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

Who would drink purely, seeks the secret fountain, I do not say the field will thus be won;

How small soever-not the general stream, The English host is numerous, brave, and loyal; Though it be deep and wide. My lord, I seek Their monarch most accomplish'd in war's art,

The boon of knighthood from the honour'd weapon Skill'd, resolute, and wary

Of the best knight, and of the sagest leader,

That ever graced a ring of chivalry. And if your scheme secure not victory,

-Therefore, I beg the boon on bended knec, What does it promisc us?

Even from Sir Alan Swinton.

[Kneels. SWINTON

This much at least, - Degenerate boy! Abject at once and insolent !Darkling we shall not die; the peasant's shast,

See, lords, he kneels to him that slew his father! Loosen'd perchance without an aim or purpose,

GORDON (starting up). Shall not drink up the life-blood we derive

Shame be on him who speaks such shameful word! From those famed ancestors, who made their breasts Shame be on him whose tongue would sow dissension, This frontier's barrier for a thousand years.

When most the time demands that native Scotsmen We'll meet these southrons bravely hand to hand, Forget each private wrong! And eye to eye, and weapon against weapon;

SWINTON (interrupting him). Each man who falls shall see the foe who strikes him.

Youth, since you crave me
While our good blades are faithful to the hilts, To be your sire in chivalry, I remind you
And our good hands to these good blades are faithful, War has its duties, Office has its reverence ;
Blow shall meet blow, and none fall unavenged-- Who governs in the sovereign's name is sovereign-
We shall not bleed alone.

Crave the Lord Regent's pardon.

And this is all

You task me justly, and I crave his pardon,
Your wisdom hath devised !

[Bows to the REGENT. SWINTON

His and these noble lords' ; and pray them all Not all; for I would pray you, noble lords

Bear witness to my words.-Ye noble presence, (If one, among the guilty guiltiest, might),

Here I remit unto the Knight of Swinton For this one day to charm to ten hours' rest

All bitter memory of my father's slaughter,
The never-dying worm of deadly feud,

All thoughts of malice, hatred, and revenge ;
That gnaws our vexed hearts-think no one foe By no base fear or composition moved,
Save Edward and his host-days will remain,

But by the thought, that in our country's battle
Ay, days by far too many will remain,

All hearts should be as one. I do forgive him
To avenge old feuds or struggles for precedence;- As freely as I pray to be forgiven,
Let this one day bė Scotland's. For myself,

And once more kneel to him to sue for knighthood. If there is any here may claim from me

SWINTON (affected, and drawing his sword). (As well may chance) a debt of blood and hatred, Alas! brave youth, 't is I should kneel to you, My life is his co-morrow unresisting,

And, tendering thee the hilt of the fell sword So he to-day will let me do the best

That made thee fatherless, bid thee use the point That my old arm may achieve for the dear country After thine own discretion. For thy boonThat's mother to us both.

Trumpets be ready-In the holiest name,

And in Our Lady's and Saipt Andrew's name, (GORDON shows much emotion during this and

(Touching his shoulder with the sword. the preceding speech of SWINTON.

I dub thee Knight! Arise, Sir Adam Gordon!

Be faithful, brave, and O be fortunate, It is a dream-a vision!-if one troop

Should this ill hour permit! Rush down upon the archers, all will follow,

[The trumpets sound; the Heralds «LarAnd order is destroy'd— we'll keep the battle-rank

gesse !, and the Attendants shout, «A Our fathers wont to do. No more on 't.-Ho!,

Gordon! A Gordon !»
Where be those youths seek knighthood from our

Beggars and flatterers ! Peace, peace, I say!

We'll to the standard; knights shall there be made Here are the Gordon, Somerville, and Hay,

Who will with better reason crave your clamour. And Hepburn, with a score of gallants more. REGENT.

What of Swinton's counsel ? Gordon, stand forth.

Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth noting.

REGENT (with concentrated indignation). I pray your grace, forgive me. Let the best knight, and let the sagest leader-

So Gordon quotes the man who slew his father, How! seek you not for knighthood ?

With his old pedigree and heavy mace,

Essay the adventure if it pleases him,

I do thirst for 't. With his fair threescore horse. As for ourselves, But, pardon me-'t is from another sword.

We will not peril aught upon the measure.
It is your sovereign's, --seck you for a worthier? Lord Regent, you mistake; for if Sir Alan












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Shall venture such attack, each man who calls

The Gordon chief, and hopes or fears from him I have been hurried on by a strong impulse,
Or good or evil, follows Swinton's banner

Like to a bark that scuds before the storm,
In this achievement.

Till driven upon some strange and distant coast,

Which never pilot dream'd of. - Have I not forgiven? Why, God ha' mercy! This is of a piece.

And am I not still fatherless ?
Let young and old e'en follow their own counsel,
Since done will list to mine.

Gordon, no;

For while we live, I am a father to thee.
The Border cockerel fain would be on liorseback;

GORDON "T is safe to be prepared for fight or flight;

Thou, Swinton ?-00!-that cannot, cannot be. And this comes of it to give northern lands

SWINTON To the false Norman blood.

Then change the phrase, and say, that while we live, GORDON.

Gordon shall be my son.-If thou art fatherless, Hearken, proud Chief of Isles ! Within stalls

Am I not childless 100 ? Bethink thee, Gordon, I have two hundred horse ; two hundred riders

Our death-feud was not like the household fire, Mount guard upon my castle, who would tread Which the poor peasant hides among its embers, Into the dust a thousand of your Redshanks,

To smoulder on, and wait a time for waking.
Nor count it a day's service.

Ours was the contlagration of the forest,

Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor stem,
Hear I this

Hoar oak, nor sapling-not to be extinguish'd, From thec, young man, and on the day of battle? Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all her waters. And to the brave Mac-Donnell?

But, once subdued, its flame is quench'd for ever: GORDON.

And Spring shall hide the track of devastation, "T was he that urged me; but I am rebuked.

With foliage and with flowers.--Give me thy hand. REGENT.

GORDON He crouches like a leash-hound to his master!

My hand and heart !-And freely now-to fight ! SWINTON.

VIPONT. Each hound must do so that would head the deer How will you act? [To Swinton.] The Gordon's band Tis mongrel curs which snatch at mate or master.

and thine REGENT.

Are in the rearward left, I think, in scorn. Too much of this.-Sirs, to the royal standard !

post for them who wish to charge the foremost! I bid you, in the pame of good King David,

Sound trumpets--sound for Scotland and King David! | We'll turn that scorn to vantage, and descend

[The Regent and the rest go off, and the Sidelong the hill—some winding path there must be.

Scene closes. Manent Gordon, Swinton, O, for a well-skill'd guide!
and Vipont, with REYNALD and followers. Hob Hartely starts up from a Thicket.
LENNOX follows the REGENT; but returns
' and addresses SWINTON.

So here lie stands.-An ancient friend, Sir Alan.

Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better, O, were my western horsemen but come up,

Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands

your guide. I would take part with you!


An ancient friend !-A most notorious knave,
Better that


remain. Whose throat I've destined to the dodder'd oak They lack discretion ; such gray head as yours

Before my castle, these ten months and more. May best supply that want.

Was it not you, who drove from Simprim-mains, Lennox, mine ancient friend, and honour'd lord, And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of caule ? Farewell, I think, for ever! LENNOX

What then ? if now I lead your sixty lances Farewell, brave friend !-and farewell, noble Gordon, Upon the English flank, where they'll find spoil Whose sun will be eclipsed even as it rises !

Is worth six hundred beeves ?
The Regent will not aid you.


Why, thou canst do it, knave. I would not trust theo
We will so bear us, that as soon the blood-hound With one poor bullock; yet would risk my life,
Shall halt, and take no part, what time his comrade And all my followers, on thine honest guidance.
Js grappling with the deer, as he stand still,

And see us overmatch'd.

There is a dingle, and a most discreet one

(I've trod each step by star-light), that sweeps round Alas! thou dost not know Itow mean his pride is, The rearward of this hill, and opens secretly How strong his envy.

Upon the archiers' flank.-Will not that serve •

Your present turn, Sir Alan ? Then will we die, and leave the shame with him.


Bravely, bravely!
What ails thee, noble youth? What means this pause?- Mount, sirs, and cry my slogau.
Thou dost not rue thy generosity ?

Let all who love the Gordon follow me!




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The Scots still keep the hill—The sun grows high.
Would that the charge would sound!

Thou scent'st the slaughter, Percy. Who comes here?

Now, by my life, the holy priest of Walthamstow,
Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves !
See, he's about to bleal.

They are marching thither.



The king, methinks, delays the onset long.

CHANDOS. Your general, father, like your rat-catcher, Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares.


The metaphor is decent.


Reverend sir, I will uphold it just. Our good King Edward Will presently come to this battle-field, And speak to you of the last tilting-match, Or of some feat he did a twenty years since ; But not a word of the day's work before him. Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends you, Sits prosing o'er his can, until the trap fall, Announcing that the vermin are secured, And then 't is up, and on them.

Bid them make haste, for shame-send a quick rider.-
The loitering knaves, were it to steal my venison,
Their steps were light enough.-How now, Sir Abbot!
Say, is your reverence come lo study with us
The princely art of war ?

I've had a lecture from my Lord of Chandos,
In which he term'd your grace a rat-catcher.

Chandos, how's this?

CHANDOS. 0, I will prove it, sir !—These skipping Scots Have changed a dozen times 't wixt Bruce and Baliol, Quitting each House when it began to totter ; They're fierce and cunning, treacherous, too, as rats, And we, as such, will smoke them in their fastnesses.

KING EDWARD. These rats have seen your back, my Lord of Chandos, And noble Percy's too.

PERCY. Ay; but the mass which now lies weltering On yon hill-side, like a Leviathan That's stranded on the shallows, then had soul in 't, Order and discipline, and power of action. Now 't is a headless corpse, which only shows, By wild convulsions, that some life remaios in 't.


Chandos, you give your tongue too bold a license.



Percy, I am a necessary evil.
King Edward would not want me, if he could,
And could not, if he would. I know my value;
My heavy hand excuses my light tongue.
So men wear weighty swords in their defence,
Although they may offend the tender shin,
When the steel-boot is doff d.


My Lord of Chandos, This is but idle speech on brink of battle, When christian men should think upon their sins; For as the tree falls, so the trunk must lie, Be it for good or evil. Lord, hethink thee, Thou hast withheld from our most reverend house, The tithes of Everingham and Setlleton ;

True, they had once a head; and 't was a wise
Although a rebel head.

ABBOT (bowing to the KING).
Would he were here! we should find one to match him.

KING EDWARD. There's something in that wish which wakes an echo Within my bosom. Yet it is as well, Or better, that the Bruce is in his grave. We have enough of powerful foes on earth, No need to summon them from other worlds.


grace ne'er met the Bruce!





Never hímself; but, in my earliest field,

It is the canon speaks it, good my liege.
I did encounter with his famous captains,
Douglas and Randolph. Faith! they press'd me hard. In purgatory! thou shalt pray him out on 'e,

Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him.
My liege, if I might urge you with a question,
Will the Scots fight to-day?

My lord, perchance his soul is past the aid
KING EDWARD (sharply).

Of all the church may do, there is a place
Go look your breviary.

From which there's no redemption.
CHANDOS (apart).

The abbot has it--Edward will not answer

And if I thought my faithful chaplain there, On that nice point. We must observe his humour. - Thou shouldst there join him, priest!-Go, watch, fast,

[Addresses the King. pray, Your first campaign, my liege ?--That was in Weardale, And let me have such prayers as will storm HeavenWhen Douglas gave our camp yon midnight rufflle,

None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunting masses. And turn'd men's beds to biers.

ABBOT (apart to CHANDOS).

For God's sake, take him off.
Ay, by Saint Edward !-1 escaped right nearly.
I was a soldier then for holidays,

Wilt thou compound, then,
And slept not in mine armour: my safe rest

The tithes of Everingham!
Was startled by the cry of Douglas ! Douglas!
And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain,

I tell thee, if thou bear'st the keys of heaven,
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody mace.

Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with them It was a churchman saved me--my stout chaplain, "Gainst any well-deserving English subject. Heaven quit his spirit! caught a weapon up,

ABBOT (to CHANDOS). And grappled with the giant.—How now,

Louis ? We will compound, and grant thee, too, a share

l' the next indulgence. Thou dost need it much, Enter an Officer, who whispers the King.

And greatly 't will avail thee.












Såy to him,-thus—and thus-

[Whispers. Enough-we're friends, and when occasion serves,

I will strike in-That Swinton's dead. A monk of ours reported,

(Looks as if towards the Scottish Army. Bound homeward from Saint Ninian's pilgrimage, The Lord of Gordon slew him.

Answer, proud abbot;


my chaplain's soul,

If thou knowest aught on 't, in the evil place? Father, and if your house stood on our borders, You might have cause to know that Swinton lives, My liege, the Yorkshire men have gain'd the meadow. And is on horseback yet.

I see the pennon green of merry Sherwood.

He slew the Gordon, Then give the signal instant! We have lost
That's all the difference-a


But too much time already.

Trilling to those who wage a war more noble

My liege, your holy chaplain's blessed soul-
Than with the arm of flesh.
CHANDOS (apart).

To hell with it, and thee! Is this a time
The abbot 's vex'd, I'll rub the sore for him.-

To speak of monks and chaplains? (Aloud.) I have used that arm of flesh,

[Flourish of Trumpets, answered by a distant sound And used it sturdily-most reverend father,

of Bugles. What say you to the chaplain's decd.of arms

See, Chandos, Percy-Ma, Saint George! Saint Edward! In the king's tept at Weardale?

See it descending now, the fatal hail-shower,

The storm of England's wrath-sure, swift, resistless, It was most sinful, being against the canon

Which no mail-coat can brook.—Brave English hearts! Prohibiting all churchmen to bear weapons ;

llow close they shoot together!-as one eye And as he fell in that unseemly guise,

Kad aim'd five thousand shafts—as if one hand
Perchance his soul may rue it.

Had loosed five thousand bow-strings!
KING EDWARD (overhearing the last words)..
Who may me?

The thick volley And what is to be rued ?

Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us.
CHANDOS (apart).

I'll match his reverence for the tithes of Everingham.

It falls on those shall see the sun no more. - The abbot says, my liege, the deed was sinful The winged, the resistless plague is with them. your chaplain, wielding secular weapons,

How their vex'd host is reeling to and fro, Secured your grace's life and liberty,

Like the chafed whale with fifty lances in him!
And that be suffers for 't in purgatory.

They do not see, and cannot shun the wound.
KING EDWARD (to the abbot).

The storm is viewless, as death's sable wing,
Say'st thou my chaplain is in purgatory?

Unerring as his scythe.



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As fought this morn their masters, side by side. Horses and riders are going down together. *T is almost pity to see nobles fall,

Let the men rally, and restore their ranks And by a peasant's arrow.

llere on this vantage-ground-disorder'd chase

Leads to disorder'd flight; we have done our part, I could weep them,

And if we're succour'd now, Plantagenet
Although they are my rebels.

Must turn his bridle southward.
CHANDOS (aside to PERCY).

Reynald, spur to the Regent with the basnet
His conquerors, he means, who cast him out

Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van-guard; From his usurp'd kingdom.-(Aloud.) 'T is the worst Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him, of it,

And by that token bid him send us succour. That knights can claim small honour in the field

GORDON Which archers win, unaided by our lances.

And tell him that when Selby's headlong charge

Had well nigh borne me down, Sir Alan smote him. The battle is not ended. (Looks towards the field. I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell Not ended !-scarce begun! What horse are these, Went to so many shivers.-Harkye, grooms! Rush from the thicket underneath the hill ?

[To those behind the scenes. PERCY

Why do you let my noble steed stand stiffening They 're Hainaulters, the followers of Queen Isabel. After so hot a course ?

KING EDWARD (hastily). Hainaulters!-thou art blind-wear Hainaulters Ay, breathe your horses, they 'll have work anon, Saint Andrew's silver cross ?-or would they charge

For Edward's men-at-arins will soon be on us, Full on our archers, and make havoc of them?-- The flower of England, Gascony, and Flanders; Bruce is alive agaio-ho, rescue! rescue!

But with swift succour we will bide them bravelyWho was 't survey'd the ground?

De Vipont, thou look'st sad!
Most royal liege-

It is because I hold a Templar's sword

Wet to the crossed hilt with christian blood.
A rose hath fallen from thy chaplet, (1) Ribaumont.


The blood of English archers—what can gila
I'll win it back, or lay my head beside it. (Exit. A Scottish blade more bravely?






Saint George ! Saint Edward! Gentlemen, to horse,

Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen, And to the rescue! Percy, lead the bill-men;

England's peculiar and appropriate sons,

known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth Chandos, do thou bring up the men-al-arms.If yonder numerous host should now bear down And field as free as the best lord his barony, Bold as their van-guard (to the Abbot), thou mayst pray Owing subjection to no human vassalage, for us

Save to their king and law. Hence are they resolute, We may necd good men's prayers.-To the rescue, Leading the van on every day of battle, Lords, to the rescue! ba, Saint George! Saint Edward! As men who know the blessings they defend.


llence are they frank and generous in peace,
As men who have their portion in its plenty.
No other kingdom shows such worth and happiness

Veild in such low estate- therefore I mourn them.

A part of the Field of Battle betwixt the two Main Ar-I'll keep my sorrow for our native Scots,

mies; tumults behind the scenes; alarms, and cries Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppression,
of «Gordon! A Gordon!» «Swinton!» etc.

Still follow to the field their chieftain's banner,

And die in the defence on 't.
Enter, as victorious over the English van-guard, Vipont,
REYNALD, and others.

And if I live and see my halls again,

They shall have portion in the good they fight for. VIPONT.

Each hardy follower shall have his field, 'T is sweet to hear thiese war-cries sound together, - His household bearth and sod-built home, as free Gordon and Swinton,

As ever southron had. They shall be happy!


Elizabeth shall smile to see it!'T is passing pleasant, yet 't is strange withal.

I have betray'd myself. Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's slogan

SWINTON Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck down

Do not believe it. -
The knave who cried it.

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
Enter Swinton and Gordon.

And see what motion in the Scottish host,
And in King Edward's.-

[Exit Vipont.

Now will I counsel thee; Pitch down my pennon in yon holly-bush.

The Templar's ear is for no tale of love,
Being wedded to his order.

But I tell thee,
Mine in the thorn beside it; let them wave,

The brave young koight that hath no lady-love




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