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BRUCE 
 
'BOOKJ 'BY yOHC^ 'Dt^VWSOO^. 
 
 THE NORTH WALL. 1884. Glasgow: Wilson & McCormlck. 
 Trans/erred by the Aut/wr to the present publishers {2s. 6d. net). 
 
 BRUCE : A Drama. 1886. Glasgow : Wilson & McCormick. 
 Trans/erred by the Author to the present publishers (5^. net) 
 
 SMITH : A Tragedy. 1888. Glasgow : Fred. W. Wilson & Brother. 
 
 PLAYS. 1889. Greenock : John Davidson. 
 
 T7-ans/erred by the Author to the present publishers (5^. net). 
 
 N.B. — A few Copies of this Book were issued in 1890 withthe imprint 
 of Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, under the title of ''Scaramouch in Naxos, a 
 Pantomime, and other Plays." 
 
 PERFERVID. 1890. London ; Ward & Downey. 
 
 MONTESQUIEU'S " LETTRES PERSANES," a Translation, 
 with Introduction and Notes. 2 vols. 1891. London (published by 
 J. C. Nimmo, but without his imprint). 
 
 THE GREAT MEN AND A PRACTICAL NOVELIST. 1891. 
 London : Ward & Downey. 
 
 X.B. — "A Practical Novelist" is **The North Wall," with some 
 slight revision and the last chapter omitted. 
 
 IN A MUSIC HALL, AND OTHER POEMS. 1891. London: 
 Ward & Downey. 
 
 FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. 1893. London: Elkin Mathews 
 and John Lane (5^. net). Second Edition. 
 
 BAPTIST LAKE. 1893. London : Ward & Downey. In the Press. 
 
BRUCE 
 
 A Drama in Five Acts 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN DAVIDSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the NORTH WALL" 
 
 € 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS and JOHN LANE 
 
 7'//E BODLE Y HEAD, VIGO STREET 
 
 1893 
 
TO 
 DAVID PATON, ESQ. 
 
 M281337 
 
Dramatis PERSONiE. 
 
 Robert Bruce, Earl of 
 
 Carrick, afterwards King 
 
 of Scotland. 
 Edward Bruce. 
 Nigel Bruce. 
 Lamberton, Archbishop of 
 
 St. Andrews. 
 Walter, the Steward of 
 
 Scotland. 
 Sir William Wallace. 
 Sir James Douglas. 
 Sir Thomas Randolf. 
 Sir Christopher Seton. 
 Sir John Seton. 
 James Crombe. 
 Kirkpatrick. 
 Comyn, Earl of Badenoch. 
 Comyn, Earl of Buchan. 
 Macduff, Earl of Fife. 
 Sir Robert Comyn. 
 
 Edward I., King of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Edward II., King of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 The Earl of Pembroke. 
 
 Lord Henry Percy. 
 
 Lord Robert Clifford. 
 
 Sir Ingram de Umfra- 
 
 VILLE. 
 
 Sir Giles de Argentine. 
 
 Sir Peter Mallorie,///^- 
 ticiary of England. 
 
 Hugh Beaumont. 
 
 Isabella, Countess of Car- 
 rick, afterwards Queen of 
 Scotland. 
 
 Isobel, Countess of Buchan. 
 
 Countess ^Badenoch. 
 
 Lady Douglas. 
 
 An Old Man, a Young Friar, a Messenger, a Forester, a 
 Spy. Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Monks, Soldiers, etc. 
 
 Scene : — London and Scotland. 
 
BRUCE 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — London. A Room in the Palace, 
 King Edward I., Earl of Pembroke, 
 Lord Henry Percy, a7id Lord Robert 
 Clifford. 
 
 Edward L Once more, my lords, the rude 
 
 north claims our care. 
 A faction there is still opposed to peace, 
 Strongly ill-willed to England and to me, 
 Obdurate, set, incorrigibly v/roth — 
 A band whose blood is of the liquid flame 
 That often madly jets in savage veins, 
 When wisdom would bestow some blessed 
 
 gift. 
 Some pearl which ignorance rejects with scorn, 
 
And chafes and frets and sets the world on 
 
 fire. 
 The Bruce, my lords, has fled the English 
 
 court : 
 He goes to Scotland, and his guiding star 
 Is that same beacon of rebelHous light 
 Built up by every burning Scottish heart. 
 Astonishment and curious desire 
 Shouldering each other m your eyes I see. 
 Like townsmen gazing from a window's height 
 At some strange pageantry afoot below ; 
 There let them crowd, for wonders are to pass. 
 Were I to ask you, now, if Bruce or Comyn 
 Has played the fairer game you might say this: 
 They cannot be compared — Bruce always- 
 
 with, 
 And Comyn always opposite to me ; 
 Yet have they both held by the cause they 
 
 chose. 
 So there's a parity of constancy. 
 Such answer might be yours. Then I would 
 
 say, 
 They both are faithless : here I hold the proof. 
 
 \Exhibits a scrolL 
 
This is a deed transferring Bruce's lands 
 To Comyn, who exchanges for the same 
 His claim — it's written so — to Scotland's 
 
 crown. 
 He promises besides to aid the Bruce 
 To gain the state and name of King of Scots. 
 There are their signatures. 
 
 Pembroke. How chances it 
 
 That this indenture lies in your royal hands ? 
 
 Edward I. John Comyn sent it me. You 
 
 see — base rogues ! — 
 Bruce false to me, and Comyn false to Bruce. 
 
 Pembroke. My liege, Bruce hitherto has 
 
 borne a name 
 As bright and glorious as his golden shield^ 
 Untarnished by dishonour's rusty breath. 
 This paper may be forged. 
 
 Edward L That was my thought ; 
 
 And so I had a copy of it made. 
 
 And sent to Bruce last night. My messenger 
 
Asked, being charged so far, some word from 
 
 him. 
 He half denied; but compromised, and craved 
 Three days to answer. So much grace I gave. 
 This is the first day, and last night he fled. 
 
 JPembroke. A sign of guilt. What will your 
 highness do? 
 
 Edward I. With your good counsel, lords, 
 doubtless, the best ! 
 
 Fercy. To horse, and take the knave alive 
 or dead ! 
 
 Edward I. A speedy finish; but consider 
 
 this : 
 Comyn and Bruce divide the land of Scots ; 
 They now are mortal foes ; why need we stir 
 To fight two cocks who will each other slay 
 Eetween the high walls of their Scottish pit ? 
 Yet Pembroke, Clifford, and bold Harry Percy 
 Ee ready at a word to lead your knights 
 Across the border. 
 
BRUCE. 13 
 
 Percy, Nor can that summons come 
 Too soon for Harry Percy. 
 
 Pembroke, Nor for Pembroke. 
 
 Clifford, And Clifford will not be the last to 
 hear. 
 
 Edward I. I would prefer that your alacrity, 
 
 Pleasing and comfortable as it is, 
 
 Were from the proof removed a farther cast : 
 
 And so were Wallace wise as he is wight 
 
 It would be. Twice I offered grace and love, 
 
 If he would govern Scotland in my name. 
 
 He thanked me for my grace and for my love. 
 
 But at my terms he laughed as at a jest. 
 
 Had he accepted them, I say again, 
 
 As there is none so fit to rule the Scots, 
 
 Your willing service had been hardly asked. 
 
 Percy. Let me say this : had such a league 
 
 been struck 
 Between your highness and the valiant Scot, 
 You might have borne your banners through 
 
 the world. 
 
14 
 
 JPembroke. What specious arguments could 
 Wallace urge ? 
 
 Edward I. O, ask me not ! My patience 
 
 served me ill 
 To hear him out. How can I then rehearse 
 His saucy reasons, wasting breath and wrath ! 
 Within short space you all shall hear himself; 
 A fortnight hence, I think, he will be tried. 
 And now. Lord Clifford, James of Douglas 
 
 comes 
 To claim his father's lands, which you possess. 
 Tell me, who knows, what kind of man he is, 
 That we may judge how he will bear himself? 
 
 Clifford. A man of men, although my mortal 
 
 foe. 
 I knew him well in Paris ere these broils. 
 Unarmed, a gentle blitheness graced his style : 
 A dainty lisp engaged his auditors 
 With tickling pleasure ; such a piquant touch 
 Was in the Scottish Hector, as they called 
 
 him. 
 Tripping with helpless tongue, like rose-lipped 
 
 girls. 
 
15 
 
 But when he armed his body, then his soul 
 Was harnessed in a dress of adamant : 
 His gentle look, hard-tempered to a frown, 
 With gloom could shade the thund'rous scowl 
 
 of heaven ; 
 His voice was like a lion's ; and his arm 
 Wielded his sword with lightning speed and 
 
 force. 
 In council-halls, o'er ladies' lutes, in war, 
 Brave, courteous, wise, loyal to truth, he was : 
 So is he : Douglas changes but for good. 
 
 Ed7vard I. You praise him highly. You 
 
 shall answer him. 
 He comes. Make room. 
 
 {Enter Sir James Douglas.) 
 
 We know your errand, sir. 
 Speak, and Lord Clifford here will answer 
 you. 
 
 Douglas. Lord Clifford will, and must : be 
 
 sure of that. 
 I also crave King Edward's open ear. 
 
i6 
 
 Clifford will reckon with me for my land : 
 You, sire, must render an account of blood. 
 
 Clifford. Clifford has yet to learn why 
 
 Douglas dare 
 Speak such a swift defiance. 
 
 Edwai'd I, (turning his hack to Douglas.) 
 
 Answer him 
 On this wise, my good lord : — Your father, 
 
 sir, 
 A faithless felon, died a prisoner 
 In Edward's dungeon ; and his forfeit lands 
 Reverted to the crown. It pleased the king 
 . To make me lord of Douglasdale. Go, then, 
 Buy land where'er you may, I keep my own. 
 He has his answer, follow me, my lords. 
 
 \Exeunt Edward I., Pembroke, Clifford, 
 and Percy. 
 
 Douglas. There's justice in the heavens if 
 
 not in kings ! 
 He might have listened. It is very plain 
 King Edward means to play the tyrant now. 
 
BRUCE. 17 
 
 Yet tyrants can be courtepus. Insolent ! 
 
 To toss an answer o'er his shoulder at me, 
 
 Whetting with crude aifront, the pointed 
 " No," 
 
 As one would check a cringing beggar's plea. 
 
 One way is left, a flinty, narrow way, 
 
 The rebel's way, the way I still have shunned: 
 
 And yet it seems not hard, but easy, broad. 
 
 Since I elect to be a traveller there. 
 
 Now though it be as hopeless as to stem 
 
 The Solway's tide, or toss the deep-based 
 Bass 
 
 From Forth to France, with all my strength 
 I'll fight 
 
 Against this tyrannous usurping king. 
 
 How strange that I should find rebellion's 
 storm 
 
 The happy haven where my troubles end ! 
 
 But so it is : my cares are blown away ; 
 
 Light-hearted vigour is my lot once more ; 
 
 And trampled conscience, like the heath 
 released, 
 
 Springs up, and breathes sweet scent of ap- 
 probation. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
i8 
 
 Scene II. — Dumfries, The Greyfriars 
 Church. 
 
 Enter Bruce and Comyn of Badenoch. 
 
 Coniyn, I thought you were in London, 
 cousin mine. 
 
 Bruce, And still would have me there, or 
 
 anywhere, 
 But by your side. 
 
 Comyn, Why is your tongue so harsh, 
 Your eye so big, your face so dimmed with 
 ire ? 
 
 Bruce. Why falter you ? Why has your 
 
 colour fled ? 
 Why, but because my tongue still speaks its 
 
 thought ; 
 Because my face wears not the darker show 
 Of death's grimace upon a spear's long neck, 
 Grotesquely ornamenting London Bridge \ 
 
BRUCE. 19 
 
 Because ray limbs are not the bait of crows, 
 The gazing-stock of crowds in Scotland's 
 
 towns ; 
 Because I live and am at liberty : 
 These are the reasons why you tremble now. 
 
 Comyn. Not so ; it is because I think you 
 
 mad : 
 These monstrous breathings are insanity : 
 You shake with passion, hissing out your 
 
 words. 
 I fear you ; and I will have witnesses, 
 Or no more conference. 
 
 \Going, 
 
 Bruce, {seizing his arm.) With honest men 
 God is sufficient witness. Are you true ? 
 You know my ground of wrath as well as I. 
 
 Comyn. Your words are like your brow, 
 darker than night. 
 
 Bruce. Be this the sun that shall illumine 
 them. 
 
 \Exhibits a scroll. 
 
Sun, said I ! rather inky light of hell, 
 Whereby you may behold your treachery. 
 I see it's true what I have heard of men, 
 Who, knowing right, pursue a wrongful 
 
 course : 
 Custom uprears athwart the source of shame 
 A fragile dam ; but when another marks 
 The waves that beat behind, they swell and 
 
 burst 
 The sandy sea-wall of hypocrisy. 
 Like a packed gulf delivered by the moon, 
 'j'hat flood is in your face : you blush like 
 
 fire. 
 
 Comyn, I blush to be accused of this great 
 wrong. 
 
 Bruce. Comyn, you lie. Look, see, the very 
 
 words 
 Of that compact, which we with aching hearts 
 Drew up and signed and swore in Stirling 
 
 town. 
 Have you forgotten how we wept hot tears 
 Condoling over Scotland's misery ? 
 
Its fertile plains that richer were than gold, 
 Burnt up with fire, salted with tears and 
 
 blood ; 
 Its cots and palaces confounded low 
 In stony litters that the soil reclaims ; 
 Its wealthy towns and pleasant places sacked ; 
 Its people ? — Ah ! we could not sound our 
 
 grief 
 For wives made widows ; husbands, left 
 
 alone ; 
 And children, blighted by too early bareness 
 Of parents' comfortable snowy wisdom : 
 Death and destruction feasting everywhere. 
 We found ourselves to blame ; therefore we 
 
 wept, 
 Repenting of our jealousy and strife. 
 This pact united us in friendship's bond 
 For ever to oppose the English rule. 
 We prayed that our conjunction, like two 
 
 stars 
 Meeting auspiciously for Scotland's weal, 
 Might yield its war-worn people prosperous 
 
 peace; 
 And o'er the border cast calamities 
 
Of such deserved and overwhelming woe, 
 That England never more should be inclined. 
 Nor have the power to wage a conquering 
 
 war. 
 We then embraced, and you with trembling 
 
 breath 
 1'hanked God that Bruce and Comyn now 
 
 were friends. 
 Two copies of our compact we endorsed. 
 Here is a third that's neither yours nor mine : 
 King Edward sent it me ; whence had he it ? 
 
 Comyn, Unless King Edward sent it back 
 
 to you. 
 You having given it him, I cannot tell. 
 
 Bruce, God keep my hands from blood ! O- 
 
 soulless wretch ! 
 Obtuse, unthinking liar ! Could I note 
 The shape of good that dances in your brain 
 To be matured for service by denial, 
 Perhaps that might extenuate your lie. 
 But knowing nothing save your treachery, 
 And hardened daring of a damning fact, 
 
BRUCE. 23 
 
 Relentless hate expels all dreams of love 
 That harboured once toward you within my 
 heart. 
 
 Corny n. If, then, your rage is for the present 
 
 spent, 
 A few plain words may hope for audience. 
 What proof have you that Edward had this 
 
 writ 
 Through me or mine? Impartial sense would 
 
 blame, 
 Not me, who ever have been Scotland's friend, 
 And foremost in opposing Edward's power, 
 But you the truckling lord, inheriting 
 And practising your father's policy. 
 Which was to follow at the Longshanks' heel. 
 And fawn for smiles, and wait his highness' 
 
 whim 
 To pay the lacqueying with a dirty crown. 
 
 Bruce. This idle mockery becomes you well. 
 Did any doubt remain of your dark sin, 
 The hunting out a mote within my eye 
 To poise the beam that does disfigure yours, 
 Would make me sure. 
 
24 BRUCE. 
 
 Comyn, What legal proof, I say ? 
 
 Bruce, The laws of God, honour, and loyalty 
 Condemn you traitor to their interests. 
 I judge you guilty, for I know right well 
 King Edward never had this scroll from me, 
 And no one else could give it him but you. 
 Your heart condemns you, though you brave 
 it thus. 
 
 Comyn. And yet I say again, I swear by 
 
 heaven, 
 I never saw that paper till to-day. 
 
 Bruce. Talk not of seeing ! — Come to the 
 altar here. 
 
 S^They advance to the altar. 
 
 Now lay your hand upon the traitorous sheet, 
 Call God to witness that you speak the truth. 
 And swear once more you have not broken 
 
 faith. 
 Beneath your feet the dust of true men rests, 
 Your ancestors and mine ; this lofty roof. 
 
BRUCE. 25 
 
 These consecrated walls and columns high 
 Are wont to hear the sounds of sacred song, 
 The gospel of the holy Christ of God ; 
 This in God's house ; this altar is God's throne. 
 Now, can you swear ? You will not do it, 
 sure. 
 
 Comyn, And what shall hinder me while I 
 
 have breath? 
 Without my instigation or connivance 
 Our compact reached the King. If God's in 
 
 heaven, 
 And I speak false, may I this moment die. 
 
 Bruce, {stabbing Comyn, who fails.) God 
 is in heaven, and my hand wields his 
 wrath ! . . . 
 What have I done ? A madman's dreadful 
 
 deed ! 
 I was engulfed, and now I'm cast ashore. 
 O, in our passionless, reflective hours 
 We lock emotion in a glass-walled jail 
 Of crisp philosophy ; or give it scope 
 As far as Will, the turnkey, may allow 
 
 B 
 
26 
 
 The chain of prudence to enlarge its steps ! 
 
 But to some sense a small distraction comes — 
 
 Across the sight a butterfly, a flower — 
 
 The fetters snap, the prison crumbles — ofl" ! — 
 
 To clasp the air where shone our will-o-wisp 1 
 
 For no gewgaw have I burst reason's bonds, 
 
 But to avenge a gross iniquity 
 
 That clamoured brazenly to heaven and earth. 
 
 O, it was human ! — It was devilish ! 
 
 Here, on the altar — O, the sacrilege ! 
 
 That man of my own blood, whom I adjured 
 
 By every holy thing, to speak no wrong, 
 
 I do wrong, slaying. O, heinous sacrilege I — 
 
 Perhaps he is not dead. Comyn, look up ; 
 
 Speak ; make some sign. Alas ! that fatal 
 
 blow 
 Was aimed too surely at my cousin's heart ! 
 I used God's name too when I struck him 
 
 dead ! 
 O horrid blasphemy ! The sacrilege ! 
 
 [Going, 
 
 \_Enfer Kirkpatrick. 
 Kirkpatrick, My Lord ! 
 
BRUCE 27 
 
 Bruce. I fear I have slain Comyn. \Exit 
 
 Kirkpatrich Ha ! 
 
 You fear ! — Then I'll make sure. He opes 
 his eyes. 
 
 Comyn, False — foolish — dying — guilty — 
 perjured — lost ! 
 
 \pies. 
 
 Kirkpatrick. {stabbing Comyn,) Something to 
 staunch your muttering. No fear, now. 
 
 [^Enter Sir Robert Comyn with his 
 sword drawn. 
 
 Robert Comyn. Stop villain ! Hold your 
 hand, rash murderer ! 
 
 Kirkpatrick, I only gave a grace-thrust to 
 
 your nephew 
 To end his agony. Put up your sword. 
 He died a good death on the altar-steps. 
 
28 
 
 jRobert Comyn. Kirkpatrick, you have aided 
 
 in a deed, 
 Unseconded, even in these fearful times. 
 
 Kirkpatrick. Strong words and stiffly spoken. 
 
 Does your sword 
 Keep pace with your sharp tongue ? 
 
 Robert Comyn, We'll try. 
 
 Kirkpatrick, Come on ! 
 
 \They fight and Robert Comy^ falls. 
 
 Robert Comyn. Is this the day of judgment 
 
 for our house ? 
 Kinsman, I was your follower on earth, 
 And now I am your henchman through 
 
 death's vale. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 [Enter Edward Bruce, Sir Christopher 
 and Sir John Seton, and other gentlemen. 
 
 Sir Christopher Seton. Two Comyns dead ! 
 Bruce only spoke of one. 
 
BRUCE. 29 
 
 Kirkpatrick, I slew the other. He would 
 have me fight. 
 
 Sir John Seton, Alas ! and could it be no 
 
 other way ? 
 There was enough dissension in the realm 
 Without a feud between these families, 
 Highest in state, and strongest in the field. 
 
 \st. Gentleman, Comyn is dead, and Bruce 
 
 has laid him low. 
 The dead may slay the living. What say 
 
 you ? 
 
 2nd, Gentleman, I say so too. The stroke 
 
 that Comyn killed 
 May yet recoil upon his murderer. 
 
 Edward Bruce. Judge not, my friends. A 
 
 murder has been done 
 With outward signs of most unrighteous 
 
 wrath. 
 But think who did the deed — the noblest 
 
 Scot, 
 
30 BRUCE. 
 
 The knightliest chevalier, the kindliest friend, 
 The prince of brothers. I, who know, say 
 
 this. 
 The very horror and the sacrilege 
 That frame the crime with dreader circum- 
 stance, 
 Cry out the doer was insane the while, 
 And recommend him to your lenience. 
 Therefore, take warning ; and before you 
 
 judge 
 Let your bloods cool, lest you be guilty too 
 Of foolish rashness in your condemnation. 
 My brother left a message for you all : 
 He asks you who are friends to visit him 
 To-morrow at Lochmaben ; where he means 
 To lay the matter of his crime before you. 
 And take your counsel on the consequence. 
 
 15/ Gentleman, It's fair we should withhold 
 
 our judgment, sirs. 
 Until we be possessed of this event, 
 The cause and manner of its happening. 
 
 {Shouting within. Enter Nigel Bruce. 
 
BRUCE. 31 
 
 Nigel Bruce. The people want a leader, 
 
 crying out, 
 *• Down with the Southron ! Let us take the 
 
 castle ! " 
 The news of Comyn's death has made them 
 
 mad; 
 If blood were wine, and they had drunk of it 
 To fulness, they could not be more mature 
 For any mischief that the time suggests. 
 
 Edward Bruce, Good mischief, if the English 
 suffer it. 
 
 I'll be their captain. Caesar pricked his horse 
 
 Across the Rubicon defying Rome. 
 
 Bruce pricked John Comyn over death's dark 
 stream 
 
 Defying England. Caesar triumphed : Bruce 
 
 Shall triumph too, and now begins the fight. 
 
 Down with the Southron ! Bruce for Scot- 
 land ! Ho ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The Same, Monks e?iter and 
 lay the bodies side by side. A bell tolls, 
 
32 
 
 ajid the monks kneel round the altar. 
 Then enter the Countess of Badenoch, 
 and CoMYN, Earl of Buchan, and the 
 Countess of Buchan. 
 
 Buchan, You holy men give place a little 
 while. 
 
 A Monk. To whom ? 
 
 Buchan, The wife and friends of slaughtered 
 Comyn. 
 
 \The monks retire. 
 
 Countess of Badenoch. Would any mortal 
 
 think to look at me 
 This dead man was my husband ? Should I 
 
 weep, 
 And rend with sighs my breast, and wring 
 
 my hands ; 
 Peal out my sorrow, like a vesper bell 
 Calling the cloistered echoes' shadowy choir 
 To take the burden of a woeful dirge ; 
 Enrobe myself in that dishevellment 
 
BRUCE. 33 
 
 Which tyrannous grief compels his subjects 
 
 pale 
 To show their vassalage by putting on, 
 I might persuade myself and you, my friends, 
 That I am sorry for my husband's death : 
 Even as an actor, lacking any cue, 
 Visible, tangible, as I have here, 
 Steps lightly at a word upon the stage. 
 Leaving his brothers and their merry chat, 
 And takes upon him any passion's show 
 With such devotion and abandonment, 
 That what was first a cloak becomes a soul. 
 And audience and actor both are held 
 Dissolved in ecstasy ; which, breaking, back 
 From high heroics to sad homeliness 
 Their spirits are precipitated straight. 
 But I'll not play the broken-heart, for you. 
 My friends, my audience, know the cause I 
 
 have 
 Rather to laugh than weep, O wretched 
 
 corpse ! 
 What habitation holds the spirit now. 
 Which Bruce ejected rashly, warrantless, 
 Pulling the house about the tenant's ears ? 
 
34 BRUCE. 
 
 Buchan. He loved me little, and he loved 
 
 you less ; 
 And by his death he leaves a legacy, 
 The taking up of which, if spirits watch 
 From where eternally they rest or pine. 
 Our tragic, many-scened mortality. 
 Will reconcile him to his sudden death. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Husband, what legacy ? 
 
 Buchan, A mortal feud. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Will you avenge on 
 
 Bruce the death of him 
 Whom his best friends lament not ? 
 
 Buchan, Yes, I must. 
 
 And good Sir Robert, too — his blood cries 
 
 out. 
 It is a duty that the world will look 
 To see performed directly and with speed, 
 Admitting no perfunct, half-passive dance 
 On patient providence. Dissuade me not, 
 For it becomes you not. There is a thing 
 
BRUCE. • 35 
 
 That vaguely circulates in certain spheres 
 Concerning you, my dearest. Sad am I 
 That from my lips it first should taint your 
 
 ears ; 
 But you must know it now. Give me your 
 
 hand. 
 This white and fragrant palm from guilty 
 
 deeds, 
 That harden more than penitential toil. 
 Or from the touch of slime, is not more free, 
 Than your unshriven soul from infant 
 
 thoughts 
 Swaddled in shame. But foul-tongued 
 
 calumny, 
 Tutored by hatred, like a jabbering bird 
 With implication lewd repeats your name 
 And Bruce's in a breath. 
 
 Countess of Buchaii, Alas, I know ! 
 
 The lying scandal that benights my life 
 
 Will be a foil to make my memory shine. — 
 
 If it confronts you graven on the sky 
 
 To visit retribution on his head 
 
 Whose hand laid low your cousin^s, be it so : 
 
36 BRUCE. 
 
 I'll not invade your secrets ; but I mean 
 To do what woman can for Bruce's cause, 
 Which whispers tell me will be Scotland's 
 soon. 
 
 Biichan. Well, we'll not quarrel. We'll talk 
 of this again. 
 
 Countess of Badenoch. Come, take me home. 
 
 I'm in a gentler mood. 
 Let those good cowls return and pray their 
 
 best. 
 
 \Exeunt the Countess of Badenoch, and 
 the Count and Countess of Buchan. 
 The monks advance and kneel, and the 
 scene closes. 
 
37 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Lochmaben. A Room in the 
 Castle. jEnter 'LAMBERTONy Archbishop 
 OF St. Andrews, Edward and Nigel 
 Bruce, t/ie two Setons, Sir Thomas 
 Randolf, and other lords and gentlemen. 
 
 Lamberton. My lords and gentlemen, this is 
 
 no time 
 For ceremony, which, when lazy peace 
 Has rusted o'er the world's slack businesses, 
 Oils easily the motion of affairs ; 
 For now events impel each other on, 
 And higher powers than beadles usher them. 
 I am commissioned by the noble Bruce 
 To greet you heartily and wish you well, 
 While you remain within Lochmaben's walls. 
 By my advice he begs you to excuse 
 His absence, while I speak. When you have 
 
 heard 
 
38 BRUCE. 
 
 I doubt not that you will. He has confessed 
 The sacrilegious crime of yesterday, 
 Contritely and with simple truthfulness. 
 No exculpation, no defence at all, 
 Such as we know there is, he offered me. 
 Some of us here may hold that Bruce^s act 
 Should rather be extolled than stigmatized. 
 We know for certain now what was the wrong 
 That Comyn having wrought denied on oath, 
 And all our sympathy goes out to Bruce. 
 But such is the deceitfulness of sin 
 That feelings of the sweetest comfort oft 
 Mislead us to embrace iniquity. 
 Man's worst of deeds God turns to good 
 
 account. 
 A penance, which I hope will work God's 
 
 will, 
 I have enjoined on the humiliate earl ; 
 A labour as transcendent in its kind 
 As ever travailed hero Hercules. 
 I mean to crown him, Robert, King of Scots : 
 His task will be to make that title good. 
 Now I have said a word that stirs your blood. 
 Begetting hope and courage, valiant twins. 
 
BRUCE. 39 
 
 And yet it is not I that speak, but God : 
 Surely God speaks. The sequence of events, 
 Of which this conference is the latest bud. 
 Appears to me a heavenly oracle. 
 As evident as Aaron's sprouting rod, 
 Commanding Robert Bruce to be the King. 
 He would have placed the crown on Comyn's 
 
 head, 
 Had Comyn wished, that Scotland might be 
 
 one; 
 But Comyn thought to get the crown by 
 
 guile, 
 And weakly, wickedly betrayed his friend. 
 Setting between him and the English king 
 A gulf of enmity impassable. 
 Edward will judge him out of church and 
 
 law; 
 But in our Scotch communion he is safe : 
 And being out of law, there is no way. 
 Except to be our King, above the law. 
 Needs must, my lords ; and is not need God's 
 
 will? 
 
 Edward Bruce. It is the will of God. 
 
40 BRUCE. 
 
 All. Bruce shall be King. 
 
 {Enter Bruce) 
 
 Long live the King ! Long live King Robert 
 Bruce ! 
 
 Bruce, You hail me by a name that may be 
 
 mine 
 In more than word, but not without your aid. 
 There are not many Scots besides yourselves 
 Who will acknowledge me their King. Think 
 
 well 
 Before you pledge your faith to one out- 
 lawed ; 
 For so I am, if law depend on power. 
 Scotland, the Isles, and England are my 
 
 foes : 
 My friends are individual ; on my hands 
 They may be counted. Lennox, Athole, 
 
 Cairns, 
 Fleming, the Hayes, the Frasers, Sommerville, 
 Glasgow, and Moray, sum the list with you : 
 These only are the Scots whom I may rule. 
 
BRUCE. 41 
 
 Sir Christopher Seton. Then only these de- 
 serve the name of Scot. 
 
 Larnherton. Right, Seton ! 
 
 Randolf. We are Scots, the rest are slaves ! 
 Freeman and Scot have ever meant the same. 
 
 Lamberton, Carrick or King ? 
 
 Bruce. King, by God's will and yours. 
 
 Lamberton. Sometimes we please ourselves 
 
 with images 
 Of deeds heroic. The unstabled thought, 
 Enfranchised by rough-riding passion, winds 
 A haughty course and laughs at depth and 
 
 height : 
 But the blood tires ; and lo ! our thought, a 
 
 steed. 
 That from his rider ever takes the mood, 
 Pants, droops, turns tail, and hobbles home 
 
 to stall. 
 Look in yourselves, and see if vain conceit 
 Or lofty daring, lord it o'er your minds. 
 c 
 
42- BRUCE. 
 
 This thing is sure : reason must be constrained : 
 You must be hot, believing, fanatic ; 
 You must be wrathful, patriotic, rash; 
 Forethought abandon o'er to providence ; 
 Let prudence lag behind you, like a snail, 
 Bearing its house with care upon its back ; 
 Take counsel only of the circumstance 
 That shapes itself in doing of the deed ; 
 Be happy, scornful, death-defiant : strong 
 You will be then, matchless, invincible. 
 What ! shall we go to Scone, and crown Bruce 
 King? 
 
 Randolf, At once, Lord Archbishop. 
 
 Sir John Seton. To Glasgow, first, 
 To take our friends there with us. 
 
 Lambertoji. That is best. 
 
 Is it your will to be crowned King at Scone ? 
 
 Bruce. Most reverend father, and my noble 
 
 friends, 
 If language were to me in place of thought, 
 I could pour grateful speeches in your ears ; 
 
BRUCE. 43 
 
 But words are wanting. I am helpless, dumb; 
 I would be lonely ; I would think awhile. 
 
 Lxmberton. Think worthy thoughts, that 
 
 only second are 
 To worthy deeds ; yet their begetters too. 
 We'll leave you till our little troop's arrayed. 
 
 Bruce. You are very kind, my Lords. 
 
 \Exeunt all except Bruce, 
 
 I'm not a man 
 Much given to meditate. When pending 
 
 thoughts 
 Hurtle each other in the intellect, 
 Darkening that firmament like thunder-cloiidSy 
 To let them lighten forth in utterance 
 Clears up the sky, confused with swaying rack. 
 My life begins a new departure here ; 
 And like one dying all my time appears 
 Even on the instant, in eternal light. 
 Ambition struck the hours that measured it. 
 My pact with Comyn was half-hearted. What I 
 The passion that laid hold upon my soul 
 
44 BRUCE. 
 
 When he was killed — AVhen he was killed ? 
 
 I think 
 I'm to myself too merciful ; but yet 
 I seemed to do some bidding : — were there 
 
 not 
 Alloys of gladness that the bond was loosed, 
 Of jealousy that Comyn barred my way 
 Mixed in the blow that paid the traitor's 
 
 wage? 
 There are two voices whispering in my ear. 
 This is the bane of self-communion. Now, 
 Right in thy teeth, or in thy toothless chaps, 
 I swear, antiquity, first thoughts are best : 
 Their treble notes I still shall hearken to. 
 And let no second, murmuring soft, seduce 
 Their clear and forthright meaning. It is 
 
 gone, 
 The flash of revelation : dallying does 
 With intuition as with other chance. 
 I would to God that I might ever hear 
 The trump of doom pealing along the sky, 
 And know that every common neighbour day 
 Is the last day, and so Hve on and fight 
 In presence of the judgment. Wishing this 
 
BRUCE. 45 
 
 Have I not broached the very heart of truth ? 
 Each unmarked moment is an end of time, 
 And this begins the future. 
 
 [Ejiter Isabella. 
 Isabella ! 
 
 Isabella, What in this time of doleful acci- 
 dents 
 
 Could move the joyful shouts I heard just 
 now? 
 
 Bruce. My dearest, what would make you 
 shout for joy ? 
 
 Isabella. I have not shouted since I was a 
 
 girl ; 
 But now, I think, if any happy thing 
 Should spring into my life I would cry out, 
 I have been so unhappy, and so long. 
 Tell me you'll never leave me any more ; 
 Then will I cry, and weep, for very joy. 
 
 Bruce. Heaven grant it may be so ! 
 
46 
 
 Isabella. If there is hope ! — 
 
 Did I not shout now ? — I will nurse it warm, 
 
 And pet it like a darling, till it come 
 
 To be what I imagine in the fact, 
 
 Or in the fancy ; for I will go mad : 
 
 I'll bend myself to lose all faculty. 
 
 All thought, remembrance, all intelligence, 
 
 So to be capable of company 
 
 With your phantasm, more real then than 
 
 life ; 
 And be a wild mad woman, if those fears, 
 Those weary absences, those partings pale, 
 And fevered expectations, which have filled 
 The summer of our life with storm and cold, 
 Determine not in peace and halcyon days. 
 You do not love me as I love you ; no ; 
 Else you would never leave me. Love of 
 
 power 
 And love of me hold tourney in your breast. 
 Let Will throw down the baton, and declare 
 The love of me the winner, and I'll be 
 Your queen of love ; and beautiful as love 
 For man can make a woman. I am proud : 
 When love transfigures me I can conceive 
 
BRUCE. 47 
 
 How beautiful I am. Stay with me, then, 
 That holy, sweet, and* confident desire 
 May light me up a pleasant bower for you : 
 I am, when you are gone, a house forlorn, 
 Cold, desolate, and hasting to decay : 
 Stay, tenant me, preserve me in repair ; 
 Only sweet uses keep sweet beauty fair. 
 
 Bruce, I love you, Isabella, by high heaven, 
 More than the highest power that can be 
 mine. 
 
 Isabella. Why then pursue this power so 
 ardently ? 
 
 Bruce, I stayed pursuit ; but it would follow 
 
 me. 
 My countrymen have asked me to be King. 
 
 Isabella. King ! — But you murdered Comyn. 
 
 All his friends — 
 Forgive me, love. I would not for the world 
 Reproach .you ; but 
 
48 
 
 Bruce, I know your gentle heart. 
 My thought of you is not the morning bride ; 
 Nor even the rose that oped its balmy breast 
 And gave its nectar sweetly. In my mind 
 This memory of you crowds out the rest : 
 The woman who with tender arms embraced 
 The bloody murderer. 1 know your heart. 
 
 Isabella. Hush ! 
 
 Bruce, Friends are few ; but if my title's 
 
 good ? 
 Hopeless the cause ; but if the cause be just? 
 I'm glad my hand that did my passion's best 
 Has made my mind up for me. 
 
 Isabella, You'll be king ? 
 
 Bruce, Will I be hunted like a common 
 
 knave 
 Who stabs his comrade in a drunken brawl 
 For some rude jest or ruder courtesan, 
 And, being an outlaw, dies by any hand ? 
 I'd rather be the King ; and though I die 
 
BRUCE. 49 
 
 The meanest death, be held in memory 
 As one who, having entered on a course 
 Of righteous warfare by a gate of shame, 
 Pursued it with his might, and made amends 
 For starting false — so far as lay in him ; 
 For out of him his sin is, stablished, past, 
 And by a life's atonement unredeemed. 
 I do not brood on this. Before you came 
 I had better thoughts. 
 
 Isabella, O, I am sad at that ! 
 
 Bruce. I love you: not from you those worse 
 thoughts sprang. 
 
 Isabella. Perhaps they did : for I have some- 
 times found. 
 When I have spent an hour in decking me, 
 But thinking more to please you in my life 
 Than in my dress, that, coming then to you, 
 Brimming with tenderness, some thoughtless 
 
 word, 
 Or even a look from you has changed my 
 mood, 
 
50 BRUCE. 
 
 And made me deem the world a wilderness ; 
 While this cross glance, or inauspicious tone, 
 Was but a feint of yours, whose strength of 
 
 love 
 Withheld itself, afraid it should undo 
 Its purpose by endeavouring too much : 
 And we have parted, discontented both. 
 But we'll not part now. Say, we shall not 
 
 part. 
 
 Bruce. Not now. We will be crowned to- 
 gether, queen. 
 
 Isabella. ' But then ' succeeds * not now ; ' I 
 hope, far off. 
 
 Bruce. We must prepare to go. 
 
 Isabella. So soon ! 
 
 Biuce. Our friends 
 
 Await us, chafing doubtless at delay. 
 
 Isabella. Then I will make a proverb lie for 
 
BRUCE. 51 
 
 And be on horseback sooner than my lord. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 1 1. — A Road in Dumfriesshire. Enter 
 Bruce, Isabella, and a Squire. 
 
 Bruce, Look to our horses while we rest. 
 
 \Exit Squire. 
 
 Isabella. How far 
 
 Are we before our friends ? 
 
 Bruce. See, they appear. 
 
 Isabella. That little puff of dust ? 
 
 Bruce, Our company. 
 
 Three miles away I think. The road is straight, 
 
 And slopes to us. I hear a hoof — this side. 
 
 Isabella. It is a solitary knight, but one 
 
52 BRUCE. 
 
 Who need not fear to ride afar, alone, 
 
 If I may trust a woman's hasty eye. 
 
 He is dismounting ; he unhelms, he bows ; 
 
 He seems to know you, and salute you king I 
 
 Enter Sir James Douglas. 
 
 Bruce, Douglas ! I thought that Paris would 
 
 retain 
 For years to come the service of your youth. 
 
 Douglas. You speak as one whom some 
 
 transcending hap 
 Has shewn the high and secret worth of life ; 
 And such am I, or else discourtesy 
 Alone had greeted me in what you said. 
 Not with shrunk purse, drained veins, and 
 
 heart dried-up ; 
 Will, broken-winded ; pith-brains ; sinews. 
 
 — straw, 
 From Paris, which unstififens many a one, 
 Come I to Scotland, where is need of strength* 
 A love of noble things — a kind of faith — 
 A hope, a wish, a thought above the world, 
 
BRUCE. 53 
 
 Has swayed me from the mire ; and yet I 
 
 know- 
 It is a miracle I'm not more soiled. 
 
 Bruce, I spoke unworthily of this reply, 
 And gladly now unsay my hinted charge, 
 Which, with less thought than commonplace, 
 
 I made ; 
 Though I should utter nothing now but 
 
 thought, 
 For as you judged I see a soul in life. 
 And what in Scotland do you think to do ? 
 
 Douglas, Retrieve my lands, avenge my 
 
 father's death. 
 And drive the English from its borders. 
 
 Here 
 I offer Scotland's king my lance, and here 
 I vow to be his lady's loyal knight. 
 You are amazed. They say, ill news spreads 
 
 fast : 
 He whom the tidings then will halcyon 
 Knows of his weal as soon as he his woe. 
 Is the news good to you that Bruce is king ? 
 
54 BRUCE. 
 
 Bnice. The news is good : best, that he's 
 
 king of you. 
 I wonder most at that. I stood in arms 
 Against your father, and but yesterday 
 I seemed the friend of England. 
 
 Douglas. Yesterday 
 
 Was once the date of every lasting change. 
 While you are faithful to the land that's yours^ 
 I swear to serve you faithfully till death. 
 
 Bruce. Another trusty friend when friends 
 
 are few — 
 And such a friend ! Welcome, a thousand 
 
 times ! 
 
 Isabella. A happy handselling of our enter- 
 prize ! 
 
 What is the news from England? Have you 
 heard 
 
 If Wallace has been judged ? 
 
 Douglas. Not yet ; but soon 
 
 In Westmmster he will be doomed to death ; 
 
BRUCE. 55 
 
 For victory, which oft ennobles kings, 
 Debases Edward. Since he has not grace. 
 The gracious-hearted world with one outcry 
 Should claim the hfe of Wallace for its own, 
 As the most noble life lived in this age. 
 And not to be cut off by one man's hate. 
 
 Bruce. The thought of Wallace troubles me. 
 
 The truth 
 That great men seldom in their times are 
 
 known ; 
 And this that little men are eminent 
 In midst of their thin lives and loud affairs, 
 Assert how perilous election is 
 By peers all bound and circumstanced alike. 
 If he were solely moved by noble thoughts, 
 And is the signal hero you give out — 
 Nothing I say, and nothing I deny — 
 Then were the nobles who deserted him 
 Unworthy cowards, beggars, churls, knaves, 
 
 hounds. 
 Shall I condemn my order so ? or think 
 That Wallace hoped to aggrandize himself, 
 
56 
 
 And lost those friends who had no need to 
 
 fight 
 For mere existence when the restive hoof 
 Of personal ambition kicked aside 
 The patriot's caparison ? You wince : 
 But with the time I drift, and cannot find 
 A mooring for my judgment. Pardon me. 
 This I believe : there is no warrior 
 Before the world, who could, even with those 
 
 means 
 Of formal power that Wallace mostly lacked, 
 Have wrought the tithe of his accompHsh- 
 
 ment. 
 His name will be an ensign ; and his acts 
 The inspiration of his countrymen. 
 
 Douglas, You yet will know his magna- 
 nimity 
 Which girdled round the ample continent 
 Of his performance like the boundless sea. 
 
 Bruce. I'm glad to think — to know the best 
 
 of him. 
 Shall we turn back and meet our friends ? 
 
57 
 
 Isabella. Yes; come. 
 
 And, Douglas, tell us more of Wallace, pray. 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
 Scene III. — A Room in the Earl of 
 Buchan's Castle. Enter the Earl and 
 the Countess of Buchan, ajid the 
 Earl of Fife. 
 
 Coimiess of Buchan. Once more, I beg you, 
 
 brother, on my knees. 
 To undertake the duty of your race. 
 Now, while I plead, they may be crowning 
 
 him, 
 And no Macduff to gird his curling hair. 
 Eleven kings from Malcolm Canmore's time 
 Our ancestors have perfected with gold, 
 Laying the ruddy chaplet on their brows 
 Like magic dawn that tops the day with light. 
 It is a custom that has come to mean 
 The thing it garnished ; and he cannot be 
 The King of Scots, however just his claim, 
 
 D 
 
58 
 
 However consecrated, sceptred, throned. 
 Who is not crowned by you. 
 
 Fife, I am the friend 
 Of England, of your husband ; finally 
 Be answered I beseech you. If you plead 
 Again with such hot vehemence, I'll think 
 Your husband is a fool to slight the word 
 That birds have carried of the Bruce and 
 you. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. If I were richer than 
 
 to need your help, 
 I'd let you know that brother's quality 
 Who dares to doubt his mother's daughter. 
 
 Shame ! 
 But I am passionate, and so are you : 
 You meant no wrong. You'll do this, will 
 
 you not ? 
 
 Fife, Why ! here's a woman ! — What a 
 
 woman ! Well ! 
 I tell you I am England's friend, which means 
 The foe of any upstart such as Bruce ; 
 
BRUCE. 59 
 
 And I am Buchan's friend, which means the 
 
 foe 
 Of Buchan's mortal foe the outlaw Bruce. 
 I tell you this, and yet you beg of me 
 To do for Bruce the service needed most 
 To make him mighty in his enmity. 
 
 Countess of Buchan, If you were armed to 
 
 fight a champion, 
 And he had lost his helm before you rnet, 
 You would not do despite to chivalr}', 
 And take advantage of his naked head. 
 But find him in a morion, or unclasp 
 Your own, and equally defended, charge. 
 Be chivalrous to Bruce ; make him a king 
 That Edward may be vantageless in that. 
 Then fight for Edward, with your puissance, 
 
 fight. 
 
 Fife. I think youVe mad. This pertinacity^ 
 Which you intend shall urge me to comply — 
 Which you conceive no doubt a sign of 
 
 strength, 
 But which I judge a sign of vanity — 
 
6o 
 
 Is one of women's weapons, well-approved, 
 With which she jags to death a stronger will. 
 But my resolve is harnessed, and your dart 
 Turns off it blunt — and spent, I hope. 
 
 Buchan. You hear ; 
 
 I said you could not move him. — Come 
 
 away. — 
 I'm sorry you have set your mind on this. 
 
 [Exeunt Fife and Buck an. 
 
 Couiitess of Buchan, To toss my hair, to 
 
 weep, to rate my maid. 
 Are small reliefs I ne'er resorted to ; 
 And now I must do something notable. 
 What if I went and crowned the Bruce myself? 
 Ah ! here's a thought that's like a draught of 
 
 wine ! 
 My brother, whose the office is, resiles : 
 Mine — mine it is ! — But how? — but if I did? 
 Their tongues, their tongues ! their fou 
 
 imaginings ! 
 Is the world wicked as its thought is ? — Love? 
 There's no one would believe me if I vowed 
 
6i 
 
 Upon my death-bed, between heaven and 
 
 earth, 
 I understand no meaning in the word. 
 Maidens have lovers, and they sigh and wake; 
 Wives love their husbands, and they wake and 
 
 weep : 
 But never, never have I loved a man, 
 As I see women love — with bursting hearts. 
 With fire and snow at variance in their cheeks. 
 With arching smiles, the heraldry of joy, 
 Whose rainbow shadows shine on hot hard 
 
 tears ; 
 With cruel passion, dying ecstasy, 
 With rapture of the resurrection-morn. 
 I have not loved. It may be to my shame, 
 But justly to the world's, condemning me 
 For deeds no cause could work me to commit. 
 If I take horse to Scone, farewell my fame. 
 Which halts yet at the threshold. — Who's 
 
 this ? 
 
 \Enter James Crombe. 
 
 Crombe ! — 
 Do you remember in my father's house 
 Your life once stood in danger for a crime — 
 
62 
 
 Which ril not name — when mercy at my 
 
 plea 
 Was meted you in place of punishment ? 
 
 Cro7nbe. • Weil I remember. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. You were thankful 
 
 then, 
 And held your life at my command. The 
 
 time — 
 
 Cromhe. My lady, if some service you 
 
 require 
 Perilling my life, I'll do it willingly ; 
 But had you urged my love, my duteous love ; 
 And not my debt, 1 had been happier. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. I beg your pardon, sir. 
 
 Indeed, I think 
 The service I require may cost your life, 
 But surely something dearer. I am whirled 
 From thought to thought : my mind lacks 
 
 breath. Good Crombe, 
 You owe me nothing. Will you, if I bid, 
 
BRUCE. 63 . 
 
 Procure me black dishonour, and yourself 
 A name of loathing ? 
 
 Crombe. No, my lady. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. How ? 
 
 Crombe. If I beheld you hurrying to your 
 
 shame 
 I'd keep your honour holy with my sword, 
 And send it hot to heaven. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Well. — You're a Scot ? 
 I mean, you long for Scotland's freedom. 
 
 Crombe. Yes. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Are you acquainted 
 with the news ? 
 
 Crombe. Of Bruce ? 
 
 I've heard they mean to crown him king to- 
 day ; 
 But since my lord of Fife is England's friend — 
 
64 
 
 Countess of Buchan, Yes, yes ! But are you 
 glad? 
 
 Crombe. Most heartily. 
 I think of joining Bruce. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. My timorous heart, 
 Fie, fie ! — I knew you were a noble man. 
 You will put no construction but the right 
 On what I mean to do. Both you and I 
 Must be dishonoured in the world's regard ; 
 I, an unfaithful wife ; you, go-between. 
 Saddle two horses ; lead them secretly 
 A mile beyond the castle. There I'll mount, 
 And ride with you to Scone. Go, instantly. 
 I, Isobel Macduif, will crown Bruce king. 
 
 Crombe. But, noble lady — not for fear but 
 
 safety — 
 What of pursuit ? 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Pursuit? I am a mint. 
 And coin ideas. Come — come out ! It's 
 gold! 
 
BRUCE. 65 
 
 My husband's horses must be aired to-dsy. 
 You'll see it done. Senre of the grooms we'll 
 
 bribe, 
 And some will come unbought, and some 
 
 we'll force 
 Either to follow us, or quit their steeds. 
 Leave nothing in the stables that can run. 
 My lords— ha, ha ! — are nowhere in the 
 
 chase. 
 
 Crombe, Captain, and countess, mistress, 
 
 service-worthy. 
 Be confident in me, as I in you, 
 And the deed's done. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 Countess of Buchan, Now world, wag, wag, 
 
 your tongues ! 
 1 sacrifice my fame to make a king : 
 And he will raise this nation's head again 
 That lies so low ; and they will honour him ; 
 And afterwards, perhaps, they'll honour me. 
 Or if they slight me and my modest work, 
 I will be dead : I have enough to bear 
 
66 
 
 Of disrespect and slander here to-day, 
 Without forecasting railing epitaphs. 
 But some — nay, many of the worthiest, 
 And many simple judgments too, will see 
 The sunlight on my deed. This, I make 
 
 sure ; 
 No Scot's allegiance can be held from Bruce 
 Because he was not crowned by a Macduff. — 
 And if I love him, what is that to him ? 
 That's a good saying. So is this, I make : 
 If I do love him, what is that to me ! 
 
67 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Westminster. The Hall of the 
 Palace, King Edward I. on a throne of 
 state. In attendance^ lords Pembroke, 
 Percy, Clifford, and other lords^ gentle- 
 men^ and officers. Enter Sir Peter 
 Mallorie with Sir William Wallace, 
 hound and guarded, 
 
 Edward I. Proceed with the impeachment, 
 Mallorie. 
 
 Mallorie. Sir William Wallace, knight of 
 
 Elderslie, 
 Some time usurping Guardian of Scotland, 
 You are a traitor to the English crown — 
 
 Wallace. I am no traitor to the. English 
 
 crown. 
 For I was never subject to King Edward. 
 
68 
 
 Mallorie. Therein your treason rests. But 
 
 speak not now : 
 You may speak afterwards in your defence. 
 
 Wallace, I will speak now, not to excuse my 
 
 deeds, 
 But to arraign the falsest traitor here. 
 Edward of England, if one pure pulse beats 
 In that debauched and enervated core, 
 Which was your conscience, I will make it 
 
 ache. 
 
 Edward I. What do you mean ? To have 
 
 us think you mad, 
 And to your frailty that compassion show. 
 Which crimes and sins forbid us to extend ? 
 Or are you posing as a prodigy 
 Of heroism ? In their minstrelsy 
 They sing of captive knights whose bold 
 
 address 
 In presence of their victors won them grace r 
 But know that justice sees no worth in words — 
 Deeds only : therefore hear your deeds re- 
 hearsed. 
 
BRUCE. 69 
 
 Mallorie. Sir William Wallace, treasons 
 manifold — 
 
 Wallace. I crave the pardon of all manhood 
 
 here. 
 Having small use for any faculty 
 Since I became a captive, I have slacked 
 The rigour of my will, and thus it is 
 I spoke with petulance before my time. 
 Proceed to read my accusation, sir. 
 
 Mallorie. You are accused of many treason- 
 ous acts 
 Done on the persons, castles, cities, lands, 
 Of our most noble sovereign, Edward First, 
 In England and in Scotland — 
 
 Wallace. But, explain — 
 
 Edward I. Silence, guilty felon ! 
 
 Wallace. Guilty ? Condemned, 
 And hanged already, doubtless, in your heart. 
 I will confess my guilt, for I am guilty — 
 
70 BRUCE. 
 
 Guilty of failure in a righteous cause. 
 I will confess that when ill-fortune came 
 My friends forsook me ; that I lost the day 
 At Falkirk, and have since been little worth. 
 I stayed your accusation, sir, to ask 
 What treason I could work against a king 
 Whom I acknowledge not, and in a land 
 Not governed by that king ? 
 
 Edward I, Silence ! — Proceed. 
 
 Wallace. What! EngHsh Edward ! Would 
 
 you roar me down ? 
 My deeds have spoken : shall I fear your 
 
 tongue ? 
 The charge against me is irrelevant ; 
 No jurisdiction have you over me 
 To pardon or to doom : prisoner of war, 
 No traitor, I ; and here I make demand 
 For knightly treatment at the hands of 
 
 knights. 
 
 Edward /. You shall have justice. 
 
BRUCE. 71 
 
 Wallace. In the end I shall : 
 
 And so shall you. Death you have often 
 
 faced ; 
 Justice you shall see once. 
 
 Edward I. Stay, Mallorie. 
 
 We'll tutor this heroic insolence. — 
 
 The observant world has notched the life of 
 
 man, 
 And three main periods indicate three powers 
 Whose dreadful might directs our very stars. 
 These powers take reason's throne, the 
 
 intellect. 
 First, love usurps, like Saturn come again — 
 Whose orb is yet man's most malignant foe — 
 Turning the sad, outlandish time of youth 
 Into a golden age. Ambition rules 
 With godly sway the second period. 
 And marshals man's capacity to war'. 
 Against the evils that beset him most, 
 And win what things of worship he desires. 
 Prudence, which none but old men under- 
 stand 
 To be the strongest tyrant of the three, 
 
72 
 
 Reigns lastly, making peace with God and 
 
 man; 
 Securing acquisitions ; peering forth 
 Into the future, like a mariner. 
 Whose freight is landed in a foreign port, 
 With wistful homeward gaze, but eager yet 
 To see his merchandize disposed of well. 
 And reason, which should rule, most cheer- 
 fully 
 Accepts the ministry beneath these kings. 
 This is the chronicle of noble men. 
 The sun gleams lurid through a rotting fog, 
 And those pure powers that shine in lucent 
 
 souls. 
 Clear, as if lanterned only by the air, 
 In natures base, burn with a murky flame, 
 As lust, concupiscence, and avarice : 
 And reason, mad with degradation, toils 
 Unwillingly in slavish oflices. 
 Now comes my application. Cruel, vain. 
 Intolerant, unjust, false, murderous, 
 You, Wallace — rebel, outlaw, hangman, fool, 
 Incendiary, reiver, ravisher — 
 You are the serf of vile concupiscence — 
 
BRUCE. 73 
 
 Yea, of the vilest famine — hungry greed 
 Of notoriety ! — the comnionest, 
 The meanest, lewdest, gauntest appetite. 
 That drives the ignoble to extremity ! 
 No sooner had we quarried painfully, 
 Forth of that chaos left by your King John, 
 A corner-stone for righteous government. 
 Than you and other itching malcontents 
 With gothic hands o'erturned the fane of 
 
 peace. 
 And on your groaning land brought heathen 
 
 war. 
 That you might win the name of patriot. 
 Again I built up order ; and agam 
 You overthrew my government, and caused 
 Your fatherland — heroic patriot ! — 
 From Tweed to Moray Frith to swim in 
 
 blood, 
 Before divine authority could rule. 
 Still you rebelled ; for you must stand 
 
 alone — 
 And think not, lords, I over-rate the strength 
 Of this delirious thirst for some repute — 
 
74 BRUCE. 
 
 Though nobles, knights, burgesses, yeomen, 
 
 priests. 
 Yea, every Scot, well-pleased, acknowledged 
 
 us, 
 You — cast-off guardian — dog that had his 
 
 day — 
 Alone, unfriended, starving in the wilds, 
 Held there aloof, and signalized your night 
 By howling for that moon you almost 
 
 clutched, 
 A tyrant's power, calling it liberty : 
 For that was still behind your lust of fame. 
 
 Mallorie. You're silent now. 
 
 A Lord. Silence becomes him well. 
 This just exposure stills his shameful voice. 
 
 Wallace. Seeing how your rage leapt from 
 
 your lips in lies. 
 King, I bethink me ere I make reply. 
 Lest I, too, throw the truth. 
 
 Edward I. Now tell us, lords. 
 
BRUCE. 75 
 
 Are we on our defence or Wallace ? which ? 
 Villain, regard law's form if not its soul. 
 Be better mannered ; touch your memory ; 
 You stand before the majesty of England. 
 
 Wallace. I stand there truly ; but behind 
 
 me pants 
 The king of terrors ; and his quiver holds 
 One dart I hope to parry, which I fear — 
 But not the venomed shaft that nothing 
 
 fends. 
 It is — not now ; I'll tell you afterwards. — 
 Noble? — ignoble ? — who shall judge us, king? 
 This deed and that we may with help of 
 
 heaven 
 Christen or damn, and not be far astray ; 
 But who shall take upon him to declare 
 The mind of God on what is unrevealed, 
 The guiding thought, deep, secret, which is 
 
 known, 
 Even to the thinker, but in passing wafts. 
 Because my life was spent in thwarting you^ 
 I am not therefore an incarnate fiend, 
 Although the justice of the end I stayed 
 
76 BRUCE. 
 
 Possessed your soul to sickening. Mad for 
 
 fame ! — 
 My wife's, my father's, and my brothers' 
 
 deaths — ■ 
 
 Edward I. No more of this. Call in the 
 witnesses. 
 
 Wallace. I'll speak now, and be heard. 
 
 AIL Silence ! Be still. 
 
 Wallace. I can outroar you all. Sound 
 
 trumpets, drums. 
 And fill your hall with clamour, I shall speak, 
 And you shall hear. Above the voice of war 
 I have been heard, and — 
 
 AIL Silence, traitor, silence ! 
 
 \The shouting continues for a little^ but gra- 
 dually ceases as Wallace speaks on. 
 
 Wallace, I fought for liberty and not for 
 fame. 
 
BRUCE. ^*J 
 
 Monarchs know not the inestimable worth 
 
 Of that imperial, rich diadem 
 
 Which only crowns both kings and carls, men. 
 
 Say, slavery unfelt were possible. 
 
 Then freedom is a name for sounding wind. 
 
 But call me slave in any mincing term ; 
 
 And let the tyrant's frowns be smiles of love; 
 
 The chains, less galling than a lady's arms ; 
 
 The labour, just my pleasure's ministry : 
 
 If I surrender to the conqueror, 
 
 As captive is my soul, as though thick irons 
 
 Wore through my flesh, and rusting in my 
 
 blood, 
 Rasped on my bones, the while with lash and 
 
 oath 
 Some vicious tasker held me to hard toil. 
 I stand here free, though bound and doomed 
 
 to die. 
 And know. King Edward, every Scot, who 
 
 bent, 
 Gnawing his heart, a recreant knee to you. 
 Perjured himself, being free ; and even now — 
 I know my countrymen — contrite they rise ; 
 And when they have another leader — one, 
 
78 BRUCE. 
 
 Abler than I — pray heaven, more fortunate! — 
 They will anew throw off your galling yoke, 
 And be, once more, lieges of liberty. 
 I am the heart of Scotland ; when I die 
 It shall take heart again — 
 
 Edward I. No, no ! by heaven ! 
 The Scots repudiate you ! 
 
 Wallace, The Scots do not : 
 The people, pulse for pulse, beat warm with 
 me. 
 
 Edward L You lie! You lie ! — But I forget 
 
 myself. 
 Freebooters, prodigals, scroyles — outcasts 
 
 all— 
 Your sole supporters, may lament your end ; 
 But true men everywhere are jubilant. 
 Not England only, and the better part 
 Of your divided country were your foes ; 
 But from the world's beginning you were 
 
 doomed 
 To fail in your unholy enterprize. 
 
BRUCE. 79 
 
 For destiny, whose servant nature is, 
 Ordained by the creation of this land — 
 So long sore vexed by chance, fate's enemy, 
 With heptarchies, divisions, kings and clans — 
 That one king and one people here should 
 
 dwell, 
 Clasped in the sea's embrace, happy and safe 
 As heaven is, anchored in eternity. 
 In fighting me you fought fate's champion, 
 Anointed with the fitness of the time, 
 And with the strength of his desire inspired, 
 To finish nature's work in Albion. 
 You, paltry minion of a band of knaves, 
 In name of patriotism — which in this case 
 Was in the devil's name — fought against God ; 
 The coming of His kingdom hindered here. 
 Now His sure vengeance has o'ertaken you. 
 And over both our lands His sweet peace 
 
 reigns. 
 
 Wallace. Eternal God, record this blas- 
 phemy ! 
 Who doubts our lands are destined to be one ? 
 Who does not pray for that accomphshment ? 
 
8o 
 
 Why ! Know you not that is the period, 
 
 The ultimate effect I battled for, 
 
 That you, free English, and that we, free 
 
 Scots, 
 May one day be free Britons. And we shall ; 
 For Scotland never will be tributary : 
 We are your equals, not to be enslaved ; 
 We are your kin, your brothers, to be loved. 
 Time is not ripe : fate's crescent purposes. 
 Like aloe-trees, bloom not by forcing them ; 
 But seasonable changes, mellowing years, 
 Elaborative ages, must mature 
 The destined blossoms. Listen, king and 
 
 lords ; 
 Here is a thing worthy remembering. 
 And which perhaps you never rightly knew : 
 Duty is always to the owner done ; 
 And the immediate debtor wisely pays : 
 The heritage of duty unperformed 
 Increases out of sight of usury. 
 Restore to Scotland freedom. Do that, king, 
 Or it will be required from you or yours 
 With woeful interest. — I have done. I 
 feared 
 
8i 
 
 I might not find a way to speak these truths, 
 Having no nimble tongue, and die oppressed 
 With warning unpronounced. I truly 
 
 thought 
 I could command a hearing had I words. 
 Death now, the due of all, my triumph, waits. 
 
 Edward I, {coughing.) The witnesses, 
 
 Sir Peter Mallorie ; 
 Your accusation now is needless. 
 
 Mallorie. Sire, 
 
 Hugh Beaumont is the first. He'll testify 
 Of early deeds in the arch-traitor's life. 
 He is an old man now and garrulous : 
 A gentleman withal, whose gentle blood 
 Stood him in httle stead, when windy youth 
 Had sown itself, and whirling poverty 
 Down to the barren common dashed his 
 
 head. 
 So with his sword he battened as he might. 
 And valour was his star. Let him have 
 
 scope, 
 For he has much to say. 
 
82 BRUCE. 
 
 [Hugh Beaumont is led in. 
 
 Inform the king 
 As strictly as to God of all that passed 
 Between you and the prisoner. 
 
 Edward I. Speak the truth. 
 
 Beaumont Your gracious majesty, what I 
 
 can tell 
 Is liker fable ; but the noble knight, 
 The prisoner, will acknowledge all I say : 
 Much of it honours him. — To Ayr he came 
 One day, disguised, with hat down, cloak 
 
 pulled up. 
 
 There as he paced the street. Lord Percy's 
 
 man 
 Seized on some fish a burgher just had 
 
 bought ; 
 Whereat, Sir William, like a smouldering fire, 
 Flared up to burn the foot whose thoughtless 
 
 kick 
 Had tortured it to flame. In speechless rage 
 
83 
 
 He grasped the caitiff's throat and smote him 
 
 dead. 
 About two score well harnessed Englishmen, 
 With whom I was, did straight environ him. 
 Against a wall he bore which seemed to be 
 Rather upheld by him than him unholding, 
 And reaped us down like corn. He did, my 
 
 lords. 
 He multiplied his strokes so that he seemed 
 1 o multiply himself; there did appear 
 Opposed to every soldier there, a Wallace. 
 Without or helm or mail, in summer-weed, 
 Grass-green, flowered red with blood, he 
 
 fought us all, 
 Till one that bit the dust writhed near enough 
 To pierce him in the leg and then he fell. 
 Yet even so he might have won away ; 
 But as he rose he fetched a blow at me, 
 Which I eluding, down his breaking brand 
 Upon the causeway struck ; and in his eyes 
 A light went out, when his up-lifted hand 
 Showed but the hilt. In faith I pitied him. 
 I pitied him, and bore him to the tower. 
 There in a filthy dungeon he expired 
 
84 
 
 Of festering wounds and food that swine 
 
 refused, 
 Ere they had settled what death was his due. 
 
 Edward I. But he is here aHve? 
 
 Beaumont. Pardon, dread lord ; 
 
 He seemed at that time dead : the West 
 
 mourned for him : 
 His aged nurse bought his corrupting corpse 
 To bury it decently in hallowed ground. — 
 Well, after that a while, in Lanark-town, 
 I waited in the High Street on the judge, 
 Lord Ormesby, then on circuit in the west. 
 Four men were with me. One, on fire with 
 
 wine, 
 A braggart at the best, vaunted his deeds. 
 And when two men came down the street, he 
 
 cried, 
 " See yonder stalks a canny muffled Scot, 
 A strapper, by this light ! attended, too ! 
 He's like to have that may be taxable. 
 Something I'll mulct him of; or something 
 
 give. 
 
85 
 
 That shall be worse than nothing, namely 
 
 blows ! " 
 " Belike," said I, "that boon will not go quit. 
 His side is guarded by a lengthy purse, 
 Whose bright contents, I think, he will not 
 
 hoard." 
 *' I'll have his sword," quoth he, '*If he refuse, 
 Take it, and beat him with it, till he shake 
 His dastard body out of his habergeon ; 
 ¥/hich, leaving here, he'll give me hearty 
 
 thanks. 
 That I leave him his skin, the lousy Scot ! " 
 And so he staggered out to meet the two. 
 The muffled stranger whispered to his man, 
 And he sped on before in anxious haste, 
 Dodging the drunk man's outstretched arm, 
 Who said, "Well, you may go; your master 
 
 is behind." 
 And when the master came he stopped him, 
 
 saying, 
 " Knave Scot, unveil ! Come, show ycur 
 
 sonsy face. 
 Vile thief, where did you steal this tabrrd 
 
 green ? 
 
86 
 
 And where the devil got you this fair knife ? 
 What ! jewelled in the hilt ! Unbuckle, quick, 
 Mantle and whittle ; and to make amends 
 For having ever worn them clasp them both 
 About me, and you shall have leave to go." 
 " St. Andrew ! There's my whittle, English 
 
 dog!^' 
 And with a thrust the Scot let out his life. 
 We others rushed upon him instantly, 
 Shouting, " Down with him ! Vengeance on 
 
 the Scot ! " 
 He gave us back, "St. Andrew, and the right!" 
 Wrapping his arm in what had wrapped his 
 
 face, 
 And looking like the lion that he was. 
 Beholding him I trembled, and stood still ; 
 But one more rash ran on, to shriek and fall. 
 His raised right arm lopped at the shoulder 
 
 off. 
 With that a voice cried, "In the king's name, 
 
 peace ! " 
 The Scot looked up and saw a troop approach. 
 " Too great a pack for one," he said, and ran. 
 Now this was Ormesby, the justiciary. 
 
BRUCE. 87 
 
 Arrived in Lanark to dispense the law, 
 With Hazelrig, the ruler of the shire. 
 
 Mallorie. {aside to Beaumont), Quick man ! 
 be quick ! Look how his highness chafes 1 
 
 Beaumont. The valiant Scot was Wallace. 
 
 It appeared 
 His foster-mother, who had paid away 
 The earnings of her lifetime for his corpse, 
 Kissing, and weeping o'er it, saw a spark 
 Struggle with night of death ; or else her 
 
 hope 
 Inspired new breath, much aided by her 
 
 prayers. 
 The little glow she nursed into a flame, 
 So feeble, that, lest meat should smother it, 
 Her daughter gave one of her bosom's 
 
 springs. 
 Then at high-tide to feed her new-born babe> 
 For the replenishing his body's lamp. 
 Being recovered, he had come to see 
 His wife, who dwelt in Lanark. 
 
Wallace, (aside). God ! O God ! 
 
 Beaumont. Hazelrig led the chase. I 
 
 followed close. 
 We reached the house. I searched the 
 
 garden. There, 
 Scarcely concealed, I saw the prisoner. Sire, 
 I'm not a coward, and I was not then ; 
 But from the instant that I recognised 
 The dead man come alive, enchantment 
 
 caught 
 My spirit in a toil, and made me watch 
 Powerless and voiceless, all he did. I felt 
 No movement, even while I followed him. 
 There was some witchery I do believe. 
 In by the window when the search was o'er, 
 He entered, saying gaily to his wife, 
 "I almost think an English lourdane saw me. 
 How thin a thicket hides a dread discovery !'» 
 Then seeing on the floor his lady lie, 
 " O God ! what varied truth was in that 
 
 word ! 
 Not dead, my love !" She spoke that I 
 
 could hear. 
 
89 
 
 ■** Dying, dying. Hazelrig has killed me 
 My spirit clings still to my lips to kiss you. 
 I would my soul might melt into a kiss 
 To lie on your lips till your soul's release, 
 And then to heaven together we would fly. 
 Avenge my death and Scotland's wrongs." 
 
 ** My love ! " 
 He cried ; and all his strength was water. 
 And long he held her: and he shook and 
 
 sobbed. 
 
 Wallace, (strainijig his bonds,) Nay, hang 
 me ! — burn me ! — I am sawn asunder ! 
 
 Beaumont. At length he put her softly on a 
 
 seat. 
 And took her hand, and knelt : and she was 
 
 dead. 
 Her face was like an angel's fallen asleep. 
 Upon her bloody breast his eyes he fixed. 
 Seeming unruffled as a still white flame, 
 And words, more dread than silence, spake 
 
 aloud. 
 
90 - BRUCE. 
 
 " I will avenge thy death and Scotland's 
 
 wrongs. 
 For every tear that now my eyes have dropped 
 From English veins shall seas of blood be 
 
 shed. 
 Each sigh of mine shall have ten thousand 
 
 echoes : 
 Yea, for her death, I'll England sepulchre. 
 O, glutton grave, a surfeit shall be thine ! 
 Death's self shall sleep before my vengeance 
 
 flags." 
 Slowly retiring with his face to her 
 He went. I have not seen him since till now. 
 He was a young man then. 
 
 [ Voices imthin. 
 
 Edward I, What noise is that ? 
 
 Clifford. A messenger, my lord, would force 
 the door. 
 
 Edward L Whence comes he ? 
 Clifford. From the north, your majesty. 
 
BRUCE. ^ 91 
 
 Edward I, Admit him. 
 
 {Enter Messenger.) 
 
 Welcome, sir. Your news at once, 
 Plainly and nakedly. 
 
 Messenger. Comyn is dead : 
 Slain in Dumfries by Bruce; whose party then, 
 Led by the fiery Edward, mad as he, 
 Attacked and seized the castle. On the day 
 I left the north, in Scone, the Lady Buchan, 
 The Bruce's paramour, Fife's sister, crowned 
 Her murderous lover king. Some lords and 
 knights 
 
 Have gathered round him, and he lies at 
 Perth. 
 
 Edward I. Besotted fool ! But it is well. 
 
 Herein 
 I see God's hand hardening the heart of Bruce 
 Against me, who am but God's minister. 
 That I may cut him off. I give God thanks. 
 Wallace — What ! has he swooned ? 
 
92 . BRUCE. 
 
 Mallorie. He's in a trance. 
 
 Wallace ! — Well, this is strange ! — Wallace ! 
 
 Wallace, (starting). My lords ! 
 
 Edward I. We'll countenance this mockery 
 
 no more. 
 All England and all Scotland — all the world 
 Prejudge your fate. Wherefore we will not 
 
 then 
 Waste time in tedious processes of law 
 To find you, as we know you, dyed in guilt, 
 And leave another to pursue unchecked 
 A course of similar iniquity. 
 You for your treason are condemned to die 
 The death that traitors merit. Lead him 
 
 hence. 
 Come after me, my lords, immediately, 
 And take your charges for the north. 
 
 \Exit Edward I. attended, Wallace 
 is led away. As they go out they 
 regard each other fixedly. 
 
BRUCE. 93 
 
 Clifford, I think 
 
 The king but whiled the time with Wallace 
 
 here, 
 Till news should come from Scotland. 
 
 Pembroke, With what haste 
 He sentenced him ! 
 
 Percy, Yes ; as a gamesome cat 
 Diverted with a mouse, scenting another, 
 Gobbles the captive quick. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
94 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in the Earl of Buchan's 
 Castle. Enter the Earl of Buchan. 
 
 Buchan, This is not jealousy. I only ache 
 With sorrow that my trust has been reposed 
 In falseness ; and I feel — I fear I feel 
 The whole world's finger quivering with 
 
 scorn, 
 Stream venom at me. If I cannot sleep, 
 It is no wonder, for the laugh I hear. 
 Like icy water rippling — cold and true 
 As tested steel — so wise, so absolute, — 
 Is learned from those that know me by the 
 
 fiend 
 Who watches with me nightly. Jealousy ? 
 If it possessed me, mortal sickness, bonds, 
 Nothing in heaven or hell, would hold me 
 
 back 
 
BRUCE. 95 
 
 From sating it with blood — with hers and 
 
 his. 
 But I will not be jealous, like poor souls, 
 Whose vanity engrosses every thought, 
 And calls itself nobility ; not I. 
 I will devise some vengeance, some just 
 
 means. 
 Some condign punishment, the world will 
 
 praise, 
 Thinking of me more highly than before 
 This miserable time. 
 
 Enter Fife. 
 
 Fife. Brooding again ! 
 
 Pluck up some sprightliness, for I have news. 
 
 Pembroke has routed Bruce in Methven 
 
 wood. 
 And captured many leading rebels. Bruce, 
 Who showed himself a gallant warrior, 
 Proved in retreat wise as a veteran. 
 Escaping to the north. 
 
 Buchan. My wife ? 
 
96 
 
 Fife, They say 
 
 That she and other ladies northward too 
 
 In Nigel Bruce's charge escaped with speed* 
 
 Buchan. And is this sure ? 
 
 Fife, I well believe it. Come, 
 Question the man who told me. 
 
 Buchan. If it's true 
 
 We'll join our powers and hunt the rebels down 
 
 Like noxious vermin, as they are. 
 
 Fife. Be cool. 
 
 What means this bitter passion ? 
 
 Buchan. Am I hot ? 
 
 But you'll combine with me ? 
 
 Fife. Assuredly : 
 
 It is a noble chase ; the quarry, game 
 
 To wind us over Scotland. Tally-ho ! 
 
 Buchan. Now you are thoughtless. Come,. 
 the messenger. 
 
 \_Exeunt^ 
 
97 
 
 Scene II. — The Wood of Drome. Scotch 
 soldiers about a watch-fire, 
 
 ist Soldier, What clouted loons we are ! 
 Royal beadsmen ! Eh ? 
 
 2nd Soldier. The king's as ragged as the 
 rest. 
 
 ist Soldier, That's true. 
 
 To-day I hunted with him, and I thought, 
 
 Seeing his doublet, loop-holed, frayed and 
 
 fringed ; 
 His swaddled legs, and home-made shoes of 
 
 pelt ; 
 His barbarous beard and hair, and freckled 
 
 face, 
 That manhood's surely more than royalty ; 
 For through this weedy, nettle-grown decay, 
 A majesty appeared that distanced us, 
 Even as a ruined palace overbears 
 A hamlet's desolation. 
 
98 BRUCE. 
 
 Enter Bruce, unperceived 
 
 yd Soldier, He's a king 
 By nature; through descent we're lost in 
 churls. 
 
 2nd Soldier. Ay, ay ; but mark : I'll reason 
 
 of our state. 
 Here many days we've wasted in the wild, 
 Chased by the English like the deer we chase, 
 Exposed like them, without their native wont, 
 Beneath this fickle, rigorous northern clime, 
 Ill-fed, ill-clad, and excommunicate ;• 
 While decent burghers — Scots as true as we — 
 Live warm, and prosper with their famihes. 
 I think we're fools. 
 
 jst Soldier, Fools for ourselves, maybe. 
 But wise I hope for Scotland : and the folk 
 In every town and village think us wise. 
 And bless and pray for us. 
 
 Bruce, {aside). A brave heart that — 
 {Advancing) Good evening, comrades. Can 
 you guess the time ? 
 
ist Soldier. An hour past sunset. Look, your 
 
 majesty ; 
 Barred by these trunks the cloudy embers 
 
 burn 
 Where day is going out. 
 
 Bruce, Faintly I see. 
 
 Your fire's so bright it dims the distant glow. 
 
 Sit down again, good friends. 
 
 ist Soldier, A story, sir ? 
 
 2nd Soldier. O, pray you tell us one ! 
 
 Bruce. I think I will. 
 
 I've told you many tales of chivalry, 
 
 Of faerie, and of Greeks and Romans, too ; 
 
 But now I'll tell you of a Scotchman, one 
 
 Who lived when Rome was most puissant 
 
 here. 
 The Roman governor, a valiant man, 
 Agricola, in whom ambition paused 
 Whenever prudence thought the utmost done. 
 Reconquered all the southern British tribes. 
 And drove his enemy beyond the Forth. 
 
100 BRUCE. 
 
 The noble Galgacus then swayed the realm 
 That stretches northward of that winding 
 
 stream ; 
 And while the Roman, building forts and 
 
 walls, 
 As was his wont, secured the bird in hand. 
 He mustered from his glens a skin-clad host 
 To fight for freedom. Ardoch, they call it, 
 Where the armies met. Ere the battle joined, 
 Firm on his chariot-floor with voice a-flame, 
 The Scottish chief harangued his thirty 
 
 thousand. 
 ** Brothers," he cried, "behold your enemies! 
 Gauls, Germans, Britons — mercenaries, slaves! 
 In conquest, one and strong ; but in defeat. 
 So many weaklings, heartless, hopeless, lost. 
 One signal victory to us were, more 
 Than all the battles that our foes have won : 
 Their confidence is in their leader ; ours, 
 In our cause. Hearken I — Had I a voice. 
 Like heaven's thunder, I would shout across 
 This battle-field to be, to yon mixed throng, 
 And tell them they are Britons, Germans, 
 
 Gauls : 
 
BRUCE. lOI 
 
 Bid them remember how in haughty Rome 
 Their free-born countrymen are taught to 
 
 serve 
 The wanton fancies of luxurious vice 
 In perfumed chambers or in bloody shows ; 
 Think of their wives and daughters, all 
 
 abused ; 
 Think of themselves, leagued with their con- 
 querors 
 Armed and opposed against consanguine folk, 
 Placed in the van to bear the battle's brunt, 
 That Rome may triumph, and her blood not 
 
 shed : 
 Then would they turn and rend with us the 
 
 foe. 
 What need has Rome of Britain ? we, of 
 
 Rome ? 
 We, the last lonely people of the north, 
 A morsel merely, perilous and far. 
 Incite the eagle appetite of Rome, 
 Uncloyed until she gorges all the world. 
 No other need has Rome. Poor, desolate, 
 Shrouded with mists, with cold empanoplied, 
 At war among ourselves, fighting with beasts, 
 
We yet are freemen; and we need not Rome: 
 We are the only freemen in the world. 
 Here, in the very bosom of our land — 
 The last land in the world — we meet the 
 
 power 
 That rules all other lands but ours. Even 
 
 ^ here 
 Let Rome be stricken. Brothers, countrymen, 
 Freedom has taken refuge in our hills. 
 She has a home upon the streaming seas, 
 But loves the land where men are hers. Let 
 
 not 
 The word go forth on woeful-sounding winds 
 That Rome has driven freedom from the 
 
 earth : 
 Sprite you with lions' hearts ; hke baleful 
 
 stars 
 Inflame your eyes that their disastrous glance 
 May palsy foes afar; pour your whole 
 
 strength 
 In every blow, nor fear a drought : the power 
 Of each is great as all when all are one. 
 Rush like a torrent ; crash like rocks that fall 
 
BRUCE. 103 
 
 When thunder rends the Grampians. 
 
 Liberty ! * "' 
 
 Shatter the Romans, grind them, whelm 
 
 them ! Charge ! " 
 The Scots were worthy of their gallant chief, 
 And fought as if they loved death, courting 
 
 her 
 By daring her to opportunities ; 
 Which she — a maid o'er-wooed — resented oft. 
 And strained their cooler rivals to her breast; 
 But discipline — that rock that bears the 
 
 world. 
 Compactly built — a city on a cliff 
 Breaking disorder back like unknit waves — 
 Founded the Roman power ; and on its 
 
 front 
 The Scots beat, shivered by their own outset ; 
 And evening saw them ebb, calmed, van- 
 quished, spent. 
 Yet that lost battle was a gain : our hills. 
 That battle, and the ruin of her fleet. 
 Held Rome behind Grahame's dyke, and 
 
 kept us Scots. 
 All south of us the Romans, Saxons, Danes, 
 
104 BRUCE. 
 
 And Normans, conquering in turn, overthrew 
 From change to change ; but we are what we 
 
 were 
 Before Aeneas came to Italy, 
 Free Scots ; and though this great Planta- 
 
 genet 
 Seems now triumphant, we will break his 
 
 power. 
 Shall we not, comrades ? 
 
 15/ Soldier, Yes, your majesty. 
 
 2.nd Soldier, But might it not have been a 
 
 benefit 
 If Rome had conquered Scotland too, and 
 
 made 
 Between the Orkneys and the Channel Isles 
 One nation ? 
 
 Bruce, A subtle question, soldier ; 
 But profitless, requiring fate unwound. 
 It might be well were all the world at peace, 
 One commonwealth, or governed by one 
 king ; 
 
BRUCE. 105 
 
 It might be paradise ; but on the earth 
 You will not find a race so provident 
 As to be slaves to benefit their heirs. 
 
 1st Soldier. At least we will not. 
 
 Bruce, By St. Andrew, no ! 
 
 {Enter Nigel Bruce). 
 
 My brother Nigel ! Happy and amazed 
 I see you here. Why left you Aberdeen ? 
 
 Nigel For several ends. And firstly, I 
 have news. 
 
 Bruce. Come to our cave. 
 
 Nigel. No ; for a reason, no. 
 
 Bruce. Mysteries, secrets ! — Well ; retire 
 good friends. 
 
 \Exeunt soldiers. 
 Nigel. Perhaps my news is stale. 
 
 • G 
 
I06 BRUCE. 
 
 Bruce, Little I know 
 
 Since in the flight from Methven, panic- 
 struck 
 We parted company. 
 
 Nigel. Learn then that Haye — 
 Hugh de la Haye ; John is with you, I know — 
 Inchmartin, Fraser, Berclay, Somerville, 
 Young Randolf, Wishart, trusty Lamberton 
 Are captives. 
 
 Bruce. Half my world ! But is it true ? 
 
 Nigel. So much is certainty. Rumour 
 
 declares 
 Young Randolf has deserted us ; that those 
 I named will ransom ; but that some^ 
 
 unknown, 
 Have died the death of traitors. 
 
 Bruce. Noble souls ! 
 
 Randolf — poor boy ! What more ? 
 
 Nigel. A price 
 Is on your head. 
 
BRUCE. I07 
 
 Bruce. That matters not. 
 
 Nigel. I know. 
 
 Still have great heed of whom and how you 
 
 trust. 
 That's all the evil tidings. Hear the good. 
 The queen — Ah, this is she ! I'll leave you 
 
 now. 
 
 Enter Isabella.^ 
 Bruce. My dearest ! 
 
 Isabella. I couldn't wait, my husband. 
 The lady Douglas and the lady Buchan 
 Are in your cave. We rode from Aberdeen 
 This evening, learning you were cantoned 
 
 here. 
 Douglas was sleeping when we came. His 
 
 wife 
 Bent o'er him, and she slipped into his 
 
 dream ; 
 For when he waked he wondered not at all 
 To see his lady there, till memory 
 
io8 
 
 Aroused him quite to find the vision true. 
 Nigel was seeking you ; but when I saw 
 The joy these two partook, incontinent 
 I hurried out myself to find like cheer. 
 My dear way-faring hero, I have come 
 To share your crust, and rags, and greenwood 
 
 couch : 
 I'm deep in love with skied pavilions : 
 I'll be your shepherdess, Arcadian king. 
 This evening's journey lay throughout a 
 
 wood : 
 The honeysuckle incensed all the air, 
 And cushats cooed in every fragrant fir; 
 Tall foxgloves nodded round the portly trees, 
 Like ruffling pages in the trains of knights ; 
 Above the wood sometimes a green hill 
 
 peered. 
 As if dame nature on her pillow turned 
 And showed a naked shoulder ; all the way, 
 Whispering along, rose-bushes blushed like 
 
 girls 
 That pass blood-stirring secrets fearfully, 
 Attending on a princess in her walk ; 
 I think with rarely scented breath they said 
 
I09 
 
 A loving wife was speeding to her lord. 
 Why are you silent ? . 
 
 Bruce* I am thinking, dear, 
 That I'm the richest monarch in the world. 
 Possessing such a universe of love, 
 The treasure most desired by kings and 
 clowns. 
 
 Isabella, What universe, dear lord ? 
 
 Bruce. Simplicity ! 
 
 How it becomes you ! Gentle hypocrite, 
 
 You are my universe of love, you know. 
 
 Isabella, Then keep your universe, and do 
 
 not waste 
 In empty space the time. I'll stay with you ; 
 Surely I can ? Come tell me all your plans. 
 
 Bruce, I've none. What I desire I know ; 
 
 and think 
 Firmly and honestly my wish is right. 
 Plans are for gods and rich men : I am poor. 
 
Isabella, In spirit ? So you may be blame- 
 lessly ; 
 But are you, sir ? 
 
 Bruce, I hardly know. Just now 
 I tried to cheer a whining fellow here, 
 But stood myself in greater need of hope. 
 
 Isabella, I know — I understand. You need 
 
 to think 
 Of other things, my dear. I've heard of men, 
 Great men, exhausted even to lunacy 
 By just those labours that were beating 
 
 smooth 
 A thoroughfare for ever to success, 
 Repair themselves with youth's prerogative 
 That stops time and the world deposes, all 
 In favour of a dream ; or spend a while 
 With children or the simplest souls they 
 
 knew. 
 Come, you must be amused. But, tell me, 
 
 sir, 
 Am I to stay ? 
 
 Bruce. Yes, dearest pilgrim, yes. 
 
Isabella, O, I am happy ! We will live like 
 birds. ^ ^* 
 
 Bruce, And in the winter ? 
 
 Isabella, Winter ? What is it ? 
 This is the summer. 
 
 Bruce, Winter is — 
 
 Isabella, Hush ! — hark ! 
 
 What birds so late fly screaming overhead ? 
 
 Bruce, Stout capercailzies, hurrying to their 
 
 nests, 
 Sated with fir-tops. 
 
 Isabella, Ah ! But, dearest lord 
 
 Are you quite well? I haven't asked you yet. 
 
 Bruce, I am very well. And you ? 
 
 Isabella. See — look at me : 
 
 You used to know by gazing in my eyes. 
 
Bruce, My wife, my lover, you are well 
 indeed. 
 
 Isabella. The fire is nearly out. Come to 
 
 the cave, 
 And there we will devise amusements, dear. 
 
 \Exeunt 
 
 Scene III. — Another Part of the Wood of 
 Drome. The Earl of Buchan alone. 
 
 Buchan. God help me and all jealous fools, 
 
 I pray ! 
 The plagues of Hades leagued in one raw 
 
 scourge 
 Might minister diversion to my soul. 
 Assailing through my flesh. No thought at 
 
 all 
 Of starry space or void eternity ; 
 Nor love, nor hate, nor vengeance, nor 
 
 remorse — 
 
BRUCE. 113 
 
 My cousin's murder ! — I've forgotten it ! — 
 No sound of horns crackling with riotous 
 
 breath 
 The crisp, rathe air; no hounds; no beckoning 
 
 tunes 
 With notes of fiery down ; nor singing girls ' 
 Whose voices brood and bound ; nor chanting 
 
 larks, 
 Nor hymning nightingales can touch my soul 
 Nothing but torture unendurable 
 Wrought in the flesh has power on jealousy. 
 Slay him with agonies ? A passing swoon ! 
 I'll kill my wife ! 
 
 Her blood is Lethe if oblivion be 
 Save in more high-strung anguish of my own* 
 
 Enfer Fife. 
 
 jFi/e. What is it ? You have news. 
 
 Buchan, They are together — 
 The outlaw and your sister. They're at hand — 
 Three miles away — no more. A trusty spy 
 Told me just now. 
 
[JSxt't. 
 
 114 BRUCE. 
 
 J^i/e. Is there a band ? 
 
 Buchan. Some score. 
 
 Fife. Then we will take them. 
 
 Buchan, Yes. 
 
 Fife, About it straight. 
 
 Buchan, I'll follow— Ho ! 
 
 {Enter Spy.) 
 
 I thought you still were near. 
 I haven't thanked you yet. {Gives money.) 
 
 How did she look ? 
 Was there about her not a thievish air, 
 A truant aspect, frightened and yet free, 
 Shame-faced, but bold, and like an angel lost. 
 
 Spy, Who, my good lord ? 
 
 Re-enter Fife. 
 Buchan, The queen — the outlaw's wife. 
 
BRUCE. 115 
 
 Spy. O no, my lord ! She laughed, as she 
 
 rode past 
 Where I lay hid, at something gaily said 
 By my good lady, your good lordship's wife. 
 They both looked happy riding in the sun. 
 
 Buchan. Aye ; that will do. 
 
 \Exit Spy. 
 
 I'm coming, Fife. 
 
 Fife, Stay yet. 
 
 You've not deceived me ; and that fellow 
 
 knows — 
 A side-look told me — that you tried and failed. 
 You meant my sister when you questioned 
 
 him. 
 Tell me, what makes your jealousy so strong? 
 You never were in love with her I think. 
 
 Buchan. Nor am not now. I think — I 
 
 know — I feel 
 What I have heard : true love is never jealous. 
 I am like other men ; I love myself. 
 I cannot speak. I mean to act. Come on. 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
Ii6 
 
 Scene IV. — A Cave in the Wood of Drome, 
 with a fire at the back, Bruce, Ed- 
 ward, and Nigel Bruce, Douglas, 
 Crombe, Isabella, Countess of 
 BucHAN, Lady Douglas, and others, 
 
 Bruce. Who would build palaces when 
 
 homes like these 
 Our kingdom yields us bosomed in her hills \ 
 What tapestry, where the gloss and colour 
 
 fade 
 From some love-story, overtold and stale, 
 Or where a famed old battle stagnates dim, 
 Befits a room before these unhewn walls 
 Whose shifting pictures lower and shine and 
 
 live, 
 Ruddy and dark in leaping of the fire. 
 No homely mice in cupboards cheep ; the 
 
 night 
 Is here not soothed by any mellow chirp 
 Of crickets, happily, devoutly busy ; 
 But in the ivy and the hollow oak 
 
BRUCE. 117 
 
 The owl has heard and learnt through day- 
 long dreams 
 
 The wind's high note when pines in ranks are 
 blown, 
 
 Bent, rent, and scattered with their roots in 
 air, 
 
 And sounds his echo loud and dwindling 
 long. 
 
 Fearfully as he flutters past our door ; 
 
 The wild-cat screams far off in the pheasant's 
 nest; 
 
 The werwolf, ravening in the warren, growls. 
 
 Night is no gossip here, watching the world 
 
 Sick-tired, heart-sore, sleep weariness away ; 
 
 But free and noble, full of fantasy. 
 
 Queen of the earth, earth-bound, ethereal. 
 
 Isabella, {aside). His spirit rises. We must 
 
 hold it up. — 
 My lord, shall lady Douglas sing ? 
 
 Bruce, She shall. 
 
 Lady, I beg you sing us something sweet 
 
 No trumpet notes, no war— 
 
Il8 BRUCE. 
 
 [isf Soldier appears at the entrance of the 
 cave, Douglas whispers with him. 
 
 What does he want ? 
 
 Douglas. He comes as spokesman for his 
 fellows. 
 
 Bruce. Well?. 
 
 ist Soldier, {advancing.) I hope your high- 
 ness will be patient with me. 
 My mates have bade me ask a favour, strange 
 And difficult to ask ; but not so strange 
 If it be thought of well, nor difficult 
 If I can keep my head. 
 
 Bruce, Go on. 
 
 \st. Soldier. My lord, 
 
 For this great while we have seen no woman's^ 
 
 face. 
 My mates and I : your highness knows that 
 
 well. 
 When we beheld these ladies enter here, 
 
BRUCE. 119 
 
 A longing seized us all to look on them ; 
 To see their faces and their gentle shapes ; 
 And even to have them turn their eyes on us ; 
 Perhaps to hear them speak. We are true 
 
 men, 
 And honest in our thought. 
 
 Bruce, Bring them all in. 
 
 \Exit \st Soldier. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. I know the mood that 
 
 holds these men : brave lads ! 
 If they were wed to women worth their love^ 
 They would be nobler heroes than they are. 
 
 Isabella. We'll speak to them. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. I'll kiss that knave wha 
 spoke. 
 
 Lady Douglas. Will you ? 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Yes ; and I'll do it 
 openly. 
 
120 BRUCE. 
 
 Enter Soldiers. 
 Bruce. Welcome all, heartily, most heartily. 
 
 Countess of Buchan {to ist Soldier), Have 
 you a wife ? 
 
 ist Soldier. I have. 
 
 Countess of Buchan, You love her? 
 
 \st Soldier, Yes. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Is not the truest love 
 the most capricious ? 
 
 \st Soldier. I cannot tell. True love is 
 fanciful. 
 
 Countess of Buchan, You long to kiss your 
 wife? 
 
 \st Soldier. And if I do, 
 What matters to your ladyship ? 
 
BRUCE. 121 
 
 Countess of Buchan. (whispering). This, sir: 
 I also long to kiss one whom I love ; 
 Perhaps I never shall; but I think now 
 In kissing you that I am kissing him. 
 
 \Kisses him, 
 
 1st Soldier. Thanks, noble lady. If you 
 
 were my wife 
 I'd kiss you thus. 
 
 \^He embraces and kisses her, 
 
 Bruce. Well said and bravely done ! 
 
 Countess of Buchan. And can you fight 
 As deftly as you kiss ? 
 
 Bruce. I warrant him ! Enough. 
 
 Your song, my lady Douglas ; sing it now ; 
 
 A love-song, something homely if you can. 
 
 Douglas. Sing " If she love me," sweetheart 
 
 Lady Douglas. Shall I ? Well. 
 But you should sing it rather. 
 
 H 
 
Douglas, No ; sing you. 
 SONG. 
 
 Love, though tempests be unruly, 
 Blooms as when the weather's fair : 
 
 If she love me truly, truly, 
 She will love me in despair. 
 
 Is there aught endures here longer ? 
 
 Can true love end ever wrongly? 
 Death will make her love grow stronger. 
 
 If she love me strongly, strongly. 
 
 Can scorn conquer love ? Can shame ? 
 
 Though the meanest tower above me, 
 She will share my evil fame. 
 
 If she love me, if she love me. 
 
 Enter a Forester. 
 
 Forester. A thousand men are on you, fly ! 
 
 {going 
 
 Bruce, Stand, there ! 
 
 Hold him ! What thousand men ? who lead 
 them? speak — 
 
BRUCE. 123 
 
 Put out the fire — stamp on it, some of you. 
 
 [The fire is trampled out and the 
 Forester seized. 
 
 Forester. I know not ; but I saw them in the 
 
 wood 
 Stealthily marching. 
 
 Bruce. Are they near ? 
 
 Forester. An hour 
 
 By time, for they are stumbling out a way. 
 There's half a mile or so of wood between. 
 If I had been their guide they had been here- 
 
 Bruce. You know the paths so thoroughly ? 
 
 Forester, Blindfold. 
 
 Bruce. Could you lead safely to Kildrummie 
 
 castle 
 A band of twenty ? 
 
 Forester. When ? to-night ? 
 
124 BRUCE. 
 
 Bruce. Just now. 
 
 Forester. I think I could. But tell me, 
 
 sir : they say 
 That you're the king. Now are you ? 
 
 Bruce. I am he. 
 
 Forester, {awkwardly^ What must I do ? 
 
 Bruce. Wait patiently. — Good friends, 
 We'll yet postpone farewell. A little way 
 Together in the wood — 
 
 Edward Bruce. But must we fly ? 
 Ten are a thousand in a coward's sight ; 
 And they may be our friends. Defence even 
 
 here 
 Were not too rash against a hundred. What ! 
 Is not despair achievement's mother ? Why ! 
 The high, black night, a shout, a sudden 
 
 charge. 
 And we dispel this sheep-heart's fearful dream. 
 
BRUCE. 125 
 
 Bruce, Upon us march the earls of Fife and 
 
 Buchan, 
 With many hundred men. They have hunted 
 
 us 
 For days, and I have known. My spies are 
 
 caught 
 I fear, or they had not arrived so close 
 Without our knowledge. {To Forester). We 
 
 must thank you, friend, 
 For timely intimation of our plight. 
 The plan I formed still holds, and this is it. 
 Kildrummie will give shelter to our wives j 
 Nigel will take them there : Douglas, one 
 
 way, 
 And I, another, as we may decide. 
 Splits up the scent, — and we shall all escape. 
 
 Edward Bruce. Brother and king — 
 
 Bruce. No more. In straits like these 
 Counsel's a Syren : if the leader list, 
 Wreck follows. Errant paths, ' straightly 
 pursued, 
 
126 
 
 Soon reach the goal; while wiser, well-thought 
 
 ways 
 Wander about for fear of miry shoes. 
 And shall I hear one rasher than myself, 
 When wisdom would be folly ! — Isabella, 
 A little way together, then farewell. — 
 
 [To Forester, 
 
 Friend, go before us. — Follow close. No 
 
 word 
 Above a whisper. 
 
 Isabella. Must I leave you then ? 
 
 Why are we made so that we trust our hopes ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
127 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A passage in Berwick Castle. 
 Enter Crombe as jailor^ carrying food. 
 He opens a door^ and the Countess of 
 BucHAN is discovered in a cage. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. {aside). O me ! 
 
 Another ! I can court no more. 
 This one I'll take by storm. — Fellow, good 
 
 friend, 
 I think you are my thousandth jailor. Soon 
 I'll have a fresh one doubtless every day. 
 IVe here had trial of my power on men, 
 On common vulgar men hke you — for you 
 Are like your predecessors, I suppose — 
 And find myself most potent. Listen, now ! 
 Yes, but you shall, you must ; and look as 
 
 well : 
 For I have looks like golden lightning, swift, 
 
128 
 
 Gentle and perilous, that fascinate 
 The worshipful beholder. I have words, 
 Sweet words, soft words, and words like two- 
 edged swords. 
 Like singing winds that rock the sense asleep, 
 Like waves full-breasted, filling deepest souls ;, 
 And I will kill you in a thousand ways 
 With words and looks unless you yield you 
 
 now. 
 The others all were conquered just too late ; 
 The women tell me nothing — English all ;. 
 But you will tell me what I want to know. 
 In brave submission to my witchery ; 
 Now, like a man : I hope you are a man. 
 
 Crombe. What must I tell you ? 
 
 Countess of Buchan, You must tell me first 
 How the king is — King Robert Bruce, I 
 mean. 
 
 Crombe. They say he's well. 
 
 Countess of Buchan, Where is he then f 
 But sir, 
 
BRUCE. 129 
 
 I see you better now ; you have an eye, 
 
 A brow, a mouth. Without more question, 
 
 say 
 How Scotland fares since I was prisoned 
 
 here. 
 
 Crombe. Because of this same eye, and brow, 
 
 and mouth 
 They made me jailor. 
 
 Countess of JBuchan, O, I understand ! 
 And being nobler than those stolid pikes — 
 Pike-handles, I should say — forerunning you, 
 You^ll not do wrong in duty^s name. Escape 
 You cannot help me to ; but tell me, sir. 
 Some news. 
 
 Crombe, Ah! Pardon me. If, as you say, 
 I have a brain to know that wrong is wrong 
 Though soldierly obedience be its badge, 
 Shall I not have the strength to overcome 
 Rebellious righteousness ? Think you — 
 
 Countess of Buchan, James Crombe ' 
 
130 BRUCE. 
 
 Crombe, Your servant ever, lady. 
 
 Countess of Biichan. Pardon, friend ; 
 I did not know you. IVe no memory 
 Except for horrors. I am half a beast — 
 Starved, frozen, scorched, in rags. Sometimes 
 
 at night 
 I'm mad. The rotten air, the subtle dark. 
 The clammy cold, crawl through my blood 
 
 like worms : 
 They knot themselves in aches, they gnaw 
 
 my flesh. 
 And I beheve me dead. Ghosts visit me : 
 They come in undistinguishable throngs. 
 Sighing and moaning like a windy wood. 
 Demons invade my grave with flaming eyes, 
 With lolling tongues ; and ugly horrors steam 
 And whirl about me. Mountains topple 
 
 down. 
 Grazing my head; and threatening worlds 
 
 approach, 
 But never whelm me. O my friend ! O me ! 
 Tell me for mercy's sake of living men! 
 How came you here ? 
 
BRUCE. 131 
 
 Crombe. To be beside you, lady. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. What ! You are weep- 
 ing ! Dear friend, speak to me. 
 
 What food is this ? White bread, and wine, 
 and meat ! 
 
 {Clapping her hands.) Thanks, thanks ! O 
 thanks ! I'll eat, while you recount 
 
 All, all, about my friends ! 
 
 Crombe. My time is brief. 
 
 And first I'll tell you of an enemy. 
 
 Edward the First is dead. 
 
 Countess of Buchaji. Say you ! Aha! 
 That was a mighty villain. 
 
 Crombe. Nigel is dead. 
 They killed him when they took Kildrummie 
 tower. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Ah, what a wanton 
 
 waste of noble blood ! 
 Remorseless tigers ! Ah, the wolves, the 
 
 rats ! — 
 The queen, and lady Douglas ? 
 
132 BRUCE. 
 
 Crombe, Prisoners both. 
 
 Countess of Buchan, The man, my husband? 
 
 Crombe, Beaten, decayed, forgot. 
 
 When we were scattered in the wood of 
 
 Drome, 
 The king sought refuge in an Irish isle. 
 Which in the spring he left, and dared his fate. 
 So after perils, and trials, and mighty acts. 
 And deeds of marvellous device — well poised 
 By those achievements, rare and manifold, 
 Heroically wrought by Edward Bruce, 
 Douglas, Boyd, Fraser, Gilbert de la Haye, 
 Randolf, and many another famous knight. 
 Whose deeds already ring in lands afar — 
 At Inverury he and your husband met : 
 And there the earl suffered such dread defeat, 
 That ignominy has become the grave 
 Where all his hopes He buried. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Wretched soul ! 
 
 Crombe, Now in the length and breadth of 
 this free land, 
 
133 
 
 One castle only is in England's power. 
 Would I had time to tell you how 'twas done ! 
 
 Countess of Buchan. What castle? 
 
 Crombe. Stirling. Edward found the siege 
 For his hot blood too long, and made a pact, 
 That if the governor, Sir Philip Mowbray, 
 Were not relieved within a year and day, 
 He should surrender. In the interval 
 Sir Philip went to London to the king — 
 Edward the Second, an unstable man — 
 And couched his eyes of that security 
 That curtained Scotland's state. He levied 
 
 soon 
 The mightiest army ever England raised ; 
 And in the sight of Stirling Bruce and he 
 Are met to fight. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Now ? 
 
 Crombe. Now. And news is come 
 That Bruce to-day overthrew a champion 
 Between the armies; and that Randolf fought 
 
134 BRUCE. 
 
 And conquered Cliiford, who had dreadful 
 odds. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. And are they fighting 
 now ? 
 
 Cromhe. No ; but to-morrow 
 The battle is. 
 
 Countess of Buchan. Then, gallant friend, 
 
 away ! 
 Take horse and ride ! You must not miss 
 
 to-morrow. 
 Spur through the night ! — Nay, think no more 
 
 of me ! 
 Or think me sitting lightsome on the croup, 
 And smiling at the moon. I go with you : 
 My soul is in your arm — You must not stay. 
 One stout heart more ! — Ride, ride ! — I thank 
 
 you, friend : 
 To know your dear and steadfast constancy, 
 As now I do, is worth these lonely years. — 
 Away to victory ! — I can weep at last ! — 
 Here, take this withered rag ! It is the scarf 
 
BRUCE. 135 
 
 The queen gave me that far-off night in 
 
 Drome. 
 My parched and desert eyes that sorrow shrunk 
 Are wet with happiness ! See ! Am I red ? 
 My pale and stagnant blood wakes up again, 
 I would that we were flying together, Crombe, 
 As once we did, rebels, so free and glad ! 
 Now go ! Now go ! — Yes, kiss me through 
 
 the bars. 
 My kiss shall help to win the battle. Go ! 
 
 [Ife kisses her^ and exit. The 
 scene closes. 
 
 Scene II. — The Scottish Cauv at Bannock- 
 burn. Bruce in his tent at night. 
 
 Bruce. This drowned and abject mood ; this 
 
 sodden brain ; 
 This broken-back ; this dull insanity, 
 That mopes and broods and has no thought 
 
 at all ; 
 
136 BRUCE. 
 
 This dross, that, in exchange for molten gold 
 Of madness thrice refined, were hell for 
 
 heaven ; 
 This flabby babe; this hare; this living 
 
 death ; 
 This sooty-hued, cold-blooded melancholy ! 
 We know it for a subtle, potent lie — 
 A vapour, a mere mood ! But when it comes, 
 Stealing upon us like unwelcome sleep 
 In high festivity, weVe no more power 
 To shake our souls alive, than if we'd drunk 
 Of Lapland philtres, — muddy brew of hell ! 
 When we, like beakers brimmed with wine, 
 
 are full 
 Of living in the hand of fate, there strikes 
 An image through the brain that destines us, 
 And in the careless instant we are spilled 
 To be replenished never : so we feel. 
 We feel ? How hard it is to fix the mind ! 
 Only less hard than to withdraw it. Sleep ? 
 No; not to-night. Heart, faithless heart, 
 
 grow strong. 
 Ay, now I have remembrance of a thought 
 
BRUCE. 137 
 
 A dear breath whispered making wisdom 
 
 sweet. 
 How did she say it? "Darling" was it? 
 
 No. 
 "Sweetheart," or "dear," or "dearest?" 
 
 Which of all 
 Those thin worn words that love assays, and 
 
 coins 
 Anew, began her little earnest speech ? 
 Ah, it was that name, fond and passionate, 
 Tender and confident, poor milkmaids use, 
 And dream not that a queen can find no 
 
 sweeter. 
 " Dearie," she said, " when faith is strong in 
 
 you. 
 Then only have you any right to think. 
 To judge, to act." And kissed me then, as 
 
 if 
 Her healing truth had need of honey ! O, 
 Love with its simple glance can pierce the 
 
 night. 
 When drowsy sages at their tapers nod ! 
 I will not trust myself but when self-trust 
 Is buoyant in me. And I surely know 
 I 
 
138 BRUCE. 
 
 To-morrow's battle finds one soul sufficient. — 
 I wonder how my wife is ! Have these years, 
 These days, these hours — it is the hours that 
 
 tell— 
 Dealt kindly with her in her nunnery ? 
 Poor lady ! She is gentle, delicate — 
 A lute that can respond to nothing harsh. 
 If she be shattered by this heavy stroke 
 Of separation ! I, with sinewy strings. 
 Endure the constant quivering — 
 
 {Enter Guard), 
 
 What now ? 
 
 Guard, The leaders wait without, your 
 majesty. 
 
 Bruce. Is it that time? Well, bid them 
 enter. 
 
 [Efiter Edward Bruce, Douglas, Randolf^ 
 and Walter the Steward. 
 
 Friends, 
 Good morning. Let me see your eyes. — 
 Randolf 
 
139 
 
 You have not slept. — Sir James, perhaps you 
 
 have : 
 Your eyes were never dull. — What, half 
 
 awake ! 
 Why, Walter, love, if not anxiety. 
 Should have kept watch in that young head 
 
 of yours ! 
 Brother, I know you slept. 
 
 Edward Bruce. Why should I not ? 
 
 I thanked God for the error that I made 
 
 In giving respite to the garrison. 
 
 Since it has brought us to this desperate pass 
 
 Where we must conquer. Then I slept, and 
 
 dreamt ; 
 And wakened, laughing at I know not what. 
 
 Randolf, I had no sleep. This would not 
 
 leave my mind. 
 That we were one to five. 
 
 Bruce. Why Randolf, shame ! 
 
 You are the last who should complain of that^ 
 
 What good knight was it, like a water-drop. 
 
I40 BRUCE. 
 
 Lost shape and being in an English sea, 
 Which found him out a rock, but yesterday ? 
 Why man, you are my cousin, Thomas 
 
 Randolf; 
 Aod this is Douglas ; this, my brother 
 
 Edward ; 
 We are men who have done deeds, God 
 
 helping us. 
 God helping us, we'll do a deed to-day ! 
 
 Randolf, I do not fear ; but lonely, in the 
 
 night 
 I could not see how we must win. 
 
 Bruce. No ! come. 
 
 \They go to the door of the tent afid 
 look out, 
 
 I see the battle as it will be fought. 
 
 The sun climbs up behind us. If he shine, 
 
 His beams will strike on English eyes. Look 
 
 there ! 
 The earth throws off her mourning nightly 
 
 weed; 
 
BRUCE. 141 . 
 
 And the fresh dawn, her bowermaid, coyly 
 
 comes 
 To veil her with the morning, like a bride 
 Worthy the sun's embrace. This fight you 
 
 dread, 
 Regard it as a happy tournament 
 Played at the marriage of the fragrant world, 
 If the full weight and awe of its intent 
 Press on you too overwhelmingly. 
 
 Randolf, Not I. 
 
 I'd rather lose the fight for what it is, 
 
 Than win it jestingly. 
 
 Bruce. Well said ! The night. 
 
 That filled you with its gloom, out of your 
 
 blood 
 Exhales, and it is day. Imagine, now : 
 Between high Stirling and the Bannock 
 
 stream. 
 Whose silvery streak hot blood will tarnish 
 
 soon, 
 Four battles stand. To westward, Edward's 
 
 charge. 
 
142 BRUCE. 
 
 Douglas and Walter to the north and east, 
 Randolf, the doubter, in the central van ; 
 I keep the second ward. Pent in this space 
 We cannot be outflanked, the river's gorge 
 On this wing, and on that, calthrops and pits. 
 The English archers scattered — Edward's 
 
 task — 
 There but remains to stand, while yonder 
 
 host, 
 Which leaves its revel only now, shall twine. 
 And knot, entangled in its proper coils. 
 Crammed in a cage too small for such a bulk, 
 Such sinuous length, such strength, to bustle 
 
 in, 
 Save to its own confusion and dismay. 
 Speak I not reasonably, and quietly ? 
 
 Randolf, Too quietly for me ! Why, in this 
 
 trap, 
 This coffin, they shall die for want of air ! 
 
 Edward Bruce, It is too cheap a victory! 
 
 Douglas. When won, 
 
 I hope we maj^ not find it all too dear. 
 
BRUCE. 143 
 
 \Bagpipes^ drums, trumpets, 
 
 Bruce. Ha! now the din begins! My blood 
 
 is fit ! 
 Come, let us set our soldiers in a glow ! 
 After the abbot says the battle 'mass, 
 I'll speak to them, and touch them with a 
 
 flame. 
 
 Douglas, They'll burn. 
 
 Edward Bruce. They'll make a bon-fire. 
 
 Walter the Steward. To announce 
 That Scotland's hberty's of age. 
 
 Bruce. Well roared, 
 My lioncel ! 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The Field of Bannockburn. 
 Enter Edward II., the Earl of 
 Pembroke, Sir Giles De Argentine, 
 
144 BRUCE. 
 
 Sir Ingram De Umfraville, with other 
 lords and knights^ in advance of the Eng- 
 lish lines, 
 
 Edward II. Will yon men fight ? 
 
 Umfraville. Ay, siccarly. My liege, 
 If you will hear an old man's humble word 
 Who knows the Scotchmen well, feign a re- 
 treat : 
 Then will these fiery children of the north — 
 Children they are in every gift save strength, 
 And most in guileless daring — rush on us. 
 Leaving their vantage, and be overcome 
 Utterly, as in many a fight before. 
 
 Edward II. I'm a young warrior, and I 
 
 mean to win 
 By dint of strength, and not by strategy. 
 To sneak a victory I came not north ; 
 But in a lordly way to overthrow 
 The base usurper of my lordship here. 
 Leave paltry sleights and fawnings upon 
 
 chance 
 
BRUCE. 145 
 
 To starveling rebels, keen as hungry curs 
 That dodge the whip, and steal the bone at 
 
 once. 
 Think you we brought our friends across the 
 
 sea 
 To juggle with them ? We are here to fight, 
 As in the lists, like gentlemen. My lords, 
 I give you Scotland. Nothing for myself 
 Save sovereignty I claim ; and that must be 
 Not snared by ambush, for assassins fit. 
 But seized by courage, frank and English. 
 
 Pembroke, Sire, 
 
 One reason only urges strategy : 
 
 Adopting it, less English blood will flow. 
 
 Edward II. That touches me. 
 
 Z>e Argentine. And it is kindly thought. 
 
 But I have heard the Scotsmen plume them- 
 selves 
 
 On victory over any English odds. 
 
 In battles, pitched, embroiled, and hand to 
 hand; 
 
146 BRUCE. 
 
 That we have never vanquished them in fight 
 Except when treachery assisted arms. 
 Conquest unchallengeable, dearly bought 
 Were worth its cost. A wily victory 
 Would leave our foes unhumbled, unappeased, 
 And confident of ultimate success. 
 
 Edward II. This is the wisest counsel. 
 
 Umfraville. Hear me yet. 
 
 What warrior is wilier than Bruce ? 
 
 The schiltron he has perfected. No knights 
 
 Can break the Scottish spearmen. Chivalry 
 
 Means nought for them save mounted foes 
 
 whose trust 
 Is in their horses — 
 
 Edward 11 'Tis a base device, 
 
 This slaughter of our steeds ! A dastard's 
 
 trick ! 
 The delicate art of war, where excellence 
 Lay in the power of noble blood alone, 
 He makes a trade for ploughmen. Battle- 
 fields 
 
147 
 
 Are shambles since this rebel taught his clowns 
 To fear not knighthood ! 
 
 Umfraville. True indeed, my liege ! 
 
 And some have thought that this new style of 
 
 war 
 Will drive the other out. But see you not 
 That every possible advantage — 
 
 Edward II. No ! 
 
 For I will not! — Behold, the Scots ask mercy! 
 
 Umfraville, They do — from heaven. These 
 men will win or die. 
 
 Edward II. I hate such kneeling, whining 
 
 warriors, I ! 
 What right have they to think God on their 
 
 side ? 
 Our glorious father taught them otherwise 
 With iteration one had deemed enough. 
 I burn to teach them finally. My lords, 
 Our swords shall pray for us. One hour's 
 
 hot work, 
 
148 
 
 And Scotland is your own. Let us begin ! 
 Each to his post, and everlasting shame 
 Blight him who cherishes a moment's thought 
 Of other means of victory than these, 
 Our English bows and lances, English hearts. 
 And not less English courage of our friends 
 Whose foreign banners grace our army. 
 
 Come ; 
 England shall stretch from Orkney to Land's 
 
 End 
 After to-day. St. George for Merry England ! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 Scene IV. — Another part of the Field. The 
 Scottish army. Enter Bruce and the 
 other leaders. 
 
 Bruce. I think we all know well what courage 
 
 is : 
 Not thews, not blood, not bulk, not bravery : 
 Its highest title, patience. Fiery haste 
 
BRUCE. 149 
 
 Has lost most battles. Till the word be given, 
 Let no man charge to-day. No seeming flight 
 Must lead you to pursue. Take root ; grow 
 
 strong ; 
 The earth is Scottish. For our country stand 
 Like bastioned, frowning rocks that beard the 
 
 sea, 
 And triumph everlastingly. Doubt not 
 The time to charge will come — once and 
 
 straight home : 
 We'll need no spur : so must you curb your 
 
 blood ; 
 Command your anguished strength : a false 
 
 start now 
 Will lose a race we cannot run again. 
 If any of you feel unfit for fight 
 From any cause whatever, let him go, 
 Leaving us undiluted. Scorn nor curse 
 Shall blast him; but our generous thought 
 
 shall praise 
 His act and consecrate his name, 
 As one who did his best in doing nought ; 
 For victory depends on each of us. 
 I say, if gallant souls be timorous. 
 
150 BRUCE. 
 
 Get them behind the hill, and be not sad : 
 Great courage goes to make an open coward. 
 
 {A great shout). 
 
 Then are we all one heart. Our enemies, 
 Our English enemies who hope to drown 
 The very name of Scot in Scottish blood. 
 And those outlandish battle-harlots, hired 
 From Holland, Zealand, Brabant, Normandy, 
 Those Picards, Flemings, Gascons, Guiennese, 
 The refuse of the realms from which they 
 
 swarm. 
 Are robbers lured by plunder, one and all. 
 From king to scullion : they are in the 
 
 wrong. 
 We are the weapon to defend the right 
 God grasps to-day. Can we be put to shame ? 
 
 Soldiers, No ! 
 
 Bruce, Forward, trusty friends ! The hour 
 
 is come 
 For long-desired redemption of the vows 
 Groaned out when tender mothers, sisters, 
 
 wives, 
 
BRUCE. 151 
 
 Fathers we worshipped, brothers we adored, 
 Were spared not. Let our battle-cry be — 
 
 no ; 
 I'll give you none. Each soldier shout the 
 
 name 
 Of that best friend in prison buried quick ; 
 Of yonder heaven-homed, most beloved soul 
 Among the multitude whose butchered limbs 
 Lie pledged in sepulchres. My countrymen, 
 Welcome to victory, which must be ours, 
 For death is freedom ! 
 
 Soldiers, Victory or death ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — The Gillies' Hill. Men and 
 women watching the battle, 
 
 A Young Friar, "St. Andrew and St. 
 
 George ! Fight on ! fight on I " 
 A whole year's storms let loose on one small 
 
 lake 
 
152 BRUCE. 
 
 Prisoned among the mountains, rioting 
 Between the heathery slopes and rugged cliffs, 
 Dragging the water from its deepest lair, 
 Shaking it out like feathers on the blast ; 
 With shock on shock of thunder ; shower on 
 
 shower 
 Of jagged and sultry lightning ; banners, 
 
 crests. 
 Of rainbows torn and streaming, tossed and 
 
 flung 
 From panting surge to surge ; where one 
 
 strong sound. 
 Enduring with continuous piercing shriek 
 Whose pitch is ever heightened, still escapes 
 Wroth from the roaring whirl of elements ; 
 Where mass and motion, flash and colour 
 
 spin, 
 Wrapped and confounded in their blent 
 
 array : 
 And this all raving on a summer morn, 
 With unseen larks beside the golden sun, 
 And merest blue above ; with not a breeze 
 To fan the burdened rose-trees, or incense 
 With mimic rage the foamless rivulet, 
 
BRUCE. 153 
 
 That like a little child goes whispering 
 Along the woodland ways its happy thought ; 
 Were no more wild, grotesque, fantastical, 
 Uncouth, unnatural — and I would think 
 Impossible, but for the vision here — 
 Than is this clamorous and unsightly war, 
 Where swords and lances, shields and arrows, 
 
 flash, 
 Whistle, and clang — splintered like icicles, 
 Eclipsed like moons, broken like reeds, like 
 
 flames — 
 I^ewd flames that lick themselves in burning 
 
 lust— 
 With scorpion tongues lapping the lives of 
 
 men ; 
 Where axes cut to hearts worth all the oaks ; 
 Where steel burns blue, and golden armours 
 
 blaze — 
 One moment so, the next, a ruddier hue ; 
 Where broidered banners rustle in the charge. 
 
 And deck the carnage out A skeleton. 
 
 Ribboned and garlanded may sweetly suit 
 The morris-dancers for a May-pole now ! — 
 Where hoofs of horses spatter brains of men, 
 K 
 
154 BRUCE. 
 
 And beat dull thunder from the shaking sod ; 
 Where yelling pibrochs, braying trumpets, 
 
 drums, 
 And shouts, and shrieks, and groans, hoarse, 
 
 shrill — a roar 
 That shatters hearing — echo to the sky ; 
 Where myriad ruthless vessels, freighted full 
 Of proud rich blood — with images of God, 
 Their reasoning souls, deposed from their 
 
 command — 
 By winds of cruel hate usurped and urged. 
 Are driven upon each other, split, and 
 
 wrecked, 
 And foundered deep as hell. The air is dark 
 With souls. I cannot look —I cannot see. 
 
 [Kneels, 
 
 A Woman. The battle's lost before it's well 
 
 begun. 
 Our men fall down in ranks like barley-rigs 
 Before a dense wet blast. 
 
 A Cripple. Despair itself 
 
 Can only die before the English bows. 
 
BRUCE. 155 
 
 O that they could come at them ! Who are 
 
 these ^ 
 
 That skirt the marsh ? 
 
 Woman. My sight is weak. But see ; 
 Here's an old fellow, trembling, muttering* 
 
 Look 
 How he is strung ; and what an eye he has ! 
 
 Cripple, Old sight sees well away. I warrant, 
 
 now, 
 His is a perfect mirror of the fight. 
 You see well, father ? 
 
 Old Man. Ay. That's Edward Bruce ; 
 And none too soon. The feathered deaths 
 
 speed thick 
 In jubilant choirs, flight after singing flight. 
 That tune must end ; the nest be harried* 
 
 Ride, 
 Fiery Edward ! Yet our staunch hearts quail 
 
 not. 
 Ah ! now the daze begins ! I know it well. 
 The cloth-yard shafts like magic shuttles, 
 
 weave 
 
156 BRUCE. 
 
 Athwart the warped air dazzling, dire dismay, 
 And the beholder's blood sHnks to his heart 
 Like moles from daylight ; all his sinews fade 
 To unsubstantial tinder. Ha ! spur ! spur ! 
 There are ten thousand bowmen ! Gallop ! 
 
 Charge ! 
 Now, by the soul of Wallace, Edward Bruce, 
 The battle's balanced ! On your sword it 
 
 hangs ! 
 Look you ; there's fighting ! Just a minute's 
 
 fight! 
 Tug, strain ! Throe after throe ! Travail of 
 
 war ! 
 The birth — defeat and victory, those twins, 
 That in an instant breathe and die, and leave 
 So glorious and so dread a memory ! — 
 The bowstring's cut ! What butchery to see ! 
 They shear them down these English yeomen ! 
 
 God! 
 It looks like child's play too! And so it feels, 
 Now I remember me. — That's victory. 
 An English army is a mighty bow ; 
 The bowmen are the string; the string is cut; 
 The weapon's useless ! 
 
BRUCE. 157 
 
 Woman. But the knights, the knights ! 
 
 Old Man. I see them. But our spearmen ! 
 
 Do you see ! 
 This hill we stand on trembles with the shock : 
 They budge not, planted, founded in the soil. 
 Another charge ! Now watch ! Now see 1 
 
 Ugh ! Ha ! 
 Did one spear flicker ? One limb waver ? 
 
 No! 
 These fellows there are fighting for their land ! 
 The English army through its cumbrous bulk 
 Thrilled and astounded to the utmost rear, 
 Twists like a snake, and folds into itself, 
 Rank pushed through rank. Now are they 
 
 hand to hand ! 
 How short a front ! How close ! They're 
 
 sewn together 
 With steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword. 
 Spear across lance, and death the purfled 
 
 seam ! 
 I never saw so fierce, so locked a fight ! 
 That tireless brand that like a pliant flail 
 
158 BRUCE. 
 
 Threshes the lives from sheaves of English- 
 men, 
 
 Know you who wields it? Douglas, who 
 but he ! 
 
 A noble meets him now. Clifford it is ! 
 
 No bitterer foes seek out each other there. 
 
 Parried ! That told ! and that ! Clifford, 
 good night ! 
 
 And Douglas shouts to Randolf; Edward 
 Bruce 
 
 Cheers on the Steward; while the king's 
 voice rings 
 
 In every Scotch ear : such a narrow strait 
 
 Confines this firth of war ! 
 
 Yowig Friar, God gives me strength 
 Again to gaze with eyes unseared. Jewels ! 
 These must be jewels peering in the grass, 
 Cloven from helms, or on them : dead men's 
 
 eyes 
 Scarce shine so bright. The banners dip and 
 
 mount 
 Like masts at sea. The battle-field is slime, 
 A ruddy lather beaten up with blood ! 
 
BRUCE. 159 
 
 Men slip ; and horses, stuck with shafts like 
 
 butts, 
 Sprawl, madly shrieking ! No, I cannot look ! 
 
 \Exit 
 
 Woman. Look here ! look here, I say ! 
 
 Who's this behind ? 
 His horse sinks down — the brute is dead, I 
 
 think. 
 His clothes are torn ; his face with dust and 
 
 sweat 
 Encrusted, baked, and cracked. He speaks ; 
 
 he shouts ; 
 And shouting runs this way. He's mad, I 
 
 think. 
 
 Cripple, He's made his hearers mad. 
 Tents, blankets, poles. 
 
 Pitch-forks, and staves, and knives, bran- 
 dished and spread 
 
 By women, children, grandsires ! What is 
 this ? 
 
 Enter Ckomb^ followed by a crowd bear- 
 ing blankets for banners^ and armed 
 with staves^ etc* 
 
i6o 
 
 Crombe. I rode all night to strike a blow to- 
 day : 
 The noblest lady living bade me go : 
 Her kiss is on my lips and in my soul. 
 Come after me — yea, with your naked hands, 
 And conquer weapons ! 
 
 [Exeunt y shouting. 
 
 Scene VI. — The Field of Bannockburn. 
 The Scotch Reserve. To them enter 
 Bruce. 
 
 Bruce. Most noble souls who wait so 
 
 patiently ! 
 Your splendid faith is in the air about you \ 
 Your steady eyes shine like a galaxy ; 
 Your presence comforts me : pressed in the 
 
 fight, 
 The thought of you, like balm upon a wound, 
 Softened the thriftless aching of my heart. 
 The English waver ; on the hill behind 
 Our followers fright them, marching in array, 
 Bannered and armed, a legion out of heaven. 
 
i6i 
 
 The tide of battle turns, and victory 
 Needs only you to launch it bravely forth. 
 Now — I would bid you think, but that the 
 
 thought 
 Eludes me, like a homely, old-known song, 
 Wreathing in fitful gusts beyond the sense — 
 Now will the lofty keystone of our life 
 Be pitched in heaven for ever. We have 
 
 dreamt 
 Our prayers into fulfilment many a time : 
 To-day we wrestle, and the victory's ours : 
 And yet I feel so scantly what it means, 
 That I'm ashamed. Enough : I know you 
 
 ail- 
 Now for our homes, our children, and our 
 
 wives. 
 For freedom, for our land, for victory ! 
 And cry our old cry, Carrick ! 
 
 Soldiers, Carrick and victory ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 THE END. 
 
By the same Author. 
 
 Crown 8vo. Sewed, Price One Shilling. 
 
 THE NORTH WALL 
 
 By JOHN DAVIDSON. 
 
 Extracts from some Literary Notices. 
 
 This is a most absorbing tale._ It is fresh, manly, robust. Its 
 perusal is a tonic, a stimulus, an inspiration. It is just the thing for 
 the tourist and the traveller. It is vivacious, original, wholesome. 
 It deserves to be placed side by side with * Called Back.' It is sure 
 to become very popular." — Oldham Chronicle. 
 
 "This is the maddest tale we have read for an age." — Literary 
 World. 
 
 ** As a first book it is full of promise. The plot is wild enough in all 
 conscience ; wild to the verge of burlesque ; but it is, it must be 
 allowed, thoroughly original, and in the working of it out we have 
 both wit and humour displayed. The writer will do better things yet; 
 he shows himself possessed of the stuff out of which good novelists are 
 made. Time will develop his capabilities, and teach him self- 
 restraint. In ' The North Wall ' he is quite prodigal of his strength. 
 Interspersed through the narrative, but not too obtrusively, are 
 several touches of description of scenery and scenic eflfects that are 
 very neatly put in." — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "The humour and racy character of the writing are in the best 
 tone. * Miss Jane ' is splendid. For railway journey or hour of 
 leisure, no better story will be found on the book-stall. A dramatised 
 version of * The North Wall ' should be highly popular on the stage. * 
 — Perth Constitutional. 
 
 "There is no doubt about the originality of the crazy plot. The 
 hero is a novelist who rushes into crime in order to ' cause a novel to 
 take place in the world. ' " — North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " To begin with, when we say that Wilson & McCormick publish 
 the book, we do the same thing as saying that it is neat, elegant, and 
 as aesthetic as it can be made for the money. , . . We are able to 
 say with a safe conscience that 'The North Wall' is an excellent 
 book— well written, well published, and certain to be well read." — 
 Greenock Herald. 
 
 '* Mr. Lee (the unsuccessful author) sets to work to compose a novel 
 in action, and commences with personating a rich man whom a street 
 accident has placed at his discretion. A strong likeness between the 
 two gives rise to the design, which leads to many bewildering qtd pro 
 quos, and much extravagantly comic business."— Westminster Review. 
 
 Glasgow : WILSON & McCORMICK, Saint Vincent Street. 
 
I 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 3elles Lettres 
 
 ^ 
 
 :(hirfmaifie{^ 
 Scs3dfin/?ane: 
 
 ^ ^ (Stations //I 
 
 ? 
 
 1893 
 
" A word must be said for the manner in which the 
 pubUshers have produced the volume {i.e., 'The Earth 
 Fiend '), a sumptuous foUo, printed by Constable, the 
 etchings on Japanese paper by Mr. Goulding. The 
 volume should add not only to Mr. Strang's fame 
 but to that of Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John 
 Lane, who are rapidly gaining distinction for their 
 be2.utiful editions of belles-lettres." 
 
 Daily Chronicle, Sept. 24, 1892. 
 
 Referring io Mr. Le Gallienne's "English Poems'* 
 and "Silhouettes" by Mr. Arthur Symons — "we 
 only refer to them now to note a fact which they 
 illustrate, and, which we have been observing of late, 
 namely, the recovery to a certain extent of good 
 taste in the matter of printing and binding books. 
 These two books, which are turned out by Messrs. 
 Elkin Mathews and John Lane, are models of 
 artistic publishing, and yet they are simplicity itself. 
 The books with their excellent printing and their very 
 simplicity, make a harmony which is satisfying to 
 the artistic sense." — Sunday Sun, Oct. 2, 1892. 
 
 " Mr. Le Gallienne is a fortunate young gentleman. 
 I don't know by what legerdemain he and his pub- 
 lishers work, but here, in an age as stony to poetry 
 as the ages of Chatterton and Richard Savage, we find 
 the full edition of his book sold before publication. 
 How is it done, Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John 
 Lane ? for, without depreciating Mr. Le Gallienne's 
 sweetness and charm, I doubt that the marvel would 
 have been wrought under another publisher. These 
 publishers, indeed, produce books so delightfully that 
 it must give an added pleasure to the hoarding of first 
 editions." 
 
 Katharine Tynan in the Irish Daily Independent. 
 
 "To Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane 
 almost more than to any other, we take it, are the 
 thanks of the grateful singer especially due ; for it is 
 they who have managed, by means of limited editions 
 and charming workmanship to impress book-buyers 
 with the belief that a volume may have an aesthetic 
 and commercial value. They have made it possible to 
 speculate in the latest discovered poet as in a new 
 company — with the difference that an operation in the 
 former can be done with three half-crowns." 
 
 St. James's Gazette. 
 
June iSgs, 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 'BELLSS LsrrRss 
 
 (Including some Transfers) 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Elkin Mathews ^ Jc>hn Lane 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 A^. B. — The Authors and Publishers reserve the right of reprinting 
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14 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY 
 
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