954 T475 mar 1894 B 3 54a "I^O w Dramatic and all other Rights strictly reserved. ^api) Queen of ^cofc^: A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS, BY ROBERT BLAKE. [second edition.] SiMPKiN, Marshall and Cq^, Stationers' Hall Court. 1894. Dramatic and all other Rights strictly reserved. \l( hr rf /VeA/ , T'horr^pSO n^ JI^RY,^EENoF COTS K«> A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS, BY ROBERT BLAKE, ^v [second edition.] SiMPKiN, Marshall and Co., Stationers' Hall Court. 1894. mar PREFACE. |LAYS are written either to be read in the study, or to be acted on the stage. In the former case the play is simply a poem written in a particular form — in my opinion a most unnatural and inconvenient form. These plays are, like all affectation, generally bad ; some of them are beyond measure insufferable, inflicting on an ear accustomed to the music of real poetry the keenest torture. Plays written for the stage, on the other hand, labour under the disadvantage of requiring for their perfect elucidation what some one has very happily called the" living commentary of the actors." The following play belongs to the latter class. It will not appeal strongly, except to the reader who is suffi- ciently familiar with the stage to supply to some extent this commentary for himself as he proceeds. It is the same with the choruses. To realise their possible effect, it must be remembered that they are intended to be sung. It is t1ie fault of all our modern drama that it does not use this most powerful of all effects, and that from opera alone are we able to realise the sublime heights to which the Greeks in their divinely beautiful choral poetry so often attained. And yet the popularity of some recent plays, in which music was introduced, appears to show that we are at least approaching a state of civilisation equal to that in which the Greek drama took its rise. It is my conviction that the production of such a play as this, inferior as it may be to the great masterpieces of the past, would reveal to the world that the general drift of popular fancy is not after all in the direction of decadence, and that the highest kind of dramatic art would now attract sufticient public support to permit of its revival. ^ ^ 064 The story of Mary Queen of Scots has never yet been adequately treated in dramatic form. vSchiller's play contains many fine passages, but it is deformed by the fact that not only history but probability is violated. Incrcduliis odi must be the comment of every one who reads, for instance, the scene in which a perfectly impossible meeting between the Queens of England and Scotland is represented to have taken place. Mr. Swinburne's " Mary Stuart " is a libel not only on the Queen's character, but on her wit. He not only takes the view of her conduct as a wife, which Elizabeth and her Ministers so long and so successfully laboured to produce on the minds of their own generation, and which there is not a particle of real evidence to support, but he makes the most brilliant and accomplished princess of her age an almost insuffer- able bore. The greatest woman the human race has ever produced, a woman who in intellect, learning, literary and political ability, and energ)', surpassed almost all the men of her time, as much as she ex- celled other women in grace and beauty, is made to maunder through page after page of dreary platitudes, to drone out line after line of often indifferent iambics, till the reader feels that her murderers may almost be forgiven, for that nothing but death could adequately punish such interminable prolixity. Where such great writers have failed, and, in spite of his Mary Stuart trilogy, the author of ''Atalanta" is a great writer, it is doubt- less presumption of me to hope that I may succeed. I can only say, in excuse, that the spell which proved fatal to so many of poor Mary's ad- mirers, has fallen upon me too ; that I have been impelled by an irresistible impulse to do battle for her reputation, just as others were im- pelled to do battle for her life, and that I believe the picture here pre- sented is far more like the reality than any that has yet been painted, by other hands. uae^n ©r p(s©{s. DRAMATIS The Queen. Jane Kennedy f One of the Queen's Ladies).^ Chorus of the Queen's Ladies. PERSONyE. Sir Amyas Paulet (The Queen's Gaoler). Sir Andrew Melville (At- tendant on the Queen). Lord Burleigh (Minister of Queen EHzabeth). The Earl of Shrewsbury. The Earl of Kent. Judges, Soldiers, &c. ACT I. SCENE — The Queen's Room at Chartley Castle. Enter Sir Amyas Paulet, reading a letter. Paulet. All must go forward in order. — We've managed to convince her Majesty, but to that on which we are determined, her consent she will not give, so we proceed without it. — She's written to the Queen of Scots urging to confess, and trust to her mercy. For her it matters little, for confession must not save her, but for us 'twould be convenient, and silence those who might give trouble. — If some secret means be found of putting her away, you are to know we will not closely seek the cause, nor will they lack reward who render such a service. — Walsingham. That rU not do, for done they'd turn and cast All upon me. If they must have her life Let them then take it — Little do they know her. Were she in truth guilty a hundred times. No torture from her lips would wring confession, Much less as 'tis. Melville suspects us not. Life has not taught him yet to trust no man. He plays our game as he were one of us. Enter Sir Andrew Melville. How goes the plan ? Melville. All well ! The ladies ready. May God reward you. Paulet. When they're off, I rage And lead pursuit where they have n.ever gone. But silence. Melville. Fear not I am heart and soul In this attempt. To tell the simple truth I have an interest of my own in it ; For Mistress Kennedy, once the Queen is safe. Has promised to fulfil a certain pledge, I won of her a certain summer's eve. Paulet. She of the bitter tongue ? Melville. That's her one side. To me she shows the other. Sharp at times But sweet, and faith she's pretty as her mistress. Paulet (aside). A doll whose strings her subtle mistress pulls. Well : all apart from i)ity for the ladies, And fellow-feeling for a good man's love — P'or my own ease I want them from my way. Melville. Shall I not tell the ladies you are with us ? Paulet. Dost know so little, Melville, as to trust A w^oman's ears with what she may not tell To all she meets ? Melville. Some have loose tongues like some men, But some are safe. Paulet. The less they know the safer; Women, besides, judge not by reason, and law, But by some nimbler faculty they have. They try, acquit, condemn, all in an instant, And we are true, or traitors at a glance. Were I a thousand times your friend, Melville, Your Jane, and her keen mistress would not think it. Melville. Why thus distrust yourself? An honest man Cares less what others think, than what is true. Why trust them not ? Paulet. I cannot tell you why, It may be something in the nose, or eye, That I observe — nor are they over civil, — And for your Jane, she minces not her words. But lets us plainly hear the ill she thinks. Melville. Often the steed that plunges at the start Holds out the best. I stake my life she's true, And for her courage, that you prove yourself. Paulet. Such steeds suit open country, and straight riding, We have to pick our way, and want more steady. Melville. I have no taste for windings underground, Secrets with this, and mysteries w^ith that, I like the open field, the light of heaven. Paulet. They are not frank and generous like yourself, They're older, and know more ; so tell them nothing. Now I go hence : you stay, and urge them to it. I play the surly gaoler while I must. (Aside) Would God I were not forced to play so deep. But Cecil's prying eye is everywhere. Exit Paulet. 8 Melville. Her whole heart's in the Queen — To me she gives At times a careless sigh, at times a thought, Yet are we men so made that foolish love The more 'tis blown upon, the fiercer glows. Eftter Jane Kennedy and Chorus. Chorus. The hour draws nigh ; our country calls, The crimson eve still glows. But when the night from heaven falls. These cursed and cruel prison walls. For us and her unclose. n. Then swift as hare on native heath. And swift as lark on high, Without a sound, without a breath, We leap on steeds that pant beneath. And spring for liberty. III. The boats wait on the distant shore By faithful laddies manned. With swelling sail, and sweeping oar. We'll dance along the watery floor. To where the good ships stand. IV. And then our mistress, Scotland's Queen, Will shine among her own. No more shall she in voice or mien Recall, but be what she has been, A Monarch on her throne. v. The fearless heart they could not break, The pride they could not bend, Will burn, ere her vile gaolers wake. Where sluggard may not overtake. Nor harlot's hate extend. VI. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Scotland, And for our lady dear, In weal and woe by her we stand. For her we've wept, for her we've planned, For her, for her we cheer. Enter Sir Amyas Paulet. Paulet {to Melville). Why are these women thus allowed to make The evening hideous with their Highland noise ? Jane Kennedy. We have been ladies, sir, to better bred, And as for noise — God send us Highland husbands, Whose sons we may instruct to wake such cries. And wield such arms as those of Bannockburn. Paulet. The liberty I give you still abuse. Jane Kennedy. You give but what you must, and that for shame Your mistress dare not stint. Paulet. Well, we shall see. W^here is the Lady Stuart? Jane Kennedy. My mistress, sir, Her Majesty, is where becomes her ill, Kept here by one whose throne she ought to fill. Paulet. Treason ! for less the Queen might have your head. Jane Kennedy. 'Twere better than her own. Paulet. I came not here Jane Kennedy. Would God it were so ; but you came unasked, And are not pressed to stay. Paulet. I came to see Jane Kennedy. She will not see you now, sir. Paulet. Presently I shall return, and she must see me then. Exit Paulet. Jane Kennedy. Must ! Must ! Ah ! fallen Majesty ! 'Tis thus By every upstart slave thou art addressed. Melville. Why, sweetheart, waste your words — lie heeds you not. Jane Kennedy. I was her servant, Melville ; aye, her friend, Ere her ill-fated foot on Scotland trod. When by the splendour of her loveliness Her royal state itself was all eclipsed : When peers of France crowded around her throne More to behold the woman than the Queen. I see her now, her matchless grace and charm Like sunshine quickening all whereon she beamed ; And one on whom she smiled, for very pride All day would wear his pleasure on his lips ; And one to whom she gave her hand would fall Upon his knees and worship ; and the King Her husband — How she is not mad I know not — Would hang on her sweet lips, feed on her glance. And with his \ovq — (bursts into tears)— Melville. The present, not the past. Concerns us now. Be ready, and no weakness Hinder our plans. Jane Kennedy. Our nature's as her own ; Not bred in softness, but where women grow Fit to be mothers of true men. This heart No faintness felt in stern Loch Lev en's castle When she went forth clad as a common wench. And played so well her part she passed the gates ; I stayed to seem the Queen. Melville. What then befell? Jane Kennedy. Alas ! They brought her back - The rowers knew not 1 1 What presence graced their boat, but laughed and joked, And, when she spoke not, rougher sport essayed, Thinking her as themselves. Then from her cloak Her arm leaped forth to warn their boldness back, And in the moonlight, hke the driven snow, Shone her white hand, most beautiful. They knew No peasant's toil left fingers such as those, And feared to save her. Mp:lville. The vile cowards, the slaves. Had I my hand upon their throats I swear They'd choke 'ere I released them — Is she well ? Our lives rest on our swiftness in this night. Jane Kennedy. Alas ! Poor soul ! Torture has done its work. Like some free creature of the woods confined By cruel bars, her limbs have lost their swiftness. No more as at Langside, when none in Scotland So boldly rode, when her keen spirit had swept To victory through traitor Murray's host, Had men the heart to follow. Then she bore Unharmed fatigues that tried the hardiest. But now Melville. What now ? Jane Kennedy. Now 'tis another matter ; Her heart is high as ever ; fear she knows not, Nor ever knew, but there are times she seems More fit for heaven than for such enterprise As ours to-night. Melville. Hush ! Paulet returns. Jane Kennedy. The prying knave ! A hundred times a day. Like Jack-in-the-box, he's in, and out, and in. Why let him come. He dares not come to blows Where he might win ; with tongue I hold my own Against a legion such. . Melville. Small doubt of that. But you, mayhap, are too severe a judge ; W hat if he help us ? 12 Jane Kennedy. Oh ! Believe it not. Think you an honest man would be their tool, Their thumbscrew, their accursed rack, to plague us ? Whether she scorns him as the ground she treads, Or if, aroused a moment by some outrage, Her old fierce spirit flashes out upon him. He hates her while he cowers, flies off awhile, . And then takes mean revenge in new intrusion. Melville. Let him not hear you. Jane Kennedy. Nay, but let him hear. I would to Gnd my voice might reach his mistress. Melville. I'll meet and keep him off. Jane Kennedy. That as you please. I know not which is better to my taste. To have him here for my abuse, or hence For our relief, and her's. A cowardly cur. Exit Melville. Must ! Must ! Oh ! Heaven ! had I been born a man ! My friends, another song, lest we seem silenced. Chorus. To men stout hearts the gods have given. Strong limbs, or mighty mind. To women weak all pitying heaven Has other gifts assigned. II. Wit to delight, magic to charm, And sweetness to retain — Gentleness, anger to disarm. And love sweet love to gain. iir. Persuasion, passion to control, And beauty to appeal. Beauty, that harmony whose soul We may not fix but feel. 13 IV. But ne'er did beauty sense delight, As her's who sad and slow, \Enter The Queen and Melville.] Like sunset sinking in the night. Her prison paceth now. They all k7ieel before The Queen. The Queen. Our sorrows, Melville, have at least this solace, They sift the subtle flatterer from the friend I doubt if our cold cousin in her splendour Be not more truly lonely than ourselves. Your love, my children, is the dearest joy Left to us now. Arise ; we may reward Only with thanks your service ; yet I think You value that. Jane Kennedy. More than all other things. The Queen. My faithful friend, in every trial true. What ? Smiling through the tears ? Nay ! Nay ! Be brave. The end is near. Now leave us for a while. Exeunt Jane Kennedy and Chorus. Why do they tempt me, Melville ? To be free I will dare all, but never pay that price. Little of life is left me ; for that little Shall I lose heaven, and stain my royal honour ? She, like myself, is Queen. Her life is sacred. Should any coward attempt it at my bidding Such fate be mine who vile example set. I have refused, and hold to't. Melville. So, 'tis well. I strive not with your Majesty on that. The Queen. Where do they steer for ? I had rather try For France than Scotland, for the strength has left me That nerved before to strive with their mad factions. 14 And for my son, ah ! God ! through all these years How I have lived in hope ! How dreamed the days, The months that crawled for me brought strength to him. That the dull sun which rose, and set, and rose In endless sameness might confirm his strength Till he became a man. How I have prayed The very winds to brace him till his heart Might grow as was in better days my own. What is he ? Why ! The peasant in the field Would raise his arm against authority To shield the womb that bare him. He, a king, My blood and flesh, leans to my enemies. And leaves me in my danger and despair. Melville. Madame, he is beset with evil tongues. The Queen. Such is the curse of greatness. In his heart Is there no human love that yearns to me. No voice wnthin his ears that pleads for me. Or, if no pity, fear that I forget How he has lain beside my heart, and slept Upon my bosom, fondling as he fed. Forget and curse him ? Melville. Madame, weep not so, He will yet prove his love. The Queen. Alas ! I know not — I am ashamed of these unqueenly tears — Since never Stuart was recreant before I think the babe beneath my breast w^as cowed, When Rizzio's screams rang in my startled ears, When bloody Ruthven, and his father stabbed The poor misshapen creature in my sight. Melville. That well may be. The Queen. What fiend possessed their souls AVith jealousy of cripple such as he ? Had I been one my honour to forget, My crown, my child, were there no men in Scotland ? Because it pleased to listen to his song. 15 Because his voice brought back sweet youth, and France, And gentler manners. Ah ! unhappy Queen ! To suffer thus alone were easier borne, But to have ruin brought on every frend That ever loved me Melville. Madame, the night falls fast, The moon has risen, our friends will soon be here. The Queen. At the first sign of danger, they will try To murder me. Melville. Time will be short for them. And they are ready who will stay their hands. The Queen. Then let us banish sorrow, and the past And think of freedom — Send my women to me. Exit Melville. So often tried, so often failed before. Is't now to be success ? Too late ! too late ! Dominion, majesty, to me are sounds That tempt no more, no more. Against its bars My soul has striv'n till its wild wings are torn And useless. If the fires within at times Blaze out, 'tis as when waves at ebb of tide Sweep up the shore, and then sink deeper back. To rest ! to rest ! Is there tio rest on earth ? Oh ! be it mine, if I am free to-night To come to France, and in some blessed convent. With holy women round me to the end, Escape the storms that rage around a throne. ^ Enter Jane Kennedy and Chorus. Chorus. To wait ! to wait ! How crawls the timj. Each moment is a year, Slow, slow the stars in heaven climb Yet are no comrades here. i6 li. No voice of friend the silence breaks, No signal from the hill, No clattering hoof the drawbridge shakes, No cries the castle thrill. Oh ! heaven protect the brave to night. And set our lady free. No dread mishap her fortune blight. No bloody treason check her flight, To home and liberty. The Queen. How will our cousin hear the tidings, Jane? Jane Kennedy. I would not be the messenger to bring it For half her kingdom. Why, she'll spit on him. They say she spits in anger ; and she'll swear Like any trooper, and have off his head. Cecil won't soothe her, Leicester won't console her, Much less another. The Queen. Not the King of France, Her former lover, who so quickly cooled ? Jane Kennedy. 'Twas not to taste with him to be her spider. The Queen. What mean you ? Jane Kennedy. In that race the Queens are strongest, And eat their husbands up if they don't please them. So farmers say. The Quee^. He's safer where he is (laughifig) Though he thus want a kingdom, she an heir — Jane Kennedy. If that might be she had been married sooner. The Queen. In haste mayhap to silence scandalous tongues Which none the less will wag. Jane Kennedy. She's much maligned Or she has grounds for knowing how she stands. 17 The Queen. She fears the expense of marria.2;e. She is careful x\nd watches waste. Jane Kennedy. Judge by her royal presents, Madame, in your sore need ; two worn-out dresses And beggarly supply of ragged shifts. The Queen. Aye, when I claimed the sister's help she offered. Jane Kennedy. God knows if sister's true. They say she favours Him of the many wives. If so, 'tis well, Else her own mother knew not whence she came. The Queen. Judge not the dead. When monarchs choose to murder. False evidence is easy to procure. Then forgery and lies are loyal service. And truth is treason. Has she not on us Essayed to fix such crimes as in our place Mayhap she had performed ? And, when we scorn To plead to such a charge, our very silence Is held as proof. Jane Kennedy. Alas ! 'tis even so. The Queen. If guilty, her unhappy mother paid A fearful penalty, whereof the thought Sends the chill blood like ice to my cold heart. Jane Kennedy. Think not upon it, Madame The Queen. That were weli, If thoughts might be obedient to the will ; But there are times they are rebellious subjects, And rise like ours in tumult. What of Melville ? That were a lighter matter. Jane Kennedy. What of Melville ? The same as heretofore. Sighs, and sighs, and sighs, And I am hard of heart and he is patient, And would be meek, obedient as a lamb, If only I would give the upper hand. Says more than he means, means more than he dare say, And plagues me with his kisses when he may. Tears, Madame ? The Queen. For the past, the past, the past. Jane Kennedy. Nay ! Let these ladies cheer us with their music. I see, I may not win a smile to-day, Though I confess more than I ever thought. Chorus. i. Safer the secret way, the silent life. The simple home where fond affection glows, Than heights where passions meet in strife. And blood in torrents flows. II. Dearer the joys, the love of lowly birth. Where father, mother, child, at evening meet To laugh around the glowing hearth, Than thrones where princes greet. III. No thieves beset the empty peasant's way. No plots perplex, no cares deny him ease. He lives his life from day to day, And God for him foresees. IV. But ah ! for her who robbed of crown and throne,. Wretched, abandoned mother, widowed wife. Imprisoned, outraged, and alone, Drags out her weary life. v. Oh ! who that loves her if we fail to-night. Would wish her hours of anguish to prolong ; Would bid her stay, where vanquished right Is ever slave to wrong ? Efiter Paulet. ^9 Paulet. 'Tis time this fooling cease. Thk Queen (aside^ to Jane Kennedy). Nay, let us fool him, since he calls it fooling. Jane Kennedy. When men make chairs of trees, they are but wood ; When queens make knights of fools The Queen. Chairs have their use, Jane Kennedy. As so have fools — for us to sit upon. The Queen. We wait, Sir ? Paulet. Wait ? Thk Queen. That you, who seem so strange. May be made known to us. Paulet. I am no stranger. Jane Kennedy. Alas ! too true. Such truth will out like murder. TheQueen. Seems it not, sir, an age since you were here ? Jane Kennedy. A month of minutes. The Queen. Why ! we've nigh forgotten The nature of your countenance. That high brow, That glorious eye, now kindling with great thoughts, Now wet with pity for all things that suffer. That stately step. Jane Kennedy. Welcome, if seldom heard. The Queen. Well ! we forgive his frequent absence, Jane, He knows how easy 'tis to burden welcome. Jane Kennedy. If he know nought better, all his learning's little. Paulet. I know not if your Grace untimely jests The Queen. Ah ! Sir, Pve been when jests sprang to my lips As light as lark to sky. Now all is changed. Alas ! there is so little laughter now. Paulet. Least lavish, Madame, longest lasts. 20 The Queen. Our souls Are mirrors, Sir, which picture their surroundings, Mine once was lake, that glittered in the sun, Reflecting the blue sky, the golden clouds, The happy homes of earth, and the bright faces That gazed to see their beauty in my depths. Now, I am like Loch Leven, dark and dumb. And full of shadows. At myself I shudder. Paulet. I know not what to say. Jane Kennedy. Say nothing so, And we are all the safer for your silence. Paulet. Here, you've been well enough — well cared, well treated The Queen. Well watched. Ah ! Sir, my spirit is too free For comfortable bondage. O'er my head. Which might, you think, have lain in peaceful rest. The years have rolled like waves above drowning ; And I, through all those years, have had no home. No love— save from such faithful friends as this. The innocent prattle of my child to me Has brought no comfort, nor his manhood peace. His little hands have never felt my face To coax my kiss. Why, Jane, just now 'twas jests. Truly, the founts of tears and laughter lie So close they flood at times, and flow together. Jane Kennedy. This dismal presence has put out our laughter. As foul air might a taper in a tomb. Paulet. 'Tis time this fooling cease. Jane Kennedy Forgetful fool ! So said you once. What clumsy courtier's this ? Fie, fool ! The jest is stale. The Quern. We are all fools, Sir, Pursuing follies which we try to grasp. And which elude us ever. Yourself, for instance, 21 Serving that shadow on a shadowy throne, Think thus to earn those foUies, place and power ; And I — I wait the folly liberty, Which may be nearer than we think, and yet Prove other than we hope. Paulet Too true ! Too true ! Jank Kennedy. We know what liberty he'd like to give us Leave to pursue our murdered friends to heaven. The Queen. Let one life fail, and what have we become ? This weak, white hand, would then have power to crush Ten thousand such as you, and all your honours W^ould but remind how you deserve our favour. Let us be friends. Jane Kk^-net>y ( aside). He dares not stain her hand With his false kiss. Paulet. I do but what I must. The Queen. Nay, Sir, not so. 'Twere easy to obey Your mistress's orders, and yet spare all insult To us her equal. Paulet. Madame, my homely wit Is but ill match for yours. I meddle not With reasons, but my duty I must do. By her command your women sleep apart ; Tis time that they retire. Jane Kennedy. My mistress. Sir, Of late is ill, and cannot rest alone, Permit me stay with her. Paulet. It may not be Jane Kennedy. Is there no mercy ? Must one bred as she. Daughter of kings— a monarch from her cradle, In sickness lack what e'en the poorest have ? 22 The Qukfn. My child, we ask no favours. You do well To rule, Sir, but to us to obey is strange ; Let us within. Exeunt The Queen, Jane Kennedy and Chorus. Paulet. I like it less and less. A heart of stone Would pity her, and he were less than man, From whom her spirit won not admiration. If it were only safe to side with her, She'd find 1 can be soft as well as rude. Now comes the worst of all — Melville must know ; To keep him longer ignorant would risk Rashness from him, and for myself suspicion. \Enter Melville.] Melville, to-night begins a tragedy. 'Tis fixed by those whose will we may not question That Mary Stuart must die. Melville. If they knew all That would seem doubtful. Paulet. Why the Queen should bring This guilt upon herself, this shame on England, Let her examine. Sure the time were short Had she left all the nature. Melville. Aye, indeed. Paulet. Walsingham has betrayed her to a scheme For her escape, in which you've played your part. As I advised. Melville. Great God ! You have deceived me. Paulet. You know her fearless nature — she has fallen Into the trap. Melville. A trap ! a trap ! Oh ! fiends ! Paulet. To make her guilt deserve their punishment, A plan to assassinate the Queen, our mistress, Was part of their design ; but there they failed. For none could gain her to such enterprise. 23 Melville. Thank heaven ! Then is she safe ? Paulet. I would it were so. But power ne'er lacks fit instrument of ill. What she refused, others have done instead. Melville. What ! Forgery ? Paulet. They hold what bears her name' But which she never saw, nor ever signed. Melville. Oh ! this is damnable. Paulet. And on the rack In mortal agony, her instruments Made false confession. Melville. May the villains writhe In hell to all eternity for that. Paulet. Poor wretches ! They well knew the un- welcome truth Would never purchase respite for their torments. That she may be convicted of a part. And thus men think all true that will be said, The plot we have allowed to grow to head, But ample force is here at hand to crush All hope of rescue. Melville. Oh ! sir, for love of heaven Let her go free. Let all the fault be mine. Paulet. The exchange were foolish. Though they use us thus For their vile work they give no confidence. Escape is hopeless. If we let her free We free our own heads off our silly shoulders, And she is elsewhere taken. All is ready. Her friends in sight. The force in leash that hunts them, And our poor captive eager for the net That in its folds will cover her for ever. Melville. They come. Paulet. Come hence. Come hence. I say you shall. 24 Melville. I'll not be handled. In her hour of danger My place is at her side, and she must know What's meant against her. The whole world shall know. Paulet. As you would save her, be not thus head" strong. What can you do ? Think you a feeble fly, Perching between the hammer and the anvil. Could thus avert the blow. Be prudent, wise. She will have need of you hereafter, Melville. jNIelville. My curse be on your villainy, false knave. What I know, all shall know of you and them. Paulet. Your cry is not so loud but English steel Could stop it in the throat ; and for your knowledge 'Twere best to take it hence within your skull. Else might we see it spattered on the wall. And so for ever lost. Nay, if you will not — Without there ! E7ite7' four soldiers, who sieze Melville and ihri/st him out. Exit Paulet. Enter Jane Kennedy and Chorus, dressed in readiness for a journey. Chorus. Hush ! Hush ! No word, no breath betray, The signal we have seen, The night is past, now dawns the day Of freedom for our Queen. Hush ! Hush ! Their steps approaching fast Tell us our friends are near. Long, banished hope, at last, at last, Returns to banish fear. E?iter The Queen, dressed in readiness for aJour?iey. The Chorus kneel before the Queen. Ob ! sovereign lady. In this hour of Freedom Wherein we leave this home of weary woe, Vouchsafe to us, thy faithful fellow captives And loving servants, blessing 'ere we go. 25 Loud knocking and cries. The Queen sinks fainting on a couch. Jane Kennedy, Madame ! Madame ! Oh ! heavens ! She is dying. Madame ! My Lady ! Oh ! blessed mother of God. Leave us not now. Enter a 7iuinber of armed men. The ladies rush to meet them, but recoil in horror. Jane; Kennedy. Oh, villains, villains ! These are not our friends. We are betrayed. The Queen, they've come to kill her ! Treason ! The Queen ! Melville ! oh, save her, save her ! The Queen recovers consciousness and sloivly rises. Enter Paulet and Melville. The Queen. Why this intrusion, sir ? Paulet. Your pardon, Madame. The Queen. The headsman craves, and gets it ere he strike. Another search ? To such indignities We are accustomed, though their cause we know not. Paulet (reading a paper). Madame, this tells that you have late conspired To force escape from hence. The Queen. A criminal Had done no less, 'tis true. Paulet. That you have plotted Death for Her Majesty the Queen, in hope To fill her throne. The Queen. We plot our cousin's death To fill her throne ? Paulet. Madame, you thus have earned The fate that follows treason. The Queen. To the proof. Paulet. The proofs are in safe hands, and in good time Will be examined. Even now the lords 26 Appointed to be judges in the case Are on their way from London. The Queen. Who are they Who dare to sit in judgment on a queen ? We have been born above such courts. We own Allegiance only to the God of justice, AVho tries all treachery. Ah, I see all now. Betrayed, deserted, tortured, even to die In peace is not permitted. The poor months We might have lingered in our misery ]\lust be cut short. Nor is e'en that enough. That honour may be taken with the life, Lest Europe, in abhorrence of this outrage, Lest France, where we have reipned, lest Scotland rise For justice, this accursed mockery Of courts precedes the final, piteous scene. Minions of her, whose hate has held us here. Take back our answer. Perjured harlot's breast Fed not these lips. No bastard stain defiles Our royal race. Within these burning veins The blood of kings disdains defeat and death. This body you may wound. These hands are weak Nor can resist you ; but the soul within She shall not conquer. On that bloody Throne Which in the sight of God, and of His church Is ours, the Queen of England is less great Than shall bs in her murder Mary Stuart. END OF ACT I. 27 ACT II. SCENE I. — A Corridor at Fotheringhay Castt.e, LEADING TO THE HaLL OF JUDGMENT. Enter Melville and Jane Kennedy. Jane Kennedy. This may not, must not be till she is safe ; What you have done for us has gained, I grant you, The little of my heart was left to win. The larger part you had before. But now A truce to trifling. As they say in Scotland, More distance, and less liberty, my friend. Melville. Scotch lassies, as it seems, are hard to win. Jane Kennedy. And hence the better wives. I've told the Queen. Melville. What will she do ? Jane Kennedy. None better know than she To use her powers. Foreseeing this she sent Long since to Scotland, and in spite of spies. Letters have gone to France, to Spain, and Rome, This to Elizabeth. He starts to-day. Let him give't to none save her for whom 'twas writ. Melville. If there he fails ? Jane Kennedy. Why then we are no worse Than as we stand. He must away at once, Draw rein nor night nor day. Swift steed, hard road, And steady heart bring him to victory.. The times are urgent, mischief in the air. And she, though heaven has given her wondrous wit, Is but one woman pitted 'gainst a host. Melville. Little her wit will serve, or our endeavours. Jane Kennedy. Oh ! I have feared it. Is this then the end ? Melville. Have you not heard that there is war with Spain ? 28 That mighty armaments fill all her ports, Equipped to sail for England ? Jane Kennedy. War ! War ! War I Melville. They hoped to find a party for her here, And so to deal with a distracted foe. Jane Kennedy. If she were free ! If she were only free ! Melville. Ask hungry tigress to release her prey, Then ask Elizabeth to free her rival. She dares not if she would ; fate strong as steel Holds them in grip ; and one of them must die. Jane Kennedy. She dare not shed her royal sister's blood. And fix upon her fame a foul reproach. The very principle of monarchy Is here at stake. Strike her, she strikes herself, And every throne in Europe feels the blow. Melville. There is one hope. Could she but bow the head That never yet has bowed ; resign all claims ; Humble herself to dust ; accuse herself Of all they falsely charge, and on her knees Ask pardon Jane Kennedy. If their hatred could distort Her limbs with every torture taught in hell. She would not yield an inch. None know as I. In heart of man no spirit ever dwelt More proud and fearless. No ! Ten thousand lives She will resign, ere she accept dishonour. Melville. Let us persuade her. 'Tis the only hope. Jane Kennedy. If that be all our hope, 'tis all too little. Heard you the King of France has made request That she be given counsel at the trial. And all things meet for her defence? Melville. 'Tis so, They have replied she is unworthy of it, 29 And so refused. Jane Kennedy. Incredible ! Meville. 'Tis true. Jane Kennedy. She is refused. She, whose divinest mercy Made it her law in Scotland, that the poorest May claim what she's denied. Now may high Heaven, Left as she is, inspire her to confound them. Enter Lord Burleigh and Paulet. Paulet. Your mistress will be ready at the hour ? Jane Kennedy. No readiness is wanted, sir. The Queen Respects her guests but little, and will make Small fuss to entertain them. \To Melville.] That a man, I'd cut a better from a cabbage stalk. Exeunt Jane Kennedy and Melville. Burleigh. The wench is ready, Paulet, with her tongue. Paulet. The maid is as her mistress. Would to God The Queen had laid the task on any other ! It is forbid to come to blows with them, And so they best me, having choice of weapons. Burleigh. What of the Queen ? Paulet. A thousand devils possess her. Fierce as a tigress, fearless as a hawk. Using such arts as wit of man must fail To conquer in the end. Give her but time. And means, however slight, and she will reign In England yet. We stand upon a mine. No servant can I trust. She has bewitched them. One comes to-day believing all he's told, i\nd finds the sinner is a slandered saint. To-morrow he will die to do her bidding. 30 Burleigh. So would it be with us, and so they meet not. Paulet. Captive she calls herself ! As is the spider, Which, unseen, lurks within her secret den, Ready to pounce. All Europe is her web, And every subtle string of policy Has here its centre. Every thrill she feels, And every sign of danger to our mistress She springs at, thinking that the hour has come. Burleigh. And yet Her Majesty oft' longs to see her. *' Why should we fear the Queen of Scots," she says. You know what women are — mere weathercocks, Turned with a gust. We may not tell her why, Or we might lose our precious heads on it. But men have eyes in England, as elsewhere. Paulet. I wish we saw our way to make an end. Burleigh. 'Tis what we do see. This must be allowed. She'll make fine fight no doubt ; but after this We make swift work, and action outstrips words. She comes Paulet. For God's sake let us hence. I'd rather face A troop of horse, than bear the battery Of her sharp tongue. Exeunt Burleigh and Paulet. A processio7i of judges and attendants passes by^ followed by men at arms. After a brief interval^ ente? The Queen, Jane Kennedy a7id Melville. The Queen. Now to this business. How of the Judges? Jane Kennedy. If the universe Had each for centre, there were not more pomp. So long they've crawled before a queen, to judge Her equal turns their weak brains inside out. Their faces grave, portentous, eyes severe. Their words a tragedy, their voices terror, Their noses scorn. With clasping hands in front 31 They bear about their stomachs, as though Atlas Had plucked the tumbUng world from off his shoulders. And waddled it in front. The Queen. In such a mind These slaves come here to deal with life and death. Jane Kennedy. Like children playing grown folk, from beneath Their masks smirks out at times their littleness. Curious to see one famous as yourself, Yet half alarmed their w4ts stand not the encounter, Which Cecil, fearing, waits at hand to watch. Like Satan driving to their tasks the damned. The Queen. What of their train ? Jane Kennedy. As though in fear each brings A mighty retinue of men-at-arms. The town is gorged, and all the country round Is scattered with her surfeit, tents, on tents. The Queen. Some great affair is as it seems afoot. Melville. No less than great since it concerns your Grace. The Queen. They dare not touch my life. My son's protection Is as a shield ot steel against their hate. Men love not to offend their future King, Howe'er the present bid. Melville. Alas ! how know we Hurt to your Grace were great offence to him ? The Queen. Have I not, from my prison, struck through him At traitors, who abused my hour of weakness ? Jane Kennedy. To punish at your bidding cost him little. The Queen. Have Morton, Lindsay, after many days Not felt my power ? Was he not then my son ? 32 Jane Kennedy. Bid him vacate your throne, if you would try him ; Bid him make war on her, and set you free. Men call him coward. The Queen. The royal blood of Bruce Flows in no coward. Melville. Set him some spendid task, Whose doing may fling back into their teeth Such calumnies, and prove him your true son. The Queen (to Jane Kennedy). Have you forgotten when he fled from Gowrie That tapestry we wove ? On desert ground A lonely lioness, and at her side Her little one ; and how we wove beneath Our own case, Unum quidem sed leonem. He took the field and crushed the traitors then. Jane Kennedy. All victories, Madame, are not Ban- nockburn. Nor every victor Bruce. The Queen. He loves me still. And nature in his heart crys out for me, And makes him hero in his mother's cause. Melville. Madame, his youth knew not your tender care. And other influence The Queen. Nay, Sir, his mind Is like my own — sees all things for itself. Have you not heard, when opening Parliament, Held when my little Prince had but four years ? After the speech — which, by the way, he read, Babe as he was, without a fault— he spied The sky through the torn roof, and pointing to it. Cried out, " I see a hole in Parliament." Jane Kennedy. If holes might stand for faults, an eye less bright Might see a million such. Melville. Small doubt of that 33 The Queen. Keen sight and courage in his infant mind Were infants then, and since have gained full stature, My pretty beam ! Melville. Madame, I fear to offend Whom I most love, yet must I speak it out In our great danger lean not on false hope. There is no safety if our eyes are fixed On what we wish, rather than on what is. Make peace with those within whose power you lie While there is time. Jane Kennedy. So be your dear life safe. The Queen. If he be not my friend, why should I hve ? For him, and those to come, I've held my place. Poor, broken-hearted captive, as I am. That one prerogative they cannot touch. Mother of England's kings — though she be Queen, My honour is more p-ecious far than hers, For that dies with her, mine survives through me. And none shall truly say. So help me God, That I have left a heritage of shame. Or live, or die, I bend the head to none. Enter Paulet. Paulet. Madame, their lordships wait. The Queen. And so 'tis fitting We come in our own time. Paulet. Madame, it must The Queen. Wait on your betters, Sir. Crawl where they use you, Loathmg the while. When they are hence, resume Your airs of office, and oppress a woman. Paulet. Your temper, Madame 34 The Queen. Has been tried at timeSy And stood the test. We use it as we please. 'Tis slave, not master, like thyself. Paulet. I'll hence The Queen. 'Twere best. Such knights owe safety to their heels Often er than to their valour. [JLxif Paulet.] Come, let us go. Discourtesy Belongs as little to our rank, as haste. Exemit The Queen, Jane Kennedy, and Melville. SCENE II. — Hall of Judgment. Judges Assembled. A Chair is placed in front of them for The Queen. Enter The Queen, Jane Kennedy and Melville. The Queen (to Melville^ as she takes her seat). Alas ! How many counsellors are here ? And yet not one for me. Our place is where you sit. Sirs, your's beneath. If we accept things as they are, dream not. We recognise your office. We are here For weighty reasons which concern ourselves. The Queen takes her seat^ JaJie Kennedy and Melville sta7iding behi?id her. Burleigh. By order of Her Majesty the Queen We are assembled here, my Lords, to try This lady, who has set on foot a plot To kill Her Majesty, and seize her crown. The Queen. 'Tis England's law that those accused be judged By jury of their peers. Where are my peers ? 35 Burleigh. Do you plead, Madame, to this charge of treason, Guilty or not guilty ? Ti!E Queen. We plead not either, since we stand upon Our rights as sovereign. We are Queen as she. Treason regards but subjects. Burleigh. We come to the indictment none the less. You have conspired to make escape from hence. The Queen. We were unworthy of our place and blood Had we done other. Not without request We came to this inhospitable land. Often your mistress tempted us to fly From our rebellious subjects to her arms, Calling us kin, and dearest friend, and sister ; Yet after Langside, when we tried her love. We found ourselves entrapped. Burleigh. This is confession Of that part of our charge. The graver matter Is of the assassination of the Queen. Madame, you are accused of this. Your servants Have made confession. The Queen. Is it England's law That such consent be wrung from those by torments Who else had spoken truth ? Whom torture left, Like garments soiled when they have served their turn, To perish in repentance of their sin. We know, sirs, that these wretched men refused To hold to what was torn from their despair, And died with curses of the hate which robbed them Of honour as of life. Why were we not Confronted with them, if indeed true justice. Not murder, were in question ? Burleigh. This, your writing Proves to the hilt. The Queen. That is no work of ours, But bare-faced forgery. If the charge be true, 36 Why not show up what we ourselves have signed ? You know you cannot. Yet you think to win Consent of others as defeat of us. And browbeat one who fears your mistress Httle, And less yourselves. You may not do it, sirs ; We've led your betters in the open field. Burleigh. Your guilt seems certain, madame. The Queen. If 'twere truth, 'Twere but what she attempts on us herself. And so, we being her rightful sovereign. Born in true wedlock, not in bastardy. The treason's hers. Why waste we words on that ? None better know than you who sit and judge, Wearing the mask of justice on your faces, Whence came this document, and how procured. What further charges ? Burleigh. Are not these enough ? The Queen. Enough, sir, for your purpose. That we grant. Less would have served, and left yourselves less guilty. But since, my Lord, you've feared to state the truth, We do so for you, and give our reply. My crimes are these : my birth, the injuries That I so long have suffered, and my faith. The first, I'm justly proud of; for the second. Though wronged, I can forgive ; and for the third, In all my sorrows, it has been my hope, My only consolation, and my trust. Burleigh. Refusal to deny we hold confession. The prisoner we hold guilty of the charge. The sentence of the court we will consider. The Queen. We know it, sir, already. 'Twas deter- mined Ere you and she began your snare to weave. [/Rising.] And so this farce has ended. You have played Your part, we ours ; our audience is not here. 37 EuBope, and those unborn our words attend, And they will fix where Hes the victory. Burleigh. Your only hope is in our mistress' mercy. The Queen {passio7iately). Your mistress recks as little as yourselves Of right or justice. If she dare to strike, We hold our life not worth a farthing's fee. If she draw back, we thank her not, for fear And policy alone arrest the blow. She has conspired, forged, tortured to procure Our ruin. We have torn the foolish mask From her hypocrisy. This sham of a court Serves her but ill. Had she without assailed, Her crime had not been greater, and less vile. For you : bethink yourselves what's in your souls. For that will surely live within for evidence. Till all is jipe. To us that form of death Which swiftest comes seems best, and we await it. Who knows what lingering torments of the mind May this on each of you, and her avenge. And so we come to that which brings us here. Our places are reversed. 'Tis we accuse, You who are charged, and our just judge is He Who sits above all thrones, and to whose eye The secrets of all hearts are as a book. Prepare your mistress' answer. Life is short. Though we precede her to that final court. She knows not in what hour she may be called. Exeunt The Queen, Jane Kennedy, and Melville. SCENE III. — The Queen's Room ai Fotheringhay. Enter the Chorus, followed by Paulet. Paulet. Your mistress is no longer Queen. Chorus. Liar ! Who can unmake one born a Queen? 38 Paulet. She now is but a private criminal. » Chorus. The crime is theirs, who call her criminal. Paulet. Awaiting death for treason. Chorus. Her fame shall live, and slanders of her foes Shall yet come back on all who sent them forth. Paulet. These vanities must be removed. Chorus. Wither her hand who first puts hand thereto. Paulet. Heard you my words ? Chorus. We heard, but heed not. Paulet. Remove them. Chorus. Out, traitor, coward, oppressor of the weak ; Such task is not for us. Out, slave ! Out, tyrant ! Paulet. Others shall do what you refuse. Exit Paulet. Enter a niimher of worhnen^ who proceed to remove all the ornaments and pictures^ amons^ others a crown and shield bearing the arms of England. They then hang the walls ivith black stuff. The Chorus retire i?i alarm to one corner of the stage., First Workman. We must be smart at this, boys. Second Workman. Fall to, then. First Workman. Poor little dears ! They're like a lot of doves. Frightened of us. Second Workman. You leave them girls alone. The room's got to be ready for the lady, By she comes back. Ye 'ave no time for starin'. Chorus. When day declines and shades of evening fall, And silent footsteps of the coming night Steal to that inward sense which is not sight, Hearing, nor touch, but deepest of them all ; From that which seems we turn away, And to the One that is in silence pray. 39 First Workman. This is a job ! Second Workman. I never liked one less. First Workman. Nice music, mate, and pretty wenches, too. If I'd no work, there'd be some sport afoot. Second Workman. Young men are restless ; we who have our homes, Fret little. First Workman. Naw — for your old woman keeps ye Quiet enough. We'll all get married some day. What say you, miss ? Second Workman. Leave the ladies alone. YeVe frightened 'em. Sing again, ladies, and drive the Devil out of he. Here, give a hand you ; ye're Not paid for grinnin'. First Workman. Damn work. Chorus. W^e need no words for that communion deep f We need no ear our message to receive ; From soul to soul it flows, and we believe That He will give His peace, will send His sleep ; That He will safely guide our flight Through the dim passage of the darkling night. First Workman. Crowns are best on the wall, for in the hand This weighs enough. What say you, mate ? Second Workman. Small wonder heads that wear them fall at times. First Workman. It'll be fine sight to-morrow for them as sees it. 40 Second Workman. No worse. First Workman. I know a lad could put her to better use Than they mean to. Hast seen her, mate ? Second Workman. Riding at times with all the soldiers round her. First Workman. Swords drawn ! I wish to God Fd been a soldier. Second Workman. To cut her down, if she might try to escape. First Workman. Never ! She's grand to look at. Second Workman. Fd rather have my own to live with. First Workman. And so not I. Second Workman. She'd never do for scrubbing First Workman. Damn scrubbin'. Second Workman. The floor'd be foul before she rinsed it. First Workman. Damn rinsm'. Second Workman. Fd not be in her shoes for all her grandeur. First Workman. Damn everything. God never made such head For such a turn as she's come to. Enter The Queen and Jane Kennedy. The Queen. What means this, sir ? Second Workman. We're at what we've been set to- First Workman. By order of Sir Amiable Paulet. Jane Kennedy. Finish and go. Her Majesty is ill. Are you such knaves, idiots, and brutes You cannot go when told, but must stand staring. Madame, dear Madame. Fools, I say, begone. 41 First Workman. Pity ! Pity ! Damn everything. Exeunt Workmen. Jane kneels at the Queen^s side. The Queen. Thank you, dear. They whisper together. Exit Jane Kennedy. The Queen. Oh ! black, black, black as ingratitude. Black as their cruelty, black as the future. Chorus. When shades of death perplex the clouded mind. And life's long journey darkens to its end. We turn to Him, who is the future's Friend, From all the weary road we leave behind. At sunset of our little day. He only can protect, and guide the way. Jane Kennedy returns^ bearing in her hand a large crucifix, ivhich she hangs up where the crowfi had been. Enter Paulet, The Earl of Shrewsbury, a7id The Earl of Kent. The Queen (to Shrewsbury ). Ah ! my old friend, my kind and courteous host. You come like spring after the weary winter. Bring you good news, my Lord, or are you here To talk of all our pleasant times at Sheffield ? What ! Tears ? Paulet. Madame, to-morrow at the hour of eight The Court has fixed that you be led from hence To suffer for your treason. The Queen. They've no warrant. Paulet. Her Majesty has sent it. The Queen. So at last The evil in her soul o'ercomes the good. The Queen rises : leads them beneath the crucifix and points to it. 43 The Queen. Upon the midnight she has made for me, There is the star will lead my bark to rest. We shall be ready. Exeunt Paulet, The Earl of Shrewsbury, a7id The Earl of Kent. How is it, Jane? What? No more bitter jests To cheer us. Could I weep as thee, the load Upon my heart might melt away in tears, But there are thoughts that freeze the tender spring. And leave all hard as winter. Jane Kennedy. Ah ! dear mistress ! My noble mistress ! My best, truest friend ! Would I might follow thee as at Loch-Leven, When I plunged in and swam through the black lake Rather than leave thee. Where thou goest now I may not follow ; none may follow more. Chorus. Then shine the souls whom we have lost, and love, Before us, like the stars within the sky. To promise, though our own eclipse be nigh, That there are worlds of other light above. That we may come to them, and share The glory of the eternal splendour there. Sounds of hammering are heard. All listen^ awestruck. Ja?ie Kennedy stops her ears, and breaks into a paroxysm of weeping. The Chorus gather round the Queen. The Queen. Weep not, my little band, my faithful friends. For 'tis no scaffold that they build for me, But ladder leading to a throne on high. Enter Melville. Melville. A messenger has come from Scotland, Madame. The Queen. Yes, from my son. Why are your looks so downcast ? Where is the messenger? 43 Melville. He may not come. But I have brought the message from his lips. The Queen. He saw my son ? Melville. He found the King engaged With Wotton, the ambassador from England. The Queen. What then ? What then ? Melville. Let me entreat you, Madame, To calmly hear what I am loth to say. The Queen. Torment me not with these delays. Say on, Nor aught withold. It can but be a message Of love and pity, coming from a son To his most wretched mother. Say the truth, Nor spare me if't be other than I hope. I must know all, though every word may stab me. Melville. The King at first refused to be disturbed, At length gave grudging greeting. Heard him half, And then impatient named another time, Protesting 'twas not urgent. The Queen. If he bore The least delay 'twas treason to his charge. Melville. No fault was his. He pressed him to the point. Judge him not hardly, Madame. He is young. And kingship is his toy. He played therewith, Assumed an air of wisdom, that in truth Suits him but ill, and less the heavy time ; Blamed your unreason ; urging that your plots Brought into peril his important dealings, And much endangered his succession here. Twere best indeed you know the whole truth, Madame. The Queen. W^hat fiend impels you to advise unasked? Keep to your text ; we comment for ourselves. Melville. The Queen had promised him you should be safe. 44 And treated as became you. {Sounds of hattwiering outside^ Then he showed Her writing to himself, wherein she proved How she'd been his protector from liis youth ; Preserved him from all danger from yourself, And others ; firmly fixed his crown in Scotland ; And made succession sure to her own seat In time to come. That you should be restrained From meddling in his business and his place, He thought most useful ; and he bade advise Patience and prudence. {Sounds of hammering outside?) He would not be driven To strive against his interest with his cousin. Who'd been to him a wise and careful mother. Madame ! Madame ! The Queen. Oh ! death to this were sweet. She fools him till too late. He shall not reign Nor longer she. We leave our rights to those Who will enforce them. Oh ! that these ears were blasted Ere I had heard it. \Kneeling?^ Hear me, pitying Heaven ! Visit with every damned plague this son Who thus deserts me. May he find her friendship Poisonous as I have ! Standing where he does, May all on whom he leans be false to him ! If wedded, may the partner of his bed Loathe and dishonour who is less than man ! If father, may his children be as he. Pursuing him with hatred to his end ! May all the damned howl round his bed of death Till he be hurled to uttermost perdition ! And may his ears to all eternity In deepest Hell ring with a mother's curse ! END OF ACT II. 45 ACT III. SCENE— The Queen's Bedchamber (darkened). An Altar in one corner, at which the Chorus are kneeling ; IHEY CHANT AT INTERVALS IN A LOW TONE. Jane Kennedy at the bedside, where the Queen is ASLEEP. Enter Melville. Melville. Jane. Jane Kennedy. Hush ! Melville ! They've sent me to prepare her. On me the task is fixed for punishment. I take it gladly ; other lips were rougher. Jane Kennedy. Oh, let her sleep a little longer, Melville. Chorus. In the valley of the shadow, In the hour of agony, In the tempest and the danger. Miserere Domine. The Queen (askep). Miserere Domine Jane Kennedy. Oh, Melville, it has been a fearful night. At first we thought her woes had made her mad, For she was bright, and laughed, and chatted gaily. And never her keen wit more splendid shone. Melville. Poor soul ! Jane Kennedy. She spoke of death as liberty And of the suffering that the day would save her. Melville. And fears not ? Jane Kennedy. Thinking only of her honour Praying for strength to bear herself a Queen In her extremity, and warning all That to her royal kinsmen, and her son The truth be told, lest some unworthy story Be spread by enemies. 46 Melville. 'Tis what they'll do Jane Kennedy. Then she went through the trifles she has left us, Wishing for our sakes she had more to leave. To one a crucifix, to one a jewel, To me as token of her dearest love A ring she ever wore. Melville. Your weeping wakes her. Chorus. When the sands of life are sinking, And the darkness draweth nigh, Father, strengthen human weakness. Miserere Domine. The Queen (asleep). Miserere Domine. Jane Kennedy. At times she seemed to wander, and forget What she would say, and gazing out beyond us, Would speak as to herself, or to some phantom. Touching on bygones. Melville. Earth has grown to Hell, When men commit such hellish cruelties. The Queen {asleep). My husband dead ; I fear to go to Scotland. Jane Kennedy. She's thinking of the King of France. Melville. God help her. For man no longer may. Jane Kennedy. Then she lay down And fell asleep, while we all w^atched beside her. Oh ! she was >|^ restless, turning on her bed. And moaning, as though fearful dreams possessed her ; And now she called for aid, and Bothwell named. Accursed destroyer ! Now again 'twas Knox, And she would cry, " Have I deserved these insults ? " Melville. Hush ! Hush ! She stirs ! The Queen {asleep). Oh, fiends ! what hearts are theirs To credit it. 47 Chorus. When false friends desert and leave us, And ungenerous calumny Every action turns to baseness, Miserere Domine, Jane Kennedy. Then she awoke, and seeing us around her And the still room, and lights subdued, her thoughts Fled back to Scotland, where her son was born. And rising up she beckoned with her finger. And smiled, and whispered that her pain was over. And bade me bring the Prince unto her bed. Melville. Is he a man that he can thus desert her ? Jane Kennedy. Then she remembered, and she laid her head Upon my shoulder, and her soft white arms Clung round my neck. She kissed me, and we wept Together. Chorus. When the midnight deepens round us. And no other help we see. Father, help us ! Father, save us ! All our cry is unto Thee, Miserere Domine. The Queen {asleep}) Miserere Domine. Loud knocking. Melville springs io the door and opens it. Two men-at-arms are see?i standing outside. Enter Paulet, folloived by other soldiers. The Quee?i starts from her bed. The Queen. Great Heaven ! What noise was that ? The solid walls Tremble around me. Ah ! The King ! My husband ! Oh ! In this land of savages — not men — Is there no mercy ? They attempt his life. Call out the guard ! a moment lost is ruin ! To Kirk-o'-Field ! To horse ! We lead ourselves ! Pray God it be not late ! 48 Jane Kennedy Oh ! Madame ! Madame ! The Queen. What is it, child, and who are these who stand So silently about, as though ashamed ? Jane Kennedy. Well may they be so. Paulet. Are you ready, Madame ? Their Lordships w^ait. The Queen. Ready ? Ready for what, sir ? Ah ! I remember now. Melville. For love of Christ Be gentle with her. For this bloody deed They answer who are higher than yourself ; But for the manner of it that is yours. Her son, bethink you, will be England's King. The Queen. My son ! my son ! Ah, Melville, you remind me Of what I would forget. I have no son. We thank you, sir, for your most courteous summons.. Excuse us to their Lordships. We will keep them Only a little. To such company We may not come except as suits our station. Paulet. Madame, we will return in half an hour. Expect no further grace. The Queen. We are ill used To plead for grace. To one about to pass So soon away from time half hours seem short. Now, sirs, some of you have fair wives at home. And some have sisters. All must therefore know How deep a matter is a lady's toilet. We pray you leave us. Exeunt Paulet, Melville, and Soldiers. The Queen. And now, my children, for the last, last time. But do not let your tasks prevent the music 49 Wherewith so oft', through all our weary years, You have beguiled the gloom of our dark thoughts. In this last hour, if but your hearts consent, For you are loth to lose as I to stay. Bring back to us awhile the pleasant past. Rather than leave me lonely where I am. Chorus. Deck her as it were a bridal, As in merry days of old ; In delightful France we robed her Till all wondered to behold. Oh ! dear mistress ! oh ! we cannot For our hearts are sad and cold. II. Songs of sunny France no longer From reluctant lips may rise. Praise of snowy breast, and wonder Of white brow and kindling eyes. Praise of glowing cheek where laughter In enchanting passion lies. The Queen. Think you my people credit what is said ? Jane Kennedy. We who know best, believe no idle tales. The Queen. Indeed light women have few women friends. Your love shall plead for me with those unborn. Chorus. Red beneath, that no sad river Of her sacred blood may stain. That all beautiful as ever E'en in death she still may reign. Red for blood of traitor's fleeing From the avenging hosts of Spain. The Queen. Have I done well ? In presence of the end No more revenge upon our own seems justice. In this dark life, all evidence being tainted, We know not all, and may not judge — not judge 50 Chorus. Black above for sorrow-laden Hearts that she must leave behind. Black for stern remorse to torture Sister cruel, son unkind ; For the unrelenting furies That pursue the guilty mind. The Queen. Nay ! nay I For her repentance, but for him Only regret. He does not, cannot know. Chorus. Chains of gold upon her bosom, On her heart a golden cross. Pearls upon the faded tresses That once rivalled them in gloss. Pearls that we may treasure after To remind us of our loss. THE Queen. And now the crown that we were wont to wear In happy France. Of that they have not robbed us. Chorus. Crown, alas, that weight of honour Which has bowed her to the tomb. Crown that sparkled once upon her Less resplendent than her bloom ; Crown that but reminds of greatness Which has darkened into doom. The Quee . Now all is ready, and the end at hand. Chorus. Oh, the moments, fleeting moments ! Oh, the sad, untimely fate ! Scheming statesmen ! perjured judges ! Rival's unforgiving hate ! And those nameless, masked and murderous, Who beside the scaffold wait ! 51 The Queen. Not that these trifling toys can longer please, Nor that the broken heart finds joy in splendour. But that the world may know me unsubdued. That she may hear, whose hate has still pursued me, That we no jot of dignity abate, In place her equal as in birth her better. That Scotland find us worthy of her kings ; And that our son from this day's bloody work Take honour, not disgrace, and stung to manhood Gain mettle where he lacks. Now kneel, my children, When others failed me you have faithful been, And from the fulness of my gratitude To you my bursting heart o'erflows in blessings. May you be happy, and find happy homes : True to one task you will be true to all, And they'll be blessed who call you wives and mothers. Keep in your hearts her memory who loved you And this I charge you. In the coming hour We play a part in memorable scene. The eyes of Europe, and of future ages Now watch how we acquit ourselves therein. Distract me not in my tremendous task ; Though 1 be firm, forget not that my will Holds hundred piteous thoughts subdued within, Which else might rise and melt me into tears. {Steps are heard outside.) They come, they come. You know they have denied me The consolations of our blessed faith. I must alone to Him. Permit them not To trouble me too soon. The Queen kneels alone at the altar — loud knocking— fane Kennedy opens the door and stands in it. Jane Kennedy. You may not yet. Her Majesty's in prayer. 52 Eftter Paulet, Melville, and Soldiers. Paulet. No more delay, or we shall drag her forth. Such are our orders. 7 key force their way in The Chorus place themselves be- tween them and the Queen, and come Jorward chanting ivith iiplijfed hands. Chorus. As you hope for mercy, leave her ; As you fear the future stand — You have sisters, wives and mothers, Pitying, hold the impious hand. She is friendless and forsaken, Stranger in a foreign land. II Cloud of death descends upon her — She nor fears, nor asks delay. Only prays to One above us. To support her on her way. All must follow in her footsteps, Standing where she stands to-day. III. Lay not up for great hereafter. Expiation of such sin ; Terror for the time, when phantoms Of the past their work begin. Horror for the hour when all things Fade — except the fear within. The Queen rises and comes forivard — her 2vomcn behind her. Paulet. Madame, you come alone. 'Tis not allowed For these to follow. 53 The Queen. I am Queen of Scotland, And have been Queen of France. Of the blood-royal Of England — your mistress' nearest kin— For very shame she dare not this refuse. Melville speaks earnestly to Faulet^ ivho then comes forward. Paulet. Two of your ladies, Madame, may attend you. The Queen. We thank you. Sir. Paulet. But there must be no scenes. The Queen. The scene, Sir, shall be worthy of the actors In all the parts. The Queen reaches out her hand to fane Kennedy and another lady, who remain behind, the others fall back. As the Queen moves forward, Melville falls on his knees before her sobbing. Melville . Madame, forgive — forgive my share in this. Had I not urged to try for liberty, All had been well. The Queen. We do not blame you, Melville. They had the larger means, not keener wit. 'Tis better as it is. We go to death, As to the liberty so long denied. Now, that our thoughts are fled from all things here. We have forgiven all. Much more a friend Who served us well. Arise ! we need your arm. Melville. Madame, my life it might be, but not there — I cannot lead you there. The Queen". Sad service, truly. We ask it not again. And here is one, Who though against us will not this refuse. 54 Paulet offers his arm to the Queen. We thank you, sir. This trouble is the last That I shall ever give you. Exeunt all. SCENE II. — The Hall of Execution. The scaffold on the right. The Commissioners and others on the left. Two men^ bearing masks, stand on each side of the scaffold. Enter the Queen and her train. All present instinctively rise and uncover. The Queen bows, and 7noves slowly to the. scaffold. Paulet takes his place in front, a paper ift his hand, Jrom which he prepares to read. The Queen ascends the scaffold and k?ieels down, making the sign of the cross and clasping a crucifix in her hands. Every ti7ne Paulet tries to read her voice rises above his as she prays aloud. Paulet. Madame, the penaUy of all your crimes Is now to be exacted The Queen. We forgive All slanderers, all unsteadfast friends, and those Who by false evidence have brought us here. Paulet. For that you plotted to betray your husband And caused his death The Queen. Trusting to meet above The father of our son whom we have loved. 55 Paulet. For that your paramour The Queen. All violence Against our person, and all wrongs we've suffered Leaving to other hands the punishment. Paulet. For that you planned escape The Queen. All those who've held us In cruel bondage without right or justice. Paulet. For that you plotted to destroy the Queen — — The Queen. All who have used our name without our sanction. Torn from our servants' perjured evidence By cruel tortures, which they disavowed Ere dying in their shame. All, all we forgive As we ourselves for Heaven's forgiveness hope. Paulet. You are condemned — — The Queen. We welcome death as sleep. And to the highest hands our spirit yield. The Queen rises and approaches the block. The Executioners fall on their knees before her. Executioners. Madame, forgive us. The Queen. As you forget not where true mercy lies. The Exectifiofiers offer to assist the Queen in removing her dress. She motio7ts them aivay^ saying to Jane Kennedy — The Queen. Never before had I such grooms in waiting. Hef wotjien remove the black dress and orna7fie?ttSj leaving the Queefi robed from head to foot in red. Her women begi?i to weep. 56 The Queen. No, no. Weep not. Have I not promised for you ? The Qi^een again k 71 eels at the block. Her eyes are hound with a handkerchief. She bends fo?ivard her head. The?i she suddenly starts back, raises her hands to heaven, a?id otice more prays aloud. The Queen. Our son we pardon. If we've willed in anger Our throne to others, we repent, and pray That it may fail. May he yet live to join These kingdoms in one state. Oh ! may his arms Conquer an Empire wide as that of Rome, Till of our blood arise a happier Queen, To rule in priceless peace, as we had done Had fate not cast us on unquiet times. The Queen lays her head on the block, supporting herself with her hands. The Executioners on each side bend down and re?nove the hands. Then the axe is raised amid general weeping, and the curtain falls. THE END. R. W. SIMPSON, PRINTKR, RICHMOND, S.W. Mary Queen of Scots. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "Mr. Blake's work must rank as a fine tragic poem. The second act closes with a scene of great dramatic power. In the third act the author puts forth his full strength. With consummate skill the author has imited the present and past, for the greatest empire in the world is ruled by our present Queen, a descendant of the "murdered," and not of the murderer." — Rich?7iond Herald. " The note of tragedy is through it all. The chorus could not be made a better vehicle than in the present play. There is throughout the art of great naturalness in the language and dramatic skill in the arrangement of the situations. The writer should take good rank as a dramatist." — Richmond and Twickenhajn Times. " The remarkable play which we are anxious to introduce to our readers is shortly to be produced in the provinces, beginning with Richmond-on-Thames. Robert Blake is not afraid of the daring experiment of introducing a lyrical element into his drama by means of a chorus like that of a Greek play. He appears to us to have the dramatic instinct in a degree by no means common in these days." — Dublin Daily Express. " Everything with Mr. Blake makes for action We trust this well- written and interesting work may have the success it deserves, and do something to elevate the tone of the contemporary stage." — Dublin Evening Mail. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Joan of Arc. London : Kirby & Endean, Oxford Street, 1876. " Le subjet, eminemment Fran9ais, est traite de main de maitre et la mort de notie heroine a inspire quelques belles pages au jeune poete, qui connait bien, sans doutes, les lieux qu' il a chante, car les bords de la Loire, et le pays traverse par Jeanne y sont decrits avec une merveilleuse exactitude." — Revue Brittaniqtie. " 'Joan of Arc ' ne manque pas de valeur, le vers est harmonieux, coulant, et facile. La montonie de la rime est coupee fort a propos pars des vers blancs d' une large facture qui se pretent admirablement a la phrase epique. Ce poeme fait honneur a son auteur. II y a de I'ampleur, de la verve, de la couleur." — Steele. " A very creditable work. The poem sets forth in vigorous lauguage the story of Joan's rise and fall, giving the leading incidents of her extraordinary career.*' — The Rock. ' • ' Joan of Arc ' is a sterling poem— it contains many passages of great beauty and much poetic power." — Freemason. " Should the author pursue poetry he will certainly make a name." — Publisher's Circtclaf . The Nuns of Minsk. London : Remington & Co., 1878. ** In some places the author rises to sublimity and pathos. There is great sweetness in some of the choruses of nuns and spirits " — Dublin Evening Mail. " Beauty and innocence of the purest type are placed in effective contrast to baseness and villainy. The choruses, which are numerous and effectively introduced, are, without exception, beautiful." — Tyrone Constitution. ' ' With eveiy sympathy for the cause Mr, Blake pleads so eloquently, there can be no doubt that some of his language would be too strong for representation, but the author may yet do good dramatic work." — Court Circular. Knowledge. Dublin : Swan & Co., 1880. " The germs of talent quickly discernible in this author's previous writings prevent surprise at the great and tender beauty of his more mature poetical conception. The language is choice, yet vigorous : harmonious, yet simple. Mr. Blake's first object clearly is to write what he himself and others may understand. He recks little of the ephemeral celebrity obtainable by stringing into rhyme unmeaning, if melodious, jargon. The poem teems with original and well-conceived similes. Sound is fitted to sense with artistic skill, yet without effort, so that the reader feels the charm yet cannot tell easily from what its power springs. For a writer who can in these sweet and powerful words cause to vibrate the gentlest and strongest chords of the heart's sympathy we predict abundant success." — Tyrone Constitutio7t. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. FEB 8 '66 "3 PM SEP 9 20Q4 LD 21A-60m-10.'fi5 (F77638l0)476B General Library ^ University of California Berkeley ^v ■ ^ ■- J^-Sk; -■■■ -^A^W-^^-V„v a,-'"--./J^-'» .i.A' • ,1 :