KING EDWARD.

Never himself; but, in my earliest field,
I did encounter with his famous captains,
Douglas and Randolph. Faith! they press'd me hard.

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,
Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him.

ABBOT.

My lord, perchance his soul is past the aid
Of all the church may do-there is a place
From which there's no redemption.

KING EDWARD.

And if I thought my faithful chaplain there,
Thou shouldst there join him, priest!-Go, watch, fast,
pray,

Your first campaign, my liege?—That was in Weardale, And let me have such prayers as will storm Heaven-
When Douglas gave our camp yon midnight ruffle,
And turn'd men's beds to biers.

None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunting masses.
ABBOT (apart to CHANDOS).
For God's sake, take him off.

CHANDOS.

Wilt thou compound, then,
The tithes of Everingham?

KING EDWARD.

I tell thee, if thou bear'st the keys of heaven,
Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with them
'Gainst any well-deserving English subject.
ABBOT (to CHANDOS).

We will compound, and grant thee, too, a share
I' the next indulgence. Thou dost need it much,
And greatly 't will avail thee.

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,
If thou knowest aught on 't, in the evil place?

CHANDOS.

My liege, the Yorkshire men have gain'd the meadow.
I see the pennon green of merry Sherwood.

KING EDWARD.

Then give the signal instant! We have lost
But too much time already.

ABBOT.

My liege, your holy chaplain's blessed soul

KING EDWARD.

To hell with it, and thee! Is this a time
To speak of monks and chaplains?

[Flourish of Trumpets, answered by a distant sound

of Bugles.

See, Chandos, Percy-Ha, Saint George! Saint Edward!
See it descending now, the fatal hail-shower,

The storm of England's wrath-sure, swift, resistless,
Which no mail-coat can brook.-Brave English hearts!
How close they shoot together!-as one eye

Had aim'd' five thousand shafts-as if one hand
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings!

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.
The winged, the resistless plague is with them.
How their vex'd host is reeling to and fro,
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances in him!
They do not see, and cannot shun the wound.
The storm is viewless, as death's sable wing,
Unerring as his scythe.

From his usurp'd kingdom.-(Aloud.) 'T is the worst Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him,

Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds,
And its rich painting, do seem then most glorious,
When the pure ray gleams through them.-
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name?

GORDON.

Must I then speak of her to you, Sir Alan?
The thought of thee, and of thy matchless strength,
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams.
The name of Swinton hath been spell sufficient
To chase the rich blood from her lovely cheek,
And wouldst thou now know hers?

SWINTON.

I would, nay, must.

Pennons enow-ay, and their royal standard.
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to roost on.
SWINTON (to himself).

I'll rescue him at least.-Young Lord of Gordon,
Spur to the Regent-show the instant need-

GORDON.

I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not.

SWINTON.

Not at my bidding? I, thy sire in chivalry-
Thy leader in the battle?-I command thee.

GORDON.

No, thou wilt not command me seek my safety,—
For such is thy kind meaning,-at the expense
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves for Scotland.

Thy father in the paths of chivalry
Should know the lode-star thou dost rule thy course by. While I abide, no follower of mine

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,
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee-

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,
What swords shall for an instant stem yon host,
And save the latest chance for victory?

VIPONT.

The noble youth speaks tru; and were he gone,
There will not twenty spears be left with us.

GORDON.

No, bravely as we have begun the field,
So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes,
More certain than a thousand messages,
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host
Against yon bursting storm. If not for honour,
If not for warlike rule, for shame at least,
He must bear down to aid us.

SWINTON.

Must it be so?

And am I forced to yield the sad consent,
Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, Gordon !

I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue:

I at my country's, he at Heaven's command;
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice,

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.-
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and cry « Gordon!
Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth!»>

[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,
May bastards warm them at his household hearth!

HOB HATTELY.

That ne'er shall be my curse. My Magdalen
Is trusty as my broadsword.

SWINTON.

Ha, thou knave!