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.

You task me justly, and I crave his pardon,

[Bows to the REGENT. 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, «Largesse!» and the Attendants shout, «A Gordon! A Gordon !»

REGENT.

Beggars and flatterers! Peace, peace, I say!
We'll to the standard; knights shall there be made
Who will with better reason crave your clamour.

LENNOX.

What of Swinton's counsel ?
Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth noting.
REGENT (with concentrated indignation).
Let the best knight, and let the sagest leader--
So Gordon quotes the man who slew his father,-
With his old pedigree and heavy mace,

Essay the adventure if it pleases him,

With his fair threescore horse. As for ourselves, We will not peril aught upon the measure.

GORDON.

Lord Regent, you mistake; for if Sir Alan

GORDON.

I have been hurried on by a strong impulse,
Like to a bark that scuds before the storm,
Till driven upon some strange and distant coast,
Which never pilot dream'd of.-Have I not forgiven?
And am I not still fatherless?

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,
Gordon shall be my son.-If thou art fatherless,
Am I not childless too? Bethink thee, Gordon,
Our death-feud was not like the household fire,
Which the
its embers,
poor peasant hides among
To smoulder on, and wait a time for waking.
Ours was the conflagration of the forest,
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor stem,
Hoar oak, nor sapling-not to be extinguish'd,
Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all her waters.
But, once subdued, its flame is quench'd for ever:
And Spring shall hide the track of devastation,
With foliage and with flowers.-Give me thy hand.

[Exit LENNOX.

VIPONT (to GORDON).

What ails thee, noble youth? What means this pause? Thou dost not rue thy generosity?

SWINTON.

Bravely, bravely!

GORDON.

Mount, sirs, and cry my slogau.

Let all who love the Gordon follow me!

[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-Hą, 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.

PERCY.

Horses and riders are going down together. 'T is almost pity to see nobles fall, And by a peasant's arrow.

BALIOL.

I could weep them,

Although they are my rebels.

CHANDOS (aside to PERCY).

His conquerors, he means, who cast him out

As fought this morn their masters, side by side.

SWINTON.

Let the men rally, and restore their ranks
Here on this vantage-ground-disorder'd chase
Leads to disorder'd flight; we have done our part,
And if we 're succour'd now, Plantagenet
Must turn his bridle southward.

Reynald, spur to the Regent with the basnet
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van-guard;

And by that token bid him send us succour.

GORDON.

And tell him that when Selby's headlong charge
Had well nigh borne me down, Sir Alan smote him.
I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell
Went to so many shivers.-Harkye, grooms!
[To those behind the scenes.
Why do you let my noble steed stand stiffening
After so hot a course?

SWINTON.

Ay, breathe your horses, they 'll have work anon,
For Edward's men-at-arins will soon be on us,
The flower of England, Gascony, and Flanders;
But with swift succour we will bide them bravely-
De Vipont, thou look'st sad!

VIPONT.

It is because I hold a Templar's sword
Wet to the crossed hilt with christian blood.

SWINTON.

VIPONT.

Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen,
England's peculiar and appropriate sons,
Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth
And field as free as the best lord his barony,
Owing subjection to no human vassalage,
Save to their king and law. Hence are they resolute,
Leading the van on every day of battle,

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
Veil'd in such low estate-therefore I mourn them.