Assert how perilous election is By peers all bound and circumstanced alike. If he were solely moved by noble thoughts, And is the signal hero you give out-- Nothing I say, and nothing I deny-- Then were the nobles who deserted him Unworthy cowards, beggars, churls, knaves, hounds. Shall I condemn my order so? or think That Wallace hoped to aggrandise himself, And lost those friends who had no need to fight For mere existence when the restive hoof Of personal ambition kicked aside The patriot's caparison? You wince: But with the time I drift, and cannot find A mooring for my judgment. Pardon me. This I believe: there is no warrior Before the world, who could, even with those means Of formal power that Wallace mostly lacked, Have wrought the tithe of his accomplishment: His name will be an ensign; and his acts The inspiration of his countrymen. Douglas. You yet will know his magnanimity Which girdled round the ample continent Of his performance like the boundless sea. Bruce. I'm glad to think--to know the best of him. Shall we turn back and meet our friends? Isabella. Yes; come. And, Douglas, tell us more of Wallace, pray. [They go out. SCENE III.--A room in the Earl op Buchan's Castle. Enter the Earl and the Countess of Buchan, and the Earl of Fife. Countess of Buchan. Once more, I beg you, brother, on my knees, To undertake the duty of your race. Now, while I plead, they may be crowning him, And no Macduff to gird his curling hair. Eleven kings from Malcolm Canmore's time Our ancestors have perfected with gold, Laying the ruddy chaplet on their brows Like magic dawn that tops the day with light. It is a custom that has come to mean The thing it garnished; and he cannot be The King of Scots, however just his claim, However consecrated, sceptred, throned, Who is not crowned by you. Fife. I am the friend Of England, of your husband; finally Be answered I beseech you. If you plead Again with such hot vehemence, I'll think Your husband is a fool to slight the word That birds have carried of the Bruce and you. Countess of Buchan. If I were richer than to need your help, I'd let you know that brother's quality Who dares to doubt his mother's daughter. Shame! But I am passionate, and so are you: You meant no wrong. You'll do this, will you not? Fife. Why! here's a woman!--What a woman! Well! I tell you I am England's friend, which means The foe of any upstart such as Bruce; And I am Buchan's friend, which means the foe Of Buchan's mortal foe, the outlaw Bruce. I tell you this, and yet you beg of me To do for Bruce the service needed most To make him mighty in his enmity. Countess of Buchan. If you were armed to fight a champion, And he had lost his helm before you met, You would not do despite to chivalry, And take advantage of his naked head, But find him in a morion, or unclasp Your own, and equally defended, charge. Be chivalrous to Bruce; make him a king