SWINTON (apart).

Nay, then a stone would speak.

(Addresses the REGENT.) May 't please your grace,
And yours, great lords, to hear an old man's counsel,
That hath seen fights enow. These open bickerings
Dishearten all our host. If that your grace,
With these great earls and lords, must needs debate,
Let the closed tent conceal your disagreement;
Else 't will be said, ill fares it with the flock,
If shepherds wrangle when the wolf is nigh.

VIPONT.

Pray you, do not so;

Anon I'll give you reason why you should not. There's other work in hand-

GORDON.

I will but ask his name. There's in his presence
Something that works upon me like a spell,
Or like the feeling made my childish ear
Doat upon tales of superstitious dread,
Attracting while they chill'd my heart with fear.
Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right well

I'm bound to fear nought earthly—and I fear nought.
I'll know who this man is--

[Accosts SWINTON. Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle courtesy,

To tell your honour'd name. I am ashamed,
Being unknown in arms, to say that mine
Is Adam Gordon.

3WINTON (shows emotion, but instantly subdues it). It is a name that soundeth in my ear

Like to a death-knell-ay, and like the call

Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal lists;

Yet 't is a name which ne'er hath been dishonour'd,
And never will, I trust-most surely never
By such a youth as thou.

GORDON.

There's a mysterious courtesy in this,

And yet it yields no answer to my question. I trust, you hold the Gordon not unworthy To know the name he asks?

SWINTON.

Worthy of all that openness and honour
May show to friend or foe-but, for my name,
Vipont will show it you; and, if it sound
Harsh in your ear, remember that it knells there
But at your own request. This day, at least,
Though seldom wont to keep it in concealment,
As there's no cause I should, you had not heard it.
This strange--

GORDON.

VIPONT.

The mystery is needful. Follow me.
[They retire behind the side Scene.
SWINTON (looking after them).

T is a brave youth. How blush'd his noble cheek,
While youthful modesty, and the embarrassment
Of curiosity, combined with wonder,
And half suspicion of some slight intended,
All mingled in the flush; but soon 't will deepen
Into revenge's glow. How slow is Vipont!-
I wait the issue, as I've seen spectators
Suspend the motion even of the eye-lids,
When the slow gunner, with his lighted match,
Approach'd the charged cannon, in the act
To waken its dread slumbers.-Now 't is out;
Ile draws his sword, and rushes towards me,
Who will nor seek nor shun him.

Enter GORDON, withheld by VIPONT.

VIPONT.

Hold, for the sake of Heaven!-O, for the sake

Of

your dear country, hold!-Has Swinton slain your father,

And must you, therefore, be yourself a parricide,
And stand recorded as the selfish traitor,
Who, in her hour of need, his country's cause

Thus shall it be then, since we may no better,
And, since no lord will yield one jot of way
To this high urgency, or give the van-guard
Up to another's guidance, we will abide them
Even on this bent; and as our troops are rank'd,
So shall they meet the foe. Chief, nor thane,
Nor noble, can complain of the precedence
Which chance has thus assign'd him.
SWINTON (apart).

O sage discipline, That leaves to chance the marshalling of a battle!

GORDON.

Move him to speech, De Vipont.

VIPONT.

Move him?-Move whom?

GORDON.

Even him, whom, but brief space since, My hand did burn to put to utter silence.

VIPONT.

I'll move it to him.-Swinton, speak to them, They lack thy counsel sorely.

SWINTON.

Had I the thousand spears which once I led,
I had not thus been silent. But men's wisdom
Is rated by their means. From the poor leader
Of sixty lances, who seeks words of weight?
GORDON (steps forward).

Swinton, there's that of wisdom on thy brow,
And valour in thine eye, and that of peril
In this most urgent hour, that bids me say,-
Bids me, thy mortal foe, say,-Swinton, speak,
For king and country's sake!

SWINTON.

Nay, if that voice commands me, speak I will; It sounds as if the dead lay charge on me.

REGENT.

(To LENNOX, with whom he has been consulting.) 'T is better than you think. This broad hill-side Affords fair compass for our power's display, Rank above rank rising in seemly tiers;

So that the rear-ward stands as fair and open-

SWINTON.

As e'er stood mark before an English archer.

• REGENT.

Who dares to say so?-Who is 't dare impeach Our rule of discipline?

SWINTON.

A poor knight of these Marches, good my lord;
Alan of Swinton, who hath kept a house here,
He and his ancestry, since the old days
Of Malcolm, called the Maiden.

REGENT.

You have brought here, even to this pitched field, In which the royal banner is display'd,

I think, some sixty spears, Sir Knight of Swinton: Our inusters name no more.

SWINTON.

I brought each man I had; and chief, or earl,
Thane, duke, or dignitary, brings no more:
And with them brought I what may here be useful-
An aged eye, which, what in England, Scotland,
Spain, France, and Flanders, hath seen fifty battles,
And ta'en some judgment of them; a stark hand too,
Which plays as with a straw with this same mace,-
Which if a young arm here can wield more lightly,
I never more will offer word of counsel.

LENNOX.

Hear him, my lord; it is the noble SwintonHe hath had high experience.

MAXWELL.

He is noted

The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed and SolwayI do beseech you hear him.

JOHNSTONE.

Ay, hear the Swinton-hear stout old Sir Alan; Maxwell and Johnstone both agree for once.

REGENT.

Where's your impatience now?

Late you were all for battle, would not hear

Ourself pronounce a word-and now you gaze On

yon old warrior, in his antique armour, As if he were arisen from the dead,

To bring us Bruce's counsel for the battle.

SWINTON.

'T is a proud word to speak; but he who fought
Long under Robert Bruce, may something guess,
Without communication with the dead,

At what he would have counsell'd.-Bruce had bidden
ye
Review your battle-order, marshall'd broadly
Here on the bare hill-side, and bidden you mark
Yon clouds of southron archers, bearing down
To the green meadow-lands which stretch beneath-
The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft to-day
But shall find mark within a Scottish bosom,
If thus our field be order'd. The callow boys,
Who draw but four-foot bows, shall gall our front,
While on our mainward, and upon the rear,
The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like death's own darts,
And, though blind men discharge them, find a mark.
Thus shall we die the death of slaughter'd deer,
Which, driven into the toils, are shot at ease
By boys and women, while they toss aloft
All idly and in vain their branchy horns,
As we shall shake our unavailing spears.

It ne'er will join, while their light archery
Can foil our spearmen and our barbed horse.
To hope Plantagenet would seek close combat
When he can conquer riskless, is to deem
Sagacious Edward simpler than a babe
In battle-knowledge. Keep the hill, my lord,
With the main body, if it is your pleasure;
But let a body of your chosen horse
Make execution on yon waspish archers.
I've done such work before, and love it well;
If 't is your pleasure to give me the leading,
The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood, and Weardale,
Shall sit in widowhood and long for venison,
And long in vain. Whoe'er remembers Bannockburn,—
And when shall Scotsman, till the last loud trumpet,
Forget that stirring word!-knows that great battle
Even thus was fought and won.

LENNOX.

This is the shortest road to handy blows;
For when the bills step forth and bows go back,
Then is the moment that our hardy spearmen,
With their strong bodies, and their stubborn hearts,
And limbs well knit by mountain exercise,

At the close tug shall foil the short-breathed southron.

SWINTON.

I do not say the field will thus be won;
The English host is numerous, brave, and loyal;
Their monarch most accomplish'd in war's art,
Skill'd, resolute, and wary--

REGENT.

And if your scheme secure not victory, What does it promise us?

SWINTON.

This much at least,Darkling we shall not die; the peasant's shaft, Loosen'd perchance without an aim or purpose, Shall not drink up the life-blood we derive From those famed ancestors, who made their breasts This frontier's barrier for a thousand years. We'll meet these southrons bravely hand to hand, And eye to eye, and weapon against weapon; Each man who falls shall see the foe who strikes him, While our good blades are faithful to the hilts. And our good hands to these good blades are faithful, Blow shall meet blow, and none fall unavengedWe shall not bleed alone.

REGENT..
And this is all

Your wisdom hath devised!

SWINTON.

Not all; for I would pray you, noble lords
(If one, among the guilty guiltiest, might),
For this one day to charm to ten hours' rest
The never-dying worm of deadly feud,

That gnaws our vexed hearts-think no one foe
Save Edward and his host-days will remain,
Ay, days by far too many will remain,

To avenge old feuds or struggles for precedence;
Let this one day be Scotland's.-For myself,
If there is any here may claim from me

(As well may chance) a debt of blood and hatred,
My life is his to-morrow unresisting,
So he to-day will let me do the best

That my old arm may achieve for the dear country
That's mother to us both.

[GORDON shows much emotion during this and
the preceding speech of SwINTON.

His and these noble lords'; and pray them all
Bear witness to my words.-Ye noble presence,
Here I remit unto the Knight of Swinton
All bitter memory of my father's slaughter,
All thoughts of malice, hatred, and revenge;
By no base fear or composition moved,
But by the thought, that in our country's battle
All hearts should be as one. I do forgive him
As freely as I pray to be forgiven,

And once more kneel to him to sue for knighthood.
SWINTON (affected, and drawing his sword).
Alas! brave youth, 't is I should kneel to you,
And, tendering thee the hilt of the fell sword
That made thee fatherless, bid thee use the point
After thine own discretion.-For thy boon-
Trumpets be ready-In the holiest name,
And in Our Lady's and Saint Andrew's name,

[Touching his shoulder with the sword.
I dub thee Knight! Arise, Sir Adam Gordon!
Be faithful, brave, and O be fortunate,
Should this ill hour permit!

[The trumpets sound; the Heralds cry, « Lar-
gesse
» and the Attendants shout, << A
Gordon! A Gordon!»>