I love you, Isabella, by high heaven, More than the highest power that can be mine. Isabella. Why then pursue this power so ardently? Bruce. I stayed pursuit; but it would follow me. My countrymen have asked me to be king. Isabella. King!--But you murdered Comyn. All his friends-- Forgive me, love. I would not for the world Reproach you; but---- Bruce. I know your gentle heart. My thought of you is not the morning bride; Nor even the rose that oped its balmy breast And gave its nectar sweetly. In my mind This memory of you crowds out the rest: The woman who with tender arms embraced The bloody murderer. I know your heart. Isabella. Hush! Bruce. Friends are few; but if my title's good? Hopeless the cause; but if the cause be just? I'm glad my hand that did my passion's hest Has made my mind up for me. Isabella. You'll be king? Bruce. Will I be hunted like a common knave Who stabs his comrade in a drunken brawl For some rude jest or ruder courtesan, And, being an outlaw, dies by any hand? I'd rather be the king; and though I die The meanest death, be held in memory As one who, having entered on a course Of righteous warfare by a gate of shame, Pursued it with his might, and made amends For starting false--so far as lay in him; For out of him his sin is, 'stablished, past, And by a life's atonement unredeemed. I do not brood on this. Before you came I had better thoughts. Isabella. O, I am sad at that! Bruce. I love you: not from you those worse thoughts sprang. Isabella. Perhaps they did: for I have sometimes found, When I have spent an hour in decking me, But thinking more to please you in my life Than in my dress, that, coming then to you, Brimming with tenderness, some thoughtless word, Or even a look from you, has changed my mood, And made me deem the world a wilderness; While this cross glance, or inauspicious tone, Was but a feint of yours, whose strength of love Withheld itself, afraid it should undo Its purpose by endeavouring too much: And we have parted, discontented both. But we'll not part now. Say, we shall not part. Bruce. Not now. We will be crowned together, queen. Isabella. 'But then' succeeds 'not now'; I hope, far off. Bruce. We must prepare to go. Isabella. So soon! Bruce. Our friends Await us, chafing doubtless at delay. Isabella. Then I will make a proverb lie for once, And be on horseback sooner than my lord. [They go out. SCENE II.--A Road in Dumfriesshire. Enter Bruce, Isabella, and a Squire.