REGENT.

And this is all

Your wisdom hath devised.

SWINTON.

Not all, for I would pray you, noble lords,
(If one among the guilty guiltiest, might,)
For this one day to charm to ten hours' rest
The never dying worm of deadly feud1

That gnaws our vexed hearts. Think no one foe
Save Percy and his hosts. Days will remain,
Ay, days by far too many will remain,

To avenge old feuds or struggles for precedence:
Let this one day be Scotland's. For myself,
If there is any here may claim from me
(As well may chance) a debt of blood and hatred,
My life is his to-morrow unresisting,

So he to-day will let me do the best

That my old arm may achieve for the dear country That's mother to us both.

REGENT.

It is a dream, a vision! If one troop

Rush down upon the archers all will follow,

And order is destroyed. We'll keep the battle ranks Our fathers wont to do. No more on't. Ho!

Where be those youths seek knighthood from our

sword.

1 Family hatred going on from father to son, ever slaying and revenging.

2 Knights were made before a battle.

HERALD.

Here are the Gordon, Somerville, and Hay,
And Hepburn, with a score of gallants more.

REGENT.

Gordon, stand forth!

GORDON.

I pray your grace forgive me.

REGENT.

How? Seek you not for knighthood?

GORDON.

I do thirst for it.

But pardon me, 'tis from another sword

REGENT.

It is your sovereign's. Seek you for a worthier?

GORDON.

Who would drink purely seeks the secret fountain,
How small soever, not the general stream,

Though it be deep and wide. My lord, I seek
The boon of knighthood from the honor'd weapon
Of the best knight, and of the sagest leader
That ever graced a ring of chivalry ;

Therefore I beg the boon on bended knee
Even from Sir Alan Swinton.

(Kneels).

REGENT.

Degenerate1 boy! abject at once and insolent.
See, lords, he kneels to him that slew his father!

GORDON (starting up).

Shame be on him who speaks such shameful words; Shame be on him whose tongue would sow dissen

sion

When most the time demands that native Scotsmen Forget each private wrong.

SWINTON.

Youth, since you crave me

To be your sire in chivalry, I remind you

War has its duties, office has its reverence.

Who governs in the sovereign's name is sovereign— Crave the Lord Regent's pardon.

GORDON.

You task me justly, and I crave his pardon,

(Bows to the Regent)

His and these noble lords'-and pray them all
Bear witness to my words. Ye nobles present,
Here I remit unto the Knight of Swinton
All bitter memory of my father's slaughter,
All thoughts of malice, hatred, and revenge,
By no base fear or composition moved,

1 Fallen from the character of a family.

But by the thought that in our country's battle
All hearts should be as one. I do forgive him
As freely as I pray to be forgiven,

And once more kneel to him to sue for knighthood.

SWINTON.

Alas! brave youth, 'tis I should kneel to you,
And, tendering the hilt of the fell sword

That made thee fatherless, bid thee use the point
After thine own discretion. For thy boon-
Trumpets be ready-in the holiest Name,
And in our Lady's and Saint Andrew's name

(Touching his shoulder with the sword)

I dub thee knight. Arise, Sir Adam Gordon,
Be faithful, brave, and oh, be fortunate

Should this ill hour permit !

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

KING HENRY IV AND HOTSPUR.

1403.

This scene, from Shakespeare's Henry IV, part 1, takes up the story of his reign, when Hotspur, son of the Earl of Northumberland, had refused to give up to him the Earl of Douglas and the other chief prisoners taken at Homildon Hill.

Enter King Henry, the Earl of Northumberland, Worcester, Harry Percy (called Hotspur), Sir Walter Blunt and others.

KING HENRY.

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience: but, be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that tittle of respect

Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.

WORCESTER.

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be used on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly.

My lord,

NORTHUMBERLAND.