Bishop. Be firm, my liege.

James. Away, away, old man !-you do not knowYou cannot know-what this thing costs me. Go! I'm firm.

Seton. Who is it that accuses me?

'Tis like your noble nature to be sudden; I thought you just no less.

James. Ha! hear you that?

Bring on your proof. Though his own tongue confess'd Enough to whet the dullest axe to a point

Where is that envoy

?

Bishop. He is here, my liege.

James. Bring him.

Let the Lord Seton stay.

[Exit Bishop, R.

Enter BISHOP and English MESSENGER, R.

How now?

You came with message from Lord Dacre's camp?

Mes. From the Lord Dacre's self-so please you, Sia; But will Lord Seton's letter of safe conduct,

Bear me in surety?

James. Have no fear, my friend :

His letter of safe conduct! What contained
Your message to Lord Seton?

Mes. A free offer

Of twenty thousand marks.

James. For what-for what?

Mes. To stay inactive, or lead off the force, When brought to face our army.

James. Was it so?

To leave me fenceless! and he answered you
Kindly--he paused a little, just a little,

Before he struck his king, his friend, to the earth.
Out with it all!-He gave you a message back?
Is't so- -is't SO ?

Mes. Yes, please your majesty.

James. I knew it !-a few phrases-a regret—

A fear-a hope; but he agreed at last.

Tell me the answer he sent back to Dacre.

Bishop. [Shows a letter.] Here is the very letter-I laid hold of it

On the man's person.

James. Read, read, good Lord Bishop,

Blink not a word of it-
-a syllable;

Deliver it as we were Dacre's self.

Now, what says Seton, that degenerate Scot?

Bishop. [reads. This is my answer to Lord Dacre's message:

Itrample with my heel on your foul bribe

I send you scorn, and hatred, and defiance.
James. More, more!

Bishop. I cast my glove into your face,
And summon you to meet me, foot to foot,
When flies the Scottish banner on the Tweed
On Monday morn-

James. Go on !

Bishop. I call you slave,

To think to wean me from my loyalty,

My truth, my honor to my trusting King..

James. Ha!—was it so ? Go forth, good messenger,

Bear you this chain of gold.

My Good Lord Bishop

[Hurries the messenger out, R.

What meant you ?—but no, no-you meant it well;
Go mind your priests, my lord,-meddle no more
In things like this. Keep to your duties, Sir;
Bid not your priests be "firm"-tell them to be
Gentle, forgiving, trustful, but not firm;
No more-no more.

[Hurries the Bishop out, R. Guards, leave my friend, Lord Seton.

[Exeunt Guards, R.

Now we're alone! Come, Seton! Šeton, here!

To my heart. [They embrace.] Why said you nothing?
Seton. For I knew

Your justice 'self would be the pleader for me.

James. Ah, Seton, what a shock it gave my heart,
To think that you had left me. Pardon it;
It was because I trusted you the most,
That the blow fell so heavy. I was wrong,
And you'll forgive me; all my life shall be
A recompense for the vile thought that dwelt
But for ten minutes,-not a minute more,-
In my weak heart; but tell me you'll forgive it.
Seton. Forgive it, my good liege,-
James. I know you will,

For I will earn it of you with such trust
As never king had in his friend before.
Seton. Others, my liege, are false-
James. -Ha! that they are!

But fear not; you and Hume are by my side.
I'll baulk the traitors yet. Oh, I'll be firm—
Firm as the Bass, rugged as Ailsa crag.

66

I shall know all ere long. Send fifty horse
To one Sir Adam Weir's, near Calder town;
Bring every soul that's found within the house,
“The old man himself; a widow, Mistress Barton;
His kinsman, Malcolm Young; a fair young girl,
"Called Madeleine; an old simpleton, Laird Small,
"And his son Mungo,-fail not one of them—”
Bring them all here; and call a court at nine,
Fail not and have our guard in double force;
The headsman ready-it may chance our work
Be bloody, if we're firm. Fail not at nine;
And now farewell.

[Exeunt, James, R., Seton, L.

SCENE II-A Room in Laichmont House.*

Enter SIR ADAM WEIR, and MALCOLM YOUNG, r.
Sir A. What said you to your cousin, Madeleine?
Does she consent to follow your
advice?

She would be wise to do it.

Malcolm. I did not dare

To intrude upon her grief.

Sir A. (L. c.) You did not dare?

Did I not tell you, Sir, to use the power

That use, that old acquaintance gave to you,

To bend her to my will?

Mal. (R. c.) You told me, Sir

Sir A. And you've not done it? and affect fine scruples,

As if you could not dare to touch her grief!

Sir, when I give the order, you must dare

To send her grief to the four winds of heaven,

And make her do my will. Her grief-her grief!

What is her grief?

* The whole of this scene is omitted at the Park Theatre-though it was represented-and, we believe, with considerable effect-at the Princess's.

Mal. Alas, I cannot tell!

Sir A. And no one else. She has a heart untouched By liking, for she ne'er has spoke to man

Save you; and, therefore, why should she refuse

Her hand where I've determined to bestow it?

66

Moss-Holm, with its broad meadows and rich haughs, Is settled on her, on her marriage day;

"The management-the rents, are in my hands: "Moss-Holm and Laichmont, if conjoined in one, "Were a fit holding for a belted earl.

66

"Now hear me farther: If success should crown
My efforts, in a cause which scarce can fail,
There is sure promise of a rank and name
"To me ; and failing other heirs-to her-
"To Madeleine-the lady Madeleine-
"The Baroness of Laichmont!-she shall wed
"No bold ambitious springald, that might mar
My rising, with some crotchet of his own;"

I must have Laichmont and Moss-Holm conjoined.
Now, let her marry this young popinjay,
Or be an outcast! Did you tell her this?
Mal. Something of this she knew.

Sir A. I know she did,

I told her so. Does she consent, I ask?

Mal. She did not tell me she would give consent. Sir A. You did not ask her. Am I thwarted thus ? the insolence to tell me this?

Have you

Know you what I have been to you?

Mal. I do.

Sir A. And know you what it is you are?

Mal. I do.

Sir A. Well, then-why spoke you not to Madeleine,

To change her purpose?

Mal. For I could not do it.

Sir A. You would not.

Young

You're a kinsman, Malcolm

A penniless, unfriended kinsman, Sir;

Know you 'twas I that moved the Cardinal

To give you priesthood?

Mal. Yes, I know it was.

Sir Adam Weir, let us have no mistake:

You asked me, if I knew what you had been:

I told you yes.
Who I was, and I told you, yes, again.

You asked me, if I knew

You taunt me that I'm friendless-that I'm poor;
You boast you moved the great Lord Cardinal
To make me priest. I am a friendless man;
I'm poor; I am a priest-and would to Heaven
That I had died the day that made me so!
You've crushed my heart. I will not curse you, Sir,
But I will bid you look into your breast-

What see you there? Oh, Sir, is there no thought
Of all the wrecks you've made of Peace-of Hope-
Of Trust and Innocence ?

Sir A. How mean you, Sir?

Mal. Nay, hear me out.

When all that I possessed

It was not much, but it was all I had

Was lost in the great bark in which you sailed,

When you were shipwrecked on the Spanish coast

Sir A. I know, I know; you doubt not I was wrecked? I have the proofs.

Mal. When all I had was lost,

And I was doomed to eat the bitter bread
Of grudging kindness, you assumed a right
To guide me: I was plastic in your hands:
I turned my sprit from its loved pursuits-
The steed-the sword-and bent it to the toil
Of midnight study; half forgot myself
To stone, and weeded from my heart away
All memories-so I thought--of what had been.
Sir, all these memories have sprung again,
Fresh! Oh, they rush like a red lava-flood
Into my soul-they boil up to my brain!
Man, that I trusted! tyrant, who has made
My life a desert, and my heart a tomb!
I warn you, make not others miserable,
As you've made me. I'm a roused man.

Beware!

Sir A. What is't you know? Of what must I beware? Mal. I tell you, every tear that I have shed, Rises to Heaven against you, like the voice Of blood! for Sorrow has a cry for Vengeance On him who caused it, as the voiceless lips Of murdered men call out to Righteous Heaven Against their murderer !

It may come quickly.

There's an hour shall come