Now tell us, lords, Are we on our defence or Wallace? Which? Villain, regard law's form if not its soul. Be better mannered; touch your memory; You stand before the majesty of England. Wallace. I stand there truly; but behind me pants The king of terrors; and his quiver holds One dart I hope to parry, which I fear-- But not the venomed shaft that nothing fends. It is--not now; I'll tell you afterwards.-- Noble?--ignoble?--who shall judge us, king? This deed and that we may with help of heaven Christen or damn, and not be far astray; But who shall take upon him to declare The mind of God on what is unrevealed, The guiding thought, deep, secret, which is known, Even to the thinker, but in passing wafts. Because my life was spent in thwarting you, I am not therefore an incarnate fiend, Although the justice of the end I stayed Possessed your soul to sickening. Mad for fame!-- My wife's, my father's, and my brother's deaths.-- Edward I. No more of this. Call in the witnesses. Wallace. I'll speak now, and be heard. All. Silence! Be still. Wallace. I can outroar you all. Sound trumpets, drums, And fill your hall with clamour, I shall speak, And you shall hear. Above the voice of war I have been heard, and---- All. Silence, traitor, silence! [The shouting continues for a little, but gradually ceases as Wallace speaks on. Wallace. I fought for liberty and not for fame. Monarchs know not the inestimable worth Of that imperial, rich diadem Which only crowns both kings and carls, men. Say, slavery unfelt were possible, Then freedom is a name for sounding wind. But call me slave in any mincing term; And let the tyrant's frowns be smiles of love; The chains, less galling than a lady's arms; The labour, just my pleasure's ministry: If I surrender to the conqueror, As captive is my soul, as though thick irons Wore through my flesh, and rusting in my blood, Rasped on my bones, the while with lash and oath Some vicious tasker held me to hard toil. I stand here free, though bound and doomed to die. And know, King Edward, every Scot who bent, Gnawing his heart, a recreant knee to you, Perjured himself, being free; and even now-- I know my countrymen--contrite they rise; And when they have another leader--one Abler than I--pray heaven, more fortunate!-- They will anew throw off your galling yoke, And be once more lieges of liberty. I am the heart of Scotland; when I die It shall take heart again---- Edward I. No, no! by heaven! The Scots repudiate you! Wallace. The Scots do not: The people, pulse for pulse, beat warm with me. Edward I. You lie! You lie!--But I forgot myself. Freebooters, prodigals, scroyles--outcasts all-- Your sole supporters, may lament your end; But true men everywhere are jubilant. Not England only, and the better part Of your divided country were your foes; But from the world's beginning you were doomed