GORDON. I have been hurried on by a strong impulse, SWINTON. Gordon, no; For while we live, I am a father to thee. GORDON. Thou, Swinton?-no!-that cannot, cannot be. SWINTON. Then change the phrase, and say, that while we live, An ancient friend!-A most notorious knave, Whose throat I 've destined to the dodder'd oak Before my castle, these ten months and more. Was it not you, who drove from Simprim-mains, And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of cattle? HOB. What then? if now I lead your sixty lances Upon the English flank, where they'll find spoil Is worth six hundred beeves? SWINTON. Why, thou canst do it, knave. I would not trust thee With one poor bullock; yet would risk my life, HOB. There is a dingle, and a most discreet one SWINTON. Bravely, bravely! GORDON. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan. Let all who love the Gordon follow me! KING EDWARD. Never himself; but, in my earliest field, ABBOT. My liege, if I might urge you with a question, Will the Scots fight to-day? KING EDWARD (sharply). Go look your breviary. CHANDOS (apart). The abbot has it-Edward will not answer On that nice point. We must observe his humour. [Addresses the KING. ABBOT. It is the canon speaks it, good my liege. KING EDWARD. In purgatory! thou shalt pray him out on 't, ABBOT. My lord, perchance his soul is past the aid KING EDWARD. And if I thought my faithful chaplain there, Your first campaign, my liege?—That was in Weardale, And let me have such prayers as will storm Heaven- None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunting masses. CHANDOS. Wilt thou compound, then, KING EDWARD. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the keys of heaven, We will compound, and grant thee, too, a share CHANDOS. Enough—we 're friends, and when occasion serves, I will strike in- [Looks as if towards the Scottish Army. KING EDWARD. Answer, proud abbot; is my chaplain's soul, CHANDOS. My liege, the Yorkshire men have gain'd the meadow. KING EDWARD. Then give the signal instant! We have lost ABBOT. My liege, your holy chaplain's blessed soul KING EDWARD. To hell with it, and thee! Is this a time [Flourish of Trumpets, answered by a distant sound of Bugles. See, Chandos, Percy-Ha, Saint George! Saint Edward! The storm of England's wrath-sure, swift, resistless, Had aim'd' five thousand shafts-as if one hand PERCY. The thick volley Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us. KING EDWARD. It falls on those shall see the sun no more. From his usurp'd kingdom.-(Aloud.) 'T is the worst Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him, VIPONT. Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen, As men who know the blessings they defend. SWINTON. I'll keep my sorrow for our native Scots, GORDON. And if I live and see my halls again, They shall have portion in the good they fight for. SWINTON. Do not believe it. Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height, [Exit VIPONT. The brave young knight that hath no lady-love Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds, GORDON. Must I then speak of her to you, Sir Alan? SWINTON. I would, nay, must. Pennons enow-ay, and their royal standard. I'll rescue him at least.-Young Lord of Gordon, GORDON. I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not. SWINTON. Not at my bidding? I, thy sire in chivalry- GORDON. No, thou wilt not command me seek my safety,— Thy father in the paths of chivalry GORDON. Nay, then, her name is—hark— SWINTON. I know it well, that ancient northern house. GORDON, O, thou shall see its fairest grace and honour, SWINTON. It did, before disasters had untuned me. GORDON. Will turn his rein for life; but were I gone, [Whispers. What power can stay them? and, our band dispersed, VIPONT. The noble youth speaks tru; and were he gone, GORDON. No, bravely as we have begun the field, SWINTON. Must it be so? And am I forced to yield the sad consent, I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue: I at my country's, he at Heaven's command; Rather than such a victim!-(Trumpets.)—Hark, they come! That music sounds not like thy lady's lute. GORDON. Yet shall my lady's name mix with it gaily.- [Exeunt. Loud alarum. SCENE III. Another part of the Field of Battle, adjacent to the former Scene. Alarums. Enter SWINTON, followed by HOB HATTELY. SWINTON. Stand to it yet! The man who flies to-day, HOB HATTELY. That ne'er shall be my curse. My Magdalen SWINTON. Ha, thou knave! |