Was all deception, fraud-Hated enough
For other causes, I did veil my feelings

[roll'd, Beneath the mask of mirth,-laugh'd, sung, and caTo gain some interest in my comrades' bosoms, Although mine own was bursting.

Ser.

Of a new order.

Quen. But harmless as the innoxious snake, Which bears the adder's form, lurks in his haunts, Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his poison. Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem merry, Lest other men should, tiring of my sadness, Expel me from them, as the hunted wether Is driven from the flock.

Ser. Faith, thou hast borne it bravely out. Had I been ask'd to name the merriest fellow Of all our muster-roll-that man wert thou.

Quen. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook dance down the valley,

And sing blithe carols over broken rock
And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub
And each gay flower it nurses in its passage,-
Where, think'st thou, is its source, the bonny brook?
It flows from forth a cavern, black and gloomy,
Sullen and sunless, like this heart of mine,
Which others see in a false glare of gaiety,
Which I have laid before you in its sadness.

Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee, wherefore leave
The trade where thou wert safe 'midst others' dangers,
And venture to thy native land, where fate
Lies on the watch for thee? Had old Montgomery
Been with the regiment, thou hadst had no congé.
Quen. No, 'tis most likely-But I had a hope,
A poor vain hope, that I might live obscurely
In some far corner of my native Scotland,
Which, of all others, splinter'd into districts,
Differing in manners, families, even language,
Seem'd a safe refuge for the humble wretch,
Whose highest hope was to remain unheard of.
But fate has baffled me-the winds and waves,
With force resistless, have impell'd me hither-
Have driven me to the clime most dang'rous to me;
And I obey the call, like the hurt deer,
Which seeks instinctively his native lair,
Though his heart tells him it is but to die there.
Ser. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young man! This same
despair,

Though showing resignation in its banner,
Is but a kind of covert cowardice.

Wise men have said, that though our stars incline,
They cannot force us.-Wisdom is the pilot,
And if he cannot cross, he may evade them.
You lend an ear to idle auguries,

The fruits of our last revels-still most sad
Under the gloom that follows boisterous mirth,
As earth looks blackest after brilliant sunshine.
Quen. No, by my honest word. I join'd the revel,
And aided it with laugh, and song, and shout,
But my heart revell'd not; and, when the mirth
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the land,

Haunted my slumbers; here I stand, thou ocean, Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my dreams, required me;

See me now here, ye winds, whose plaintive wail,
On yonder distant shores, appear'd to call me—
Summon'd, behold me." And the winds and waves,
And the deep echoes of the distant mountain,
Made answer-“Come, and die!"

Ser. Fantastic all! Poor boy, thou art distracted
With the vain terrors of some feudal tyrant,
Whose frown hath been from infancy thy bugbear.
Why seek his presence?

Quen. Wherefore does the moth Fly to the scorching taper? Why the bird, Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the net? Why does the prey, which feels the fascination Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in his jaws?

Ser. Such wild examples but refute themselves.
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's prey,
Resist the fascination and be safe.

Thou goest not near this Baron-if thou goest,
I will go with thee. Known in many a field,
Which he in a whole life of petty feud
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the knight
To rule him in this matter-be thy warrant,
That far from him, and from his petty lordship,
You shall henceforth tread English land, and never
Thy presence shall alarm his conscience more. [ther
Quen. 'Twere desperate risk for both. I will far ra-
Hastily guide thee through this dangerous province,
And seek thy school, thy yew trees, and thy church-
yard;-

The last, perchance, will be the first I find.
Ser. I would rather face him,

Like a bold Englishman that knows his right,
And will stand by his friend. And yet 'tis folly—
Fancies like these are not to be resisted;
'Tis better to escape them. Many a presage,
Too rashly braved, becomes its own accomplishment.
Then let us go-but whither? My old head
As little knows where it shall lie to-night,
As yonder mutineers that left their officer,
As reckless of his quarters as these billows,
That leave the withered sea-weed on the beach,
And care not where they pile it.
[Scotland,

Quen. Think not for that, good friend. We are in
And if it is not varied from its wont,
Each cot, that sends a curl of smoke to heaven,
Will yield a stranger quarters for the night,
Simply because he needs them.

Ser. But are there none within an easy walk Give lodgings here for hire? for I have left Some of the Don's piastres, (though I kept The secret from yon gulls,) and I had rather Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford,

And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd cumber Some poor man's roof with me and all my wants, And tax his charity beyond discretion.

[telryQuen. Some six miles hence there is a town and hosBut you are way worn, and it is most likely Our comrades must have fill'd it.

Ser. Out upon them! Were there a friendly mastiff who would lend me Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel, I would help Honesty to pick his bones, And share his straw, far rather than I'd sup On jolly fare with these base varlets!

Quen. We'll manage better; for our Scottish dogs,
Though stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed '
In hospitable rights.-Here is a maiden,

A little maid, will tell us of the country,
And sorely it is changed since I have left it,
If we should fail to find a harbourage.

Enter ISABEL MACLELLAN, a girl of about six years old, bearing a milk-pail on her head; she stops on seeing the SERGEANT and QUENTIN.

Quen. There's something in her look that doth reBut 'tis not wonder I find recollections [mind me— In all that here I look on -Pretty maid——

Ser. You're slow, and hesitate. I will be spokes

man.

Good even, my pretty maiden-canst thou tell us, Is there a Christian house would render strangers, For love or guerdon, a night's meal and lodging? Is. Full surely, sir; we dwell in yon old house Upon the cliff-they call it Chapeldonan.

[Points to the building. Our house is large enough, and if our supper Chance to be scant, you shall have half of mine, For, as I think, sir, you have been a soldier. Up yonder lies our house-I'll trip before, And tell my mother she has guests a-coming; The path is something steep, but you shall see I'll be there first—I must chain up the dogs, too; Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to strangers, But gentle when you know them.

'Mongst other woes: I knew, in former days,
A maid that view'd me with some glance of favour;
But my fate carried me to other shores,

And she has since been wedded. I did think on't
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'd;
In adds no deeper shade to the dark gloom
Which chills the springs of hope and life within me.
Our guide hath got a trick of voice and feature
Like to the maid I spoke of-that is all.

Ser. She bounds before us like a gamesome doe,
Or rather as the rock-bred eaglet soars
Up to her nest, as if she rose by will
Without an effort. Now a Netherlander,
One of our Frogland friends, viewing the scene,
Would take his oath that tower, and rock, and maiden,
Were forms too light and lofty to be real,

And only some delusion of the fancy,
Such as men dream at sunset. I myself
Have kept the level ground so many years,
have wellnigh forgot the art to climb,
Unless assisted by thy younger arm.

[They go off as if to ascend to the Tower,
the SERGEANT leaning upon QUENTIN.

SCENE II.

Scene changes to the Front of the Old Tower. ISABEL comes forward with her Mother,-MARION speaking as they advance.

Mar. I blame thee not, my child, for bidding wanderers

Come share our food and shelter, if thy father
Were here to welcome them; but, Isabel,
He waits upon his lord at Auchindrane,
And comes not home to-night.

Is.
What then, my mother?
The travellers do not ask to see my father-
Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men want,
And we can give them these without my father.
Mar. Thou canst not understand, nor I explain,
Why a lone female asks not visitants
[child,
What time her husband's absent. (Apart.)-My poor
And if thou'rt wedded to a jealous husband,
Thou'lt know too soon the cause.

Is. (partly overhearing what her mother says.) Ay, but I know already-Jealousy

Is, when my father chides, and you sit weeping.
Mar. Out, little spy-thy father never chides;
Or if he does, 'tis when his wife deserves it.-
But to our strangers; they are old men, Isabel,
That seek this shelter?-are they not?

[She retires hastily into the Tower. [The voices of the SERGEANT and QUENTIN are heard ascending behind the Scenes. Quen. One effort more-we stand upon the level. I've seen thee work thee up glacis and cavalier Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, culverine, Musket, and hackbut, shower'd their shot upon thee, And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery garland Round the defences of the post you storm'd.

[They come on the Stage, and at the same time MARION re-enters from the Tower. Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am the tardier, That I, in climbing hither, miss the fire, Which wont to tell me there was death in loitering.— Here stands, methinks, our hostess.

[He goes forward to address MARION. QUENTIN, struck on seeing her, keeps back.

Ser. Kind dame, yon little lass hath brought you

strangers,

Willing to be a trouble, not a charge to you.
We are disbanded soldiers, but have means
Ample enough to pay our journey homeward.
Mar. We keep no house of general entertainment,
But know our duty, sir, to locks like yours,
Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long campaign.
Ill chances that my husband should be absent-
(Apart.)-Courage alone can make me struggle through

it

For in your comrade, though he hath forgot me,
I spy a friend whom I have known in school-days,
And whom I think MacLellan well remembers.
[She goes up to QUENTIN.

You see a woman's memory
Is faithfuller than yours; for Quentin Blane
Hath not a greeting left for Marion Harkness.
Quen. (with effort). I seek, indeed, my native land,
good Marion,

But seek it like a stranger.-All is changed,
And thou thyself-

Mar.
You left a giddy maiden,
And find, on your return, a wife and mother.
Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is my mate-
Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our lord,
The Knight of Auchindrane. He's absent now,
But will rejoice to see his former comrade,
If, as I trust, you tarry his return.

A withdrawing Apartment in the castle of Auchindrane. Servants place a Table, with a Flask of Wine and Drinking-Cups.

Enter MURE of AUCHINDRANE, with Albert Gifford, his Relation and Visitor. They place themselves by the Table after some complimentary ceremony. At some distance is heard the noise of revelling.

Auch. We're better placed for confidential talk, Than in the ball, fill'd with disbanded soldiers, And fools and fiddlers gather'd on the highway,The worthy guests whom Philip crowds my hall with, And with them spends his evening. [Philip Gif. But think you not, my friend, that your son Should be participant of these our councils, Being so deeply mingled in the danger— Your house's only heir-your only son?

[counsel

Auch. Kind cousin Gifford, if thou lack'st good At race, at cockpit, or at gambling table, Or any freak by which men cheat themselves As well of life, as of the means to live,

Call for assistance upon Philip Mure;

But in all serious parley spare invoking him.
Gif. You speak too lightly of my cousin Philip;
All name him brave in arms.

Auch.
A second Bevis ;
But I, my youth bred up in graver fashions,
Mourn o'er the mode of life in which he spends,
Or rather dissipates, his time and substance.
No vagabond escapes his search-The soldier

contraries!

He must remember Niel and he were rivals;

Upon his own account, is Philip's comrade: [on't; The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has still three strings

The balladeer, whose voice has still two notes left;
Whate'er is roguish and whate'er is vile,
Are welcome to the board of Auchindrane,
And Philip will return them shout for shout,

And pledge for jovial pledge, and song for song,
Until the shamefaced sun peep at our windows,
And ask, "What have we here?"

What should appall a man inured to perils,
Like the bold climber on the crags of Ailsa?
Winds whistle past him, billows rage below,
The sea-fowl sweep around, with shriek and clang,
One single slip, one unadvised pace,

One qualm of giddiness-and peace be with him!
But he whose grasp is sure, whose step is firm,

That mind not birth or titles in our guests:
The harper has his seat beside our hearth,
The wanderer must find comfort at our board;
His name unask'd, his pedigree unknown;
So did our ancestors, and so must we.

Auch. All this is freely granted, worthy kinsman;
And prithee do not think me churl enough
To count how many sit beneath my salt.
I've wealth enough to fill my father's hall

Each day at noon, and feed the guests who crowd it;
I am near mate with those whom men cail Lord,
Though a rude western knight. But mark me, cousin,
Although I feed wayfaring vagabonds,

I make them not my comrades. Such as I,
Who have advanced the fortunes of my line,
And swell'd a baron's turret to a palace,
Have oft the curse awaiting on our thrift,

To see, while yet we live, the things which must be
At our decease-the downfall of our family,
The loss of land and lordship, name and knighthood,
The wreck of the fair fabric we have built,
By a degenerate heir. Philip has that
Of inborn meanness in him, that he loves not
The company of betters, nor of equals ;
Never at case, unless he bears the bell,
And crows the loudest in the company.
He's mesh'd, too, in the snares of every female
Who deigns to cast a passing glance on him—
Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and profligate.
Gif. Come, my good coz, think we too have been
young,

And I will swear that in your father's lifetime
You have yourself been trapp'd by toys like these.
Auch. A fool I may have been-but not a madman;
I never play'd the rake among my followers,
Pursuing this man's sister, that man's wife;
And therefore never saw I man of mine,
When summon'd to obey my hest, grow restive,
Talk of his honour, of his peace destroy'd
And, while obeying, mutter threats of vengeance.
But now the humour of an idle youth,
Disgusting trusted followers, sworn dependents,
Plays football with his honour and my safety.

Gif. I'm sorry to find discord in your house,
For I had hoped, while bringing you cold news,
To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the danger.

Auch. What can man speak that I would shrink to And where the danger I would deign to shun? [hear, [He rises.

The means to scale another, till he stand Triumphant on the peak.

Auch. Shun it not, cousin; 'tis a friend's best office To bring the news we hear unwillingly. The sentinel, who tells the foe's approach, And wakes the sleeping camp, does but his duty: Be thou as bold in telling me of danger, As I shall be in facing danger told of,

Gif. I need not bid thee recollect the death-feud That raged so long betwixt thy house and Cassilis; I need not bid thee recollect the league, When royal James himself stood mediator Between thee and Earl Gilbert.

Auch. Call you these news?-You might as well

have told me

That old King Coil is dead, and graved at Kylesfeld.
I'll help thee out-King James commanded us
Henceforth to live in peace, made us clasp hands too.
O, sir, when such an union hath been made,
In heart and hand conjoining mortal foes,
Under a monarch's royal mediation,
The league is not forgotten. And with this
What is there to be told? The king commanded—
"Be friends." No doubt we were so-Who dares
doubt it?

Gif. You speak but half the tale.

Auch. By good Saint Trimon, but I'll tell the whole! There is no terror in the tale for me—' Go speak of ghosts to children!-This Earl Gilbert (God sain him) loved Heaven's peace as well as I did,

And we were wondrous friends whene'er we met
At church or market, or in burrows town.

Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert, Earl of Cassilis,
Takes purpose he would journey forth to Edinburgh.
The King was doling gifts of abbey-lands,

Good things that thrifty house was wont to fish for.
Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-wash'd castle,
Passes our borders some four miles from hence;
And, holding it unwholesome to be fasters
Long after sunrise, lo! the Earl and train
Dismount, to rest their nags and eat their breakfast.
The morning rose, the small birds caroll'd sweetly-
The corks were drawn, the pasty brooks incision-
His lordship jests, his train are choked with laughter;
When,-wondrous change of cheer, and most unlook'd
Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked meats !— [for,
Flash'd from the green wood half a score of carabines;
And the good Earl of Cassilis, in his breakfast,
Had nooning, dinner, supper, all at once,
Even in the morning that he closed his journey;
And the grim sexton, for his chamberlain,
Made him the bed which rests the head for ever.
Gif. Told with much spirit, cousin-some there are
Would add, and in a tone resembling triumph.
And would that with these long establish'd facts
My tale began and ended! I must tell you,
That evil-deeming censures of the events,
Both at the time and now, throw blame on thee-
Time, place, and circumstance, they say, proclaim
thee,

Alike, the author of that morning's ambush.

Auch. Ay, 'tis an old belief in Carrick here,
Where natives do not always die in bed,
That if a Kennedy shall not attain
Methuselah's last span, a Mure has slain him.
Such is the general creed of all their clan.
Thank Heaven, that they're bound to prove the charge
They are so prompt in making. They have clamour'd
Enough of this before, to show their malice.
But what said these coward pick thanks when I came
Before the King, before the Justicers,

Rebutting all their calumnies, and daring them
To show that I knew aught of Cassilis' journey-
Which way he meant to travel-where to halt-
Without which knowledge I possess'd no means
To dress an ambush for him? Did I not
Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys
To show, by proof direct or inferential,
Wherefore they slander'd me with this foul charge?
My gauntlet rung before them in the court,
And I did dare the best of them to lift it,
And prove such charge a true one-Did I not?
Gif. I saw your gauntlet lie before the Kennedys,
Who look'd on it as men do on an adder,
Longing to crush, and yet afraid to grasp it.
Not an eye sparkled-not a foot advanced-
No arm was stretch'd to lift the fatal symbol.
Auch. Then, wherefore do the hildings murmur now?
Wish they to see again, how one bold Mure
Can baffle and defy their assembled valour?
Gif. No; but they speak of evidence suppress'd.

Auch. Suppress'd?-what evidence?-by whom sup

press'd?

What Will-o'-Wisp-what idiot of a witness,
Is he to whom they trace an empty voice,
But cannot show his person?

Gif.
They pretend,
With the King's leave, to bring it to a trial;
Averring that a lad, named Quentin Blane,
Brought thee a letter from the murder'd Earl,
With friendly greetings, telling of his journey,
The hour which he set forth, the place he halted at.
Affording thee the means to form the ambush,
Of which your hatred made the application.

Auch. A prudent Earl, indeed, if such his practice, When dealing with a recent enemy! [dence

And what should he propose by such strange confiIn one who sought it not!

Gif. His purposes were kindly, say the KennedysDesiring you would meet him where he halted, Offering to undertake whate'er commissions You listed trust him with, for court or city: And, thus apprized of Cassilis' purposed journey, And of his halting place, you placed the ambush, Prepared the homicides

[men

Auch. They're free to say their pleasure. They are Of the new court-and I am but a fragment Of stout old Morton's faction. It is reason That such as I be rooted from the earth That they may have full room to spread their branches. No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolling vagrants To prove whate'er they prompt. This Quentin BlaneDid you not call him so ?—why comes he now? And wherefore not before? This must be answered -(abruptly)

Where is he now ?

Gif.

Abroad-they say-kidnapp'd,

By you kidnapp'd, that he might die in Flanders.
But orders have been sent for his discharge,
And his transmission hither.

Auch. (assuming an air of composure.) When they
produce such witness, cousin Gifford,
We'll be prepared to meet it. In the meanwhile,
The King doth ill to throw his royal sceptre
In the accuser's scale, ere he can know
How justice shall incline it.

Gif. Our sage prince Resents, it may be, less the death of Cassilis, Than he is angry that the feud should burn, After his royal voice had said, "Be quench'd;" Thus urging prosecution less for slaughter, Than that, being done against the King's command, Treason is mix'd with homicide.

Auch. Ha ha! most true, my cousin. Why, well consider'd, 'tis a crime so great To slay one's enemy, the King forbidding it, Like parricide, it should be held impossible. 'Tis just as if a wretch retain'd the evil, When the King's touch had bid the sores be healed; And such a crime merits the stake at least. What! can there be within a Scottish bosom A feud so deadly, that it kept its ground