SCENE VII.—Apartment in SETON'S House.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, and others.

Sir Alex.—Would Heaven that all go well with my dear boys! But there's that within me that does tear My bosom with misgivings. The very sun To me hangs out a sign of ominous gloom! A spirit seems to haunt me, and the weight Of evil undefined, and yet unknown, Doth, like a death's-hand, press upon my heart.

Provost Ramsay.—Hoot, I wad fain think that the warst is past, and that there is nae danger o' onything happenin' now. But do ye ken, sir, it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that, before onything really is gaun to happen to a body, or to ony o' their friends, like, there is a kind o' something comes ower ane—a sort o' sough about the heart there—an' ye dinna ken what for.

Sir Alex.—Have ye beheld how they are raising bastions, Flanking fresh cannon, too, in front the town, Gaining new reinforcements to their camp, And watching all our outgoings? Do you think This looks as Edward meant to keep his faith? I am betrayed, my friends—I am betrayed. Fear marcheth quickly to a father's breast— My sons are lost! are lost!

Provost Ramsay.—It's true that King Edward's preparations, and his getting sic fearfu' additions to his army, doesna look weel. But what is a king but his word mair than a man?

Enter Servant.

Servant.—Lord Percy craves an audience with your honour.

Sir Alex.—Conduct him hither. 'Tis as I boded!

[Exit Servant—enter PERCY.

You look grave, my lord.

Percy.—Faith, if I can look grave, to-day I should: None of my mother's children, gossips said, Were born with a sad face; but I could wish That I had never smiled, or that her maid Had been my mother, rather than that I Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings.

Sir Alex.—'Tis of my sons!—what! what of them, Lord Percy? What of them?

Percy.—Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak!— They live—they're well!—can you be calm to hear me? I would speak of your sons.

Sir Alex.—I feel!—I feel! I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!— Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den, Murder its whelps, and say to it, Be calm! Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart! 'Twas kindly said!—kind! kind! to say, Be calm! I'm calm, Lord Percy! what—what of my sons?

Percy.—If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked— Choked with my shame and loathing—I will tell thee! But each particular word of this black mission Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth.

Sir Alex.—Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst; My ears can hear—my heart can hold no more!

Enter LADY SETON.

Percy.—Hear them in as few words as I can tell it: Edward hath sworn, and he will keep his vow, That if to-day ye yield not up the town, Become his prisoners, break your faith with Scotland, Ye with the morning dawn shall see your sons Hung up before your windows. He hath sworn it; And, by my earldom—faith as a Christian— Honour as a peer—he will perform it!

Lady Seton [aside].—Ruler of earth and heaven! a mother begs Thy counsel—Thy protection! Say I mother! No voice again shall call me by that name— Both! both my boys!

Sir Alex.—Ha! my Matilda! Thou here! Dry up thy tears, my love! dry up thy tears! I cannot sacrifice both sons and mother! Alas, my country! I must sell thee dearly! My faith—mine honour too!—take—take them, Percy! I am a father, and my sons shall live!— Shall live! and I shall die! [Unsheathing his sword.

Lady Seton.—Hold! hold, my husband—save thy life and honour! Thou art a father—am not I a mother? Knowest thou the measure of a mother's love? Think ye she yearns not for her own heart's blood? Yet I will live! and thou shalt live, my husband! We will not rob this Edward of his shame; Write—I will dictate as my sons had done it— I know their nature, for 'twas I who gave it.

Sir Alex.—Thou wait'st an answer, Percy—I will give it. [Sits down to write.

No; I cannot, Matilda.

Lady Seton.—Write thus: "Edward may break his faith, but Seton cannot! Edward may earn disgrace, but Seton honour! His sons are in your power! Do! do as ye list!"

[He starts up in agitation.

Sir Alex.—No, no! it cannot be—say not my sons! Lord Percy, let your tyrant take my life! Torture me inchmeal!—to the last I'll smile, And bless him for his mercy!—but spare, oh spare my children!

Provost Ramsay.—Really, Sir Alexander, I dinna ken hoo to advise you. To think o' gien up the toun to sic a monster o' iniquity, is entirely out o' the question—just impossible a'thegither; and to think o' the twa dear brave bairns sufferin', is just as impossible as to flee in the air. I tell ye what, my lord—and it is my opinion it is a very fair proposal (if naething but deaths will satisfy your king)—I, for ane, will die in their stead—their faither will for anither; and is there ane amang you, my townsmen, that winna do the same, and let your names be handed down as heroes to your bairns' bairns, and the last generation?

Percy.—Thou hast a noble heart, old honest Scotsman; but I cannot accept your generous offer.

Lady Seton.—Mark this, my husband!—that we may still be parents— That we might have two sons to live and scorn us— Sell country—honour—all—and live disgraced: Think ye MY SONS would call a traitor father?— They drew their life from me—from me they drew it; And think ye I would call a traitor husband?— What! would ye have them live, that every slave, In banquet or in battle, might exclaim, "For you, ye hinds, your father sold his country?" Or, would you have them live, that no man's daughter Would stoop so low as call your sons her husband? Would you behold them hooted, hissed at, Oft, as they crossed the street, by every urchin? Would ye your sons—your noble sons—met this, Eather than die for Scotland? If ye do love them, Love them as a man!

Sir Alex.—'Tis done! my country, thou hast made me bankrupt! And I am childless! [Exeunt