany 
 
 Shall Rothesay be confided. Nay, no more, 
 
 My daughter, I have said ; no more, my son, 
 
 I answer for you both, and for myself. 
 
 The Prince shall on to Falkland, to the care 
 
 Of his devoted uncle Albany. 
 RAMORNIE. You carry reason in your speech, my lord, 
 
 I'll on to Falkland with my prisoner. 
 LINDSAY. In better hands the Prince cannot be placed, 
 
42 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 ARCH. DOUGLAS. In truth, good father, you have said aright 
 
 Let us confide our lovite to his uncle. 
 DUCHESS. O hear me father, brother, and good sirs, 
 
 Send not my husband to Duke Albany, 
 
 That stony-hearted and ambitious man, 
 
 Remorseless, cruel, and unprincipled. 
 
 What ! know you not the very fiends in hell 
 
 Are angels in comparison with him ? 
 
 For fiends do band together, but this man 
 
 Stands solitary on a pinnacle 
 
 Of treachery and the mad lust for power, 
 
 And in no man confides what he contrives 
 
 Against his enemies. O trust him not ; 
 
 Remember he is brother to the King, 
 
 But not the King. O keep my husband here, 
 
 And notify his capture to the King, 
 
 Then your responsibility shall cease 
 
 Whate'er betide. His Majesty is meek, 
 
 Honest, and merciful ; into his hands 
 
 Gladly shall I confide my erring lord, 
 
 But not to Albany's. 
 E. DOUGLAS. Daughter, no more, 
 
 Thou art degenerate ; until this day 
 
 A Douglas never did a wrong forgive, 
 
 Or kiss the hand that struck a coward blow. 
 
 If thou hast pardoned Rothesay, I have not, 
 
 And in the Lord-Lieutenant's hands he shall 
 
 Be set at pleasure of his Majesty. 
 
 Come, sirs, let us provide a proper guard 
 
 For this illustrious son-in-law of mine, 
 
 And on to Falkland with him ere the night 
 
 Darkens the lengthy road, for the day wears. 
 
 [Exeunt all but the DUCHESS OF ROTHESAY. 
 DUCHESS. O, heart of woman, changeable and weak ! 
 
 Since I became a wedded wife have I 
 
 A thousand times declared that I do hate him. 
 
 Have I not cause ? He has neglected me, 
 
 Treated my taunts with cold indifference ; 
 
 And to my prayers for but a little love, 
 
 A little courtesy, a kindly glance, 
 
 He answered with a sneer, my day is past ! 
 
 The fire that once within his bosom glowed 
 
 For me is quenched ; alas that it is so. 
 
 I cannot hate him ; in this one respect 
 
 I prove apostate from the Douglas faith. 
 
 I am no Douglas, but a Stuart now, 
 
 Therefore I pardon him who is my husband. 
 
 O, Rothesay, freely do I pardon thee. 
 
 Ah ! would to God that I could die for thee, 
 
 If thou art doomed to death. I'll to the Duke 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 43 
 
 His uncle, and in Falkland rest awhile 
 
 To see the issue of this daring stroke. 
 
 Come, resolution, to my laggard wit, 
 
 And teach me to encounter Albany 
 
 With craft 'gainst craft ; 'tis for my husband's self 
 
 That I do battle. O ! may heaven approve 
 
 The issue, and restore my husband's love 
 
 Into its rightful channel. If his wife 
 
 Save through device his coveted young life, 
 
 Then gratitude may ardent love renew, 
 
 When in his adverse fate he proves me true. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. Falkland Castle. ROTHESAY in Prison. 
 
 ROTHESAY. Another miserable night agone ! 
 
 How cold it is, how drear ! These stony bounds 
 
 Mock my estate ; the heir to Scotland's throne 
 
 Entrapped, degraded thus ! Yet I have slept 
 
 Upon this cruel couch, till the foul drip 
 
 From overhead awaked me. Woe is me, 
 
 What have I done to be entreated thus ? 
 
 See ! through the loophole of this gloomy cell 
 
 The first faint gleam of day ; and I do hear, 
 
 Enraptured at the birth of the young day, 
 
 The music of the merle, and nearer still 
 
 The note of red-breast more deliberate, 
 
 Yet passing sweet. Alas ! but ye are free, 
 
 While I A dreary chill creeps through my veins, 
 
 And I do hunger. Oftentimes it chanced, 
 
 When in the chase or falconry engaged, 
 
 That I have hungered, and for very joy 
 
 Have laughed to find it so ; never till now 
 
 Did hunger in its dread reality 
 
 Lay hold upon me. Like a rav'ning monster 
 
 It gnaws my vitals, will not be appeased, 
 
 And goads me nigh to madness. Can it be 
 
 They have forgot me ? 
 
 Ho ! ye knaves without ! 
 
 I would have speech of you. This awful silence ! 
 
 This is a living grave ! Ho, jailers, ho ! 
 
 [Beats loudly on the door, and enter the 
 
 Jailers SELKIRK and WRIGHT. 
 SELKIRK. What would you, master? 
 WRIGHT. Cease this clamour, sir, 
 
 Else we shall set the gyves upon your limbs, 
 
 And gag you into silence. 
 ROTHESAY. How now, knaves ! 
 
 A murrain on ye both ; go, bring me food, 
 
 For I do hunger ; bring me wine, and fetch 
 
44 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 My cloak, for in this narrow slimy cell 
 
 Have I been thrust without the decencies 
 
 Or means of keeping life within me ; go, 
 
 And quickly, ere resentment urges me 
 
 To dub you traitors to my royal line. 
 SELKIRK. We serve Duke Albany, and he is royal. 
 ROTHESAY. The Duke knows not that I am prisoned here; 
 
 Or, if he knew, he durst not have me starve. 
 
 How mean you ? 
 WRIGHT. Sir, our meaning is, in brief, 
 
 To act as it was ordered by the Duke ; 
 
 Here you remain our prisoner, without 
 
 Food, drink, or clothing, till his pleasure be 
 
 To grant you freedom. 
 ROTHESAY. That may never come. 
 SELKIRK. Ay, surely it will come ; ay, it must come 
 
 In one way or another. 
 ROTHESAY. Death will grant 
 
 Me freedom death by hunger, thirst, and cold. 
 
 Is this your meaning ? 
 WRIGHT. An' it please you, sir, 
 
 What need to bandy words ? Let us withdraw. 
 ROTHESAY. Stay, jailers, stay. O this is terrible ! 
 
 Stay, 'tis the Prince of Scotland pleads. O men, 
 
 Have ye not sons? think of your flesh and blood 
 
 Imprisoned on these terms, thrust in a cell, 
 
 Dark, slimy, stone-engirdled, horrible, 
 
 With ne'er a morsel of sustaining food, 
 
 Without a cup of water to allay 
 
 Thirst's quick-devouring fever. Ye would pity 
 
 Your sons in such a strait, then pity me. 
 WRIGHT. Pity is duty's adversary ; we 
 
 Are faithful to our trust. 
 ROTHESAY. Ye both are Scots 
 
 The king of Scotland is my father ! all 
 
 Swear fealty to the crown, to Scotland's king, 
 
 And I, his heir-apparent, next himself, 
 
 Do stand most precious in our subjects' sight. 
 
 Thus are ye bound in faith and trust to me, 
 
 And I command that you obey me now. 
 WRIGHT. 'Tis needless say no more. 
 ROTHESAY. Short-sighted men ! 
 
 Ye blink like owls in the broad light of day. 
 
 What ! see you not it is impossible 
 
 That Albany can dare to murder me ? 
 
 If so it were, the nation to a man 
 
 Would rise, and take such terrible revenge 
 
 On him and you, that never to all time 
 
 Would history forget it. Let me go ; 
 
 When I am free you shall have gold and rank, 
 
Rot he say a Drama. 45 
 
 Such as befit your service ; let me go, 
 
 And I shall pay you with sweet gratitude, 
 
 Backed by a monarch's thanks. 
 SELKIRK. Idly you rave ; 
 
 Our master is Duke Albany, and he 
 
 Is king and master both. 
 ROTHESAY. When I am free, 
 
 Revenge shall be my study. Never more 
 
 Shall Albany be Scotland's governor. 
 
 But I wear faint. O for a little food ! 
 
 Good sirs, go quickly, bring a little food. 
 
 For every ounce of food you bring to me, 
 
 I'll pay you back an hundred overweight 
 
 In gold, and in the grateful balance cast 
 
 My thanks besides, the thanks of Scotland's Prince. 
 WRIGHT. Enough, time wears, and we must go. 
 ROTHESAY (seizing his robe]. 
 
 One moment ; but one moment ! Sure, the birds 
 
 Lack not their food ; the vilest beasts that creep 
 
 This teeming earth of ours, have all their share ; 
 
 Then, wherefore keep from me what nature gives, 
 
 Until their latest breath, to one and all ? 
 
 If 'tis my life you seek, I stand before you ; 
 
 Despatch me if you will, I am content ; 
 
 But doom me not to die of rav'ning want, 
 
 And to become, ere kindly death arrives, 
 
 A thing abhorrent to the eyes of nature. 
 
 Ah ! you are pitiless ; well were you chosen 
 
 For such a task as this. 
 WRIGHT. Release your grasp, 
 
 Else will I dash you to the ground. 
 ROTHESAY. Your dagger 
 
 Lend me your dagger ; if you fear to rob 
 
 Me of my life, myself shall do the deed. 
 WRIGHT. Take this and this you feeble whining fool. 
 
 \Beats him ; they struggle, and ROTHESAY is 
 
 thrown heavily to the ground. 
 SELKIRK. I fear that you have killed him. 
 WRIGHT. Nay, he breathes. 
 
 Shall I despatch him ? I've a mind to do it, 
 
 And end our watch. 
 
 Enter ALBANY, by a secret door. 
 ALBANY. Hold, knave ! What, have you killed him ? 
 
 Have I not ordered that no hack nor mark 
 
 Shall on his body show ? Have you forgot, 
 
 Or are you wearied of yeur life ? 
 WRIGHT. He lives ; 
 
 He is but stunned. See, your grace, he revives. 
 ALBANY. Withdraw ; but keep ye both within due call. 
 
 \Exeunt SELKIRK and WRIGHT. 
 
46 Rot he say a Drama. 
 
 I have thee at my feet, mine enemy ! 
 
 Revenge, thou dainty morsel, thou art mine ; 
 
 Not to consume with ill-considered haste, 
 
 But leisurely ; that so I may extract 
 
 Truest enjoyment from its rarity ! 
 
 Is this mine enemy ? this slender lad, 
 
 This willow wand ? Is this, forsooth, a power ? 
 
 Now let me trace his features, while he lies 
 
 Passive and motionless. He has self-will, 
 
 That well I know, and obstinacy too, 
 
 And pride of birth ; but strength of purpose, none. 
 
 He is a man of pleasure at the best ; 
 
 And had he chosen to subject his will 
 
 To mine, he might have reigned this country's king ; 
 
 But from the day he dared to pit himself 
 
 In arrogance 'gainst me, his doom was read. 
 
 But, soft he rouses. David, Duke of Rothesay, 
 
 Arise ; 'tis Albany who speaks to thee. 
 ROTHESAY. [Slowly rising. 
 
 They struck me to the ground ! They dared to strike 
 
 The son of him, the anointed of the Lord. 
 
 I do remember all. Duke Albany, 
 
 Explain thy presence here. I do not bid 
 
 Thee welcome, for it is to thee I owe 
 
 This chamber and this treatment. 
 ALBANY. Nephew, nay 
 ROTHESAY. I do not term thee uncle, Albany ; 
 
 For 'tis a word that kinsmanship engrafts 
 
 On courtesy ; and that is dead for us. 
 
 Nephew is sad misnomer from thy lips. 
 ALBANY. Then, Duke of Rothesay, Scotland's noblest Prince, 
 
 I come to visit thee in thy retirement, 
 
 And humbly to inquire if thou art lodged 
 
 In manner suitable. Hast aught complaint ? 
 ROTHESAY. None, Duke of Albany. 
 ALBANY. A royal residence ! These massive walls 
 
 Encircle Scotland's heir, and hold him safe 
 
 Against his enemies. So far 'tis well. 
 ROTHESAY. So far 'tis well. 
 ALBANY. And yet the air is chill and deadly. Thou 
 
 Art thinly clad ; hast aught petition for 
 
 Soft couch or warmer clothing ? 
 ROTHESAY. None from thee. 
 ALBANY. I trust the keepers bring abundant food, 
 
 And of fair quality, for my Lord Duke ? 
 ROTHESAY. I ask thee for none other than they bring. 
 ALBANY. And water? 
 
 ROTHESAY {pointing to the roof]. Do I lack water here ? 
 ALBANY. Hast aught petition ? 
 ROTHESAY. One alone, Lord Duke. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 47 
 
 This princely cell thou hast assigned to me 
 
 Ought to be mine. 'Tis now my all on earth. 
 
 Leave me to solitude ; I ask no more. 
 ALBANY. Rude lad ! and thou wouldst parley thus with me ? 
 
 I hold thee in the hollow of my hand ; 
 
 And coarser natures at a single blow 
 
 Might glut them in a barbarous revenge, 
 
 But I refine upon thy punishment, 
 
 And do consign thee to a living death. 
 
 Here thou shalt pine and starve, and slowly die. 
 
 Here thou shalt rot until thou pray'st for death, 
 
 A glad release from that foul thing, thyself. 
 
 Boy, I do hate thee ! Thou hast hated me 
 
 Since first the dawn of manhood 'gan to clothe 
 
 Thy saucy face. 1 know it. I have marked 
 
 Thine eye, thy knitted brows, thy countenance ; 
 
 And hate breeds hate. Far better for thyself 
 
 Had'st thou been confident that Albany 
 
 Was thy true friend ; far better for thyself 
 
 To have absorbed thee in thy junkettings, 
 
 Debaucheries, and riots, and have left 
 
 The government to me, to the manner born 
 
 To rule. But, no ! Thou wouldst be Governor, 
 
 Supplanting me, Ay, me ; thou malapert, 
 
 With taunt and sneer, and open mockery. 
 
 Boy, I do tell thee ne'er a taunt or sneer, 
 
 And ne'er a silly trick of mockery, 
 
 But I have hoarded in my injured breast ; 
 
 And now the hour of my revenge is come. 
 
 Go, lay thee on thy stony couch and starve ! 
 
 And now, farewell, and think on Albany. 
 
 \Departs by the secret door. 
 ROTHESAY. Albany ? 
 
 [.Rushes to the door and beats it with his hands, 
 then falls to the ground. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Wood near Falkland Castle. Enter CATHERINE 
 
 GRAEME. 
 
 CATHERINE. And yonder frowning pile possesses him ! 
 Poor youth ! 'Tis said he sickens nigh to death, 
 And raves in his delirium. O that I 
 Stood by his fevered couch to tend and soothe him ; 
 To listen to his accents, though they be 
 Of reason robbed ; to gaze upon his face, 
 To touch his hand, to minister to him, 
 To lend those thousand aids that bafHe death, 
 And beckon back again departed health. 
 
48 Rotkesay a Drama. 
 
 This, this were heaven to me, for I do love him, 
 
 Though mine be love unlawful. Can I live 
 
 Forgetful of his tenderness, his vows, 
 
 His protestations that in me alone 
 
 His happiness was centred ; that the claims 
 
 Of birth alone forbad the marriage tie ? 
 
 I did believe him, I believe him still ; 
 
 And if for him I lost my fair repute, 
 
 In my great fall the greater was my love. 
 
 May God forgive us both, but chiefly me, 
 
 For chiefly have I erred, 
 
 Enter DUCHESS OF ROTHESAY. 
 
 DUCHESS. Madam, thy name ? 
 
 CATHERINE. I know not, madam, who requires my name. 
 
 DUCHESS. A woman most unfortunate am I, 
 
 The Duke of Rothesay's wife. 
 CATHERINE. And I am Catherine Graeme ; thou know'st me not 
 
 I would away, my household duties call 
 
 Me to my home. 
 DUCHESS. Stay, Catherine Graeme, with thee would I have speech. 
 
 'Tis thee I seek, would thy assistance crave, 
 
 To aid my prisoned husband. 
 
 CATHERINE. Prisoned, and fever-stricken, so 'tis told. 
 DUCHESS. Prisoned, but languishing for lack of food ; 
 
 If it be that starvation is disease, 
 
 Then is he fevered well nigh to his death. 
 CATHERINE. Can this be true? O I am strangely stirred. 
 DUCHESS. On from Saint Andrews have I hurried here 
 
 To crave his prisoner of Albany, 
 
 And I made offer to accompany 
 
 The Prince to good King Robert's residence, 
 
 But I am baffled ; honied words have I 
 
 Received of the Duke, and wreathed smiles, 
 
 And studied courtesy, but nothing more. 
 
 The man is most malignant in his hate, 
 
 And serpent-like in murd'rous wisdom he. 
 
 I craved an interview with mine own husband, 
 
 But 'twas denied me ; nay, it was deferred, 
 
 To this intent that I am kept from him, 
 
 And of set purpose. 
 
 CATHERINE. Can this purpose be ? 
 
 DUCHESS. Listen ! I am the self-invited guest 
 
 Of Albany in yonder gloomy pile, 
 
 And one there dwells within the castle walls 
 
 Friendly to me and mine, from whom I learn 
 
 The sum of this sad history. The Prince 
 
 Is doomed, the pride and glory of his youth 
 
 Is coveted, but 'tis a bloodless death 
 
 They destine for him ; and behind the plea 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 49 
 
 Of fell disease they shield the murd'rous deed. 
 Thou know'st the eastern tower that gloomily 
 Frowns o'er the castle ? there is Rothesay prisoned. 
 They hold him in a dungeon dank and drear, 
 Without the necessaries of dear life ; 
 Water and food are both denied ; his prayers 
 Are all unheeded, or, if listened to, 
 Are gloated over by malignant ears. 
 
 God, that this is so, that I am here ! 
 Here, wellnigh by my husband's side, and yet 
 Powerless to aid him ! 
 
 Yesterday I walked 
 
 Warily by the tower where he is caged. 
 Close to its base there is a loophole set, 
 That draws the niggard light to the foul cell 
 Which keeps my husband. I approached the loop, 
 And lift the ivy screen aside. I gazed 
 Within ; at first mine eyes beheld him not, 
 But soon, accustomed to the gloom, I saw 
 In pity saw him seated on his couch, 
 His face upon his hands. I spoke to him ; 
 'Twas in a whisper, lest his guards might hear. 
 Then, on the sudden, at my voice he raised 
 His face ; his eyes met mine. O Jesu, dear, 
 That I should see my husband's features thus ! 
 
 1 may not dwell upon the scene. Enough, 
 That they do starve him, that he must have food, 
 And on the instant, or his life is lost. 
 
 CATHERINE. You carried food to him ? 
 
 DUCHESS. Alas, alas, 
 
 But I am helpless here ; my steps are watched ; 
 
 A guard is set upon me. I contrived 
 
 Again to near the loop, with food concealed 
 
 Under my mantle. Lo ! when I approached 
 
 A warder hung upon my every step, 
 
 And I was baffled. Help me ; be my friend 
 
 In mine extremity. 
 CATHERINE. Lady, you demand 
 
 What is impossible. 
 DUCHESS. Nay ; I am told 
 
 That you have access to the castle when 
 
 You choose to pass the gates. 
 CATHERINE. True ; I am poor 
 
 My duties lead me often to the castle. 
 DUCHESS. You know the gloomy tower where Rothesay lies 
 
 Prisoned and starving ? 
 CATHERINE. I do know the tower, 
 
 And in a mood inquisitive have gazed 
 
 In happier days down through the narrow loop 
 
 Into the cell. 
 
50 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 DUCHESS. Then, O be merciful, 
 
 And through that loop send Rothesay precious life. 
 CATHERINE. You would that I convey supplies to him 
 
 By virtue of mine insignificance ? 
 DUCHESS. Ah ! choose not bitter words ; give help to him, 
 
 And I will bless thee to my dying day. 
 CATHERINE. Lady, implore me not. 
 DUCHESS. Upon my knees 
 
 I do implore thee for thy priceless aid. 
 CATHERINE. Lady, arise ; you shall not, cannot kneel 
 
 To such as me. How ! are you not aware 
 
 I was his leman once upon a time ? 
 DUCHESS. I knew it, Catherine, ere I came to thee. 
 CATHERINE. And what is even harder still for you, 
 
 His wedded wife, to know he loves me still. 
 DUCHESS. I know it. Sad has been my wedded life ; 
 
 In mine extremity I do confess it. 
 
 My husband has despised me, lightlied me, 
 
 And, worse than all, he has deserted me, 
 
 Proving unfaithful to his marriage vows. 
 
 Yet I do love him ! am I not his wife ? 
 
 Can I say more than this ? / still do love him ! 
 
 And here upon my bended knees I pray 
 
 To thee, my rival, to have pity on him, 
 
 And save his precious life. 
 
 CATHERINE (raising her np\ Rise, lady; you have conquered, for 
 your love 
 
 Is greater than mine own. I pity him, 
 
 And shall attempt to aid him in his need ; 
 
 I pity him, and sorrow for your woes. 
 
 O may your sorrow soon be changed to joy, 
 
 And happier days remain in store for you. 
 
 Come, lady, come, and let us twain contrive 
 
 How best to baffle Nature's enemies ; 
 
 For this attempt my head may forfeit be 
 
 Whate'er the penalty I am resolved. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. Falkland Castle. Before Rothesay 's Tower 
 SELKIRK and WRIGHT. 
 
 SELKIRK. Tis strange, but he is as tenacious of his life as a cat. 
 He may not have nine lives, but there's more than one life in him. 
 
 WRIGHT. Had he ninety, I would soon end them all, were it 
 but left to me. 
 
 SELKIRK. The Duke suspects that he receives secret supplies, 
 hence our instructions to watch the dungeon loop. This must be 
 so, else how could our prisoner exist so long ? Can a man live on 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 51 
 
 air, or on light, or on sand, or on a filthy water drop? There's 
 mystery here, I trow, and it rests with us to clear it up. 
 
 WRIGHT. Yet he was well nourished in flesh when first he fell 
 into our hands ; but now, i'faith, he has become so thin, that I fear he 
 may soon escape us by creeping out of this aperture. Ah, these 
 aristocrats, how I do hate them ! How I gloried to hear our prisoner 
 on his coming here first demand, then implore, then entreat, then 
 pray, then howl in frenzy, for food, for water, for pity. Pity ! that's 
 a scarce commodity among gentlemen of our profession. And now 
 he has become quiet he heeds us not, he petitions us not ; depend 
 on't he has secret supplies, and it will prove to our credit if we can 
 detect the source. 
 
 SELKIRK. A curse on the man, woman, or child who dares to 
 interfere here, and tamper with the course of justice. Duke Albany 
 would give short shrift to the culprit. 
 
 WRIGHT. Soft ! some one comes. 'Tis a woman ; let us pass 
 aside and keep concealed. Let us take ourselves round the tower, 
 and bide within hearing distance ; the moth draws nigh to the candle. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter CATHERINE GRAEME, enveloped in a large mantle. 
 
 CATHERINE. Night, open-armed, descends upon the earth. 
 The rooks are wending homeward, and the bat 
 Wheels in the twilight on capricious wing. 
 Nature is waiting slumber all is still 
 I'll venture to the loop. 'Tis now the hour 
 When vigilance is lulled, and in the halls 
 The warders love to loiter and carouse. 
 Ah's me ! this awful stillness. I can hear 
 The throbbing of my heart ! Stay ! did I hear 
 A footstep ? Nay, 'twas but the distant tramp 
 Of sentinel upon his watch. A whisper? 
 'Twas but the distant ripple of the brook 
 That glides beyond the castle. O my heart 
 Be still, and turn not traitor to myself. 
 Be brave in this extremity of need, 
 Else will my task miscarry. Did I hear 
 A voice ? 'Twas but the beetle's drowsy hum 
 Mysterious in the air. Am I turned coward ? 
 The moaning of the wind upon the hills 
 May next disturb me. Let me close mine ears 
 'Gainst all that mounts the silence of the air, 
 And rides atilt my fears. I'll to my duty. 
 
 \Kneels down and gazes through the aperture 
 
 of the Dungeon. 
 
 I cannot see him ! Ah ! this horrid darkness 
 That broods funereal-like upon his cell ! 
 Perhaps he sleeps the awful sleep of death. 
 Dost slumber, Duke of Rothesay ? Oh awake ! 
 
52 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 Stay, I can hear 
 
 The ceaseless drip of water on the floor, 
 
 Measured and slow, Time's regulator there ; 
 
 And I can hear yes I do hear his voice ! 
 
 So faint and weak, I recognised it not 
 
 For Rothesay's ! Yes he speaks to me he speaks ! 
 
 So feeble and unearthly is his voice, 
 
 That pain and terror strike me to the heart 
 
 Ev'n as I listen. David, thou art weak, 
 
 And faint, and cold I know it all oh, drag 
 
 Thy limbs across the floor, and come to me, 
 
 And I shall give thee food. See, here is milk, 
 
 And with this slender reed shalt thou contrive 
 
 [SELKIRK and WRIGHT glide forward^ and 
 
 SELKIRK places his hand upon her shoulder 
 
 she turns her head. 
 Alas ! my hope has perished lost, lost, lost ! 
 
 SCENE VI. Falkland Castle. Ante-room of the Chapel. The back- 
 ground of the chamber is heavily draped. DUKE ALBANY and 
 the DUCHESS OF ROTHESAY. 
 
 ALBANY. I cannot probe to the bottom of your charge. 
 DUCHESS. Release my husband, and my heavy charge 
 
 Shall I discharge anon. Duke Albany, 
 
 You have no warrant for this thing you do. 
 ALBANY. I hold the warrant of our gracious King. 
 DUCHESS. To apprehend, but never to maltreat. 
 ALBANY. How, madam, you are bold ! What ! know you not 
 
 The King confides his son to me. The realm 
 
 Cries shame upon your husband ; so did you ; 
 
 So do the nobles. To my vigilance 
 
 Is Scotland's heir entrusted. Have a care ! 
 
 I am Lieutenant in Duke Rothesay's room. 
 DUCHESS. The King is generous and kind ; he waits 
 
 The coming of his son. Your task it was 
 ' To apprehend my husband, and convey 
 
 Him to his father's custody ; but never 
 
 Were you his constituted keeper. Sir, 
 
 Beware ! you know not I know all ! Beware 
 
 A woman's wrath ! That you have overstepped 
 
 Your high commission when you caged my lord 
 
 You know ; but in the reckless depths you plunged 
 
 When you consigned him to a monstrous death, 
 
 And left him in your dungeon cells to starve. 
 ALBANY. 'Tis a foul charge, and I deny it, lady. 
 
Rothesay a Drama. 53 
 
 I am no murderer. Malignant sickness 
 
 Seized hold upon the Prince. Am I to blame 
 
 For Nature's chastisement ? 
 DUCHESS. Name Nature not to me. I do believe 
 
 There's ne'er a spark of human kindness glows 
 
 Within your bosom. Oh ! black-hearted man, 
 
 False is your nature ! bitterness and gall 
 
 Are your best composites ! I fear you not, 
 
 But I distrust you utterly. My sp'rit 
 
 Recoils from you as from some deadly thing ; 
 
 That you are venomous I know. Release 
 
 My husband, and I shall unsay my words. 
 ALBANY. Proceed, and welcome, madam. 
 DUCHESS. I demand, 
 
 In good King Robert's name, and in mine own, 
 
 And in the name of Scotland's royal heir, 
 
 And in the nation's name, that you release 
 
 Duke Rothesay. 
 ALBANY. Wherefore, madam, may I ask ? 
 
 He is well housed and well protected here. 
 DUCHESS. Your hardihood unsexes me. Desist ! 
 
 Else will I curse you in your flesh and blood, 
 
 Your family and store, till evil fortune, 
 
 Like to a bloodhound, hunts you to the doom, 
 
 And forces you to wail at God's decrees. 
 
 What ! know I not you are ambition's slave ? 
 
 That Rothesay stands in your ambition's way ? 
 
 What ! know I not you starve him to the death, 
 
 Yet would give out he dies by Nature's law ? 
 
 Oh, Albany ! before it be too late, 
 
 Release my husband, give him to mine arms, 
 
 And I will bless you while I live. Remember. 
 
 The King his father, and myself, his wife, 
 
 Have influence with him. Gladly will we 
 
 Advise him to renounce th' uneasy craft 
 
 Of government to you, and in the field 
 
 Display his prowess and receive his spurs \ 
 
 So shall your interests undivided be, 
 
 And each shall on the other proudly lean. 
 ALBANY. I hear you to the end most patiently ; 
 
 But since Duke Rothesay passed within these walls 
 
 His treatment has been all he best deserves. 
 
 You ask for his release ? he is released. 
 
 You stand amazed ! Restrain your passion, madam, 
 
 Tis true ; the Prince has left his prison bounds, 
 
 Shall enter them no more. 
 DUCHESS. May God bestow his blessing upon you ! 
 
 O royal Albany ! When shall I see 
 
 My husband ? let me clasp him in mine arms. 
 
 O happiness to know that he is free ! 
 
54 Rothesay a Drama. 
 
 ALBANY. Shall I delay the joyous meeting ? Nay 
 Ho there, within ! draw back this drapery, 
 The Duchess Rothesay enters. 
 
 [T/ie curtains are drawn back, displaying the 
 Chapel Royal draped in black. In the centre 
 a bier, whereon the dead body of DUKE 
 ROTHESAY is laid. Attendants with candles 
 line the walls, and round the bier stand friars 
 also with candles. They begin to chaunt in a 
 deep tone. 
 
 ALBANY. Your husband waits your coming, noble lady. 
 DUCHESS (rushing forward, and gazing on the face of the dead]. 
 My husband ! 
 

 

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