PAULET. Shut all the portals—draw the bridges up.

MORTIMER. What is the matter, uncle?

PAULET. Where is the murderess? Down with her, down into the darkest dungeon!

MORTIMER. What is the matter? What has passed?

PAULET. The queen! Accursed hand! Infernal machination!

MORTIMER. The queen! What queen?

PAULET. What queen! The Queen of England; She has been murdered on the road to London.

[Hastens into the house.



SCENE VIII.

MORTIMER, soon after O'KELLY.

MORTIMER (after a pause). Am I then mad? Came not one running by But now, and cried aloud, the queen is murdered! No, no! I did but dream. A feverish fancy Paints that upon my mind as true and real, Which but existed in my frantic thoughts. Who's there? It is O'Kelly. So dismayed!

O'KELLY (rushing in). Flee, Mortimer, oh! flee—for all is lost!

MORTIMER. What then is lost?

O'KELLY. Stand not on question. Think On speedy flight.

MORTIMER. What has occurred?

O'KELLY. Sauvage, That madman, struck the blow.

MORTIMER. It is then true!

O'KELLY. True, true—oh! save yourself.

MORTIMER (exultingly). The queen is murdered— And Mary shall ascend the English throne!

O'KELLY. Is murdered! Who said that?

MORTIMER. Yourself.

O'KELLY. She lives, And I, and you, and all of us are lost.

MORTIMER. She lives!

O'KELLY. The blow was badly aimed, her cloak Received it. Shrewsbury disarmed the murderer.

MORTIMER. She lives!

O'KELLY. She lives to whelm us all in ruin; Come, they surround the park already; come.

MORTIMER. Who did this frantic deed?

O'KELLY. It was the monk From Toulon, whom you saw immersed in thought, As in the chapel the pope's bull was read, Which poured anathemas upon the queen. He wished to take the nearest, shortest way, To free, with one bold stroke, the church of God, And gain the crown of martyrdom: he trusted His purpose only to the priest, and struck The fatal blow upon the road to London.

MORTIMER (after a long silence). Alas! a fierce, destructive fate pursues thee, Unhappy one! Yes—now thy death is fixed; Thy very angel has prepared thy fall!

O'KELLY. Say, whither will you take your flight? I go To hide me in the forests of the north.

MORTIMER. Fly thither, and may God attend your flight; I will remain, and still attempt to save My love; if not, my bed shall be upon her grave.

[Exeunt at different sides.



ACT IV.

SCENE I.—Antechamber.

COUNT AUBESPINE, the EARLS Of KENT and LEICESTER.

AUBESPINE. How fares her majesty? My lords, you see me Still stunned, and quite beside myself for terror! How happened it? How was it possible That in the midst of this most loyal people——

LEICESTER. The deed was not attempted by the people. The assassin was a subject of your king, A Frenchman.

AUBESPINE. Sure a lunatic.

LEICESTER. A papist, Count Aubespine!



SCENE II.

Enter BURLEIGH, in conversation with DAVISON.

BURLEIGH. Sir; let the death-warrant Be instantly made out, and pass the seal; Then let it be presented to the queen; Her majesty must sign it. Hasten, sir, We have no time to lose.

DAVISON. It shall be done.

[Exit.

AUBESPINE. My lord high-treasurer, my faithful heart Shares in the just rejoicings of the realm. Praised be almighty Heaven, who hath averted Assassination from our much-loved queen!

BURLEIGH. Praised be His name, who thus hath turned to scorn The malice of our foes!

AUBESPINE. May heaven confound The perpetrator of this cursed deed!

BURLEIGH. Its perpetrator and its base contriver!

AUBESPINE. Please you, my lord, to bring me to the queen, That I may lay the warm congratulations Of my imperial master at her feet.

BURLEIGH. There is no need of this.

AUBESPINE (officiously). My Lord of Burleigh, I know my duty.

BURLEIGH. Sir, your duty is To quit, and that without delay, this kingdom.

AUBESPINE (stepping back with surprise). What! How is this?

BURLEIGH. The sacred character Of an ambassador to-day protects you, But not to-morrow.

AUBESPINE. What's my crime?

BURLEIGH. Should I Once name it, there were then no pardon for it.

AUBESPINE. I hope, my lord, my charge's privilege——

BURLEIGH. Screens not a traitor.

LEICESTER and KENT. Traitor! How?

AUBESPINE. My Lord, Consider well——

BURLEIGH. Your passport was discovered In the assassin's pocket.

KENT. Righteous heaven!

AUBESPINE. Sir, many passports are subscribed by me; I cannot know the secret thoughts of men.

BURLEIGH. He in your house confessed, and was absolved.

AUBESPINE. My house is open——

BURLEIGH. To our enemies.

AUBESPINE. I claim a strict inquiry.

BURLEIGH. Tremble at it.

AUBESPINE. My monarch in my person is insulted, He will annul the marriage contract.

BURLEIGH. That My royal mistress has annulled already; England will not unite herself with France. My Lord of Kent, I give to you the charge To see Count Aubespine embarked in safety. The furious populace has stormed his palace, Where a whole arsenal of arms was found; Should he be found, they'll tear him limb from limb, Conceal him till the fury is abated— You answer for his life.

AUBESPINE. I go—I leave This kingdom where they sport with public treaties And trample on the laws of nations. Yet My monarch, be assured, will vent his rage In direst vengeance!

BURLEIGH. Let him seek it here.

[Exeunt KENT and AUBESPINE.



SCENE III.

LEICESTER, BURLEIGH.

LEICESTER. And thus you loose yourself the knot of union Which you officiously, uncalled for, bound! You have deserved but little of your country, My lord; this trouble was superfluous.

BURLEIGH. My aim was good, though fate declared against it; Happy is he who has so fair a conscience!

LEICESTER. Well know we the mysterious mien of Burleigh When he is on the hunt for deeds of treason. Now you are in your element, my lord; A monstrous outrage has been just committed, And darkness veils as yet its perpetrators: Now will a court of inquisition rise; Each word, each look be weighed; men's very thoughts Be summoned to the bar. You are, my lord, The mighty man, the Atlas of the state, All England's weight lies upon your shoulders.

BURLEIGH. In you, my lord, I recognize my master; For such a victory as your eloquence Has gained I cannot boast.

LEICESTER. What means your lordship?

BURLEIGH. You were the man who knew, behind my back, To lure the queen to Fotheringay Castle.

LEICESTER. Behind your back! When did I fear to act Before your face?

BURLEIGH. You led her majesty? Oh, no—you led her not—it was the queen Who was so gracious as to lead you thither.

LEICESTER. What mean you, my lord, by that?

BURLEIGH. The noble part You forced the queen to play! The glorious triumph Which you prepared for her! Too gracious princess! So shamelessly, so wantonly to mock Thy unsuspecting goodness, to betray thee So pitiless to thy exulting foe! This, then, is the magnanimity, the grace Which suddenly possessed you in the council! The Stuart is for this so despicable, So weak an enemy, that it would scarce Be worth the pains to stain us with her blood. A specious plan! and sharply pointed too; 'Tis only pity this sharp point is broken.

LEICESTER. Unworthy wretch! this instant follow me, And answer at the throne this insolence.

BURLEIGH. You'll find me there, my lord; and look you well That there your eloquence desert you not.

[Exit.



SCENE IV.

LEICESTER alone, then MORTIMER.

LEICESTER. I am detected! All my plot's disclosed! How has my evil genius tracked my steps! Alas! if he has proofs, if she should learn That I have held a secret correspondence With her worst enemy; how criminal Shall I appear to her! How false will then My counsel seem, and all the fatal pains I took to lure the queen to Fotheringay! I've shamefully betrayed, I have exposed her To her detested enemy's revilings! Oh! never, never can she pardon that. All will appear as if premeditated. The bitter turn of this sad interview, The triumph and the tauntings of her rival; Yes, e'en the murderous hand which had prepared A bloody, monstrous, unexpected fate; All, all will be ascribed to my suggestions! I see no rescue! nowhere—ha! Who comes?

[MORTIMER enters in the most violent uneasiness, and looks with apprehension round him.

MORTIMER. Lord Leicester! Is it you! Are we alone?

LEICESTER. Ill-fated wretch, away! What seek you here?

MORTIMER. They are upon our track—upon yours, too; Be vigilant!

LEICESTER. Away, away!

MORTIMER. They know That private conferences have been held At Aubespine's——

LEICESTER. What's that to me?

MORTIMER. They know, too, That the assassin——

LEICESTER. That is your affair— Audacious wretch! to dare to mix my name In your detested outrage: go; defend Your bloody deeds yourself!

MORTIMER. But only hear me.

LEICESTER (violently enraged). Down, down to hell! Why cling you at my heels Like an infernal spirit! I disclaim you; I know you not; I make no common cause With murderers!

MORTIMER. You will not hear me, then! I came to warn you; you too are detected.

LEICESTER. How! What?

MORTIMER. Lord Burleigh went to Fotheringay Just as the luckless deed had been attempted; Searched with strict scrutiny the queen's apartments, And found there——

LEICESTER. What?

MORTIMER. A letter which the queen Had just addressed to you——

LEICESTER. Unhappy woman!

MORTIMER. In which she calls on you to keep your word, Renews the promise of her hand, and mentions The picture which she sent you.

LEICESTER. Death and hell!

MORTIMER. Lord Burleigh has the letter.

LEICESTER. I am lost!

[During the following speech of MORTIMER, LEICESTER goes up and down as in despair.

MORTIMER. Improve the moment; be beforehand with him, And save yourself—save her! An oath can clear Your fame; contrive excuses to avert The worst. I am disarmed, can do no more; My comrades are dispersed—to pieces fallen Our whole confederacy. For Scotland I To rally such new friends as there I may. 'Tis now your turn, my lord; try what your weight, What bold assurance can effect.

LEICESTER (stops suddenly as if resolved). I will.

[Goes to the door, opens it, and calls.

Who waits without? Guards! seize this wretched traitor!

[To the officer, who comes in with soldiers.

And guard him closely! A most dreadful plot Is brought to light—I'll to her majesty.

MORTIMER (stands for a time petrified with wonder; collects himself soon, and follows LEICESTER with his looks expressive of the most sovereign contempt). Infamous wretch! But I deserve it all. Who told me then to trust this practised villain? Now o'er my head he strides, and on my fall He builds the bridge of safety! be it so; Go, save thyself—my lips are sealed forever; I will not join even thee in my destruction; I would not own thee, no, not even in death; Life is the faithless villain's only good!

[To the officer of the guard, who steps forward to seize him.

What wilt thou, slave of tyranny, with me? I laugh to scorn thy threatenings; I am free.

[Drawing a dagger.

OFFICER. He's armed; rush in and wrest his weapon from him.

[They rush upon him, he defends himself.

MORTIMER (raising his voice). And in this latest moment shall my heart Expand itself in freedom, and my tongue Shall break this long constraint. Curse and destruction Light on you all who have betrayed your faith, Your God, and your true sovereign! Who, alike To earthly Mary false as to the heavenly, Have sold your duties to this bastard queen!

OFFICER. Hear you these blasphemies? Rush forward—seize him.

MORTIMER. Beloved queen! I could not set thee free; Yet take a lesson from me how to die. Mary, thou holy one, O! pray for me! And take me to thy heavenly home on high.

[Stabs himself, and falls into the arms of the guard.



SCENE V.

The apartment of the Queen.

ELIZABETH, with a letter in her hand, BURLEIGH.

ELIZABETH. To lure me thither! trifle with me thus! The traitor! Thus to lead me, as in triumph, Into the presence of his paramour! Oh, Burleigh! ne'er was woman so deceived.

BURLEIGH. I cannot yet conceive what potent means, What magic he exerted, to surprise My queen's accustomed prudence.

ELIZABETH. Oh, I die For shame! How must he laugh to scorn my weakness! I thought to humble her, and was myself The object of her bitter scorn.

BURLEIGH. By this You see how faithfully I counselled you.

ELIZABETH. Oh, I am sorely punished, that I turned My ear from your wise counsels; yet I thought I might confide in him. Who could suspect Beneath the vows of faithfullest devotion A deadly snare? In whom can I confide When he deceives me? He, whom I have made The greatest of the great, and ever set The nearest to my heart, and in this court Allowed to play the master and the king.

BURLEIGH. Yet in that very moment he betrayed you, Betrayed you to this wily Queen of Scots.

ELIZABETH. Oh, she shall pay me for it with her life! Is the death-warrant ready?

BURLEIGH. 'Tis prepared As you commanded.

ELIZABETH. She shall surely die— He shall behold her fall, and fall himself! I've driven him from my heart. No longer love, Revenge alone is there: and high as once He stood, so low and shameful be his fall! A monument of my severity, As once the proud example of my weakness. Conduct him to the Tower; let a commission Of peers be named to try him. He shall feel In its full weight the rigor of the law.

BURLEIGH. But he will seek thy presence; he will clear——

ELIZABETH. How can he clear himself? Does not the letter Convict him. Oh, his crimes are manifest!

BURLEIGH. But thou art mild and gracious! His appearance, His powerful presence——

ELIZABETH. I will never see him; No never, never more. Are orders given Not to admit him should he come?

BURLEIGH. 'Tis done.

PAGE (entering). The Earl of Leicester!

ELIZABETH. The presumptuous man! I will not see him. Tell him that I will not.

PAGE. I am afraid to bring my lord this message, Nor would he credit it.

ELIZABETH. And I have raised him So high that my own servants tremble more At him than me!

BURLEIGH (to the PAGE). The queen forbids his presence.

[The PAGE retires slowly.

ELIZABETH (after a pause). Yet, if it still were possible? If he Could clear himself? Might it not be a snare Laid by the cunning one, to sever me From my best friends—the ever-treacherous harlot! She might have writ the letter, but to raise Poisonous suspicion in my heart, to ruin The man she hates.

BURLEIGH. Yet, gracious queen, consider.



SCENE VI.

LEICESTER (bursts open the door with violence, and enters with an imperious air).

LEICESTER. Fain would I see the shameless man who dares Forbid me the apartments of my queen!

ELIZABETH (avoiding his sight).

Audacious slave!

LEICESTER. To turn me from the door!

If for a Burleigh she be visible, She must be so to me!

BURLEIGH. My lord, you are Too bold, without permission to intrude.

LEICESTER. My lord, you are too arrogant, to take The lead in these apartments. What! Permission! I know of none who stands so high at court As to permit my doings, or refuse them.

[Humbly approaching ELIZABETH.

'Tis from my sovereign's lips alone that I——

ELIZABETH (without looking at him). Out of my sight, deceitful, worthless traitor!

LEICESTER. 'Tis not my gracious queen I hear, but Burleigh, My enemy, in these ungentle words. To my imperial mistress I appeal; Thou hast lent him thine ear; I ask the like.

ELIZABETH. Speak, shameless wretch! Increase your crime—deny it.

LEICESTER. Dismiss this troublesome intruder first. Withdraw, my lord; it is not of your office To play the third man here: between the queen And me there is no need of witnesses. Retire——

ELIZABETH (to BURLEIGH). Remain, my lord; 'tis my command.

LEICESTER. What has a third to do 'twixt thee and me? I have to clear myself before my queen, My worshipped queen; I will maintain the rights Which thou hast given me; these rights are sacred, And I insist upon it, that my lord Retire.

ELIZABETH. This haughty tone befits you well.

LEICESTER. It well befits me; am not I the man, The happy man, to whom thy gracious favor Has given the highest station? this exalts me Above this Burleigh, and above them all. Thy heart imparted me this rank, and what Thy favor gave, by heavens I will maintain At my life's hazard. Let him go, it needs Two moments only to exculpate me.

ELIZABETH. Think not, with cunning words, to hide the truth.

LEICESTER. That fear from him, so voluble of speech: But what I say is to the heart addressed; And I will justify what I have dared To do, confiding in thy generous favor, Before thy heart alone. I recognize No other jurisdiction.

ELIZABETH. Base deceiver 'Tis this, e'en this, which above all condemns you. My lord, produce the letter.

[To BURLEIGH.

BURLEIGH. Here it is.

LEICESTER (running over the letter without losing his presence of mind). 'Tis Mary Stuart's hand——

ELIZABETH. Read and be dumb!

LEICESTER (having read it quietly). Appearance is against me, yet I hope I shall not by appearances be judged.

ELIZABETH. Can you deny your secret correspondence With Mary?—that she sent and you received Her picture, that you gave her hopes of rescue?

LEICESTER. It were an easy matter, if I felt That I were guilty of a crime, to challenge The testimony of my enemy: Yet bold is my good conscience. I confess That she hath said the truth.

ELIZABETH. Well then, thou wretch!

BURLEIGH. His own words sentence him——

ELIZABETH. Out of my sight! Away! Conduct the traitor to the Tower!

LEICESTER. I am no traitor; it was wrong, I own, To make a secret of this step to thee; Yet pure was my intention, it was done To search into her plots and to confound them.

ELIZABETH. Vain subterfuge!

BURLEIGH. And do you think, my lord——

LEICESTER. I've played a dangerous game, I know it well, And none but Leicester dare be bold enough To risk it at this court. The world must know How I detest this Stuart, and the rank Which here I hold; my monarch's confidence, With which she honors me, must sure suffice To overturn all doubt of my intentions. Well may the man thy favor above all Distinguishes pursue a daring course To do his duty!

BURLEIGH. If the course was good, Wherefore conceal it?

LEICESTER. You are used, my lord, To prate before you act; the very chime Of your own deeds. This is your manner, lord; But mine is first to act, and then to speak.

BURLEIGH. Yes, now you speak because you must.

LEICESTER (measuring him proudly and disdainfully with his eyes). And you Boast of a wonderful, a mighty action, That you have saved the queen, have snatched away The mask from treachery; all is known to you; You think, forsooth, that nothing can escape Your penetrating eyes. Poor, idle boaster! In spite of all your cunning, Mary Stuart Was free to-day, had I not hindered it.

BURLEIGH. How? You?

LEICESTER. Yes, I, my lord; the queen confided In Mortimer; she opened to the youth Her inmost soul! Yes, she went further still; She gave him, too, a secret, bloody charge, Which Paulet had before refused with horror. Say, is it so, or not?

[The QUEEN and BURLEIGH look at one another with astonishment.

BURLEIGH. Whence know ye this?

LEICESTER. Nay, is it not a fact? Now answer me. And where, my lord, where were your thousand eyes, Not to discover Mortimer was false? That he, the Guise's tool, and Mary's creature, A raging papist, daring fanatic, Was come to free the Stuart, and to murder The Queen of England!

ELIZABETH (with the utmost astonishment). How! This Mortimer!

LEICESTER. 'Twas he through whom our correspondence passed. This plot it was which introduced me to him. This very day she was to have been torn From her confinement; he, this very moment, Disclosed his plan to me: I took him prisoner, And gave him to the guard, when in despair To see his work o'erturned, himself unmasked, He slew himself!

ELIZABETH. Oh, I indeed have been Deceived beyond example, Mortimer!

BURLEIGH. This happened then but now? Since last we parted?

LEICESTER. For my own sake, I must lament the deed; That he was thus cut off. His testimony, Were he alive, had fully cleared my fame, And freed me from suspicion; 'twas for this That I surrendered him to open justice. I thought to choose the most impartial course To verify and fix my innocence Before the world.

BURLEIGH. He killed himself, you say Is't so? Or did you kill him?

LEICESTER. Vile suspicion! Hear but the guard who seized him. [He goes to the door, and calls. Ho! who waits? [Enter the officer of the guard. Sir, tell the queen how Mortimer expired.

OFFICER. I was on duty in the palace porch, When suddenly my lord threw wide the door, And ordered me to take the knight in charge, Denouncing him a traitor: upon this He grew enraged, and with most bitter curses Against our sovereign and our holy faith, He drew a dagger, and before the guards Could hinder his intention, plunged the steel Into his heart, and fell a lifeless corpse.

LEICESTER. 'Tis well; you may withdraw. Her majesty Has heard enough.

[The officer withdraws.

ELIZABETH.

Oh, what a deep abyss Of monstrous deeds?

LEICESTER. Who was it, then, my queen, Who saved you? Was it Burleigh? Did he know The dangers which surrounded you? Did he Avert them from your head? Your faithful Leicester Was your good angel.

BURLEIGH. This same Mortimer Died most conveniently for you, my lord.

ELIZABETH. What I should say I know not. I believe you, And I believe you not. I think you guilty, And yet I think you not. A curse on her Who caused me all this anguish.

LEICESTER. She must die; I now myself consent unto her death. I formerly advised you to suspend The sentence, till some arm should rise anew On her behalf; the case has happened now, And I demand her instant execution.

BURLEIGH. You give this counsel? You?

LEICESTER. Howe'er it wound My feelings to be forced to this extreme, Yet now I see most clearly, now I feel That the queen's welfare asks this bloody victim. 'Tis my proposal, therefore, that the writ Be drawn at once to fix the execution.

BURLEIGH (to the QUEEN). Since, then, his lordship shows such earnest zeal, Such loyalty, 'twere well were he appointed To see the execution of the sentence.

LEICESTER. Who? I?

BURLEIGH. Yes, you; you surely ne'er could find A better means to shake off the suspicion Which rests upon you still, than to command Her, whom 'tis said you love, to be beheaded.

ELIZABETH (looking steadfastly at LEICESTER). My lord advises well. So be it, then.

LEICESTER. It were but fit that my exalted rank Should free me from so mournful a commission, Which would indeed, in every sense, become A Burleigh better than the Earl of Leicester. The man who stands so near the royal person Should have no knowledge of such fatal scenes: But yet to prove my zeal, to satisfy My queen, I waive my charge's privilege, And take upon myself this hateful duty.

ELIZABETH. Lord Burleigh shall partake this duty with you.

[To BURLEIGH.

So be the warrant instantly prepared.

[BURLEIGH withdraws; a tumult heard without.



SCENE VII.

The QUEEN, the EARL OF KENT.

ELIZABETH. How now, my Lord of Kent? What uproar's this I hear without?

KENT. My queen, it is thy people, Who, round the palace ranged, impatiently Demand to see their sovereign.

ELIZABETH. What's their wish?

KENT. A panic terror has already spread Through London, that thy life has been attempted; That murderers commissioned from the pope Beset thee; that the Catholics have sworn To rescue from her prison Mary Stuart, And to proclaim her queen. Thy loyal people Believe it, and are mad; her head alone Can quiet them; this day must be her last.

ELIZABETH. How! Will they force me, then?

KENT. They are resolved——



SCENE VIII.

Enter BURLEIGH and DAVISON, with a paper.

ELIZABETH. Well, Davison?

DAVISON (approaches earnestly). Your orders are obeyed, My queen——

ELIZABETH. What orders, sir?

[As she is about to take the paper, she shudders, and starts back.

Oh, God!

BURLEIGH. Obey Thy people's voice; it is the voice of God.

ELIZABETH (irresolute, as if in contest with herself) Oh, my good lord, who will assure me now That what I hear is my whole people's voice, The voice of all the world! Ah! much I fear, That, if I now should listen to the wish Of the wild multitude, a different voice Might soon be heard;—and that the very men, Who now by force oblige me to this step, May, when 'tis taken, heavily condemn me!



SCENE IX.

Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY (who enters with great emotion).

SHREWSBURY. Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;

[Seeing DAVISON with the paper.

Be firm—or is it then decided?—is it Indeed decided? I behold a paper Of ominous appearance in his hand; Let it not at this moment meet thy eyes, My queen!——

ELIZABETH. Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained——

SHREWSBURY. Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England, Here must thy majesty assert its rights: Command those savage voices to be silent, Who take upon themselves to put constraint Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment. Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people; Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal, And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.

BURLEIGH. Judgment has long been past. It is not now The time to speak but execute the sentence.

KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back). The tumult gains apace; there are no means To moderate the people.

ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY). See, my lord, How they press on.

SHREWSBURY. I only ask a respite; A single word traced by thy hand decides The peace, the happiness of all thy life! Thou hast for years considered, let not then A moment ruled by passion hurry thee— But a short respite—recollect thyself! Wait for a moment of tranquillity.

BURLEIGH (violently). Wait for it—pause—delay—till flames of fire Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt Of murder be successful! God, indeed, Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape Was marvellous, and to expect again A miracle would be to tempt thy God!

SHREWSBURY. That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee, Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength To overcome the madman:—he deserves Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice Of justice now, for now is not the time; Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion. Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now Before this living Mary—tremble rather Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary. She will arise, and quit her grave, will range A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost, Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely Will they avenge her when she is no more. They will no more behold the enemy Of their belief, they will but see in her The much-lamented issue of their kings A sacrifice to jealousy and hate. Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go Through London, seek thy people, which till now Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see Another England, and another people; For then no more the godlike dignity Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts, Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee, And make a wilderness in every street— The last, extremest crime thou hast committed. What head is safe, if the anointed fall?

ELIZABETH. Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned The murderous steel aside; why let you not The dagger take its course? then all these broils Would have been ended; then, released from doubt, And free from blame, I should be now at rest In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth I'm weary of my life, and of my crown. If Heaven decree that one of us two queens Must perish, to secure the other's life— And sure it must be so—why should not I Be she who yields? My people must decide; I give them back the sovereignty they gave. God is my witness that I have not lived For my own sake, but for my people's welfare. If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart, The younger sovereign, more happy days, I will descend with pleasure from the throne, Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers, Where once I spent my unambitious youth; Where far removed from all the vanities Of earthly power, I found within myself True majesty. I am not made to rule— A ruler should be made of sterner stuff: My heart is soft and tender. I have governed These many years this kingdom happily, But then I only needed to make happy: Now, comes my first important regal duty, And now I feel how weak a thing I am.

BURLEIGH. Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen, My royal liege, speak such unroyal words, I should betray my office, should betray My country, were I longer to be silent. You say you love your people 'bove yourself, Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart, And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord. Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen The ancient superstition be renewed? The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate In pomp march hither; lock our churches up, Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you The souls of all your subjects—as you now Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost! Here is no time for mercy;—to promote Your people's welfare is your highest duty. If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I Will save both you and England—that is more!

ELIZABETH. I would be left alone. No consolation, No counsel can be drawn from human aid In this conjecture:—I will lay my doubts Before the Judge of all:—I am resolved To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.

[To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.

You, sir, remain in waiting—close at hand.

[The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with an expression of the deepest anguish.



SCENE X.

ELIZABETH alone.

Oh! servitude of popularity! Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I Of flattering this idol, which my soul Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when Shall I once more be free upon this throne? I must respect the people's voice, and strive To win the favor of the multitude, And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he Alone, who in his actions does not heed The fickle approbation of mankind. Have I then practised justice, all my life Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this Only to bind my hands against this first, This necessary act of violence? My own example now condemns myself! Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister, My predecessor, I could fearless then Have shed this royal blood:—but am I now Just by my own free choice? No—I was forced By stern necessity to use this virtue; Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills. Surrounded by my foes, my people's love Alone supports me on my envied throne. All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me; The pope's inveterate decree declares me Accursed and excommunicated. France Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares At sea a fierce exterminating war; Thus stand I, in contention with the world, A poor defenceless woman: I must seek To veil the spot in my imperial birth, By which my father cast disgrace upon me: In vain with princely virtues would I hide it; The envious hatred of my enemies Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart, A threatening fiend, before me evermore!

[Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.

Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall! I will have peace. She is the very fury Of my existence; a tormenting demon, Which destiny has fastened on my soul. Wherever I had planted me a comfort, A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed By this infernal viper! She has torn My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me. The hated name of every ill I feel Is Mary Stuart—were but she no more On earth I should be free as mountain air.

[Standing still.

With what disdain did she look down on me, As if her eye should blast me like the lightning! Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms, Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.

[Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.

I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch, I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st. Thy death will make my birth legitimate. The moment I destroy thee is the doubt Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right. As soon as England has no other choice, My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!

[She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall, and steps back with an expression of terror. After a pause she rings.



SCENE XI.

ELIZABETH, DAVISON.

ELIZABETH. Where are their lordships?

DAVISON. They are gone to quell The tumult of the people. The alarm Was instantly appeased when they beheld The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed A hundred voices—that's the man—he saved The queen; hear him—the bravest man in England! And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed In gentle words the people's violence, And used such strong, persuasive eloquence, That all were pacified, and silently They slunk away.

ELIZABETH. The fickle multitude! Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William; You may retire again—— [As he is going towards the door. And, sir, this paper, Receive it back; I place it in your hands.

DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back). My gracious queen—thy name! 'tis then decided.

ELIZABETH. I had but to subscribe it—I have done so— A paper sure cannot decide—a name Kills not.

DAVISON. Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper Is most decisive—kills—'tis like the lightning, Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll Commands the sheriff and commissioners To take departure straight for Fotheringay, And to the Queen of Scots announce her death, Which must at dawn be put in execution. There is no respite, no discretion here. As soon as I have parted with this writ Her race is run.

ELIZABETH. Yes, sir, the Lord has placed This weighty business in your feeble hands; Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom; I go—and leave you, sir, to do your duty.

[Going.

DAVISON. No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard Your will. The only wisdom that I need Is, word for word, to follow your commands. Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands To see that it be speedily enforced?

ELIZABETH. That you must do as your own prudence dictates.

DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed). Not mine—oh, God forbid! Obedience is My only prudence here. No point must now Be left to be decided by your servant. A small mistake would here be regicide, A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils. Permit me, in this weighty act, to be Your passive instrument, without a will:— Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure, What with the bloody mandate I should do.

ELIZABETH. Its name declares its meaning.

DAVISON. Do you, then, My liege, command its instant execution?

ELIZABETH. I said not that; I tremble but to think it.

DAVISON. Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?

ELIZABETH. At your own risk; you answer the event.

DAVISON. I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!

ELIZABETH. My pleasure is that this unhappy business Be no more mentioned to me; that at last I may be freed from it, and that forever.

DAVISON. It costs you but a word—determine then What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?

ELIZABETH. I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.

DAVISON. You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen, You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress, But to remember——

ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground). Insupportable!

DAVISON. Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered Unwittingly, not many months ago, Upon this office; I know not the language Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man. Be patient with me; nor deny your servant A light to lead him clearly to his duty.

[He approaches her in a supplicating posture, she turns her back on him; he stands in despair; then speaks with a tone of resolution.

Take, take again this paper—take it back! Within my hands it is a glowing fire. Select not me, my queen; select not me To serve you in this terrible conjecture.

ELIZABETH. Go, sir;—fulfil the duty of your office.

[Exit.



SCENE XII.

DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.

DAVISON. She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed With this dread paper! How to act I know not; Should I retain it, should I forward it?

[To BURLEIGH, who enters.

Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord, 'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge; Now free me from it, for I undertook it, Unknowing how responsible it made me. Let me then seek again the obscurity In which you found me; this is not my place.

BURLEIGH. How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant? The queen was with you.

DAVISON. She has quitted me In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me, Save me from this fell agony of doubt! My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!

BURLEIGH. Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!

DAVISON. I may not.

BURLEIGH. How!

DAVISON. She has not yet explained her final will.

BURLEIGH. Explained! She has subscribed it;—give it to me.

DAVISON. I am to execute it, and I am not. Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!

BURLEIGH (urging more violently). It must be now, this moment, executed. The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.

DAVISON. So am I also if I act too rashly.

BURLEIGH. What strange infatuation. Give it me.

[Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.

DAVISON. What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.



ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Scene the same as in the First Act.

HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY, also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants, who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings, and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants silently retire.

MELVIL enters.

KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him). Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?

MELVIL. Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.

KENNEDY. After this long, long, painful separation!

MELVIL. A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!

KENNEDY. You come——

MELVIL. To take an everlasting leave Of my dear queen—to bid a last farewell!

KENNEDY. And now at length, now on the fatal morn Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir, I will not question you, how you have fared, Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured, Since you were torn away from us: alas! There will be time enough for that hereafter. O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate To see the dawn of this unhappy day?

MELVIL. Let us not melt each other with our grief. Throughout my whole remaining life, as long As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep; A smile shall never more light up these cheeks, Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside, But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning. Yet on this last sad day I will be firm; Pledge me your word to moderate your grief; And when the rest of comfort all bereft, Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we Will lead her with heroic resolution, And be her staff upon the road to death!

KENNEDY. Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose The queen has need of our support to meet Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend, Who will exhibit the undaunted heart. Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire As best becomes a heroine and queen!

MELVIL. Received she firmly, then, the sad decree Of death?—'tis said that she was not prepared.

KENNEDY. She was not; yet they were far other terrors Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death, But her deliverer, which made her tremble. Freedom was promised us; this very night Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence: And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear, And doubting still if she should trust her honor And royal person to the adventurous youth, Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle; Our ears are startled by repeated blows Of many hammers, and we think we hear The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us, And suddenly and unresisted wakes The sweet desire of life. And now at once The portals are thrown open—it is Paulet, Who comes to tell us—that—the carpenters Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!

[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.

MELVIL. O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore The queen this terrible vicissitude?

KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself). Not by degrees can we relinquish life; Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye, The separation must be made, the change From temporal to eternal life; and God Imparted to our mistress at this moment His grace, to cast away each earthly hope, And firm and full of faith to mount the skies. No sign of pallid fear dishonored her; No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last, His only hope; till then she shed no tear— 'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.

MELVIL. Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?

KENNEDY. She spent the last remainder of the night In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys A moment of repose, the latest slumber Refreshes her weak spirits.

MELVIL. Who attends her?

KENNEDY. None but her women and physician Burgoyn: You seem to look around you with surprise; Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean This show of splendor in the house of death. Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want; But at our death plenty returns to us.



SCENE II.

Enter MARGARET CURL.

KENNEDY. How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?

CURL (drying her tears). She is already dressed—she asks for you.

KENNEDY. I go:— [To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her. But follow not until the queen Has been prepared to see you.

[Exit.

CURL. Melvil, sure, The ancient steward?

MELVIL. Yes, the same.

CURL. Oh, sir, This is a house which needs no steward now! Melvil, you come from London; can you give No tidings of my husband?

MELVIL. It is said He will be set at liberty as soon——

CURL. As soon as our dear queen shall be no more. Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor! He is our lady's murderer—'tis said It was his testimony which condemned him.

MELVIL. 'Tis true.

CURL. Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.

MELVIL. Think, madam, what you say.

CURL. I will maintain it With every sacred oath before the court, I will repeat it in his very face; The world shall hear of nothing else. I say That she dies innocent!

MELVIL.. God grant it true!

[1] The document is now in the British Museum.



SCENE III.

Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.

KENNEDY (to CURL). Go, madam, and require a cup of wine— 'Tis for our lady.

MELVIL. Is the queen then sick?

KENNEDY. She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived By her heroic courage; she believes She has no need of nourishment; yet still A hard and painful task's allotted her. Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph; They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.

MELVIL. May I approach her?

KENNEDY. She will come herself.



SCENE IV.

Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him, weeping, and in deep mourning.

BURGOYN. Oh, Melvil!

MELVIL. Oh, Burgoyn!

[They embrace silently.

FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE). She chose to be Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment, For the last time, to commune with her God.



SCENE V.

Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine; she places it hastily upon the table, and leans, pale and trembling, against a chair.

MELVIL. How, madam! What has frightened you?

KENNEDY. Oh God!

BURGOYN. Speak, madam!

CURL. What, alas! have I beheld!

MELVIL. Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!

CURL. As I went down the staircase which conducts To the great hall below, a door stood open; I looked into the chamber, and I saw— Oh heaven!

MELVIL. What saw you?

CURL. All the walls were hung With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread With sable cloth, was raised above the floor, And in the middle of the scaffold stood A dreadful sable block! upon it lay A naked, polished axe:—the hall was full Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood, Seemed waiting for the victim!

THE WOMEN. Gracious heaven, Protect our queen!

MELVIL. Be calm; the queen approaches.



SCENE VI.

Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck, on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds her hair; her large black veil is thrown back. On her entrance all present fall back on both sides with the most violent expressions of anguish. MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.

MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle). Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather Rejoice with me, that now at length the end Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks The land of everlasting liberty. When I was offered up to the oppression Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting A free and sovereign queen, then was the time To weep for me; but as an earnest friend, Beneficent and healing death approaches. All the indignities which I have suffered On earth are covered by his sable wings. The most degraded criminal's ennobled By his last sufferings, by his final exit; I feel again the crown upon my brows. And dignity possess my swelling soul!

[Advancing a few steps.

How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so; Arise; you rather come in time to see The triumph of your mistress than her death. One comfort, which I never had expected, Is granted me, that after death my name Will not be quite abandoned to my foes; One friend at least, one partner of my faith, Will be my witness in the hour of death. Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while In this inhospitable, hostile land? For since the time they tore you from my side My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.

MELVIL. No other evil galled me but my grief For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.

MARY. How fares my chamberlain, old Didier? But sure the faithful servant long has slept The sleep of death, for he was full of years.

MELVIL. God hath not granted him as yet this grace; He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.

MARY. Oh! could I but have felt before my death, The happiness of pressing one descendant Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom. But I must suffer in a foreign land, None but my servants to bewail my fate! Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing To the most Christian king, my royal brother, And the whole royal family of France. I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle, And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin. I bless the holy father, the vicegerent Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me. I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered Himself as my deliverer, my avenger. They are remembered in my will: I hope That they will not despise, how poor soe'er They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.

[Turning to her servants.

I have bequeathed you to my royal brother Of France; he will protect you, he will give you Another country, and a better home; And if my last desire have any weight, Stay not in England; let no haughty Briton Glut his proud heart with your calamities, Nor see those in the dust who once were mine. Swear by this image of our suffering Lord To leave this fatal land when I'm no more.

MELVIL (touching the crucifix). I swear obedience in the name of all.

MARY. What I, though poor and plundered, still possess, Of which I am allowed to make disposal, Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope In this at least my will may be fulfilled. And what I wear upon my way to death Is yours—nor envy me on this occasion The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.

[To the ladies of her chamber.

To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamund, I leave my pearls, my garments: you are young, And ornament may still delight your hearts. You, Margaret, possess the nearest claims, To you I should be generous: for I leave you The most unhappy woman of them all. That I have not avenged your husband's fault On you I hope my legacy will prove. The worth of gold, my Hannah, charms not thee; Nor the magnificence of precious stones: My memory, I know, will be to thee The dearest jewel; take this handkerchief, I worked it for thee, in the hours of sorrow, With my own hands, and my hot, scalding tears Are woven in the texture:—you will bind My eyes with this, when it is time: this last Sad service I would wish but from my Hannah.

KENNEDY. O Melvil! I cannot support it.

MARY. Come, Come all and now receive my last farewell.

[She stretches forth her hands; the WOMEN violently weeping, fall successively at her feet, and kiss her outstretched hand.

Margaret, farewell—my Alice, fare thee well; Thanks, Burgoyn, for thy honest, faithful service— Thy lips are hot, my Gertrude:—I have been Much hated, yet have been as much beloved. May a deserving husband bless my Gertrude, For this warm, glowing heart is formed for love. Bertha, thy choice is better, thou hadst rather Become the chaste and pious bride of heaven; Oh! haste thee to fulfil thy vows; the goods Of earth are all deceitful; thou may'st learn This lesson from thy queen. No more; farewell, Farewell, farewell, my friends, farewell for ever.

[She turns suddenly from them; all but MELVIL retire at different sides.



SCENE VII.

MARY, MELVIL.

MARY (after the others are all gone). I have arranged all temporal concerns, And hope to leave the world in debt to none; Melvil, one thought alone there is which binds My troubled soul, nor suffers it to fly Delighted and at liberty to heaven.

MELVIL. Disclose it to me; ease your bosom, trust Your doubts, your sorrows, to your faithful friend.

MARY. I see eternity's abyss before me; Soon must I stand before the highest Judge, And have not yet appeased the Holy One. A priest of my religion is denied me, And I disdain to take the sacrament, The holy, heavenly nourishment, from priests Of a false faith; I die in the belief Of my own church, for that alone can save.

MELVIL. Compose your heart; the fervent, pious wish Is prized in heaven as high as the performance. The might of tyrants can but bind the hands, The heart's devotion rises free to God, The word is dead—'tis faith which brings to life.

MARY. The heart is not sufficient of itself; Our faith must have some earthly pledge to ground Its claim to the high bliss of heaven. For this Our God became incarnate, and enclosed Mysteriously his unseen heavenly grace Within an outward figure of a body. The church it is, the holy one, the high one, Which rears for us the ladder up to heaven:— 'Tis called the Catholic Apostolic church,— For 'tis but general faith can strengthen faith; Where thousands worship and adore the heat Breaks out in flame, and, borne on eagle wings, The soul mounts upwards to the heaven of heavens. Ah! happy they, who for the glad communion Of pious prayer meet in the house of God! The altar is adorned, the tapers blaze, The bell invites, the incense soars on high; The bishop stands enrobed, he takes the cup, And blessing it declares the solemn mystery, The transformation of the elements; And the believing people fall delighted To worship and adore the present Godhead. Alas! I only am debarred from this; The heavenly benediction pierces not My prison walls: its comfort is denied me.

MELVIL. Yes! it can pierce them—put thy trust in Him Who is almighty—in the hand of faith, The withered staff can send forth verdant branches And he who from the rock called living water, He can prepare an altar in this prison, Can change—— [Seizing the cup, which stands upon the table. The earthly contents of this cup Into a substance of celestial grace.

MARY. Melvil! Oh, yes, I understand you, Melvil! Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament; But the Redeemer says, "When two or three Are in my name assembled, I am with them," What consecrates the priest? Say, what ordains him To be the Lord's interpreter? a heart Devoid of guile, and a reproachless conduct. Well, then, though unordained, be you my priest; To you will I confide my last confession, And take my absolution from your lips.

MELVIL. If then thy heart be with such zeal inflamed, I tell thee that for thine especial comfort, The Lord may work a miracle. Thou say'st Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament— Thou err'st—here is a priest—here is a God; A God descends to thee in real presence.

[At these words he uncovers his head, and shows a host in a golden vessel.

I am a priest—to hear thy last confession, And to announce to thee the peace of God Upon thy way to death. I have received Upon my head the seven consecrations. I bring thee, from his Holiness, this host, Which, for thy use, himself has deigned to bless.

MARY. Is then a heavenly happiness prepared To cheer me on the very verge of death? As an immortal one on golden clouds Descends, as once the angel from on high, Delivered the apostle from his fetters:— He scorns all bars, he scorns the soldier's sword, He steps undaunted through the bolted portals, And fills the dungeon with his native glory; Thus here the messenger of heaven appears When every earthly champion had deceived me. And you, my servant once, are now the servant Of the Most High, and his immortal Word! As before me your knees were wont to bend, Before you humbled, now I kiss the dust.

[She sinks before him on her knees.

MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross). Hear, Mary, Queen of Scotland:—in the name Of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Hast thou examined carefully thy heart, Swearest thou, art thou prepared in thy confession To speak the truth before the God of truth?

MARY. Before my God and thee, my heart lies open.

MELVIL. What calls thee to the presence of the Highest?

MARY. I humbly do acknowledge to have erred Most grievously, I tremble to approach, Sullied with sin, the God of purity.

MELVIL. Declare the sin which weighs so heavily Upon thy conscience since thy last confession.

MARY. My heart was filled with thoughts of envious hate, And vengeance took possession of my bosom. I hope forgiveness of my sins from God, Yet could I not forgive my enemy.

MELVIL. Repentest thou of the sin? Art thou, in sooth, Resolved to leave this world at peace with all?

MARY. As surely as I wish the joys of heaven.

MELVIL. What other sin hath armed thy heart against thee?

MARY. Ah! not alone through hate; through lawless love Have I still more abused the sovereign good. My heart was vainly turned towards the man Who left me in misfortune, who deceived me.

MELVIL. Repentest thou of the sin? And hast thou turned Thy heart, from this idolatry, to God?

MARY. It was the hardest trial I have passed; This last of earthly bonds is torn asunder.

MELVIL. What other sin disturbs thy guilty conscience?

MARY. A bloody crime, indeed of ancient date, And long ago confessed; yet with new terrors. It now attacks me, black and grisly steps Across my path, and shuts the gates of heaven: By my connivance fell the king, my husband— I gave my hand and heart to a seducer— By rigid penance I have made atonement; Yet in my soul the worm is gnawing still.

MELVIL. Has then thy heart no other accusation, Which hath not been confessed and washed away?

MARY. All you have heard with which my heart is charged.

MELVIL. Think on the presence of Omniscience; Think on the punishments with which the church Threatens imperfect and reserved confessions This is the sin to everlasting death, For this is sinning 'gainst his Holy Spirit.

MARY. So may eternal grace with victory Crown my last contest, as I wittingly Have nothing hid——

MELVIL. How? Wilt thou then conceal The crime from God for which thou art condemned? Thou tell'st me nothing of the share thou hadst In Babington and Parry's bloody treason: Thou diest for this a temporal death; for this Wilt thou, too, die the everlasting death?

MARY. I am prepared to meet eternity; Within the narrow limits of an hour I shall appear before my Judge's throne. But, I repeat it, my confession's ended.

MELVIL. Consider well—the heart is a deceiver. Thou hast, perhaps, with sly equivocation, The word avoided, which would make thee guilty Although thy will was party to the crime. Remember, that no juggler's tricks can blind The eye of fire which darts through every breast.

MARY. 'Tis true that I have called upon all princes To free me from unworthy chains; yet 'tis As true that, neither by intent or deed, Have I attempted my oppressor's life.

MELVIL. Your secretaries then have witnessed falsely.

MARY. It is as I have said;—what they have witnessed The Lord will judge.

MELVIL. Thou mountest, then, satisfied Of thy own innocence, the fatal scaffold?

MARY. God suffers me in mercy to atone, By undeserved death, my youth's transgressions.

MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross). Go, then, and expiate them all by death; Sink a devoted victim on the altar, Thus shall thy blood atone the blood thou'st spilt. From female frailty were derived thy faults, Free from the weakness of mortality, The spotless spirit seeks the blest abodes. Now, then, by the authority which God Hath unto me committed, I absolve thee From all thy sins; be as thy faith thy welfare!

[He gives her the host.

Receive the body which for thee was offered—

[He takes the cup which stands upon the table, consecrates it with silent prayer, then presents it to her; she hesitates to take it, and makes signs to him to withdraw it.

Receive the blood which for thy sins was shed, Receive it; 'tis allowed thee by the pope To exercise in death the highest office Of kings, the holy office of the priesthood.

[She takes the cup.

And as thou now, in this his earthly body Hast held with God mysterious communion, So may'st thou henceforth, in his realm of joy, Where sin no more exists, nor tears of woe, A fair, transfigured spirit, join thyself Forever with the Godhead, and forever.

[He sets down the cup; hearing a noise, he covers his head, and goes to the door; MARY remains in silent devotion on her knees.

MELVIL (returning). A painful conflict is in store for thee. Feel'st thou within thee strength enough to smother Each impulse of malignity and hate?

MARY. I fear not a relapse. I have to God Devoted both my hatred and my love.

MELVIL. Well, then, prepare thee to receive my Lords Of Leicester and of Burleigh. They are here.



SCENE VIII.

Enter BURLEIGH, LEICESTER, and PAULET.

[LEICESTER remains in the background, without raising his eyes; BURLEIGH, who remarks his confusion, steps between him and the QUEEN.

BURLEIGH. I come, my Lady Stuart, to receive Your last commands and wishes.

MARY. Thanks, my lord.

BURLEIGH. It is the pleasure of my royal mistress That nothing reasonable be denied you.

MARY. My will, my lord, declares my last desires; I've placed it in the hand of Sir Amias, And humbly beg that it may be fulfilled.

PAULET. You may rely on this.

MARY. I beg that all My servants unmolested may return To France, or Scotland, as their wishes lead.

BURLEIGH. It shall be as you wish.

MARY. And since my body Is not to rest in consecrated ground, I pray you suffer this my faithful servant To bear my heart to France, to my relations— Alas! 'twas ever there.

BURLEIGH. It shall be done. What wishes else?

MARY. Unto her majesty Of England bear a sister's salutation; Tell her that from the bottom of my heart I pardon her my death; most humbly, too, I crave her to forgive me for the passion With which I spoke to her. May God preserve her And bless her with a long and prosperous reign.

BURLEIGH. Say, do you still adhere to your resolve, And still refuse assistance from the dean?

MARY. My lord, I've made my peace with God.

[To PAULET.

Good sir, I have unwittingly caused you much sorrow, Bereft you of your age's only stay. Oh, let me hope you do not hate my name.

PAULET (giving her his hand). The Lord be with you! Go your way in peace.



SCENE IX.

HANNAH KENNEDY, and the other women of the QUEEN crowd into the room with marks of horror. The SHERIFF follows them, a white staff in his hand; behind are seen, through the open doors, men under arms.

MARY. What ails thee, Hannah? Yes, my hour is come. The sheriff comes to lead me to my fate, And part we must. Farewell!

KENNEDY and CURL. We will not leave thee, We will not part from thee.

MARY (to MELVIL). You, worthy sir, And my dear, faithful Hannah, shall attend me In my last moments. I am sure, my lord Will not refuse my heart this consolation.

BURLEIGH. For this I have no warrant.

MARY. How, my lord; Can you deny me, then, this small petition? Respect my sex; who shall attend me else, And yield me the last service? Sure, it never Can be my sister's pleasure that in me My sex should be insulted; that these men With their rude hands should touch my royal person.

BURLEIGH. 'Tis ordered that no woman shall ascend The scaffold steps with you. Their tears and moans——

MARY. She shall not weep, my lord; she shall not moan; I answer for my Hannah's resolution; Be merciful; divide me not so soon From my true foster-mother, from my friend. She bore me on her arms into this life; Let her then gently lead me to my death.

PAULET (to BURLEIGH). Yield to her wishes.

BURLEIGH. Be it so.

MARY. I now Have nothing in this world to wish for more.

[She takes the crucifix, and kisses it.

My God! My Comforter! My blest Redeemer! As once thy arms were stretched upon the cross, Let them be now extended to receive me!

[She turns round to go; at the same moment her eyes fall upon LEICESTER, who, on her going, starts involuntarily, and turns his eyes towards her; at this sight MARY trembles, her knees fail her, she is about to fall, when LEICESTER catches at her, and receives her in his arms; she regards him for some time earnestly, and in silence; he cannot support her looks; at length she speaks.

You keep your word, my Lord of Leicester: for You promised me your arm to lead me forth From prison, and you lend it to me now. At length the wished-for day is come, and what Was oft the object of my fondest dreams Is now accomplished: and the Earl of Leicester, The long-expected, the long-wished-for friend, Appears at length in Fotheringay Castle. I see him standing in my prison; all Is ready for the journey; all the gates Stand open, and at length I cross the threshold, Conducted by his hand; and now I leave These dismal walls behind me, and forever. All is fulfilled, and you have saved your honor.

[He stands as if annihilated; she continues, with a gentle voice.

Yes, Leicester; not for liberty alone I wished to be indebted to your hands. You should have made me bless that liberty. Led by your hand, and happy in your love, I hoped once more to taste the joys of life. Yes; now that I'm prepared from all the world To part, and to become a happy spirit, Whom earthly inclinations tempt no more! Now, Leicester, I may venture to confess Without a blush the frailty I have conquered; Farewell, my lord; and, if you can, be happy! To woo two queens has been your daring aim; You have disdained a tender, loving heart, Betrayed it in the hope to win a proud one: Kneel at the feet of Queen Elizabeth! May your reward not prove your punishment. Farewell; I now have nothing more on earth.

[She goes, preceded by the SHERIFF; at her side MELVIL and her nurse; BURLEIGH and PAULET follow; the others, wailing, follow her with their eyes till she disappears; they then retire through the other two doors.



SCENE X.

LEICESTER (remaining alone). Do I live still? Can I still bear to live? Will not this roof fall down and bury me? Yawns no abyss to swallow in its gulf The veriest wretch on earth? What have I lost? Oh, what a pearl have I not cast away! What bliss celestial madly dashed aside! She's gone, a spirit purged from earthly stain, And the despair of hell remains for me! Where is the purpose now with which I came To stifle my heart's voice in callous scorn? To see her head descend upon the block With unaverted and indifferent eyes? How doth her presence wake my slumbering shame? Must she in death surround me with love's toils? Lost, wretched man! No more it suits thee now To melt away in womanly compassion: Love's golden bliss lies not upon thy path, Then arm thy breast in panoply of steel, And henceforth be thy brows of adamant! Wouldst thou not lose the guerdon of thy guilt, Thou must uphold, complete it daringly! Pity be dumb; mine eyes be petrified! I'll see—I will be witness of her fall.

[He advances with resolute steps towards the door through which MARY passed; but stops suddenly half way.

No! No! The terrors of all hell possess me. I cannot look upon the dreadful deed; I cannot see her die! Hark! What was that? They are already there. Beneath my feet The bloody business is preparing. Hark! I hear their voices. Hence! Away, away From this abode of misery and death!

[He attempts to escape by another door; finds it locked, and returns.

How! Does some demon chain me to this spot? To hear what I would shudder to behold? That voice—it is the dean's, exhorting her; She interrupts him. Hark—she prays aloud; Her voice is firm—now all is still, quite still! And sobs and women's moans are all I hear. Now, they undress her; they remove the stool; She kneels upon the cushion; lays her head——

[Having spoken these last words, and paused awhile, he is seen with a convulsive motion suddenly to shrink and faint away; a confused hum of voices is heard at the same moment from below, and continues for some time.



SCENE XI.

The Second Chamber in the Fourth Act.

ELIZABETH (entering from a side door; her gait and action expressive of the most violent uneasiness). No message yet arrived! What! no one here! Will evening never come! Stands the sun still In its ethereal course? I can no more Remain upon the rack of expectation! Is it accomplished? Is it not? I shudder At both events, and do not dare to ask. My Lord of Leicester comes not,—Burleigh too, Whom I appointed to fulfil the sentence. If they have quitted London then 'tis done, The bolt has left its rest—it cuts the air— It strikes; has struck already: were my realm At stake I could not now arrest its course. Who's there?



SCENE XII.

Enter a PAGE.

ELIZABETH. Returned alone? Where are the lords?

PAGE. My Lord High-Treasurer and the Earl of Leicester?

ELIZABETH. Where are they?

PAGE. They are not in London.

ELIZABETH. No! Where are they then?

PAGE. That no one could inform me; Before the dawn, mysteriously, in haste They quitted London.

ELIZABETH (exultingly). I am Queen of England!

[Walking up and down in the greatest agitation.

Go—call me—no, remain, boy! She is dead; Now have I room upon the earth at last. Why do I shake? Whence comes this aguish dread? My fears are covered by the grave; who dares To say I did it? I have tears enough In store to weep her fall. Are you still here? [To the PAGE. Command my secretary, Davison, To come to me this instant. Let the Earl Of Shrewsbury be summoned. Here he comes.

[Exit PAGE.



SCENE XIII.

Enter SHREWSBURY.

ELIZABETH. Welcome, my noble lord. What tidings; say It cannot be a trifle which hath led Your footsteps hither at so late an hour.

SHREWSBURY. My liege, the doubts that hung upon my heart, And dutiful concern for your fair fame, Directed me this morning to the Tower, Where Mary's secretaries, Nau and Curl, Are now confined as prisoners, for I wished Once more to put their evidence to proof. On my arrival the lieutenant seemed Embarrassed and perplexed; refused to show me His prisoners; but my threats obtained admittance. God! what a sight was there! With frantic looks, With hair dishevelled, on his pallet lay The Scot like one tormented by a fury. The miserable man no sooner saw me Than at my feet he fell, and there, with screams, Clasping my knees, and writhing like a worm, Implored, conjured me to acquaint him with His sovereign's destiny, for vague reports Had somehow reached the dungeons of the Tower That she had been condemned to suffer death. When I confirmed these tidings, adding, too, That on his evidence she had been doomed,— He started wildly up,—caught by the throat His fellow-prisoner; with the giant strength Of madness tore him to the ground and tried To strangle him. No sooner had we saved The wretch from his fierce grapple than at once He turned his rage against himself and beat His breast with savage fists; then cursed himself And his companions to the depths of hell! His evidence was false; the fatal letters To Babington, which he had sworn were true, He now denounced as forgeries; for he Had set down words the queen had never spoken; The traitor Nau had led him to this treason. Then ran he to the casement, threw it wide With frantic force, and cried into the street So loud that all the people gathered round: I am the man, Queen Mary's secretary, The traitor who accused his mistress falsely; I bore false witness and am cursed forever!

ELIZABETH. You said yourself that he had lost his wits; A madman's words prove nothing.

SHREWSBURY. Yet this madness Serves in itself to swell the proof. My liege, Let me conjure thee; be not over-hasty; Prithee, give order for a new inquiry!

ELIZABETH. I will, my lord, because it is your wish, Not that I can believe my noble peers Have in this case pronounced a hasty judgment. To set your mind at rest the inquiry shall Be straight renewed. Well that 'tis not too late! Upon the honor of our royal name, No, not the shadow of a doubt shall rest.



SCENE XIV.

Enter DAVISON.

ELIZABETH. The sentence, sir, which I but late intrusted Unto your keeping; where is it?

DAVISON (in the utmost astonishment). The sentence!

ELIZABETH (more urgent). Which yesterday I gave into your charge.

DAVISON. Into my charge, my liege!

ELIZABETH. The people urged And baited me to sign it. I perforce Was driven to yield obedience to their will. I did so; did so on extreme constraint, And in your hands deposited the paper. To gain time was my purpose; you remember What then I told you. Now, the paper, sir!

SHREWSBURY. Restore it, sir, affairs have changed since then, The inquiry must be set on foot anew.

DAVISON. Anew! Eternal mercy!

ELIZABETH. Why this pause, This hesitation? Where, sir, is the paper?

DAVISON. I am undone! Undone! My fate is sealed!

ELIZABETH (interrupting him violently). Let me not fancy, sir——

DAVISON. Oh, I am lost! I have it not.

ELIZABETH. How? What?

SHREWSBURY. Oh, God in heaven!

DAVISON. It is in Burleigh's hands—since yesterday.

ELIZABETH. Wretch! Is it thus you have obeyed my orders? Did I not lay my strict injunction on you To keep it carefully?

DAVISON. No such injunction Was laid on me, my liege.

ELIZABETH. Give me the lie? Opprobrious wretch! When did I order you To give the paper into Burleigh's hands?

DAVISON. Never expressly in so many words.

ELIZABETH. And, paltering villain I dare you then presume To construe, as you list, my words—and lay Your bloody meaning on them? Wo betide you, If evil come of this officious deed! Your life shall answer the event to me. Earl Shrewsbury, you see how my good name Has been abused!

SHREWSBURY. I see! Oh, God in heaven!

ELIZABETH. What say you?

SHREWSBURY. If the knight has dared to act In this, upon his own authority, Without the knowledge of your majesty, He must be cited to the Court of Peers To answer there for subjecting thy name To the abhorrence of all after time.



SCENE XV.

Enter BURLEIGH.

BURLEIGH (bowing his knee before the QUEEN). Long life and glory to my royal mistress, And may all enemies of her dominions End like this Stuart.

[SHREWSBURY hides his face. DAVIDSON wrings his hands in despair.

ELIZABETH. Speak, my lord; did you From me receive the warrant?

BURLEIGH. No, my queen; From Davison.

ELIZABETH. And did he in my name Deliver it?

BURLEIGH. No, that I cannot say.

ELIZABETH. And dared you then to execute the writ Thus hastily, nor wait to know my pleasure? Just was the sentence—we are free from blame Before the world; yet it behooved thee not To intercept our natural clemency. For this, my lord, I banish you my presence; And as this forward will was yours alone Bear you alone the curse of the misdeed!

[To DAVISON.

For you, sir; who have traitorously o'erstepped The bounds of your commission, and betrayed A sacred pledge intrusted to your care, A more severe tribunal is prepared: Let him be straight conducted to the Tower, And capital arraignments filed against him. My honest Talbot, you alone have proved, 'Mongst all my counsellors, an upright man: You shall henceforward be my guide—my friend.

SHREWSBURY. Oh! banish not the truest of your friends; Nor cast those into prison, who for you Have acted; who for you are silent now. But suffer me, great queen, to give the seal, Which, these twelve years, I've borne unworthily, Back to your royal hands, and take my leave.

ELIZABETH (surprised). No, Shrewsbury; you surely would not now Desert me? No; not now.

SHREWSBURY. Pardon, I am Too old, and this right hand is growing too stiff To set the seal upon your later deeds.

ELIZABETH. Will he forsake me, who has saved my life?

SHREWSBURY. 'Tis little I have done: I could not save Your nobler part. Live—govern happily! Your rival's dead! Henceforth you've nothing more To fear—henceforth to nothing pay regard.

[Exit.

ELIZABETH (to the EARL of KENT, who enters). Send for the Earl of Leicester.

KENT. He desires To be excused—he is embarked for France.

The Curtain drops.



THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

By Frederich Schiller



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

CHARLES THE SEVENTH, King of France. QUEEN ISABEL, his Mother. AGNES SOREL. PHILIP THE GOOD, Duke of Burgundy. EARL DUNOIS, Bastard of Orleans. LA HIRE, DUCRATEL, French Offers. ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS. CRATILLON, A Burgundian Knight. RAOUL, a Lotharingian Knight. TALBOT, the English General, LIONEL, FASTOLFE, English Officers. MONTGOMERY, a Welshman. COUNCILLORS OF ORLEANS. AN ENGLISH HERALD. THIBAUT D'ARC, a wealthy Countryman. MARGOT, LOUISON, JOHANNA, his Daughters. ETIENNE, CLAUDE MARIE, RAIMOND, their Suitors. BERTRAND, another Countryman. APPARITION OF A BLACK KNIGHT. CHARCOAL-BURNER AND HIS WIFE. Soldiers and People, Officers of the Crown, Bishops, Monks, Marshals, Magistrates, Courtiers, and other mute persons in the Coronation Procession.



PROLOGUE.

A rural District. To the right, a Chapel with an Image of the Virgin; to the left, an ancient Oak.



SCENE I.

THIBAUT D'ARC. His Three Daughters. Three young Shepherds, their Suitors.

THIBAUT. Ay, my good neighbors! we at least to-day Are Frenchmen still, free citizens and lords Of the old soil which our forefathers tilled. Who knows whom we to-morrow must obey? For England her triumphal banner waves From every wall: the blooming fields of France Are trampled down beneath her chargers' hoofs; Paris hath yielded to her conquering arms, And with the ancient crown of Dagobert Adorns the scion of a foreign race. Our king's descendant, disinherited, Must steal in secret through his own domain; While his first peer and nearest relative Contends against him in the hostile ranks; Ay, his unnatural mother leads them on. Around us towns and peaceful hamlets burn. Near and more near the devastating fire Rolls toward these vales, which yet repose in peace. Therefore, good neighbors, I have now resolved, While God still grants us safety, to provide For my three daughters; for 'midst war's alarms Women require protection, and true love Hath power to render lighter every load. [To the first Shepherd. Come, Etienne! You seek my Margot's hand. Fields lying side by side and loving hearts Promise a happy union! [To the second. Claude! You're silent, And my Louison looks upon the ground? How, shall I separate two loving hearts Because you have no wealth to offer me? Who now has wealth? Our barns and homes afford Spoil to the foe, and fuel to the fires. In times like these a husband's faithful breast Affords the only shelter from the storm.

LOUISON. My father!

CLAUDE MARIE. My Louison!

LOUISON (embracing JOHANNA). My dear sister!

THIBAUT. I give to each a yard, a stall and herd, And also thirty acres; and as God Gave me his blessing, so I give you mine!

MARGOT (embracing JOHANNA). Gladden our father—follow our example! Let this day see three unions ratified!

THIBAUT. Now go; make all things ready; for the morn Shall see the wedding. Let our village friends Be all assembled for the festival.

[The two couples retire arm in arm.



SCENE II.

THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA.

THIBAUT. Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides; I see them gladly; they rejoice my age; But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain.

RAIMOND. What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child?

THIBAUT. Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee His fond affections, and for three long years Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness; But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve. Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee. I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime; Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope; Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait For love's sweet blossom genially to blow, And ripen joyously to golden fruit! Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays Some sad deficiency in nature's work! The heart I like not which, severe and cold, Expands not in the genial years of youth.

RAIMOND. Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus! A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth Is my Johanna's love, and time alone Bringeth the costly to maturity! Still she delights to range among the hills, And fears descending from the wild, free heath, To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men, Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life. From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands, With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze Down on the small domains of earth. To me She looketh then, as if from other times She came, foreboding things of import high.

THIBAUT. 'Tis that precisely which displeases me! She shuns her sisters' gay companionship; Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch Before the crowing of the morning cock, And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont Confidingly to seek their fellow-men, She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth, And in the fearful spirit-realm of night, To yon crossway repairs, and there alone Holds secret commune with the mountain wind. Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose? Why hither always doth she drive her flock? For hours together I have seen her sit In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree, Which every happy creature shuns with awe. For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit Hath since the fearful pagan days of old Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode. The oldest of our villagers relate Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree; Mysterious voices of unearthly sound From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear. Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour My path once chanced to lead me near this tree, Beheld a spectral figure sitting there, Which slowly from its long and ample robe Stretched forth its withered hand, and beckoned me. But on I went with speed, nor looked behind, And to the care of God consigned my soul.

RAIMOND (pointing to the image of the Virgin). Yon holy image of the Virgin blest, Whose presence heavenly peace diffuseth round, Not Satan's work, leadeth thy daughter here.

THIBAUT. No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams And apparitions strange revealed itself. For three successive nights I have beheld Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims, A sparkling diadem of seven stars Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand, From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire, With her two sisters, and the noble peers, The earls, archbishops, and the king himself, Bowed down before her. In my humble home How could this splendor enter my poor brain? Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall! This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals The vain and sinful longing of her heart. She looks with shame upon her lowly birth. Because with richer beauty God hath graced Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts Above the other maidens of this vale, She in her heart indulges sinful pride, And pride it is through which the angels fell, By which the fiend of hell seduces man.

RAIMOND. Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will? She is more highly gifted far than they, Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she Who silently performs the humblest tasks. Beneath her guiding hands prosperity Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks; And around all she does there ceaseless flows A blessing, rare and unaccountable.

THIBAUT. Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed! Sad horror at this blessing seizes me! But now no more; henceforth I will be silent. Shall I accuse my own beloved child? I can do naught but warn and pray for her. Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree! Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare, No characters inscribe upon the sand! 'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits; Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft. Stay not alone, for in the wilderness The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.



SCENE III.

THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA. BERTRAND enters, a helmet in his hand.

RAIMOND. Hush! here is Bertrand coming back from town; What bears he in his hand?

BERTRAND. You look at me With wondering gaze; no doubt you are surprised To see this martial helm!

THIBAUT. We are indeed! Come, tell us how you come by it? Why bring This fearful omen to our peaceful vale?

[JOHANNA, who has remained indifferent during the two previous scenes, becomes attentive, and steps nearer.

BERTRAND. I scarce can tell you how I came by it. I had procured some tools at Vaucouleurs; A crowd was gathered in the market-place, For fugitives were just arrived in haste From Orleans, bringing most disastrous news. In tumult all the town together flocked, And as I forced a passage through the crowds, A brown Bohemian woman, with this helm, Approached me, eyed me narrowly, and said: "Fellow, you seek a helm; I know it well. Take this one! For a trifle it is yours." "Go with it to the soldiers," I replied, "I am a husbandman, and want no helm." She would not cease, however, and went on: "None knoweth if he may not want a helm. A roof of metal for the Head just now Is of more value than a house of stone." Thus she pursued me closely through the streets, Still offering the helm, which I refused. I marked it well, and saw that it was bright, And fair and worthy of a knightly head; And when in doubt I weighed it in my hand, The strangeness of the incident revolving, The woman disappeared, for suddenly The rushing crowd had carried her away. And I was left the helmet in my hand.

JOHANNA (attempting eagerly to seize it). Give me the helmet!

BERTRAND. Why, what boots it you? It is not suited to a maiden's head.

JOHANNA (seizing it from him). Mine is the helmet—it belongs to me!

THIBAUT. What whim is this?

RAIMOND. Nay, let her have her way! This warlike ornament becomes her well, For in her bosom beats a manly heart. Remember how she once subdued the wolf, The savage monster which destroyed our herds, And filled the neighb'ring shepherds with dismay. She all alone—the lion-hearted maid Fought with the wolf, and from him snatched the lamb Which he was bearing in his bloody jaws. How brave soe'er the head this helm adorned, It cannot grace a worthier one than hers!

THIBAUT (to BERTRAND). Relate what new disasters have occurred. What tidings brought the fugitives?

BERTRAND. May God Have pity on our land, and save the king! In two great battles we have lost the day; Our foes are stationed in the heart of France, Far as the river Loire our lands are theirs— Now their whole force they have combined, and lay Close siege to Orleans.

THIBAUT. God protect the king!

BERTRAND. Artillery is brought from every side, And as the dusky squadrons of the bees Swarm round the hive upon a summer day, As clouds of locusts from the sultry air Descend and shroud the country round for miles, So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields, Pour forth its many-nationed multitudes, Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent, With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air. For Burgundy, the mighty potentate, Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians, The men of Liege and of Luxemburg, The people of Namur, and those who dwell In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent, Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks; The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht, And even from West Friesland's distant realm, Who look towards the ice-pole—all combine, Beneath the banner of the powerful duke, Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.

THIBAUT. Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife, Which turns the arms of France against itself!

BERTRAND. E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel Bavaria's haughty princess—may be seen, Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp; With poisonous words of irony she fires The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son, Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.

THIBAUT. A curse upon her, and may God prepare For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!

BERTRAND. The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege, The town-destroyer; with him Lionel, The brother of the lion; Talbot, too, Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down The people in the battle: they have sworn, With ruthless insolence to doom to shame The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice All who the sword have wielded, with the sword. Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town, They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance, And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets. Thousands of cannon-balls, of pond'rous weight, Are hurled into the city. Churches lie In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower Begins at length to bow its lofty head. They also have formed powder-vaults below, And thus, above a subterranean hell, The timid city every hour expects, 'Midst crashing thunder, to break forth in flames.