And first I'll tell you of an enemy. Edward the First is dead. Countess of Buchan. Say you! Aha! That was a mighty villain. Crombe. Nigel is dead: They killed him when they took Kildrummie tower. Countess of Buchan. Ah, what a wanton waste of noble blood! Remorseless tigers! Ah, the wolves, the rats!-- The queen, and Lady Douglas? Crombe. Prisoners both. Countess of Buchan. The man, my husband? Crombe. Beaten, decayed, forgot. When we were scattered in the wood of Drome, The king sought refuge in an Irish isle, Which in the spring he left, and dared his fate. So after perils, and trials, and mighty acts, And deeds of marvellous device--well poised By those achievements, rare and manifold, Heroically wrought by Edward Bruce, Douglas, Boyd, Fraser, Gilbert de la Haye, Randolf, and many another famous knight, Whose deeds already ring in lands afar-- At Inverury he and your husband met: And there the earl suffered such dread defeat, That ignominy has become the grave Where all his hopes lie buried. Countess of Buchan. Wretched soul! Crombe. Now in the length and breadth of this free land, One castle only is in England's power. Would I had time to tell you how 'twas done! Countess of Buchan. What castle? Crombe. Stirling. Edward found the siege For his hot blood too long, and made a pact, That if the governor, Sir Philip Mowbray, Were not relieved within a year and day, He should surrender. In the interval Sir Philip went to London to the king-- Edward the Second, an unstable man-- And couched his eyes of that security That curtained Scotland's state. He levied soon The mightiest army ever England raised; And in the sight of Stirling, Bruce and he Are met to fight. Countess of Buchan. Now? Crombe. Now. And news is come That Bruce to-day o'erthrew a champion Between the armies; and that Randolf fought And conquered Clifford, who had dreadful odds. Countess of Buchan. And are they fighting now? Crombe. No; but to-morrow The battle is. Countess of Buchan. Then, gallant friend, away! Take horse and ride! You must not miss to-morrow. Spur through the night!--Nay, think no more of me! Or think me sitting lightsome on the croup, And smiling at the moon. I go with you: My soul is in your arm!--You must not stay. One stout heart more!--Ride, ride!--I thank you, friend: To know your dear and steadfast constancy, As now I do, is worth these lonely years.-- Away to victory!--I can weep at last!-- Here, take this withered rag! It is the scarf The queen gave me that far-off night in Drome. My parched and desert eyes that sorrow shrunk Are wet with happiness! See! Am I red? My pale and stagnant blood wakes up again, I would that we were flying together, Crombe, As once we did, rebels, so free and glad!