Comyn. I thought you were in London, cousin mine. Bruce. And still would have me there, or anywhere, But by your side. Comyn. Why is your tongue so harsh, Your eye so big, your face so dimmed with ire? Bruce. Why falter you? Why has your colour fled? Why, but because my tongue still speaks its thought; Because my face wears not the darker show Of death's grimace upon a spear's long neck, Grotesquely ornamenting London Bridge; Because my limbs are not the bait of crows, The gazing-stock of crowds in Scotland's towns; Because I live and am at liberty: These are the reasons why you tremble now. Comyn. Not so; it is because I think you mad: These monstrous breathings are insanity: You shake with passion, hissing out your words. I fear you; and I will have witnesses Or no more conference. [Going. Bruce [seizing his arm]. With honest men God is sufficient witness. Are you true? You know my ground of wrath as well as I. Comyn. Your words are like your brow, darker than night. Bruce. Be this the sun that shall illumine them. [Exhibits a scroll. Sun, said I! rather inky light of hell, Whereby you may behold your treachery. I see it's true what I have heard of men, Who, knowing right, pursue a wrongful course: Custom uprears athwart the source of shame A fragile dam; but when another marks The waves that beat behind, they swell and burst The sandy sea-wall of hypocrisy, Like a packed gulf delivered by the moon. That flood is in your face: you blush like fire. Comyn. I blush to be accused of this great wrong. Bruce. Comyn, you lie. Look, see, the very words Of that compact, which we with aching hearts Drew up and signed and swore in Stirling town. Have you forgotten how we wept hot tears Condoling over Scotland's misery? Its fertile plains, that richer were than gold, Burnt up with fire, salted with tears and blood; Its cots and palaces confounded low In stony litters that the soil reclaims; Its wealthy towns and pleasant places sacked; Its people?--Ah! we could not sound our grief For wives made widows; husbands, left alone; And children, blighted by too early bareness Of parents' comfortable snowy wisdom: Death and destruction feasting everywhere. We found ourselves to blame; therefore we wept, Repenting of our jealousy and strife. This pact united us in sacred bonds For ever to oppose the English rule. We prayed that our conjunction, like two stars Meeting auspiciously for Scotland's weal, Might yield its war-worn people prosperous peace; And o'er the border cast calamities Of such deserved and overwhelming woe, That England never more should be inclined, Nor have the power to wage a conquering war. We then embraced, and you with trembling breath Thanked God that Bruce and Comyn now were friends. Two copies of our compact we endorsed. Here is a third that's neither yours nor mine: King Edward sent it me; whence had he it? Comyn. Unless King Edward sent it back to you,