You having given it him, I cannot tell. Bruce. God keep my hands from blood! O soulless wretch! Obtuse, unthinking liar! Could I note The shape of good that dances in your brain To be matured for service by denial, Perhaps that might extenuate your lie. But knowing nothing save your treachery, And hardened daring of a damning fact, Relentless hate expels all dreams of love That harboured once toward you within my heart. Comyn. If, then, your rage is for the present spent, A few plain words may hope for audience. What proof have you that Edward had this writ Through me or mine? Impartial sense would blame, Not me, who ever have been Scotland's friend, And foremost in opposing Edward's power, But you, the truckling lord, inheriting And practising your father's policy, Which was to follow at the Longshanks' heel, And fawn for smiles, and wait his Highness' whim To pay the lacqueying with a dirty crown. Bruce. This idle mockery becomes you well. Did any doubt remain of your dark sin, The hunting out a mote within my eye To poise the beam that does disfigure yours, Would make me sure. Comyn. What legal proof, I say? Bruce. The laws of God, honour and loyalty Condemn you traitor to their interests. I judge you guilty, for I know right well King Edward never had this scroll from me, And no one else could give it him but you. Your heart condemns you, though you brave it thus. Comyn. And yet I say again, I swear by Heaven, I never saw that paper till to-day. Bruce. Talk not of seeing!--Come to the altar here. [They advance to the altar. Now lay your hand upon the traitorous sheet, Call God to witness that you speak the truth, And swear once more you have not broken faith. Beneath your feet the dust of true men rests, Your ancestors and mine; this lofty roof, These consecrated walls and columns high Are wont to hear the sounds of sacred song, The gospel of the holy Christ of God; This is God's house; this altar is God's throne. Now, can you swear? You will not do it, sure. Comyn. And what shall hinder me while I have breath? Without my instigation or connivance Our compact reached the King. If God's in heaven, And I speak false, may I this moment die. Bruce [stabbing Comyn, who falls]. God is in heaven, and my hand wields his wrath! . . . . What have I done? A madman's dreadful deed! I was engulfed, and now I'm cast ashore. O, in our passionless, reflective hours We lock emotion in a glass-walled jail Of crisp philosophy; or give it scope As far as prudence may enlarge its steps! But to some sense a small distraction comes-- Across the sight a butterfly, a flower-- The fetters snap, the prison crumbles--off!-- To clasp the air where shone our will-o-wisp! For no gewgaw have I burst reason's bonds, But to avenge a gross iniquity That clamoured brazenly to heaven and earth. O, it was human!--It was devilish! Here on the altar--O, the sacrilege! That man of my own blood, whom I adjured,