Countess of Buchan [aside]. O me! Another! I can court no more. This one I'll take by storm.--Fellow, good friend, I think you are my thousandth jailor. Soon I'll have a fresh one doubtless every day. I've here had trial of my power on men, On common vulgar men like you--for you Are like your predecessors, I suppose-- And find myself most potent. Listen, now! Yes, but you shall, you must; and look as well: For I have looks like golden lightning, swift, Gentle and perilous, that fascinate The worshipful beholder. I have words, Sweet words, soft words, and words like two-edged swords, Like singing winds that rock the sense asleep, Like waves full-breasted, filling deepest souls; And I will kill you in a thousand ways With words and looks unless you yield you now. The others all were conquered just too late; The women tell me nothing--English all; But you will tell me what I want to know, In brave submission to my witchery; Now, like a man: I hope you are a man. Crombe. What must I tell you? Countess of Buchan. You must tell me first How the king is--King Robert Bruce, I mean. Crombe. They say he's well. Countess of Buchan. Where is he then? But, sir, I see you better now; you have an eye, A brow, a mouth. Without more question, say How Scotland fares since I was prisoned here. Crombe. Because of this same eye, and brow, and mouth They made me jailor. Countess of Buchan. O, I understand! And being nobler than those stolid pikes-- Pike-handles, I should say--forerunning you, You'll not do wrong in duty's name. Escape You cannot help me to; but tell me, sir, Some news. Crombe. Ah! Pardon me. If, as you say, I have a brain to know that wrong is wrong Though soldierly obedience be its badge, Shall I not have the strength to overcome Rebellious righteousness? Think you---- Countess of Buchan. James Crombe! Crombe. Your servant ever, lady. Countess of Buchan. Pardon, friend; I did not know you. I've no memory Except for horrors. I am half a beast-- Starved, frozen, scorched, in rags. Sometimes at night I'm mad. The rotten air, the subtle dark, The clammy cold, crawl through my blood like worms: They knot themselves in aches, they gnaw my flesh, And I believe me dead. Ghosts visit me: They come in undistinguishable throngs, Sighing and moaning like a windy wood. Demons invade my grave with flaming eyes, With lolling tongues; and ugly horrors steam And whirl about me. Mountains topple down, Grazing my head; and threatening worlds approach, But never whelm me. O my friend! O me! Tell me for mercy's sake of living men! How came you here? Crombe. To be beside you, lady. Countess of Buchan. What! You are weeping! Dear friend, speak to me. What food is this? White bread, and wine, and meat! [Clapping her hands.] Thanks, thanks! O thanks! I'll eat, while you recount All, all, about my friends! Crombe. My time is brief.