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Was it Fate? 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 Robert Bruce Warden. 
 
 Copyright by Authcr. 
 
 
 lYASHINGTOK : 
 THE ERNEST INSTITUTE. 
 
 1886. 
 
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 FOREWORDS. 
 
 A Revision of this Tragedy, which had been played, with brilliant success, at Columbus, in. 
 1855, appeared at Cincinnati, in 1856. In Ms Revision, there is no alteration in the persons 
 of the Drama. They remain as follows : 
 
 ROYALISTS : 
 
 Ardvoirlich, {ya,Hes Stuart of)\ ^^ priends. 
 
 Earl of Menteith, J 
 
 Montrose. 
 
 CoLKiTTO, {or Mac Donald.) 
 
 Col. Sibbald. 
 
 Patrick. 
 
 Flora, Sister to Menteith. 
 Helen. 
 
 Irish Kearns, Highlanders , Servants, &"€. 
 
 COVENANTERS : 
 
 RossiE, {Sir yames Scott of) 
 
 Lord Elcho. 
 
 Earl of Tullibardine. 
 
 Fearnought. 
 
 HOPEALL. 
 
 Lady Rossi k. 
 Jenny Geddis. 
 
 Soldiers and Servants. 
 
 Scott put forward in the Introduction furnished in 1830 to his Legend of Montrose , the follow-- 
 ing account : 
 
 " The Drummond-Ernoch of James the Sixth's time was a King's Forester in the forest of Glen. 
 artney, and chanced to be employed there in search of venison about the year 1588, or early in 
 1589. This forest was adjacent to the chief haunts of the MacGregors, or a particular race of 
 them known by the title of MacEagh, or Children of the Mist. . . . They surprised and 
 slew Drummond-Ernoch, cut off his head, and carried it with them, wrapt in the corner of one 
 of their plaids. 
 
 " In the full exultation of vengeance, they stopped at the house of Ardvoirlich, and demanded 
 refreshment, which the lady, a sister of the murdered Drummond-Ernoch, (her husband being 
 absent,) was afraid or unwilling to refuse. She caused bread and cheese to be placed before 
 them, and gave directions for more substantial refreshments to be prepared. While she was 
 absent with this hospitable intention, the barbarians placed the head of the brother on the table, 
 filling the mouth with bread and cheese, and bidding him eat, for many a merry meal he had 
 eaten in that house. The poor woman returning, and beholding this dreadful sight, shrieked 
 aloud, and fled into the woods, where, as described in the romance, she roamed a raving maniac, 
 and for some time secreted herself from all living society. Some remaining instinctive feeling 
 brought her at length to steal a glance from a distance at the maidens while they milked the 
 cows, which being observed, her husband, Ardvoirlich, had her conveyed back to her home, and 
 detained her till she gave birth to a child, of whom she had been pregnant ; after which she was 
 observed gradually to recover her mental faculties." 
 
 The hero of this Tragedy is James Stuart of Ardvoirlich, the child so born. The story of the 
 Play, however, varies largely from the history he actually lived. The Tragedy does not at all 
 follow the plot of the Legend 0/ Montrose. 
 
 The Preface to the Revision of the Play that was printed in 1856, includes these words : 
 
 " The property in the piece belongs to Mr. Hanchett, now of the Wheeling Theater, {a) It 
 was a gift to that gentleman — and the law, at that time, threw around such property no such pro- 
 tection as to make the gift available to its donee as it may now become. It may not be improper 
 to add, that this Tragedy was written as a tribute to the original Ardvoirlich. The Author is 
 not ignorant that in recognizing in Mr. Hanchett claims to such a distinction as is involved in 
 such a tribute, something like high treason to the reigning dynasty of Stars may be imputed to 
 him. But the Ingomar of Mr. Hanchett struck the Writer as a very nearly faultless piece of 
 
 (a) Mr. Hanchett, at my request, when I was dangerously ill, conveyed the copy-right to Mrs. 
 Warden, and from her it came to me, about ten years ago. 
 
4 FOREWORDS. 
 
 acting; and his Macbeth had, shortly before, most agreeably surprised all present by its power. 
 The character of Allan M Atilay, in the ' Legend of Montrose,' having been recalled to the 
 memory of the Author by certain studies of disordered mental action, in which he then happened 
 to be engaged, it occurred to him to suggest that character to Mr. Hanchett, as one in which 
 nature, as well as art, qualified him admirably to succeed. 
 
 " The Author then entertained no doubt that a dramatic version of the ' Legend' might be 
 found, available for the purpose of testing the fitness of Mr. Hanchett for the impersonation of 
 what the Writer had ret;uncd in memory, as the character of the Highland Seer, M'Aulay. 
 
 " When, after diligent search, the dramatised Allan M'Aulay turned up, he was found to be 
 very different from the Author's idea of him as a dramatic character. The whole dramatised 
 version of the Legend seemed, indeed, little better than a failure, and the difl!iculty in finding it 
 seemed to show that it had never kept possession of the stage. The Author was not a little an- 
 noyed at this conclusion. But when, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Hanchett, he himself 
 dramatised a few scenes by way of trial, he was hardly less surprised to find that the ' Legend,' 
 however beautiful as a Novel, is hardly convertible into a Play. A little reflection, indeed, 
 served to make it plain, that this very fact of inconvertibility into a Drama, attests the great 
 merits of the work in question as a Novel. 
 
 " Unwilling to give up his original notion altogether, and led on by the apparent harmony 
 between the subject and the studies already referred to, the Author wrote the substance of the 
 following Tragedy, as a variation from the facts from which Scott varied his Novel ; for the 
 Novel and this Play are equally and very differently at variance with the real facts in the history 
 of the remarkable man, whom 1 have here called Ardvoirlich. 
 
 "As already remarked, the apparent success of the piece was all that the Author could desire, 
 and more than he expected. The success was due, in great part, to the interest taken by Mr. 
 Hanchett in the Author's own idea of the character of Ardvoirlich, and the happy adaptability 
 of his talents to make that idea palpable, as well as to add to its illustration, by the peculiar 
 stage effect of which he has so fine a conception." 
 
 'I'here were Notes appended to the Revision that appeared in 1856. In one of them was said : 
 
 " It is remarked in the Preface that I have endeavored to keep the disordered mental action 
 of the hero ' within the limits in which the canons of just criticism allow mental infirmity to be 
 the subject of poetical treatment and dramatic illustration.' The simply truthful is not neces- 
 sarily included in those limits. A very life-like picture of Madness may be quite beyond them. 
 If the hallucination or illusion e.\hibited have no higlier quality than its faithful likeness to what 
 may be seen in our Bedlams, horror and disgust, not the sublime wonder, and the immortal aspi- 
 ration, awakened by a true Tragedy, may be due to the performance. Nor is this all. Nothing 
 of merely scientific interest, nothing now first discovered, nothing yet little known, can be looked 
 to by the Author to place his production within the boundaries of the Mimic World. Argument 
 is not necessary to vindicate a truly dramatic work of Art — the Art which needs explanation to 
 tell its meaning, is Art only for the few, and the Drama is for the many." 
 
 I repeat that language, word for word, now, after I have exchanged for the age of two-and- 
 ithirty that of nearly sixty-three. 
 
 The Note just quoted also said : 
 
 " I will not say that, while writing this Tragedy, I kept these rules ever before me — I should 
 ■despise my production if it had been so produced — but I may say, that I have not consciously 
 violated them, either as to the nature of the hallucinations exhibited, or their effect on the con- 
 duct of our hero. 
 
 " When the Play was brought on the stage, however, it was, by some, erroneously supposed 
 to belong to a class of literature, for which the Author has, perhaps, less regard than it may 
 deserve. It was, by such, received as a new attempt at the revelation or illustration of some- 
 thing, akin to the Spiritualism, which has lately turned so many heads from their propriety. 
 
 "T'or the vindication of my work from such an imputation, I beg leave to point out the real 
 intention of the piece. 
 
 " That intention is, simply, to show the grief, the passion, and the fate, of a soul, predisposed 
 to believe in the supernatural, when, in truth or in fancy, the visitation of second sight descends 
 upon it, and to give a tragic significance to the phenomena of prevision so exhibited, in the co- 
 operation of chance and infatuation, by which their prophecies are seemingly accomplished. In 
 this view, Ardvoirlicli is, simply, hallucinated — and this whether his ' wildered fancies come of 
 fevered blood,' (p. 41), or whether, as the fruit of his mother's madness, 
 
 " ' When her child was born, the fates decreed 
 He should not be as other men,' (p. 13 ;) 
 
 or whether, as some learned Physiologer might tell us, the causes of such hallucinations lie hidden 
 in some yet little understood pathological condition. The vision of the field of lippcrmuir might 
 be due to the conversation with Muutrose, and a rational, yet only half conscious, calculation of 
 chances, as to the scene of the first combat, to be expected between the Royalists and the Cove- 
 nanters. The vision of the killing of IVIenteith might well have been occasioned by the anticipa- 
 tion of a meeting with him, when Menteith should le.arn, what he might consider the disgrace of 
 his Sister, and of the possible quarrel which might, between Ardvoirlich — double natured as he 
 is — and Menteith, — a high spirited youth — take the place of their former affection. Indeed, as 
 to t'lis part of the Tragedy, as to the return to Ardvoirlich of the dagger he had cast away, and 
 as to the dream of Menteith, as well as the accidental killing of the latter, the probability and 
 naturalness of the facts will hardly be questioned. It is in Ardvoirlich's offer to stab Menteith, 
 in his temporary belief in the overruling necessity to do so, and in his hopeless giving up of his 
 corporeal powers to become the as;ent of an unsparing destiny, that some not unfriendly critics 
 feared the piece would seem improbable. And yet 1 am persuaded, that, had such a Play been 
 produced before the day of Spiritualism and the discussions it has provoked, I might have gone 
 
FOREWORDS. 5 
 
 still farther, and shown my hero as a seeming murderer, under the spell of fate which controlled 
 him. He might have killed Menteith — and I could have cited authorities, in every part of the 
 world, to show, that like hallucinations to his have worked still more appalling wonders. But I 
 thought it better to display the triumph of love, than the blind submission of a fated soul to its 
 tragic destiny to do a seeming murder. Now, if my aim be understood, I can appeal to the daily 
 observation and experience of common men, the introspection of all addicted to reverie, or versed 
 in self-knowledge, the studies of the lovers of Shakspeare — in a word, to all we know of ourselves — 
 to vindicate the hallucinations of my hero, his passion, his struggles with fate, his attempt to 
 sacrifice his friend, and the suicide to which he is driven by perplexity and desperation, from 
 any just imputation of outraging probability, or doing violence to the sacred mysteries of the 
 heart. Truth is, indeed, stranger than this fiction. 
 
 " It ought not, however, to be forgotten, that only a/ot'/'zV probability, only a poetic fidelity to 
 nature, can here be demanded. Let me repeat I have attempted to write, not a Philosophy, but 
 a Poem. 
 
 " I care not, in this very connection, to divert attention from the fact, that I have endeavored 
 to make the Tragedy consistent with a theory of the supernatural, which may, at the will of the 
 Reader, be substituted for that I have already given, or be treated as the soul of that body. In 
 this latter view, hallucination disappears, and Second Sight becomes a reality. Ardvoirlich is a 
 seer of ' things which yet e.xist but in their destiny to be.' If the catastrophe of the Tragedy can 
 thus be elevated and ennobled — and I do not say whether it mayor may not — I leave the Reader 
 to work his will in this respect. If the Author himself were compelled to answer which of the 
 views would be the more truly poetic, he might hesitate between them. As for the truth or 
 falsity of prevision and presentiment, he could only adopt the language he has attributed to 
 Montrose, and answer : 
 
 " ' My learning knows, Colkitto, little, save 
 
 How worthless learning is, in things like these.'" 
 
 Another Note, appended to the edition of 1856, runs thus : 
 
 " 'Ard. My friend — Menteith ! 
 The hour has not yet sounded — this embrace 
 Is not yet sacrilege. 
 
 " 'Men. What wonder 's this? 
 
 " 'Ard. Life nothing knows but wonder ! Death alone 
 
 Reveals the mysteries.' 
 
 "The wonder of Menteith is destined to an unearthly dissipation. Ardvoirlich hides his 
 secret, at first altogether, always as far as possible. Even as to Flora, his revelation reserves 
 all that it can. Here is the secret of the frequent soliloquies of Ardvoirlich. He must be alone — 
 no eye must mark his suffering, no ear become familiar with the voice of his anguish. 
 
 " It is, in representation, essential to the dramatic effect of the piece, that these soliloquies 
 be perfectly given. They must not be 'cut.' Must I not, then, ask much of the Actor, more 
 than most plays demand, in order to the success of this production? I am aware, that I am 
 under such a necessity. 13ut, if this Play is to be represented at all, it ought to be attempted only 
 by such as are willing to task the memory, and, I may add, the physical strength, with the full 
 rendering of these soliloquies. It is no light labor to go through with such a part; but the visions 
 can never be made dramatic, and the play must always lack dramatic effect, for which alone it 
 is designed, if the usual process of ' cutting' be resorted to. Mr. Hanchett omitted nothing — and 
 he achieved for himself a splendid success. 
 
 " I would not make these suggestions if I had not made a somewhat daring experiment in rest- 
 ing the success of the whole tragedy on the power of the Actor to make the hallucinations of 
 Ardvoirlich palpable to the spectator and auditor. The dagger scene in Macbeth is the great ex- 
 ample in dramatic effect, which I held before my mind in composing these soliloquies. 
 
 " As for the scientific naturalness of the hallucinations, it will, perhaps, be found, that science 
 and poetry are not here at war, and that I have generally been able to preserve accuracy, without 
 sacrificing tlie intended dramatic effect, or any chosen turn of expression. To see how science 
 la^s aside her severity, and how she exalts her language, when she touches these mysteries of 
 our nature, one need only consult a few of the works, studied by the Author, before writing 
 Ardvoirlich, or compared with it, since. I refer, particularly, to Carpenter's Human Physiology, 
 in the Psychological subdivision; Draper's Physiology: 'Ra.y''?, Medical Jurisprudence 0/ In- 
 sanity ; De Boismont's Rational History of Apparitions , b^c. ; Scott' s Demonology and Witch- 
 craft, and the excellent work of Abercrombie on Intellectual Philosophy. But when these, and 
 the kindred works, consulted by the Author, shall have been conned and estimated, the Reader 
 may still conclude, as I have been compelled to conclude, that the air-drawn dagger of Macbeth 
 entitles the unequaled Shakspeare to the first rank among the teachers of what lies in the most 
 mysterious part of human nature, but half revealed, or only known to a consciousness, which 
 disdains the language of science as its interpreter." 
 
 It was not until 1859, that I, not without some measure of apprehension, furnished, on request, 
 to Publishers the manuscript of the book, in criticising which the organ of Yale College said: 
 " The present volume might properly be entitled a lawyer's view of man, especially of those at- 
 tributes of his nature which have to do with law and the administration of justice. This design leads 
 theauthor over a wide range of topics, ordinarily treated of in physiology, psychology, ethics, and 
 medical jurisprudence. The contributions of the author, upon each and all of these topics, ex- 
 hibit much reading, with vigorous and independent thinking. His remarks, even on points which 
 are especially technical to any of the subjects named, are fraught with interest. They are 
 espec'ally valuable and timely upon all those subjects which are at all related to criminal law. 
 In order to determine all the questions here involved, the author has gone into careful investiga- 
 
6 FOREWORDS. 
 
 tions in physiology, so as to establish, on tenable grounds, the relation of the morbid conditions 
 of the bodily organism to the moral responsibility of those guilty of felonious acts. We cannot 
 accept the author's theory of the will as a just or full statement of its relations to the thoughts 
 and affections ; but we entirely coincide with the cautious and well-considered objections which 
 he urges against the tendency to believe in moral insanity, which is fostered by so many in the 
 medical profession. On this subject even the physiological views of this able thinker might be 
 profitably considered by those who are deemed so exclusively experts in their own judgment as 
 to give law to judges and jurors." 
 
 I intended nothing like depreciation of the light that Medicine had shed on questions in rela- 
 tion to Insanity. No book, composed by a Legist, manifests more than does that book, appre- 
 ciation of the Healing Art and the connected Science. 
 
 Yet I contemplate a thing, which, notwithstanding indications given in that book and indica- 
 tions given in my Lecture on Our Sanitary hiierests, in April, 1878, when I was a Member and 
 the Attorney of the Board of Health, at Washington, may look to Medical Men like evidence, 
 that I have insufficient faith in both their Practice and their Theory. If I can have the cooper- 
 ation of my fellow Members of The Ernest Institute, it will apply to Congress for a Charter, 
 granting it not only Legal kinds of Faculty in T-;aching, but the Faculty of Teaching Hygiene, 
 considered as including Medicine. 
 
 I deem the studies I have made, (especially since the year preceding the completon of this 
 Drama,) to have been of such a character as to warrant me in asking Congress to invest me, di- 
 rectly, with the legal status of a Professor of Hygiene, considered as just indicated. 
 
 Vet I still except to this language of my old acquaintance, Stanley Matthews, now a Justice 
 of the Supreme Court, — the words, however, having been spoken when he was a Senator of the 
 United States : " Now, in reference to th& personnel oi th^ present Board of Health in this Dis- 
 trict, I regard that as immaterial in a consideration of the question of the system under which 
 they are acting. I know little, but what I know I feel called ujion to speak. I do know one 
 member of that board, formerly a citizen of the State which I have the honor in part to represent, 
 a lawyer by profession, not a medical man, and yet one who has made Medicine, in its elements 
 and its details, the study of his life; who is, to-day, as well qualified to speak on every question 
 of sanitary science as the average physician of the country. I mean Judge Warden, a man who 
 is willing to devote the larger part of his time upon a pitiful salary, just from the love of the thing 
 itself and the desire to do good; for a more disinterested man was never organized." 
 
 I never felt at liberty to make " Medicine, in its elements and its details," the study of my life ; 
 but that my study of it has, for over forty years, been very great, is not to be denied. I could 
 have made myself still more familiar with " Medicine, in its elements and details," than I have 
 actually made myself, without neglect of any duty, in or out of my Profession. 
 
 I have reason to deplore a great mistake made by Mr. Justice James in Capt. Walker's Case, 
 -well known at Washington. The Argument I had prepared to present to him, in that case, on 
 the merits could have done much good. But it was never heard. 
 
 On Sunday, March 13, 18S1, the Washington Post had the head-lines, Ca//. l^alker's Insanity 
 — Remanded to the Asylum after a Year and a half of Liberty: and under these lines appeared 
 this paragraph : "The case of Capt. John P. Walker, Third Cavalry regiment, committed to the 
 Government Insane Asylum, by or i^er of the Secretary of War, January 17, iS79,and brought be- 
 fore Justice James of the District Supreme Court on a writ of habeas corpus, October 14, 1879, 
 was yesterday decided by the Judge. He held the proof showed a certain degree of insanity to 
 exist in the subject of the proceeding, and that he must be remanded back to the custody of Dr. 
 W. W. Godding, the superintendent of the asylum. The question of the power of the court to 
 go behind the order of the Secretary of War, was raised by ex-Governor Wells, who was spe- 
 cially retained to defend Dr. Godding. Judge James decided that he had jurisdiction to release 
 an officer committed under such an order, if the testimony showed him to be sane. But he be- 
 lieved a less degree of insanity was required to be shown to justify such a committal than if the 
 Secretary of the Interior made a similar order in the case of a civilian. This extra latitude, he 
 thought, was necessary, in order that the men might be subjected to treatment. The order re- 
 manding Capt. Walker was suspended for two weeks to give his counsel, Mr. R. B. Warden, 
 time to decide whether he will take an appeal to the Court in General Term or to the War De- 
 partment. Judge James added that if his opinion was asked, he would say that from all the 
 evidence before him, and especially the later testimony of Dr. Godding, that Capt. Walker had 
 improved in the year he had been at liberty in the care of his counsel, liis continued confinement 
 was not desirable. But he thought that the matter was so much one of doubt that the discretion 
 of the Secretary of War was the only safe and legal means of determining it," 
 
 My not yet published Serial, (a) A Book of Type and Types, has, as far as the first Number is 
 concerned, been printed, and a copy of it was sent to Mr. Justice James. That number says : 
 
 " I must go back, with brevity, to Capt. Walker's case. 
 
 " The sheer forgetfulness of Mr. Justice James, in that case, led him to regard the matter as 
 all before him, when the truth was, that he had stopped me in the production of testimony, so 
 that I supposed, and could but suppose, that he had been perfectly satisfied that the decision was 
 to be to discliarge the relator ! 1 was thus prevented from delivering an argument which would 
 have been among the most important if not the best arguments of my whole life. 
 
 " For reasons quite above the level of competition for Business in my Profession, I may fitly 
 say that I had reason to believe in my preparedness to make a rather interesting and important 
 argument in Capt. Walker's Case ; and that Mr. Justice James had also ample reason to partici- 
 pate in that belief." 
 
 'J'hat Argument would have evinced a far from scant regard for Medicine as Theory, as far as 
 it relates to Mental Malady. 
 
 (a) None of my SeriaLs has yet been fully published, ami none is to be till after some circula- 
 tion shall have been given to the present issue of Tht, Ernest Institute. 
 
FOREWORDS. 7 
 
 At present I am giving close attention to a case respecting which I have been told my judg- 
 ment is opposed to that of a Medical Man, whom I respect. But I am sure that he has given 
 far less study to Insanity than it has had from me ; and therefore I respectfully prefer my judg- 
 ment to his, and shall feel bound to act accordingly, as far as action may become a matter, in my 
 judgment, of necessity as to that case. The fact, that manifestly crazy violence, of the descrip- 
 tion that had been foreseen, and even />ro/>hesied, by me, began to mark the case, the other day, 
 is undeniably of very great significance. 
 
 Returning to the subject of the Play, I draw toward conclusion of these widely-reaching Fore- 
 words with the statement, that I trace back to researches which I made as part of my fit prepara- 
 tion for the composition of the Tragedy, or as proper to its two Revisions, (a) much of my best 
 information in respect to Types and States of Mental Malady and Remedies therefor. 
 
 This Play, it seems to me, establishes at least that the Author of it had, at one time, some 
 small share of " literary taste" and at least a little " mora! discrimination" ; that he can hardly 
 ever have been a " Western frontier, prairie Ishmaelite" ; and that it was probably (" not to put 
 too fine a point upon it," as a Mr. Snagsby might say,) no better than a very dirty libel that said 
 that he " lacked culture, decency, and self-control," when he composed his Account of the Pri- 
 Z'ate Life and Public Ser-oices of Salmon Portland Chase. 
 
 I have no hesitation in acknowledging, that prominent among my objects in making a second 
 Revision of this Tragedy, is to draw attention to the typonomic contributions that it virtually 
 makes. This does not mean that 1 intend to mount a hobby. I have none to mount. I never 
 liked hobby-riding; and neither my will, nor any other will, has ever placed me on a hobby, 
 notwithstanding all that heartless if not headless criticism has uttered (or half uttered) on the 
 subject of my typonomic mania. Typonomy, that is, discourse of the diversity, the causes, 
 and the relations of the thing called Type, as it is to be seen, at least with the eyes of the mind, 
 in Objects, Forces, and Phenomena, throughout the Universe, — is not a madman's hobby, but a 
 true development of Science : quite as much as is Astronomy, of which the name, when I had 
 seen the principles, the methods, and some of the countless applications of Typonomy, suggested 
 to me the undeniably fit designation. 
 
 Please observe, O " unknown friend to whom I write" — thou typic Gentleman or typic Gen- 
 tlewoman, who art ever the ideal " Gentle Reader," present to the hopes of gentle Writers, one 
 of whom, belibelled as I have been, I yet claim to be ! — observe, I say, that Typonomical Phi- 
 losophy is not confined to Man. It is of absolutely cosmic compass. It includes all things in 
 which the Typical appears, whether to the vision of the Mind's Machine, or to the eyesight of 
 -the Mind alone. 
 
 Typonomy, I readily admit, can be investigated with mad objects and by a mad man. But, 
 if a Madman shall be somehow led to study it, with mental clearness and strength enough to 
 understand what he peruses, he will surely find it sweetly medicinal to him. Had I been a 
 Madman when, in 1863, my piece entitled At the Doctor's, (a didactic story,) made the earliest 
 public mention of Typonomy, (which I had first conversed about in my Home-Teaching, in 
 i860,) I would long since have been cured by the mere force of Typonomical Research — so wide, 
 so high, so deep, so grand, so beautiful ! That is, I would have long since come to be as sane 
 as is the average man. The average man (and eke the average woman) is, according to my settled 
 views and sentiments, not only more or less possessed by what a typonomic sketch of mine calls 
 Human Asininity, but subject to occassional attacks of veritable Madness. If His Awful 
 "" Majesty, Myself," has not been free from Asininity, and has been manifestly affected, now 
 and then, with more or less of veritable Mania, who shall, on that account, make brutal mouths 
 at him? His Majesty has been no foolisher, and he has been no madder, than "all the world and 
 the rest of mankind." 
 
 For title to the Play, as now revised, I have thought fit to take the question, Was it Fate? 
 The question still remains a puzzle to Philosophers. Not even the Disciples of Darwin and the 
 Followers of Spencer, are equipped to set at rest the question. 
 
 Montesquieu's world-famous De V Esprit des Lois alludes to the asserted saying of Corregio : 
 "Anch io son pittore ! ih) There has been some question, touching the reality of that utter- 
 ance; but The Encyclopiedia Brittanica well says: "The famous story that this great but 
 isolated artist was once, after long expectancy, gratified by seeing a picture of Raphael's, and 
 closed an intense scrutiny of it by exclaiming, 'Anch io son pittore !' (I too am a painter !) can- 
 not be traced to any certain source. It has nevertheless a great internal air of probability." 
 However.that may be, when the original Ardvoirlich was presented on the stage, and, in the 
 presence of a first-class audience, as well in numbers as in character, succeeded '^wsX. as thorough- 
 Hy, in every respect, as ever did 3. Tragedy, I could have said, if I did not, " I, too, am a Dram- 
 atist, in the best sense !" 
 
 But I have more than once confessed the fear I soon began to feel about the very brilliancy of 
 the success my Play had had. I have no pleasure in remembering my subsequent relations to 
 the piece, till I arrive, in my remembrance, at a very recent point of time. 
 
 About ihsfact that, as the Tragedy, revised in 1856, was played the year before, it was a very 
 great success, there can not be the slightest difficulty on the score of evidence. The papers at 
 Columbus were replete with celebration of that fact. New efforts of my pen dramatic were sug- 
 gested with refreshing liberality. It was assumed that I would work that pen while my " hand 
 was in." I trust that I will not he xindentood as mocking the high praises that my Play received. 
 
 (a) This Revision, careful as it is. has wrought no change of language, save in one short phrase 
 and in the ?iamc of the Play. There was, in the Revision made in 1856, no change, at all, I 
 think, in the part of the chiff char.ictcr. ^ 
 
 {byKluund yd vu ce qun tant de grands homniea en France, en Angleterrfj, e"t en Alleraagne, out 
 ecrit avant moi, jai eto dans radminition, mais je u'ai point perdu le coiirage. ' Et moi aussi 
 je suis peintre,' ai je dit avo le Correge." 
 C 
 
8 FOREWORDS. 
 
 I am not in the least ungrateful for those evidently sterling praises. I do not, in any sense, make 
 light of the success my Tragedy achieved, or of the Tragedy itself. I have all due regard for 
 both. 
 
 No play had ever more complete success than had that Play of mine ; and I have never seen 
 a finer audience than that which " assisted at" the performance. What could have been more 
 completely gratifying than success like that? 
 
 But I am forced to own, that verj' soon I felt somewhat as did my venerable friend, Judge 
 Kennon, as he told me, in relation to the " hit" the Play had made. The Judge had been my 
 Brother in the Supreme Court of Ohio. He was my true friend — God bless his memory ! He 
 was a very deeply interested and most sympathetically appreciative witness of the Play's per- 
 formance. Well ; he said to me, a few days afterward, in highly gratifying talk about the merits 
 of the piece, some words of half regret, that it was so meritorious and that it had had so great 
 success. He feared it might diminish my devotion to the Law — devotion which he rightly deemed 
 I ought not to permit to be at all reduced, although it was almost extreme. 
 
 I had not that fear; for I knew myself too well to have such apprehension; but I had another 
 fear, that was professional. I feared, to wit, that my devotion to the Law might thenceforth be 
 misapprehended to its hurt ; and 1 was right in fearing so. 
 
 Would that my memory could, somehow, cease to tell me how some "Friends," including 
 Kin, of mine, have borne themselves, since then, toward my standing in the Law ! But most of 
 all, would that I could forget how badly I, myself have acted toward that Play and other pro- 
 ducts of my pen ! 
 
 A word, now, on another subject. 
 
 When I wrote Ardvoirlich : when it was performed with such success; and when the first 
 Revision of it was put forth in print ; I was a Member of the Party which the average Demo- 
 crat regarded as invested with Political Authority like that which Roman Catholics attribute to 
 their venerable Church. I was, too, a devoted Member of that Party. Certainly, I had no mind 
 to glorify a Royalist, as such. The Royalist, Montrose, appeared to me, and still appears to 
 me, like all other Types presented in the Tragedy, discriminated accurately ; and, discerning 
 clearly how he erred and sinned, I then admired, as I this day admire, his truly admirable qual- 
 ities, associated as they were with far from admirable ones. I could, however, have then said, 
 as I did say, five years afterward, in language put before the public of Ohio : " I believe in God 
 and in the People !" 
 
WAS IT FATE? 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 SCENE 1. [The camp of Colkitto, ia a mountainous region. Kearns 
 discovered, some in warlike manly exercises, some idle. Pat- 
 rick and another Kearn with swords, playing.] 
 
 Colkitto. {After observing the swords-play for a moment,') 
 Accursed handshake! What an iron gripe 
 This mountaineer has borrowed from the devil ! 
 The wound still wings me. 'Faith! A handsome thing 
 To show the Graham. Ha! but does he know 
 That Fm left-handed ? If he has not heard — 
 'Tis a good thought! Left-handed as I am, 
 My right-hand is no woman's, and once swung 
 A sword with danger in't. Here, fellows! {to Kearns) choose 
 Whose swordmanship is best, and give me leave 
 To try his mettle ! 
 
 Patrick. Here, sir, is my sword! {Offers it to Colkitto.) 
 
 Col. A likely fellow, 'faith! And modest, too! 
 I dare be sworn, tJiou art the fittest man 
 To try what skill my right arm has in fencing. 
 Stand thou against me. {They fence) So, that was well done! 
 What is thy name, good fellow? 
 
 Pat. Patrick, sir. 
 For want of better, serves me for a name. 
 
 Col. For want of better? Faith! thou shalt not want 
 A better long. So parry, cut, and thrust, 
 When, 'stead of playing, we have work to do. 
 And I will fit thee with a soldier's name. 
 That shall uplift thy head 'mong all thy kith ; 
 But hark! what do I hear? The Graham's come? 
 
 [Enter Montrose, simply dressed.'\ 
 Whom have we here ? Have I been trifled with ? 
 It was the Graham only that I stayed for here. 
 
 Montrose. 1 am the Graham — though I wear not all 
 
lo WAS IT FATE? 
 
 The outward show which brave Colkitto boasts ; 
 For thou, I'm sure, hast right to that known name! 
 What, man! dost doubt me? 
 
 Col. Noble Graham— No ! 
 I had, indeed, prefigur'd otherwise 
 The valiant leader w^hom I waited for; 
 But look and voice declare the Graham here. 
 What ho, my Kearns ! Salute your beader here! 
 
 [Thetj obey but, aicktoardli/.] 
 
 Mon. I see, Colkitto, you are not alone, 
 I do not look what rumor gives me out ! 
 No matter. Soldiers ! What a soldier is, 
 Is shown in battle, not in splendid state, 
 Or martial bearing, in the scenes of peace. 
 And now, my friend, what news have you to tell ? 
 Some warlike ones, I fancy! 
 
 [Pointiiig to COLKlTTO's wounded hand. 
 Guess I well? 
 
 Col. In faith, not ill. And yet, my lord, I own, 
 (What I should blush to tell,) the war in pledge 
 Of which this hand was wounded, is my sole 
 And private quarrel ! 
 
 Mon. Quarrel! Pledge! These words 
 Convey imperfect meaning. Let me hope, 
 Our common cause — 
 
 Col. My lord, ere you go on. 
 Or trust me farther, know me as I am. 
 I have a temper, heady, rash, and strong; 
 Sudden in anger 
 
 Mon. — But no churlish one. 
 And one, I'm sure, to bury past offense, 
 When honor makes the grave. 
 
 Col. I fear, my lord, 
 You judge me with too friendly eyes in this; 
 But still, I hope, you are not all at fault. 
 The pledge I spoke of, of a quarrel yet 
 To have its trial, is, I fear, with one 
 You much desire to find an ally in. 
 
 Mon. Indeed, my friend? Then must I find some way 
 To dig that grave, where honor may inter 
 The cause of quarrel. 
 
 Col. That, my lord, I trust. 
 You will not try without my full consent. 
 But hear me, now. But yesterday, it was, 
 
WAS IT FATE? 
 
 And yet the smarting of this cursed hand, 
 And shame I cannot smother, make it seem 
 An age ago — it was but yester-morn, 
 I took this hurt from that same Highlander, 
 Him of ArdvoirHch, you had written of. 
 The devil take his gripe! 
 
 Mon. Ardvoirlich! 'Twas 
 A luckless chance. But how did this fall out? 
 He is a man, and has a man for friend, 
 Whom I regard with more than anxious eyes. 
 Cannot this quarrel rest ? 
 
 Col. I see not how ; 
 But you shall hear. My hungry Kearns, I fear, 
 Had found his cattle tempting overmuch. 
 At least, he came, — and, I must own, my lord, 
 With no ungentle speech, complained to me, 
 That they were taking such a liberty 
 With what was his. As neutral, so he said. 
 He stood between the King and Parliament. 
 Unluckily, I sneered to hear of men. 
 Who could as neutrals stand in times like these. 
 A sudden rage in him gave answer fierce. 
 Words were not many, till he seized my hand — 
 My fighting hand — and crushed it as you see ! 
 
 Moil. A brutal act! This is not like the man. 
 Of whom I've heard so much. 
 
 Col. My lord 1 He is 
 My mortal foe, but if I know your thought. 
 It wrongs the Chieftain. I am very sure. 
 The wound was not intended — nor, I think. 
 Was he aware, this is my soldier's hand. 
 I'll do him justice, though a deadly hate 
 Dwell ever in my heart. It was as pledge. 
 That he would meet me, at a time I named. 
 That he so crushed my hand. Unconscious strength, 
 A might unearthly, seemed to nerve his grasp. 
 I never saw such change, as showed in him, 
 When I began to taunt. The gentle Chief 
 He seemed at first, now looked the god of rage. 
 A wordless wonder for a moment held 
 My senses still, but then I found hot words 
 To vent my fury. Challenge passed my lips, 
 And ere 'twas fairly out, he grasped my hand. 
 As I have told; the blood burst from my nails! 
 
12 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 He faltered then, and paled — a sickness seemed 
 To seize upon him; and, in words, I own, 
 Instinct with truth, he told his deep regret 
 At such a violence. We wait the hour 
 Of my recovery, to make us quits. 
 
 Mon. Colkitto, listen ! This Ardvoirlich is 
 No common man — you must as allies meet, 
 Not enemies. 
 
 Col. My lord — my lord! We must! 
 
 Mon. I say, you must! Nay, Isleman, were 
 The question here of threatening looks or words, 
 The Graham's were, I think, not slow to answer it 
 As brave men should ; but this is not a time 
 For idle quarrel ! I have set my heart 
 On winning for the king, this Chief, his friend, 
 And all their force. I will not wrong your fame. 
 Not even shake your temper, in the course 
 I'll take to smoothe this quarrel. Listen, friend! 
 This man of wonder has a power in kin. 
 And in the love and fear he has inspired. 
 Which makes him needful. If you'd serve the King^ 
 Give up this quarrel. 
 
 Col. Who but Graham's self 
 Could use such words to me? My lord! Who is 
 This doughty Chief, that I should kiss the earth 
 I meant to make his bed, and pray to him 
 For gracious pardon ? 
 
 Mon. Nay, Colkitto, nay! 
 You wrong yourself, not me, by speech like this. 
 As for the Chief, he is, as I have said. 
 No common man, and wields no common power. 
 His life began in wonder. You have heard, perhaps. 
 His uncle Drummond had from James the Sixth 
 A grant most ample of the forest here. 
 We call Glenartney. Deadly feud arose, 
 As consequence, between him and a Clan, 
 Most aptly named, from wandering homeless 'mid 
 The glens and mountains, Children of the Mist. 
 A fearless man, the Drummond oft alone 
 Pursued the quarry farther than was wise. 
 One hapless day, when so he wandered lone, 
 He met the Children, and beneath their dirks. 
 Fell, fighting stoutly. He enhanced the rage, 
 By such resistance, of his murderers. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 13 
 
 They shamed the corse by senseless cruelty, 
 Nor could be glutted till a hellish thought 
 Found their approval — and they swore to show 
 The Drummond's head e'en in his kinsman's halls. 
 
 Col. I know the story now. The oath was kept 
 With bloody faithfulness. 
 
 Mon. As is the wont 
 Of Highland homes, the wretches were received 
 With simple cheer. The sister of the dead, 
 Her husband not at home, with kindly hands 
 Spread welcome on the board. The bread and cheese, 
 With which, you know, such Highland meals begin, 
 She first provided, and then went for cheer 
 More worthy of her house. Beneath her breast. 
 She bore her unborn child, your foeman late. 
 When she returned, the Drummond's ghastly head 
 Stood, grim, amid the dishes. Madness seized 
 Her woman's soul — and 'tis the vulgar faith. 
 That, when her child was born, the fates decreed 
 He should not be as other men. 
 
 Col. My lord, 
 Are you quite free from what you designate 
 The vulgar faith ? 
 
 Mon. I know not well, in sooth, 
 How I should answer. If 'tis given to man 
 To foresee things which yet exist but in 
 Their destiny to be — if second sight 
 Is no mere trick ^ 
 
 Col. You hesitate, my lord. 
 I thought your learning mocked the vulgar faith 
 Of such unlearned as I, in second sight. 
 
 Mon. My learning knows, Colkitto, little save 
 How worthless learning is, in things like these. 
 The learned hold it worthy of a doubt 
 Whether these visions of the time to come 
 Be false or real — I adjourn the doubt, 
 For other times to solve. But if the birth 
 Of any mortal may prepare his soul 
 For things of wonder, sure, the Chief's was such. 
 That he is not a Seer, I dare be sworn, 
 Though expectation seems to wait the hour, 
 When he may feel the curse, will make him one. 
 
 Col. What expectation do you mean, my lord? 
 Surely the Chief himself — surely, Menteith. — 
 Can not be subject to this dread — this fear? 
 
14 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Mon. Menteith, at least, is not of those who dread 
 The visitation — if ArdvoirHch shares 
 His clansmen's dread, he hides his fears so well, 
 That outward marks do not betray it now. 
 But once, I hear, he shook with nameless fear, 
 Whenever second sight became the theme, 
 Or was but mentioned. 
 
 [Enter soldiers with FEARNOUGHT. J 
 Ha! whom have we here? 
 
 Fearn. A servant of the Lord, not fearing man, 
 And one that holds the Graham false to both. 
 
 Mon. What insolence is this? 
 
 Col. Cut out his tongue! \_Half draws his sword.\ 
 
 Mon. Harm not a hair on his irreverent head ! 
 Speak on, my canting friend — what matter more 
 Doth press for words? Speak on 1 
 
 Fearn. I know thee well. 
 Thou base malignant, turn the coat Montrose! 
 Thy cheeks are brazen, and thy heart is stone. 
 But yesterday, thou, in a holy wrath, 
 Madest cities ashes, hearth-stones desolate. 
 For that they stumbled at the Covenant. 
 What art thou now? I'll tell thee, ere I die! 
 Thou art the devil's doomed — bond of the Power 
 Of utter darkness! Thou shalt surely die 
 The traitor's death, and shame shall fill thy grave! 
 
 Col. Be silent, dog! I'll slit thy canting throat. 
 If more thou venturest — 
 
 Mon. Be patient, friend ! [ To Colkitto.J 
 Has he been searched? 
 
 Pat. He has, my lord. We found 
 This packet on him. \^Gwcs -paper to Montrose.] 
 
 Mon. [7b Fearnought.] By thy gracious leave, [news! 
 Thou sacrilegious knave! {Glances at letter.) Ha! news, great 
 My sword is rusty, here 'tis promised work ! 
 What more is this ? {Reads.) " Fail not, 'bove all in this. 
 There is a friendship, strangely challenging 
 The common wonder, — likest to the love 
 Of fabled friends in times antique and rare — 
 Between ArdvoirHch and the young Menteith. 
 If one be questioned, in the answer know 
 The thought of both — if one be with the King, 
 The other is against the Covenant. 
 A trusty messenger, of qualities 
 In full approved, select to win their aid." 
 
WAS IT FATE? IS 
 
 'Tis well, Sir Knight! I will myself perform 
 
 The trusty office. As for thee, thou knave! 
 
 Go canting home to them whose spy thou art, 
 
 And tell them, Graham comes ! Tell them — thou mayest — 
 
 I am no prophet, yet I bid thee tell 
 
 Thy prophesying friends, that I will bring 
 
 The arms of Stuart and his friend, Menteith, 
 
 (My allies both,) which they had hoped to win. 
 
 Let him have liberty to take the way 
 
 To them that sent him ! 
 
 Col. Nay, my lord 
 
 Mon. In this, 
 I will not alter ! Let the knave begone. 
 
 Fearn. I go, Montrose, but ere I leave thy sight, 
 I, too, will prophesy ! 
 
 Hear me, James Graham! I have marked thee well ; 
 Thy race is fleet, but it will not be long. 
 These faithless Stuarts may awhile prevail ; 
 But thou and they will learn to curse the hour, 
 When Might took arms to batter down the Right — 
 The People's cause shall triumph at the last! 
 
 Mon. Away with him — but harm him not — away ! 
 
 [Exeunt Fearnought and Soldiers.] 
 
 Mon. [^Again glances over letter.^ This likes me well ! I'll 
 spur the very hours 
 Till I may come to battle. Now, Argyle, 
 Now, wily Hamilton, bewail the day 
 Ye mocked Montrose! I'll drown the land with blood. 
 Or set my heel upon your traitor heads! 
 
 [Enter COL. SiBBALD.] 
 Sibbald, well met! This letter tidings brings 
 To make your heart leap! Read it, read it, friends! 
 Is it not glorious? 
 
 Sibbald. I am glad, my lord, 
 To see you look so like yourself again. 
 
 Mon. Away with halting! We will race old time. 
 And hurl our force at once upon the foe ! 
 There is a power in the pause of thought 
 Above the clang of arms ; but I, my friends. 
 Do my best thinking with my armor on. 
 
 Col. 'Faith! That is soldierly. 
 
 Mon. These allies won, — 
 (For we shall win Ardvoirlich, he, his friend, 
 And both their Kin and Clans), — this aid secured 
 Where shall we hold our council? Let me think, — 
 
1 6 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 I have it, Sibbald! Blair of Athol is 
 
 The place of places. — Yes! The Athol men 
 
 Cherish a hatred for Mac Galium More 
 
 Not second to my own. 
 
 Gillespie Grumach! Boast your far Loch-Ow! 
 
 These Athol men and I will find it near 
 
 For our revenge! The harvest be the King's, 
 
 But we the reapers in the field of war. 
 
 Which I will find upon its cursed shore! [Exeunt.'] 
 
 [SCENE 2. A room in the castle of Menteith.] 
 Enter Flora and Helen, gazing at a picture in the hands of Helen. 
 
 Helen. I own my error ! Here's no lover's face ! 
 
 Flora. Is it not beautiful ? 
 
 Hel. It is — and yet 
 
 Flo. And yet it pains thee ! So I read thy thought, 
 Nor wonder at it. Are there in this face, 
 Two souls apparent — tender, one, and sweet — 
 The other almost fierce? or do my thoughts 
 So alter what I see to fit my fancy? 
 
 Hel. To me it seems as you describe it — yes — 
 Tis so, indeed. 
 
 Flo. I gaze on it for hours. 
 And still the fancy — if a fancy 'tis — 
 Seems like reality. 
 
 Hel. I shrewdly guess 
 That he who gave it thee 
 
 Flo. He gave it not — 
 The gift was Brother's. — 
 
 Hel. He! I think I see 
 That thou art caught, indeed! Thou hast reveal'd 
 Love's antecedent, when it talks of him — 
 Ardvoirlich is thy noun, and thou a verb, 
 Which signifies to love ! 
 
 Flo. Nay, Helen, I 
 
 Hel. Protest! protest! But why such haste to tell 
 'Twas not Ardvoirlich's gift? Were it a sin 
 To take a gift from him ? 
 
 Flo. A sin? Oh! no! 
 
 Hel. Why, then, these blushes? — why such eagerness 
 To tell me whose this gift? Beware, beware! 
 I have thy secret ! 
 
 Flo. Secret I have none, 
 Where thou with cunning eyes wouldst one detect. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 17 
 
 I would but speak the truth, and this the more, 
 Since he — Ardvoirlich — even now is mov'd 
 To strangest moods by mention mere of her, 
 So perfect pictured here ! 
 
 Hel. I'll claim anon 
 The Mother's story — but, for now, the Son 
 Is our concern. He comes, you say, ere long — 
 Perhaps, to-day. Let me begin to know 
 What manner o' man he is. I half suspect 
 He was not always, may not always prove, 
 The gentle Chief your gratitude portrays. 
 Tell me, in sooth, my Flora. Am I right? 
 
 Flo. Indeed, thou art ! This savior of our house, 
 Ere he so bound my Brother's soul to his. 
 Was fierce as tempest, wayward as the breeze. 
 Almost a pagan in the faith he held. 
 In superstition taught, with scanty lore 
 In all things else. Such was he, when he saved 
 My Brother's life. 
 
 Hel. Dost thou remember that ? 
 
 Flo. Not as a thing I saw, or heard, indeed. 
 Save in my Brother's narrative, when years 
 Had made the story easy to his tongue. 
 But e'en when I remember first the Chief, 
 Not only Second Sight, (in which he still 
 Has firmest faith) but all that finds belief 
 In Highland souls, was credible to him. 
 
 Hel. And who his teacher in a school so full 
 Of Highland mystery ? 
 
 Flo. His Mother taught 
 Her darling Son, the lessons baneful most 
 To one like him. Yes ! All the lore of blood. 
 From Fores heath and its false-warn'd Macbeth, 
 To her own history, she taught her Child, 
 With wilder'd fancy coloring the tales, 
 Kept by tradition. Witch nor warlock wove 
 Mischievous spell, but she could tell the spot 
 Where 'twas incanted. 
 
 Utl. Strange ! 
 
 Flo. He pondered well 
 All she had told him, and still long'd for more 
 Of that strange learning. When I knew him first. 
 His dreams were full of Highland mystery — 
 The wraith, the kelpie — e'en our Scottish Pan, 
 
i8 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 The goblin Ourisk — were not myths to him, 
 But real things. The very month of Flowers 
 To him was gloomy ; for the Beltane feast 
 Was kept no more amid his native hills, 
 Where once was broken, when that month began, 
 The holy bread, and fires ador'd the sun. 
 
 Hel. A very miracle of love it was 
 That made him what you say he has become. 
 Who worked that miracle ? 
 
 Flo. My Brother. When 
 Ardvoirlich saved his life, his gratitude 
 So won upon the Chieftain, that he left. 
 For seasons, short at first, his Highland home. 
 His stays grew longer as he often came. 
 
 Hel. (Aside.) I wonder why his visits lengthened so I 
 She loves the Chief! 'Tis plain, the Chief loves her — 
 The miracle was love's, not friendship's work. 
 
 Flo. In lowland scenes they lowland studies shar'd, 
 And so the Chief grew gentle, patient, kind, 
 Where he had been most fierce and rough before. 
 
 Jlel. And so my Flora learn'd to love the Chief! 
 Deny it now ! Weave thou of pretty lies 
 Love's wonted mask — yet will I peer it through. 
 Thou lovest the Chief! 
 
 Flo. Is love so cheap and free ? 
 Have I bestowed my heart unasked by him, 
 Whom thou proclaim'st its owner ? 
 
 Hel. Nay, not so ! 
 Is there no asking in a lover's eyes, 
 None in a sudden silence when thou wait'st 
 For him to speak, and none in heavy sighs, 
 And murmurs of sweet dole that knows not whence 
 Its coming is ? What asking more wouldst have ? 
 
 Flo. Thou silly girl ! Art thou so learned in love^ 
 That thou canst read its looks, as doctors feel 
 Disorder'd pulse ? Am I love-sick indeed, 
 And wilt thou cure me ? 
 
 Hel. Sick indeed thou art. 
 But I'll no medicine use save such as makes 
 The peevish patient dote upon his pain : 
 Thy sickness is the very health of love. — 
 If I should heal thee, thou woul'dst ne'er forgive. 
 Confess — confess! Thou lovest the Chief! 
 
WAS IT FATE? 19 
 
 Flo. Confess ? 
 My Brother loves the savior of his life, 
 And in that sense I own I love him too — 
 In honest friendship, I do love the Chief 
 
 Hel. Oh ! in that sense ! Thou own'st thou hast for him 
 An honest friendship, and some gratitude. 
 As savior of thy brother's life. Take heed; 
 I measure well, I weigh with nicest scales, 
 This honest friendship — 
 
 Flo. Well! 
 
 Hel. I find it weighs 
 Just what love weighs, and measures nothing less. 
 
 Flo. I will not hear thee ! 
 
 Mel. Hear and heed thou shalt ! [^Exeunt.'] 
 
 SCENE THIRD— Court of the same castle. 
 
 [Enter ArdvoirIiICH and Menteith.] 
 
 Ardvoirlieh. Friend of my soul ! My heart is yours to read;. 
 I hail a hero, not my leader, in Montrose. 
 
 Menteith. Whatever prove our choice, I'm glad to know,. 
 You keep the scale of judgment even poised. 
 
 Ard. A wondrous man, Montrose! When I recall 
 That scene heroic at the Ford of Tweed, 
 When in the swollen flood he boldly plunged, 
 Dashing aside the elements themselves, 
 When they would check him 
 
 Men. Thou forget'st 
 He was already bound by oath to Charles. 
 At least 'tis so with me. But hast forgot 
 That other scene, where he could not contain 
 His Covenanter's zeal, but mounted high. 
 That all the crowd might mark him, while he scorn'd 
 The proclamation of Traquair? 
 
 Ard. Neither that scene, nor what at Aberdeen 
 His sword imposed upon unwilling minds. 
 Have I forgotten. Understand me, friend ! 
 I am indifferent between this King, 
 Who snaps his brittle word with every whim. 
 And Parliament, which, while it fain would cry, 
 Down with the King! still hails the King as Lord. 
 
 Men. I am not quite indifferent as thou. 
 I own I lean toward the Hampden side 
 Of this great quarrel. 
 
20 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Ard. Be my Mentor still. 
 Where I would rage, give me thy wisdom calm ; 
 When I would err, let thy perception clear 
 Point out my duty. I am bound to thee 
 So much already, thou must make my debt 
 Still larger, friend, else thou may'st lose it all. 
 
 Meji. I am no friendship's banker — keep no count 
 Whose is the credit, whose the debit side, 
 In what our love exchanges. 
 
 Ard. Know I not 
 Thy soul unselfish? Else how should I dare 
 Address to thee the suit I am about to make ? 
 Hear me, Menteith ! Let's waive this warlike theme, 
 •Till in my castle halls we meet Montrose ; 
 For now, my friend, my heart demands of yours 
 Far other hearing. 
 
 Meji. If mine heed it not, 
 'Tis mine no more ! 
 
 Ard. I dare be sworn, it will ; 
 -And yet my spirits, gayer than the birds. 
 Ere I resolved to frame them into speech, 
 Became dejected when that purpose rose. 
 Your hearty words put heart in me to speak — 
 I love your Sister ! 
 
 Men. Stop not, coward, there! 
 My Sister loves — nay, I have seen it long — 
 My friend Ardvoirlich. If a woman's heart 
 Could be bestowed, which must itself alone 
 Itself bestow, I'd use a Brother's right. 
 And give you this — unmatched of earthly gifts. 
 But 'twere too late — her heart 's already yours. 
 
 Ard. You do not mock me ? 
 
 Men. Trust me, I do not — 
 Or rather, trust me not, but from herself 
 Take warrant of your hopes — away, away! 
 
 [Exit Ardvoirlich.] 
 This happiness hath made my heart so full. 
 It seems like sorrow. Why have I no love, 
 Resembling that which Flora and my friend 
 Flave made their world? — for I am sure their hearts 
 Have kindred throbbings. Friendship makes the sum 
 Of all I feel for any in whose veins 
 Courses unkindred blood. No Maiden's eyes 
 To me are sunny; voices that surprise 
 
WAS IT FATE? 21 
 
 Nature's best singers, stir in me no chord 
 
 That answers tenderly. One heart, indeed, 
 
 I seek to reign in — and it answers mine 
 
 With equal love. I own Ardvoirlich's love — 
 
 Of that affection jealous, fond, and proud. 
 
 How is it thus he fascinates me? How? 
 
 Since he has lost the moodiness which once 
 
 Made him so wayward, who could love him less 
 
 Than Flora and his friend ? Let me behold. 
 
 In right of that same love, the scene where now 
 
 It makes betrothal. Hence, ye thoughts of gloom ! [^Exit.l 
 
 SCENE FOURTH.— Same as scene second. 
 
 [Enter FLORA followed by Ardvoirlich.] 
 
 Flo. You wooed my Brother — so you have confess'd — 
 Let him you sued give answer to your suit! 
 I am his ward — his will must needs be mine. 
 This hand is his; if he do give it you, 
 'Tis mine no more. Let him give answer, then, 
 
 Ard. You mock me. Flora. Love is never ward 
 To any, save the heart where it lies hid 
 Till love doth summon it. Speak not of hand, 
 By other will than love's untrammeled choice. 
 Surrendered to the ring — that circle were 
 A curse eternally, if force should put it on, 
 
 Flo. — {Aside.) — What shall I say ? Was Helen in the rights 
 And do I love him ? What is friendship, then ? 
 I called him friend, and found the name enough 
 For all I knew of what I felt for him. 
 How is it now? I fear me, this is love — 
 Nay, I will own — that is, to my own heart — 
 That I am proud and happy in his choice, 
 
 Ard. Will you not answer ? Flora, I have dared 
 To set my hopes on such a height of joy. 
 That I might either gain the top of bliss, 
 Or losing all, be lost to all myself 
 I see my madness in that venture now — 
 Give me your pardon ! I offend no more ! 
 
 Flo. [^Aside.^ He is not going ? How I wrong his love, 
 How shame my own, by folly such as this ! 
 
 Ard. [^Aside.^ She hesitates ! What can her silence mean ? 
 Will she not break it ? Yes — transporting thought ! 
 
 Flo. Did not my Brother 
 
 Ard. Yes — he told me, you 
 Did not despise me — but I dare not hope 
 
22 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Till your own voice assure me I am blest. 
 
 O, Flora ! answer me ! make now my fate 
 
 Envied of angels! Flora! I'll not say 
 
 The common words, I love you ! Only let 
 
 My truthful soul look through mine eyes, 
 
 And take the feeling, trembling in them now, 
 
 To your own soul ! If love can answer love, 
 
 O loveliest Flora ! let yours answer mine ! 
 
 [She falls on his breast.) 'Tis throbbing on my heart! 
 
 [Enter Menteith who stands silent as the curtain falls.'] 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 SCENE rmST.— A council room. 
 
 Lord Elcho, Earl of Tullibardine, Fearnought, Hopeall, 
 discovered. Enter to them Scott of Rossie. 
 
 Jjord Elcho. Welcome, Sir James ! This council has been 
 called 
 That we may face our dangers, and prepare 
 For stout defense. We'd have your sword and skill 
 To aid us in this strait. 
 
 Scott of Rossie. As for my sword, 
 You know it yours ; and, if I have the skill 
 To make it useful, skill and weapon both 
 The oath I've taken binds to you. 
 
 Fearnought. {Aside.) His oath! 
 A carnal Soldier's oath ! What is it worth ? 
 Give me a Soldier's heart, and keep his oath 
 For fools to trust. 
 
 Tullibardine. Ye speak of danger, friends — 
 Is there, indeed, so much ? What great success 
 Can crown Montrose, while men have not forgot 
 How strong he lately stood for Covenant 
 And 'gainst the King ? 
 
 Fearn. So to his face I urged 
 His change from heaven's cause. The devil smiled, 
 Through his possessed face, a brazen smile. 
 When he did answer. 
 
 Tullibar. In a cause like ours, 
 I'd give him battle were the odds reversed. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 23 
 
 And his the larger force. I am unskilled in war, 
 But I would meet him even as I say, 
 By right emboldened. 
 
 Scoit of R. Would, my lord, 
 All Soldiers felt so ; then were War no more 
 Ambition's plaything, or the bloody road 
 To great Renown. But they do not, alas ! 
 To mettle Soldiers, something more than Right 
 Is oft required. The perfectest display 
 Of worthiness, while it, indeed, secures 
 The mind's applause, oft leaves untouched the heart's. 
 
 Hopeall. Now, of a verity, this sounds like truth. 
 
 JElcho. This junction ofColkitto with Montrose 
 Sounds an alarum we must strictly note. 
 Most of the Athol men embraced at once 
 The Royal standard. 
 
 Tidlibar. What could change them so ? 
 
 Elcho. Their hatred of MacCallum-More, perhaps, 
 ?Iad some part in't, but more the moving speech 
 Of our great foe. 
 
 TulUbar. Do they confide in him ? 
 
 fickle people ! He at Aberdeen 
 Enforced the Covenant at point of sword ! 
 And will they trust his new-born loyalty? 
 
 Scott of R. Alas ! my lord, you ask consistency 
 From warlike men, whose passions oftener 
 Than reason guide them — such consistency 
 As greatest Statesmen more affect in name 
 Than in their practice. 
 
 Mlcho. Answered well. Sir James ! 
 These mountaineers are wild as their own hills. 
 
 TulUbar. Our lowlanders are made of better stuff. 
 Montrose can't win them from their loyalty 
 To truth and right by his pernicious speech. 
 They soon will teach him how his broken faith 
 Has strengthened theirs. Yes ! soon they'll make 
 A bloody end of his corrupt Ambition. 
 
 Scott of R. Nay, 
 You know, my lord, my heart is in this cause ; 
 Against Montrose I'll do a Soldier's part ; 
 But in this presence, and in every place, 
 
 1 will defend him 'gainst the heavy charge 
 Of mere corruption. Take a Soldier's word. 
 You wrono" him there. 
 
24 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Elc. I think with you, Sir James, 
 At least, be sure, he 11 make the Highlanders 
 Regard it so. They will not ask what was 
 His banner yesterday, but join it now. 
 The eloquent Montrose knows how to play 
 The orator with men of such a mould. 
 Impetuous, and always counting more 
 On reckless daring than on mere debate 
 To work his ends, he yet despises not . 
 
 The arts of Speech ; he mixes words and deeds 
 So skillfully, that these wild Highlanders 
 Throw down before him weapons raised to strike. 
 
 Scott of R. He is a foe whom we must not expect 
 With formal summons, bowing at our gates — 
 He'll bring against us all his mountaineers 
 In one bold venture — if we win the day, 
 Farewell Montrose ! He's broken, then, for aye. 
 
 Elc. The Knight of Ardenvohr advised us well 
 To spare no effort to secure the aid 
 Of Stuart and Menteith. 
 
 Fear. Nay, nay, my lord — 
 We do not want them. The Lord will none of them, 
 Or such as they, to battle in His cause. 
 Our land is Judah — and our mighty hosts 
 Shall smite the sons of darkness. 
 
 Hope. Verily, 
 Thou speak'st my thinking wondrous to my mind, 
 Good Brother Fearnought. Praises to the Lord, 
 Who holds the battle ever in His hand. 
 We are His soldiers, and He will not let 
 His chosen perish. 
 
 Fear. We will none of them! 
 If they know not the ensigns of the Lord, 
 Or bow to standards stained with sainted blood, 
 The Lord will strike them in their place of pride. 
 
 Elc. Ye speak but true, my friends, yet is your zeal 
 A little hot. As for the men I named, 
 I cannot choose but wish their valiant arms 
 Might be with us. They're men of honor, both ! 
 
 Fear. \_Aside.'] Honor, forsooth! What sinful speech is this? 
 Woe, woe, to Israel ! Men of Honor, both ! 
 I know no Honor but the Faith I hold, 
 No standard save the Lord's. I like not this. 
 
 Elc. I have dispatched a trusty messenger 
 
WAS IT FATE? 25 
 
 Again to urge on them a righteous choice. 
 
 May he prevail ! 
 
 To-morrow night, my friends, 
 
 We hold another council ; until when, 
 
 God have you in His keeping. Now, good day, 
 
 [Exeunt all hut FEARNOUGHT and Hopeall.} 
 
 Fear. Now, neighbor Hopeall ! What hast thou to say ? 
 Are these the men to lead us ? We must take 
 The cause in our own hands. 
 
 Hope. And so we must ! 
 It then must prosper. 
 
 Fear. Must! It shall, I say! 
 
 Hope. Yea and Amen ! The Lord doth know His own ! 
 
 Feor. — And give them armor! We shall win the fight! 
 These sons of Baal shall flee before our wrath ; 
 Our hosts shall rout them, mow them down like grass, 
 Slay them with fire, and put them to the sword ! \_Exeunt.'\ 
 
 SCENE SECOND. In the Castle of Menteith. 
 [Enter Flora arirf Helen.] 
 
 Hel. Heigho ! How sad this castle is become ! 
 
 Flo. This castle sad ? Helen ! Thou meanst it not. 
 
 Hel. In faith, I do. The dullest place it is. 
 That e'er imprisoned me. I thought I had 
 A world of thinking, dreaming, open'd up, 
 When thou confess'd'st I was not quite a fool, 
 When I declared that Flora was in love ; 
 But now I find, a very fool I was ; 
 For thou art not in love ! 
 
 Flo. How ? Not in love ! 
 
 Hel. Not in the least ! Or if thou art, indeed. 
 My boast of learning in the signs of love 
 Was but an empty one. 
 
 Flo. Indeed, 'twas not! 
 I own thy wisdom when thou mock'dst my plea 
 Of honest friendship — was not that the phrase ? 
 I know it better now. Such friendship is 
 Nought but love's infancy — which, if it live. 
 Still grows to fondness, passion, endless faith ! 
 
 Hel. I say, I was a fool ! Thou'rt not in love ! 
 Thou art too merry. 
 
 Flo. How could I be sad, 
 When thou, to please me, hast no other theme 
 Than my Ardvoirlich and our own Menteith ? 
 
26 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 If I am happy when thy praise of them 
 Bursts through the heavy clouds of common speech, 
 Oh ! chide me not, or blame the very birds, 
 Choiring the new-born glories of the day. 
 
 Hel. I chide thee not, that thou regard'st with smiles 
 Thy lover's praises ; but I find in this 
 Not proof enough that thine's a case of love. 
 Where are the lonely walks, the heavy sighs, 
 The dismal prophecies, and causeless tears, 
 Which love is bound to know ? I was, I say, 
 A very fool, and thou art not in love ! 
 
 Flo. I am in blessing, call it what thou wilt. 
 If I must prove by sorrow that I love, 
 I will not shrink or falter in the hour 
 Of darkest trial ; but oh ! give me leave 
 To hail the glory, while the sunshine lasts. 
 
 Hel. This is not love, if poets are not fools — 
 Thou should'st have visions, now, of severed hearts, 
 And dreams of early graves. Sad as the dove, 
 Who fears her slow returning mate is dead. 
 Thou should'st no comfort take save in thy tears. 
 No pleasure but in pain. Thou'rt not in love ! 
 
 Flo. [^Aside.'] Why do I shudder at this rattling speech ? 
 Why does it bring before me his sad face, 
 And all the omens that the vulgar find 
 In what his Mother suffered? 
 
 Hel. Pardon me ! 
 My thoughtless speech has wounded thee too near — 
 I pray thee, pardon ! 
 
 Flo. Helen ! Thou hast oft 
 Asked for the story of Ardvoirlich's birth. 
 Which I as oft postponed. Some hidden power 
 Compels me now to tell it. [ Weeps.'] Why these tears ? 
 Hel. Forgive me. Flora. I was much to blame. 
 Flo. Not so, my Helen. If I tell this tale, 
 My uttered dread may less oppress my heart, 
 Than when I kept it hidden. I have told 
 How savagely the Children of the Mist 
 Murdered the Warden Drummond. Helen ! then, 
 Ardvoirlich's Mother bore his future life, 
 A holy trust, beneath her fearful heart. 
 
 Hel. If so the story move thee, tell it not ! 
 Flo. I must — I must go on. Hadst thou not asked, 
 I should unbidden tell the fearful tale. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 27 
 
 The Laird was absent, and, too terrified 
 To shut the gates, the Lady, soon to be 
 Ardvoirlich's Mother, sister to the Dead — 
 Received the murderers, and gave them such 
 A seeming welcome as her nerves could bear. 
 Unconscious of the gift her ruthless guests 
 Would thrust upon her, she the custom'd cheer 
 Spread on her table — and, to gather more, 
 A moment left them. When with new supply, 
 She sought the hall, the table show'd a sight 
 To shake the bravest — horrible to her ! 
 Amid the dishes glar'd her brother's head ! 
 
 Hel. Good heavens ! 
 
 Flo. With a shriek, that told the work 
 Of brutal vengeance was on her perform'd, 
 She fled the castle, and the strictest search 
 For long eluded. Where and how she lived, 
 What fairies fed her, and what elfin hands 
 Her couch protected, was the ready guess 
 Of superstition, but was never known. 
 At last her wraith — so did the maids avow — 
 Was surely seen. It is, you are aware, 
 Our summer custom all the kine to send 
 To upland pastures — habit fortunate 
 To her, who wander'd lonely in the hills. 
 The maids at milking first the lady saw. 
 At evening, to watch the task she had 
 So often order'd, she, with trembling steps. 
 At distance first appearing, nearer came, 
 Each time she ventured to observe them there. 
 When terror yielded to the calm that comes 
 By customed vision of what startles it, 
 The maids grew bolder, and the lady was 
 At last to home restored ; where, soon, her child, 
 Ardvoirlich, saw the light. 
 
 Hel. Let me again 
 Look on her picture ! Now, indeed, there seems 
 A double nature speaking through this face ! 
 
 Flo. Indeed, it seems so ! She was beautiful ! 
 Her wounded spirit, when it ceased to bleed, 
 Took alter'd tone. The gentleness of love 
 Came back to heart and mind, and in her face 
 Once more grew radiant. 
 
 Hel, If, indeed, the son 
 
28 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Of such a mother — taught as thou hast said — 
 Be somewhat wild in his belief of things, 
 Which common, sober faith more truly sees, 
 How can we wonder ? 
 
 Flo. Helen ! in that thought 
 Thou touchest my sole dread. Come let us walk, 
 While I unbosom all my secret' st fears. [^Exeurt1.'\ 
 
 SCENE THIRD. The great room in the Castle of Ardvoirlicb^ 
 {Enter Ardvoirlich and Menteith.] 
 
 Men. I have desired this truce in our debate 
 With resolute but rash Montrose, that we, 
 Whose thoughts are cousins nearer than our blood 
 Can ever be, may heart with heart compare. 
 Ere we give sentence. I confess, my friend. 
 That when he thrills me with his bold appeals, 
 I see Montrose, where I should see alone 
 The cause he pleads for. 
 
 Ard. I am not less moved. 
 
 Men. A hero this Montrose, if hero souls 
 Survive to startle our degenerate world. 
 But I distrust the magic influence 
 His flaming speech has shed upon our souls. 
 And yet, Ardvoirlich, I did almost hope 
 That your enthusiasm might turn the scale 
 Of trembling judgment, while my colder soul 
 Was silent still. 
 
 Ard. [Aside.) Enthusiasm! Could he 
 But know the strange half-frenzy which I hide 
 And govern by the stern necessity 
 That must conceal it, my enthusiasm 
 Might move his wonder. Wonder! Aye! 
 'Twould fill his soul with dread like that I feel. 
 
 Men. If I alone were moved by what Montrose 
 So strongly urges, I might break the spell 
 In which his eloquence hath held my thoughts. 
 
 But all who hear him, yield. The place he chose 
 
 But you do not attend — what mood is this ? 
 Is it the thought of what may chance befal 
 While love is waiting for its highest hour ? 
 
 Ard. \_Aside.'] Happy suggestion ! I will cover so 
 The real cause of my depression. (Aloud.) If • 
 Such thought should move me, as you seem to think„ 
 
WAS IT FATE? 29 
 
 Were it unworthy ? (aside.) No — I cannot so 
 Conceal my feelings, {aloud.) Friend! it is not that! 
 My debt to you appals me. 
 
 Men. Debt to me ! 
 
 Ard. Have I not said it ? How I envy you ! 
 The hour still distant when the ceaseless flow 
 Of benefits may turn from me to you ! 
 
 Men. From you to me ! What wild romance is this ? 
 My very life would not have passed the span 
 Of early youth, had not your dauntless soul, 
 And ready arm, in peril, interposed. 
 Preserver — friend — and brother ! 
 
 Ard. Say, your friend — 
 What word holds more ? But do not mock me, friend, 
 As though a life, the life of any man, 
 Outweigh'd the love with which you burden me ! 
 Aye, that's the word ! My faults were numberless ; 
 You found me wayward, fickle, proud, 
 And passionate ! If I am still uncured. 
 How shall I bless your patient, tireless care. 
 Your love exhaustless, and your censure wise ! 
 I'm not ungrateful, but I feel the weight 
 Of so much goodness, so that there are times 
 When I am tempted to cry out against 
 The hand that helps me! Would I might throw off. 
 Not all the burden, but the galling part, 
 By some huge benefit, some giant gift. 
 Which I might bring this friend of friends, Menteith ! [Embrace.] 
 
 Men. Thou selfish man ! Let us at once invent 
 This gift unparalleled, this sacrifice, 
 To show the world that altho' Damon's dead. 
 And Pythias beside him in the dust. 
 Their spirits here in Scotland live again ! 
 You do not smile as I would have you, friend ! — 
 You have so^me hidden grief — hidden from me, 
 
 Ard. It is a passing illness — fear it not ! 
 I will compose me, and will hear with you 
 What more Montrose can urge to fix our choice. 
 Meantime, my friend, I'll borrow from your love 
 What courtesy our guest were honored with. 
 Be thou my better self in this, as in 
 All other things. I pray thee, grant me this ! 
 
 [Exit Menteith, his looks expressing wonder and reluctance.] 
 Has, then, the hour arrived, when I must feel 
 
30 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 How things supernal mix with our affairs 
 
 Of love, ambition, duty ? Even while 
 
 My friend Menteith urged his unequal'd claim 
 
 To my attention, some wild under-tone 
 
 Of matchless music, soft and sweet indeed, 
 
 But filled with woe in all its trembling waves, 
 
 Upon my fancy played, or new informed 
 
 This mortal hearing. 'Twas a melody 
 
 Not of the earth, and yet not heavenly. 
 
 What can it mean ? What evil does it bode ? 
 
 Hark ! hear it now ! It fascinates the sense 
 
 That waits on wonder, and betrays my soul 
 
 To strangest visions. What feeling's this ? 
 
 An unknown pain attends the fall 
 
 Of this weird coronach, and makes a mock 
 
 Of all my reason, while the fancy lasts. 
 
 It must be fancy — yet why should it come, 
 
 And come so often, in my waking hours ? 
 
 It puzzles reason. I am lost in dread. — 
 
 Excess of light a moment dazzles me, 
 
 Then on the quivering air leaves dimmest shapes. 
 
 Which all my straining cannot quite reveal 
 
 In perfect form, but which, with each return 
 
 Of this appearance, grow more palpable. 
 
 My mother ! is the fatal heritage 
 
 Of what befel thee ere I saw the light. 
 
 To curse me now with this infernal gift 
 
 Of second-sight? If I must bear this grief, — 
 
 The thought is madness ! Is this fancy less ? 
 
 Mysterious pain ! What shall these throes bring forth ? 
 
 Is this the coming of the doom I hop'd 
 
 I had escaped? Else why this shuddering? 
 
 I am not mad — this is no phantasy — 
 Whatever 'tis, 'tis real as the grave ! 
 
 Let me face this doom ! 
 
 Relentless fate ! Thy victim here submits ! 
 
 'Tis mine to see, what from all other eyes 
 
 Is hid by mercy — from foul falsehood's face 
 
 To tear the mask, which made it smile like truth ; 
 
 To hear the sounds that knell the merry bride. 
 
 While she, unconscious, dreams of lengthened days — 
 
WAS IT FATE? 31 
 
 — The merry bride ! O love, O Flora ! 
 Fate! 
 
 Why hide this curse, when hope and love grew one, 
 Only to smite me with it in the hour 
 Of my supremest blessedness ? 
 'Tis fixed! 
 
 I am devoted, doomed, accursed ! [ExiL'\ 
 
 Enter Menteith a7id Montrose. 
 
 3Ien. Not here! 'Tis very strange ! He seems to-day 
 Subjected to a mood of heaviest thought. 
 
 Mon. [^aside.'] Confound his moods ! They check me griev- 
 ously. 
 l^Aloud.l Shall we not seek him ? Or shall we await 
 His coming here ? A moment's pause at least 
 'Twere w^ell to take, while I remove a doubt, 
 Which, though unspoken, I am sure you feel. 
 If I guess rightly, you withhold, Menteith, 
 Some doubt, some question, which a secret wish 
 Still forward brings. I'd have you plain and frank. 
 You think, perhaps, ambition mock'd and spurn'd — 
 My hatred for Argyle and Hamilton — 
 Or some such motive, more than reason, sways 
 My resolution in the war I wage 
 Against the Parliament. 
 
 Men. I own, Montrose, 
 Thus urg'd to frankness, that I can't forget 
 Your equal zeal when you were 'gainst the King, 
 And for the Covenant. How have you come 
 To hate the cause you were so zealous in 
 But yesterday ? 
 
 JMon. 'Twere far greater shame 
 (So conscience says) to battle on that side 
 Because, at first, it seem'd to have the right. 
 Than give it up, when of its wrong convinc'd. 
 What if I chang'd ? — if change is always shame, 
 Let us not learn, as we to manhood grow. 
 But tightly clasp the folly of our youth. 
 And to our hearts unaltered errors hold ! 
 
 Men. The change, my lord, is innocent as change; 
 But it had causes ? 
 
 Mon. Yes — and I am proud 
 When I recall them. Confidence reposed. 
 By gracious Charles convinc'd me half the wrong, 
 Which I had done him, rose from mere mistake — 
 
32 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 A nearer knowledge of the men that raise 
 RebelHon's standard, promised not the good 
 For which I drew my sword when I espous'd 
 The zealot's cause. They go too far, Menteith, 
 Or, by my soul ! they go not far enough. 
 From them I hope no good — I know them well, 
 And I have given them up. If private grief 
 Makes public good less lovely in my sight, 
 I err in blindness, not in wilful wrong. 
 
 Men. You answer nobly. 
 
 Moil. Truly, Lord Menteith ! 
 Rebellious hands are clenched to smite the King ; 
 I've deeply sworn, they first shall buffet me, 
 Or hurtless fall. I look to you and such 
 As you affect (your censure meekly borne,) 
 For hearty aid in this great enterprise. 
 I have addressed your reason — that alone — 
 In what I urged. Let reason answer me. 
 
 Men. You take me rightly. What my reason says, 
 To that I'll listen fair and fearlessly. 
 But I reserve my sentence till my friend 
 Is ready to unite in my resolve. 
 Where can he linger? something troubles him — 
 He's strangely moody. Let us take the air, 
 And so seek out my friend. \_Exeunt.'] 
 
 SCENE 4. The Castle grounds. 
 Enter Ardvoirlich. 
 Ard. In vain I flee — the vision still pursues ! 
 I cannot lay it ! Palpable to sight, 
 As this distracted brain to touch. 
 It is before me ! Field of Tippermuir ! 
 Thy grass shows bloody with the tide of hearts 
 Which beat to tones of exultation now. 
 Amid the battle's shock, I see Montrose 
 Flash glory on his hosts, a more than man, 
 War's radiant angel ! 
 Heaven ! what a sight ! 
 
 Kearns vie with clans in deeds that mock belief 
 The lowlanders withstand them as a rock the wave. 
 Now Rossie leads the foe. A furious charge — 
 The chances change. No — no ! They stagger back ; 
 Montrose is victor. We, Menteith and I, 
 Have none but honor's wounds, won on the side. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 33 
 
 Which has prevailed. 
 
 Why should I see so much, 
 
 And not see more ? A drooping brow is mine — 
 
 I inly bleed, perhaps ? Ah ! no ! That brow 
 
 Is heavy with the thought of love divorced 
 
 Forever from the hope which is its life. 
 
 I walk a shadow while I seem a man. 
 
 Enter Menteith and Montrose. 
 
 Men. You're found at last, my friend ! This heavy brow 
 Tells either of a mind, which has resolved 
 The question duty asks, or of a heart 
 Too sad to answer such a question now. 
 
 Ard. My choice is fixed. [^5?<ie.] For Fate has shown 
 me where 
 My arm must act, wherever would my will ! 
 
 Mon. Have done with parley, then ! Be not so much 
 A sage, Menteith. Trust more to your brave heart. 
 Than to this cautious questioning of right. 
 We waste, my friends, dear moments of the time 
 Impatience lends (and lends unwillingly) 
 To make up armies. You, my lord Menteith, — 
 Ardvoirlich, you — what banner do you choose ? 
 Is it the king's ? Or must I call in vain 
 For arms like yours to help me in the fight ? 
 
 Ard. My choice is fixed ! my claymore is the king's. 
 Who fights 'gainst Fate ? 
 I'll send the fiery cross 
 
 To rouse my clansmen ere the night be spent. 
 Which now is falling ! Here receive my pledge — 
 Behold me here a soldier of the king ! 
 
 Men. I kiss this hilt in token of the same. 
 
 Ard. {Aside.'\ I see already half the doom fulfilled. 
 
 End of act second. 
 
34 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 SCENE FIRST.— la Perth, Rossie's house. 
 
 ^nter Jenny Geddis and Fearnought, contending with Servant, 
 who endeavors to keej) them back, 
 
 Jen. Ise hae my ain wull, ye leein, ne'er-do-weel ! Gin Ros- 
 sie be nae mair nor man, ye maun ken, Jenny Geddis is in nae 
 doot to face him. Cabbage-stall, forsooth ! Ken ye nae bet- 
 ter manners, ye fause l^oon ? 
 
 Fear. Nay, Jenny, give me leave. Go in, thou knave, 
 And summon Rossie. 
 
 Enter ROSSIE, imperceived by the others. 
 Tell him here is one, 
 
 Good Jenny Geddis, come from Edinburgh, 
 To give him warning such as he will heed. 
 
 Ros. \_Advancing .'] Leave us, good fellow ! \_Exit servanWl 
 Fearnought, is this well ? 
 Have I not answered ? 
 
 Fear. Rossie, we must have 
 Another answer. Here is Jenny, come 
 From Edinburgh — thou knowest, Jenny, sir? 
 
 Ros. Is this the woman, that you told me of, 
 Who, some years gone, in face of all the kirk, 
 Put such affront on the prelatic dean? 
 
 Jen. The very Jenny. Wi' my ain gude hands, I launched 
 my cutty-stool full at his head. " Villain !" sae did my ain lips 
 ca' his papist reverence, " Villain ! dost thou say mass at my 
 lug?" — I am, ye ken, the very Jenny, come frae Edinburg — 
 
 Ros. Peace, woman, peace ! I'm no papistic dean. 
 You spoke of warning. Fearnought. What and whence 
 Is that you call so ? 
 
 Fea. Jenny hath the gift — 
 
 Ros. I will not hear you, Fearnought. 
 
 Jen. Ise mak' ye hear me, then. Gin Elcho lead ye on, 
 yese dee the death — gin ye tak' on yersel the battle's charge, 
 a's brawlie done an' weel. An' sae I tak' my leave. 
 
 [Exit Jenny.] 
 Ros. Now, Master P'earnought, hear me, once for all ! 
 Another word of this, and I will give 
 
WAS IT FATE? 35 
 
 A soldier's lesson to your lawless set. 
 Another word 'gainst Elcho, and in ward, — 
 Yes, in close ward, — I'll give you time to learn 
 Your proper stations ! Silence, sir! begone ! 
 
 [Exit FEABNOUaHT.] 
 
 This is too much. These people mean not ill, 
 And yet they threaten to confuse and thwart 
 All Elcho's plans, and all my own as well. 
 Unhappy accident, that gives us now 
 A leader such as Elcho, so untried, 
 And, tho' he's good, so weak. And then, my wife ! 
 Her strange misgivings, her heart rending prayers. 
 Against my going. Heaven ! give me strength ! 
 Sits at tabic — Enter Lady Rossie. 
 
 Lady H. Pardon, my husband! God has heard my prayers — 
 Thou art His Soldier ! 
 
 Ros. Thanks, my dearest, thanks ! 
 Thy woman's faith and prayers will make us strong. 
 
 Lady H. Our woman's faith and prayers are all we have. 
 We needs must have the faith — as for our prayers. 
 Our anguish wrings them from our coward hearts. 
 
 Hos. Nay, nay, my sweetest ! Women's hands and hearts 
 Have done good service for the Covenant. 
 But now, one left me, that hath made her mark. 
 
 Lady R. Who is the happy woman ? Let me learn 
 The blessed secret of her greater strength. 
 
 Ros. Nay, love, I wrong thee, by the jest I meant. 
 Poor Jenny Geddis, who her cutty stool 
 Flung at the head of the prelatic dean, 
 At Edinburgh, was she I meant, and named 
 To move thy smileless lips to smile again. 
 
 Lady R. I've heard the story. Husband! let me own 
 How weak thy wife is. Women such as that, 
 Awake my terror, not my confidence. 
 
 Ros. Nor do I blame thee. Yet be just to her; 
 Her act was daring, fierce, and rough, indeed, 
 Unwomanly, perhaps ; yet 'twas an act 
 Prompted by honest zeal. But not to her 
 I bid thee look for model. Dearest wife, 
 A tempered zeal, to truest courage joined, 
 A faith unequaled, courage shaming man's, 
 Have many ladies, of most honored state, 
 Made our example. 
 
36 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Lady R. Would my coward heart 
 Might beat Hke theirs ; but when I look on thee. 
 And on our children, and that bloody field 
 Will rise before me — husband! I am weak, 
 
 Ros. Take courage, dearest ! If thy husband fall, 
 Thy children, trust me, shall not blush to hear 
 Their father's name, and He will be their staff 
 Who breaks the pride of kings. 
 
 Lady R. Forgive these tears. 
 I will go wrestle with these sinful thoughts. 
 
 [Going. KossiE looks fondly at her. Embrace.'^ 
 
 Ros. [solemnly'] I'll go with thee, to join thee in the prayer. 
 Whose blessed burden is. Thy will be done ! [Exeunt.^ 
 
 SCENE 2. In the Castle of Menteith. 
 FIjGRA and Helen discovered, the former reading. 
 
 Hel. Give o'er, give o'er! Thy book is like thyself! — 
 Here am I pining for a hearty cry, 
 Yearning to share the pangs of love distrest. 
 And still thy speech, thy reading, and thy harp, 
 Discourse of happiness, and tone with joy. 
 
 Flo. Thou April goddess ! 'twas but yesterday, 
 Thy reasoning assured me 'gainst my fears, 
 And thy philosophy rebuked me well 
 For fond conceits of sorrow. 
 
 Hel. Reasoning! 
 Was ever love before would list to that ? 
 Reason and love are foes — yes, mortal foes! 
 Philosophy ! How darest thou talk of that? 
 On thy allegiance to unreasoning love, 
 I charge thee. Flora, spurn philosophy! 
 
 Flo. I cannot, Helen! I have wiser grown. 
 And love has been my teacher. 
 
 Hel. Wiser, thou ! 
 I am provoked beyond endurance ! Must 
 I fall in love myself? 
 
 Flo. Yes, if thou still 
 Wilt have love wretched, for I never was 
 More happy in my life! 
 
 Hel. Now, mark me well : 
 I give thee warning! If thou still wilt mock 
 All lovers' rules, thou wilt provoke in me 
 A dangerous revenge ! I'll fall in love. 
 To show thee how, and with thy lover, too 1 
 
WAS IT FATE? 37 
 
 Flo. What wouldst thou have me do? 
 
 Hel. Be sad, be glad, 
 Without a reason ! Weep without a pain, 
 And smile without a joy! 
 
 Flo. Have thou thy will — 
 I will obey thee. 
 
 Hel. Good! I'd have thee sad — 
 But how to make thee so ! Hast thou no dreams 
 For me to give a direful meaning to ? 
 How sawest thou last the moon — at right, or left ? 
 What hast thou broken? — what put on awry? 
 When last didst hear a raven ? 
 
 Flo. Listen well ! 
 If I have dreams, they pass from memory 
 Ere I awake; at right or left, the moon 
 Is beautiful to me ; I've nothing broke. 
 And nought put on awry — when last I heard 
 A raven — thou dost know as well as I ! 
 
 Hel. Am /thy raven? Would, indeed, I were; 
 I'd mix alarm with hope, and dread with joy, 
 And, in the compound, show thee what a thing 
 Is real love. 
 
 Flo. Think'st thou I know it not? 
 Let me be teacher! 'Tis the quality of love 
 That it makes bliss of woe, and finds in pain 
 Delightful fountains, hidden save to love! 
 
 Hel. Go on, go on — thy teaching's not so ill. 
 I like thy lessons 
 
 Flo. Thou shalt own them true. 
 It is love's quality to make the night 
 As radiant as the noon had ever been 
 Ere love was known — to flush the sky of dawn 
 With promise of a world where love dies not, 
 And joy has life for term as long as love's — 
 To kindle noon to glory which no sight 
 But love's could bear! 
 
 Hel. Thou bear'st it passing well! 
 But love is not all brightness. 
 
 Flo. Be it so — 
 If love must suffer, love is still prepared, 
 But love's a prophet still of blessedness. 
 My swelling heart is full of hopeful thoughts. 
 
 Enter Servant, with letter. Flora reads. [Exit Servant.] 
 
 No croaking now, my Helen. Read, read, read ! 
 
38 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 My brother writes, thou seest, that my Chief 
 Comes here to say farewell, and then goes on 
 To join Montrose — thou seest, I — 
 
 Hel. Why what a child am I — I weep with thee! 
 Come, dry thine eyes. Let me, who claimed thy tears, 
 Reclaim thy smiles, thy sweetest, sunniest! 
 Let me prepare thee for — (listens) It is too late ! 
 Thy Chief's already here. Go thou to him, 
 And leave me here. [Exit Flora.] 
 
 And leave me here! 
 
 I hope, I'm not afraid — and yet the tales 
 Old Donald told us, of his Highland Seers, 
 And all the superstitions of the hills, 
 Have made me strangely fond of company. 
 [^Takes the book.'] They say a book is best of company. 
 Let me essay it. — What was that I heard ? 
 This room is strangely gloomy. I can't read. 
 I dare not be alone — I fear I am afraid. [jExjV.] 
 
 SCENE 3. Another room in the castle of Menteith. 
 Enter Eloba a7id Abdvoirlich. 
 
 Flo. Be not so smileless! What if we must part? 
 My tears should fall, if any, at that thought, 
 And yet I weep not — for my happy heart 
 Assures me of thy safe and proud return. 
 When thou hast done a soldier's duty. 
 What! 
 So heavy still ? What hapless mood is this ? 
 
 Ard. \_Aside.'] Would Heaven, that I were dead ! Her 
 voice, her eyes. 
 Half charm away the memory accurst 
 Of the dread visions I so lately saw. 
 What shall I say? How meet her tender eyes. 
 So full of love? 
 
 Flo. [^Aside.] What can this silence mean? 
 'Tis very strange ! And now I mark his face, 
 It has the traces of sharp suffering. 
 [Aloud.] Thou art not well. 
 
 Ard. [Aside.] Not well! not well! not well! 
 Then am I ill — and all this mood is ill. 
 
 Flo. How! No answer yet? 
 Is this some vision of my Highland Seer 
 
 Ard. Flora, beware ! — 
 O Flora, pardon me ! — 
 
WAS IT FATE? 39 
 
 [^sifie.] I cannot tell her ! Ridicule from her 
 Would drive me mad ! And why should I reveal 
 What causes separate us? If she loves me now — 
 By heaven, she does, unworthy as I am — 
 Were it not better she should deem me false, 
 Than bear in sympathy the weight of woe, 
 Which crushes me? — [Aloud.l — Madam! 
 
 Flo. Madam! 
 
 Ard. The troth 
 Our hearts and lips exchanged, a few days gone, 
 Still burdens you. I come — 
 
 Flo. Hush! Not thy soul 
 Is speaking through thy words. It cannot be ; 
 Thy words are very cold — thy manner strange — 
 There is some mystery here. Ardvoirlich ! when 
 Thou told'st me what was in thy heart, — 
 Dost thou forget it? — it was through thine eyes. 
 More than thy words, that thou wouldst have me learn 
 How much thou loved'st me. Give me again 
 That light into thy soul — turn not away. 
 Alas! alas! if thou no more can'st meet 
 The look of love ! 
 
 Ard. Believe the worst of me, 
 But I cannot explain. 
 
 Flo. Believe the worst. 
 But thou can'st not explain ! What words are these. 
 From thee to me? The worst! Ha! Tell me not. 
 That thou art false — that I have lost thy love — 
 I'll not believe thee if thou dost! 
 And yet ! 
 Blasphemer ! 
 
 Have I reveal 'd my very soul to thee, 
 For thee to mock it? Traitor! Then hear me! 
 I have no curses for the wrong that thou 
 Hast put upon my woman's pride. I leave 
 Thy punishment to Heaven ! That punishment 
 Shall but be lessened, if the wrong'd one's prayers 
 Have power to lighten it — It were too great. 
 The grimmest vengeance would repent the doom. 
 If thou were left without relieving prayers 
 And now, begone ! I will not say, farewell, 
 But let me see thy traitor face no more ! [^Gomg.'] 
 
 Ard. Thank heaven for this release from rack'd suspense! 
 'Tis finished now, and I may bear alone 
 This fatal eift ! 
 
40 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Flo. [Aside.'] What do I hear? I am, 
 In Heaven's sight, his wife, although nor vows, 
 Nor mystic ring, have made me so in man's. 
 Shall I forsake him — shall pride trample love — 
 Because the rites are still inconsummate ? 
 If he were happy — if a grief like this 
 Were not upon him, when his reckless hand 
 So sought to cast me off, — revolted pride 
 Should find in Flora priestess to its wrath. 
 But he is wretched! Mark that brow distraught ! — 
 Aw^ay, false pride ! Let love assert its might, 
 And sacred right, to suffer with the loved. 
 What wedded wife might say, I will not shame 
 To utter now ! \_Aloud.'] My Hamish ! 
 
 Ard. Flora! \_The}/ embrace.l Love! 
 Thou art as hard as fate, and wilt not let 
 Thy victim here deny thee ! Can that brow 
 Hold my perdition ? [^Gazing sadly on Flora's /ace.] 
 
 Flo. Fate ! Perdition ! Victim'! 
 
 Hamish ! 
 
 Ard. iStarting.'] Flora! If thou would'st not rouse 
 The worst I have within me, let that name 
 Be breathed by thee no more ! It takes me back 
 To darkest moments, when my mother's voice — 
 You know her story — made that cursed name 
 Familiar to my ear. 'Tis mine no more ; 
 Either Menteith has wronged me where he thought 
 To do me service most, or I should be 
 No more a Gael. 
 
 Flo. Thou can'st not mean these words. 
 Menteith could never wrong thee. Hast forgot — 
 
 1 dare be sworn thou hast — Thou savedst his life. 
 
 Ard. That he might make mine worth preserving ? — No, 
 That was my thought, when on my heart 
 Thine own lay beating — it were folly now. 
 Forget it, Flora ? Poor in gifts of love, 
 I lack the generous greatness to forget 
 A single service done Menteith or thee. 
 
 Flo. Once more thou smilest. Ah ! thou lov'st me still, 
 Thou wear'st the mask no longer. 
 
 Ard. Flora, yes. 
 With all this tortured soul, unspeakably, 
 I love, I worship thee — yet must we part. 
 A heartless fate, whose dooms in ages past 
 
WAS IT FATE? 41 
 
 It gathers into one, transcending all 
 In cruelty, hath fixed our destiny 
 To suffer, not to love ! 
 
 Flo. There is no fate 
 To work that sentence on a woman's heart ! 
 We suffer in our love, and loith the loved one. 
 Love ends not, but begins, when sorrow comes. — 
 We know it"first but in a sweeter pain, 
 Than life had known before. If wretchedness 
 Become the climax of that gentle pain. 
 The love of woman heightens with the grief. 
 Fate does not part us, when it tells our hearts 
 That we must suffer! 
 
 Ard. Angel ! if my brain 
 Were touched with very madness at the thought 
 Of losing love like thine, my heart would still 
 Keep it unaltered. 
 
 Flo. [_Aside.'\ What, what can this mean ? 
 Is not this man my own Ardvoirlich ? Yes, 
 And yet I mark a presence in him now 
 Which seems unearthly. Heaven — what is this ? 
 There is no madness in his eye — and yet — 
 I tremble. 
 
 Ard. Flora ! If I rightly read 
 Thine anxious gaze, some woful doubt or fear 
 Possesses thee ! Dost understand me now ? 
 My birth prepared me for this gloomy fate — 
 'Twas little less than madness to o'erlook 
 The dreadful warning, \_Aside.'\ Hark ! the dirge again. 
 
 Flo. \_Aside.~\ Does he not listen? I hear nothing now, 
 Above my own heart throbbings ! Wonder grows 
 Upon me like a fear ! 
 
 Ard. Another vision ! 
 Full doom'd — full doom'd ! 
 
 Flo. Thou talk'st of visions, and 
 Thou standst listening, when I nothing hear. 
 What fancy's this ? What thought you that you heard ? 
 
 Ard. I thought I heard — and if I live I did — 
 A sound that came like burden of a song; 
 At first it died upon the envious air. 
 Which bore it from me, ere I heard the words 
 Hid in its music. Deepen'd then it came ; 
 Its mournful tone was heavy with our names 
 And with Menteith's ; but what the other sounds 
 
42 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 I still know not. ^Aside.'l What is this coronach, 
 So faintly sounded, that it perishes 
 Ere my attentive spirit fixes it 
 In memory? 
 
 Flo. \_Aside.'] What evil chance is this ? 
 How wrapt he seems, how lost in gloomy thought ! 
 He has forgotten presence, time, and place — 
 All but this fancy. [Aloud.'\ Rouse thee, dreamer! 
 
 Ard. No! 
 I dream of terrors, but reality 
 Is yet more dreadful ! 
 
 Flo. Thinkest thou, I regard 
 These wilder'd fancies ? Thou art not alone 
 In their subjection. I have listened, too, 
 When solemn thoughts had lifted up my soul, 
 Till silence seemed more musical than sound. 
 Not your imagination only plays 
 So like a harper on the spirit's chords. 
 If sometimes tones, like those, that Donald flings 
 From his wild clarsach, more perplex the sense 
 With cunning discord, than inform the ear, 
 Why should we wonder ? Thinkest thou, we know 
 This spirit music, or will ever know. 
 While mortal fingers trifle with the airs 
 Which heaven sends us ? Trust me, love ! 
 These wilder'd fancies come of fever'd blood ! 
 
 [^During this speech, Flora has nesded her head on the breast 
 of Ardvoirlich. At Us close, he starts.'] 
 
 Ard. I had forgotten all ! My dreams were bright 
 With happiness which I shall never know! 
 No, dearest Flora ! struggle not 'gainst doom ! 
 When thou hast heard me, thou thyself wilt speak. 
 Unprompted, thine adieu — and we will part 
 Till fate restores what now it takes away. 
 I'll not rehearse the story of my birth — 
 Thou knowest it — but I must plainly show 
 What I but touched, when. Flora ! we exchanged 
 The thoughts of lovers. 
 
 Flo. l^Aside.*'] Of his mother 'tis, 
 
 *In this instance, as in many throughout the piece, I have renewed 
 occasion to wonder at the ill selection now established by usage, of a 
 word, to express the meaning above intended. The Germans, very 
 much better, s&y fuer sich. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 43 
 
 That he would speak. What prelude 's this ? 
 My soul is heavy with a new found dread. 
 
 Ard. I've told thee of my mother, painting her 
 As fondest memories preserved her image — 
 So gentle, then, so full of patient love, 
 And tenderness serene — for only so 
 I would remember her. 
 
 Yet I have seen her — Heaven ! what a thought — 
 While frenzied thoughts recall'd the fatal hour, 
 When she beheld her murdered brother's face, 
 Glare like a tigress — God ! I shudder now. 
 As I did then, a child upon her knee ! 
 It was in moods like this, my mother taught 
 The lessons which have made me what I am. 
 And what I shall be ! Vain is all your love, 
 Vain all Menteith's ! I am again a Gael, 
 With all the faith I know you most abhor, 
 And which I've hidden, even from myself, 
 'Till yesterday. The curse of Second-Sight 
 Has fallen on me. 
 
 Flo. Heaven ! I cannot bear 
 The crowding thoughts that rush upon my brain. 
 
 Ard. Thou fearest me, Flora ! I perceive thy thought — 
 I am not mad, nor shall I ever be ! 
 Not that relief, accursed as it were, 
 Shall break my thraldom. I am slave to Fate, 
 But not to frenzy. Either way accurst ! 
 Now, Flora, thou must see that we must part. 
 If thy caresses, in some choicest hour. 
 Were rudely broken by a fear like that, 
 Which stoutest souls must feel, when coming things, 
 Before their time, enforce themselves upon 
 The wounded sight ; — if, worse than that, what now 
 I see thou fearest (though thy fears are vain), 
 Should prove reality, and thou should'st hold 
 A madman in thine arms — the curse which now 
 Belongs to me alone, were shed on both. 
 Flora ! farewell ! on earth we meet no more ! \^Exit.'\ 
 
 Flo. The day of joy has sunk into the cloud — 
 Now for the night of trial ! [Sijiks on her knees.'] 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
44 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE FIRST.— Part of the field of Tippermuir. 
 Enter Elcho, Sir James Scott of Eossie, and the Earl of Tul- 
 
 lilBARDINE. 
 
 Elcho. What thinks Sir James? Have we determined well ? 
 
 Scoit of a. The ground seems chosen well. 
 
 Elc. 'Tis certain now, 
 Montrose expected to surprise us in 
 The town itself. He must have marched all night. 
 Warned of his coming, I resolved to make 
 The field of Tippermuir the battle-ground. 
 His force is not the half of our six thousand, 
 And, if our levies mostly are yet raw, 
 We have a cause which teaches men to fight — 
 The cause of right and freedom. 
 
 Scot of B. I rejoice 
 To find your lordship so well tuned to meet 
 This maiden trial of your Soldiership. 
 'Tis half the fight to hope for victory, 
 So we forget not, that the hope is vain, 
 If not supported by well burnished arms. 
 
 7\il. Did I not understand, Ardvoirlich had 
 Already left Montrose ? 
 
 Scott of R. He left, indeed. 
 But not as you suppose. He is betrothed 
 To Menteith's sister — and he turned aside 
 To say farewell — but, in the thick of fight. 
 Expect to see his claymore rain its blows. 
 Would I had met him e're the fatal pledge. 
 That gave the king his sword, had passed his lips. 
 Something I've heard, which leaves me to suspect, 
 A high wrought feeling, warmer than can last, 
 Attached him to Montrose. 
 
 Elc. It is too late 
 To mourn his error now. Enough I know 
 Of what his desperate bravery may achieve. 
 To show what aid we lost, when he declared 
 Against our cause. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 45 
 
 Tul. Is not the moment near, 
 When we must take our swords against the foe ? 
 
 Elc. If our reports were true, the battle hour 
 Is nearing fast. Our troops are high in heart, 
 Expecting triumph as the gift of Heaven, 
 Not less than valor's meed. Tullibardine, you 
 Have the main body; your command, Sir James, 
 Is on the left — the right wing is mine own. 
 Has this approval ? 
 
 Scott of Rossie. Mine it has, my lord. 
 
 Tul. And mine. I'm well content. 
 
 Elc. The times have need 
 Of action more than speech. Hie you away, 
 Each to his post. The issue of this day 
 Is big with great events — let us deserve to win 
 The honor and the gain of victory. 
 
 [Exeunt Scott of Rossie and TuiiLlBABDlNB.j 
 What more remains ? Our men are all on fire 
 To have encounter with the hostile host; 
 The tongues that utter oracles for them, 
 Have promised them, as warranted by Heaven, 
 A full success. No words of mine could raise 
 Their spirits higher. I will go prepare 
 My part in this great struggle. \_Exit.'] 
 
 SCENE SECOND.— Castle of Menteith— same as Act 3d, Scene Ist. 
 [Enter FLORA and Helen.] 
 
 Hel. Thou wilt not go ! Art thou so lost to pride ? 
 
 Flo. If by the hand of Heaven I be not stayed. 
 No guilty pride shall hold me back ! 
 
 Hel. Alas ! alas ! 
 What shall I say, to show thee what a step 
 Thou art about to take ? This mood will pass — 
 He will be at thy feet — this journey is 
 As needless as — forgive me ! — it will seem 
 Unmaidenly. 
 
 Flo. What thou would'st urge, I know. 
 For in my heart I've scan'd and weigh'd it all ; 
 I find it mocks my duty with mere words — 
 Cries shame, where shame is none, and tempts my soul 
 To break the holy vow and bond of love ! 
 It counsels perjury, and with a senseless fear 
 Would fright me back, while faith still beckons me ! 
 I tell thee, Helen ! Heaven's hand alone 
 Shall stay me now ! 
 
46 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Hel. Then I will go with thee ! 
 
 Flo. Nay, that thou must not ! 
 
 Hel. Firm as thy resolve, 
 My purpose is ! Thou shalt not go alone ! 
 
 Flo. Alone I cannot go — for Heaven will lend 
 Its angels to this duty. 
 
 Hel. Tell me all 
 The dread that nerves thee to a course like this ! 
 Thou dost not fear thy brother will resent — 
 
 Flo. I know not what I fear ! I only feel 
 Some monstrous evil threatens now to burst 
 Above their heads, destroying them and me ! 
 To witness or avert it, I must go ! 
 
 Hel. I go with thee — God will protect our way ! 
 
 Flo. Oh ! bless thee, Helen ! I resist no more — 
 Be thou my angel ! Heaven has moved thy heart, 
 To own the power, that commands me hence ! [^Exeiini.~\ 
 
 SCENE THIRD— A wood. 
 Enter Abdvoirlich. 
 
 Ard. I'll flee no farther. As I spurred my steed, 
 Eager to overtake Montrose, my senses seized 
 A sight of horror ! My firm-footed horse. 
 As if possessed by terror like my own, 
 Whirled backward, flung me to the earth, and fled, 
 Careering terror. I could not advance — 
 I turned and fled — but I will flee no more. 
 Why should I flee? My hand's unstained with blood. 
 My soul is guiltless, and my honor pure. 
 If fleeing from a phantom, leaves the last 
 Without the fleck of doubtful courage. What ! 
 My courage doubted ? Death shall end that doubt. 
 Upon the backward path, with war before, 
 I cannot, and I will not, farther go. 
 Though all the phantoms that have peopled hell 
 Do crowd the forward way. 
 And yet ! 
 Oh God ! 
 
 I saw him stiffen when the dirk had done 
 Its cursed work ! I swear, I scno the dirk — 
 This dirk — his gift — encrimsoned with his blood ! 
 Away, thou instrument of hell's decree! \_Throios it away.] 
 If Fate appoint thee to this murd'rous work. 
 Fate will restore thee to my hand in time — 
 
WAS IT FATE? 47 
 
 If not ! 
 
 Then are these visions humors of the blood, 
 
 Which I will purge upon the battle field, 
 
 That best of surgeons for a case like mine, 
 
 Or bring to end with my abhorred life ! 
 
 Upon the issue of one desperate fling, 
 
 I now put all my chances, hopes, and fears. [^JSxit.l 
 
 SCENE FOURTH— Montrose's Camp. 
 [Enter Montrose, Menteith and Colkitto, through tent.] 
 
 Mon. This halt still frets me ! Will Ardvoirlich come ? 
 
 Men. If living, yes ! or, if his claymore fail, 
 Not his delay, but accident's it is. 
 I own my lord, I am disturbed at this ; 
 But I am certain — nay, I'll not protest ; 
 He's my unfriend who doubts him ! 
 
 [Montrose goes iqj stage.] 
 
 Col. (Aside, to Menteith.) Is this meant 
 As challenge, Lord Menteith ? I did suggest 
 Ardvoirlich's place, in such an hour as this, 
 Was 'neath his banner, rather than beside 
 His lady love ! 
 
 Men. {Aside, to Colkitto.) But that the field before 
 Claims our attention, I could guess of one, 
 Where such suggestion were not quite so safe ! 
 You understand me, sir ! 
 
 Col. If I do not. 
 My wit is duller than my sword. 
 
 Men. 'Tis well ! 
 Your sword and wit I will invoke anon. 
 Outlive the battle, and prepare to meet 
 In me a foeman. 
 
 Col. If the enemy 
 Leave thee sufficient breath to challenge me. 
 And I do fail thee, withered be this arm ! 
 
 Mon. — [Advancing'] — How ! Gentlemen ! These are not 
 friendly looks — 
 
 Men. We do but quarrel who shall most approve 
 His loyalty in battle ! 
 
 Mon. Worthy strife, 
 If that were all — but in your bended brows 
 I see 'tis not. No further go in this, 
 At peril of the worst I may inflict 
 On him who disobeys me. I forbid 
 
48 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 The promised meeting. Give me else 
 
 The weapons you'd abuse ! They are the King's, 
 
 And I command them ! Shame, oh burning shame ! 
 
 By Heaven, it shall not be ! What honor needs 
 
 Shall be my care ; that leave to fitting time. 
 
 Hence to your places, friends ! take up at once 
 
 The last remove which marches us to battle. 
 
 Men ! Hold your arms in readiness to strike ! 
 
 Keep high your feather ! On the canting knaves 
 
 Redeem your promise, and, by Graham's soul. 
 
 Your banners shall surmount the walls of Perth ! \_Exeunt.'\ 
 
 SCENE FIFTH— Field of Tippermuir. 
 
 Alarums. Fighting between the COVENANTERS and King's Troops. 
 The Covenanters are driven back, fighting with desperation, when 
 Scene opens. Tullibardine and CoLKlTTO and Menteith and 
 Fearnought, are engaged in hand to hand conflict. As this party 
 leave the stage, fighting, Montrose and ElchO enter, and fight off. 
 
 Enter Ardvoirlich, 
 
 Ard. Death still eludes me ! I have dared his darts. 
 Till chance itself, I thought, would make it sure, 
 They should not miss me. Off ye cumbrous bars 
 
 {Throws offliis armor, "^ 
 'Twixt me and what I covet ! Fortune, smile ! 
 I ask but death, and in the battle's rage, 
 I'll dare its fury. [^Exif] 
 
 Alarums, Reenter Ardvoirlich. 
 Ard. Vain, alas ! in vain ! 
 The foe's already fleeing. 
 
 E7iter Scott of Rossie. 
 
 The laird of Rossie ! Welcome, gallant foe ! 
 Prepare thyself. Sir James, for such a strife. 
 As needs must end with death to thee or me. 
 
 Scoit of JR. Pause yet a moment, ere we come to blows ! 
 Thou hast no armor. 
 
 Ard. Have I none, indeed ! 
 I would it were so — but I feel the weight 
 Of mail of proof, forged by the hand of Fate ! 
 Come, try this shield, that turned all blows aside, 
 Where I sought wounding as a lover's kiss, 
 And could not win a scratch. Come on, come on ! 
 No fart r pause — I thank thy courtesy — 
 But stand not on the chance that I may want 
 A shield or breast-plate ! Strike, or craven yield ! 
 
 [They fight, HossiE falls.] 
 
WAS IT FATE? 49 
 
 Ros. Ardvoirlich ! I had thought thy vah'ant arm 
 Might have been won to battle for the side, 
 Where mine thou stillest. Tell my Wife, I died 
 By no mean hand — tell her whose valor sped — 
 Nay, that were more than I should ask of thee ! 
 Farewell — thy side prevails, but trust it not — 
 'Tis not the right one — Children — Dearest — [Dies.] 
 
 Ard. Dead? 
 
 happy Soldier ! valiant in thy life, 
 
 Not vanquished in thy death. Thou wished'st I 
 Might have been won to battle on thy side ! 
 
 1 know no sides. I only know, that Fate 
 Has here but added proofs how I am doomed, 
 Beyond the intervention of all chance, 
 
 To murder him I loved beyond my life. \_Goes up the siage.'\ 
 
 Music. Enter Menteith, Montrose, Colkitto, and others. 
 
 Mon. The day is ours! Long live our gracious King! 
 
 AIL Long live the King! 
 
 Mon. 'Tis very strange, the chances of the fight 
 Still hid the laird of Rossie from my arm ; 
 But who lies here ? It is the dead Sir James ! 
 What valiant arm have I to praise for this ? 
 
 Men. His, who, I knew, would come, when danger most 
 Dar'd him to face it. 
 
 Ard. \_Aside.^ His, whose luckless arm 
 Reserves his heart for misery untold. 
 
 31on. [^ToArd.'] I know not praise enough to gild this deed. 
 If I had doubted you, — which I did not, — 
 This bravery would give me cause for shame. 
 
 Men. \_Aside to Colkitto.'] Remember, sir. 
 
 Col. [Aside to Men.] I'll not forget nor fail. 
 
 Mon. And now, my friends, let us advance to Perth — 
 The city's keys will meet us on our way. 
 
 [Exeunt all but AbdvoirliOH.] 
 
 Ard. Advance to Perth ! And what if that advance 
 Bring me to murder? Word, that chill'st my blood, 
 What art thou, but a word, if Fate compel the deed ? 
 Enter Menteith. 
 
 31en. Come, come, my friend ! Why linger you behind ? 
 This is a moment due to pride and joy, 
 Not such a mood as this. 
 
 Ard. To pride and joy? 
 Ambition too, might claim it as his own. 
 
so WAS IT FATE? 
 
 There was a time when, with the glorious three, 
 I would have shard the victor's reveling. 
 Pride ! Joy ! Ambition ! Lost for aye to me, 
 When died your sister, Love ! ' 
 
 Menteith touches Aedvotblich's shoulder. ArdvoirIiICH tuniSf 
 
 and looks attentively at his friend, then, with a burst of grief , embraces: 
 him. 
 
 My friend ! — Menteith ! 
 
 The hour has not yet sounded — this embrace 
 
 Is not yet sacrilege. 
 
 Men. What Avonder's this? 
 
 Ard. Life nothing knows but wonder ! Death alone 
 Reveals the mysteries. 
 
 END OF ACT FOURTH. 
 
 ACT FIFTH 
 
 SCENE FIRST.— A Street ia Perth. 
 
 Ard. A week ago — a week this very day — 
 I was the happiest of men that lived 
 Beneath the heavens. On this trusted breast. 
 Her heart was beating — here, her dreaming eyes 
 Looked up to mine, in love, too sweet for speech, 
 And too divine for fear. Our sky of life 
 Showed not a cloud, but such as promise worlds, 
 Where richer sunlight makes the day of love, 
 Than earthly beauty boasts. And if I turned 
 From that most dear embrace, it was to clasp 
 The hand of friendship, such as never man 
 Lavished on man before. Menteith to me 
 Was like a lover, more than like a friend. 
 Such were my blessings, such my hopes. 
 One week ! 
 
 What changes has that little week contained! 
 This day of doom mourns love and friendship both. 
 Its midnight — thought of horror ! — shall descend 
 Upon a murdered friend by me laid low. 
 Yet how can Fate itself nerve me to kill 
 This Friend of Friends ? Grant that I have no more 
 
WAS IT FATE? SI 
 
 A will mine own and free as other men's ; 
 
 Still may not love resist ? No hate, no fear, 
 
 No wounded honor, no ! nor outraged pride. 
 
 Moves me to murder. Must Menteith be killed? 
 
 What sudden anger, or what motive else. 
 
 Shall Fate supply, to make Ardvoirlich break 
 
 The temple of thy life, thou best Menteith? 
 
 Dwells there some curious devil in our souls, 
 
 That finds a fascination in the thought 
 
 Of letting out the blood of hearts we love ? 
 
 It cannot be. By Heaven ! this is too much. 
 
 Shall I not struggle with a fate like this ? 
 
 But how to 'scape it? Ha! It is the wont 
 
 Of mountaineers to seek again their hills, 
 
 Whenever such success as we have had 
 
 Gives them its booty. I myself will keep 
 
 That custom holy now. I will away — 
 
 Within the hour, myself, my clansmen, all, 
 
 That owe me love, shall leave this cursed place, 
 
 I must away. The dreadful scene will rise 
 
 To answer all my doubting, and a sense. 
 
 Which horror lends me, takes from Fate the hour,. 
 
 When all shall be accomplished. If I stay, 
 
 The midnight clock will doom Menteith to death — 
 
 If I have power to flee, Menteith is safe. 
 
 Each minute is a murder, if still here 
 
 It holds me spell-bound. I will send the word 
 
 To rouse my clansmen, and away at once. \^Exit.'\ 
 
 SCENE SECOND.— A Chamber. 
 Enter MENTEITH and MoNTBOSE, with attendants. 
 
 Mo7i. My lord Menteith ! I grieve to be compell'd 
 To make you prisoner ; but in this room 
 Be you yourself your own custodian. 
 Till this affair, by my contrivance, takes 
 Some better form. 
 
 Men. Nay, nay, my lord Montrose. 
 If I must leave my challenge unfulfilled, 
 Do not disgrace me, by a durance such 
 As you propose. Let not Colkitto say, 
 I was myself my willing warder here. 
 
 Mon. Be not disturbed, my lord, on that account. 
 Colkitto stands advised this is my will. 
 And knows I trifle not in things like these. 
 
52 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 This is your dungeon, you your jailor are, 
 Till I release you. 
 
 Men. {Aside.) What a stubborn will 
 His seeming gentleness conceals from eyes, 
 That do not closely scan him ! (^Aloud.') If, my lord. 
 Your will is fixed, I give you here my sword. \^Offers it.~\ 
 
 You leave me now no use for such a thing. 
 
 Mon. Nay, keep your sword. I grieve to find a friend, 
 So valued as Menteith, wounded so near 
 By what my duty orders. Come, my friend, 
 To-morrow, you will own that I did well. — 
 Meantime, I've matter to consult you of, 
 That lies quite close to your most dear concerns. 
 Fellow, that dirk. 
 
 '[Atfenda7if gives dirk. At a sign from Montrose, exeunt all hut MON- 
 TKOSE and Menteith.] 
 
 This weapon, brought to me 
 By one who found it near the battle-field. 
 Where, yesterday, we hailed our first success, 
 Bears marks, I think, which make it known to you. 
 
 Men. It is Ardvoirlich's, given him by me. 
 
 Mon. Twere little wonder, if in such a fight 
 As that he had with Rossie, he had lost * 
 
 This favorite weapon ; but a gift from you, 
 If so it had been lost, would not have been 
 Without a search abandoned. 
 
 Men. Ah ! my lord ! 
 I see that you have learned what my dull eyes 
 But slowly taught me, and what I had hoped 
 None other marked, until my sister came. 
 To tell me more than even friendship hears 
 Without a shudder. 
 
 Mon. What I know, Menteith, 
 May not be much, but 'tis enough to make 
 Ardvoirlich's case a case of great concern. 
 To you as friend, to me as general, 
 In this first effort for the royal cause. 
 .This weapon was not (so the soldiers say,) 
 Found on the battle field, but was picked up 
 By one returning from a hot pursuit, 
 That went beyond the field. 'Twas added, too. 
 That armor such as that your friend doth use, . * 
 
 Was also found. — They farther say, that you 
 Already know, he flung it on the field, 
 
WAS IT FATE? 53 
 
 And went to battle with his mere claymore, 
 No armor, shield, defence, or weapon else, 
 Keeping between him and a soldier's death. 
 
 Men. 'Tis even so. And since that hour, my lord. 
 When he fell weeping on my wondering heart. 
 With words too deep for me to fathom then, 
 He has denied himself, whenever I 
 Sought him for converse. Now, I know the cause. 
 
 Mon. Is't fit 1 know it? I would not demand 
 Your sister's secret, if the royal cause 
 Were unaffected by this private grief; 
 But as it is, I ask you to reveal 
 What I should know, as general of the force, 
 In which Ardvoirlich serves. 
 
 Men. As friend, my lord, 
 If not as general, 'tis fit you learn 
 What made Ardvoirlich reckless of his life, 
 Nay, made him court his death. My sister says. 
 He now believes, the curse of second sight 
 Has come upon him. 
 
 31on. What ! is second sight 
 Deemed such a curse ? I knew, indeed, it was 
 Esteemed unhappy, even by the men 
 Of rude condition, who have seemed to be 
 Its chosen victims ; but I had not thought 
 Even Ardvoirlich would have so received 
 The visitation, as to rush on death 
 That he might 'scape it. 
 
 Men. Ah ! if any lives, 
 To whom the curse would be too much for heart. 
 For brain, for life, to bear, Ardvoirlich is 
 The wretched man. If I was chafed, my lord. 
 When you arrested me. know now the cause — 
 It was to seek Ardvoirlich, not to meet 
 My enemy, that I was hastening on, 
 When so you checked me ; but I dared not tell 
 My real errand. 
 
 {Enter Attendant, ivith letter to Montrose.] 
 
 Mon. (Beads.) "While I write, my lord, 
 Ardvoirlich summons all his clan and kin. 
 To seek again the hills. 'Tis feared, that he 
 Means to desert the King. He held, to day, 
 A long and private conference with one, 
 
54 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 Whom we have here as prisoner of war, 
 
 A fierce fanatic, (Fearnought is his name.) 
 
 'Tis shrewdly guessed " — no matter what is guessed ; 
 
 Begone, good fellow. Tell thy master, 1 
 
 Will answer quickly. If I rightly take 
 
 The meaning of this news, my friend Menteith, 
 
 The cause of friendship, and the royal cause. 
 
 Alike require, that I should check at once, 
 
 This dang'rous movement. 
 
 Men. Bring him, if you can, 
 To be my prisoner. I give up at once 
 My quarrel with Colkitto. On my word, 
 I promise not to meet him. Let me be 
 Not warder to myself, but to my friend. 
 Seize the pretence, this foolish letter gives — 
 Arrest Ardvoirlich — send him hither bound, — 
 Make me his jailor. Oh ! my lord, in this 
 I speak as Heaven inspires. 
 
 Mon. You seem, indeed, 
 To speak, so warranted. It shall be so — 
 The thought is happy — I will give it act. \_Exit MoNTROSE,] 
 
 Men. Now will I be physician to this soul, 
 Which as mine own I love. Unhappy gift! {Looking aidirk.) 
 I cancel thee as such. I take thee back. {Lays it on table.) 
 Henceforth, I'll scorn no more the vulgar faith, 
 Save in my thinking — in the actual world, 
 I'll seek out happy omens, and avoid 
 Forever all the ill. This mood shall pass — 
 
 [Enter Flora. 
 Yes, Flora — sister ! You may smile again. 
 I feel I cannot fail in what I here attempt — 
 I feel that Heaven directs me to a certain way, 
 For saving him we love. 
 
 Flo. Oh ! grant it, Heaven ! 
 Thou best Menteith — thou brother rare, 
 Thou matchless friend ! I own, I came 
 Not free from dread thou mightest cast me off, 
 As all unworthy of the proud estate, 
 Which woman's pride preserves. I did thee wrong ; 
 For, like a woman giving all to love. 
 Thou givest all to friendship. 
 
 Men. I must own, 
 Thy startling tidings roused an instant fire, 
 In which my friendship yielded to my pride ; 
 
WAS IT FATE? 55 
 
 But if he wronged thee when he put thee off, 
 Should I, too, wrong thee ? If he wronged thee not, 
 If mere distraction made' him sever so 
 The holy bond of love, could I be deaf 
 To Flora's pleadings for a friend like him ? 
 
 Flo. Sure, Heaven must help thee. Thou art radiant 
 As healing angels seem to us in dreams. 
 I see, I see thee winning him to health. 
 Why shouldst thou fail ? Has speech, in ages past, 
 Worked miracles, and is it powerless now ? 
 Will speech, that dries the tears of common grief. 
 Be uninspired by anguish such as his? 
 Speak, speak, my brother, as no .mortal tongue 
 Ere yet did plead for life or love of man ! 
 Find words ne'er breathed by mortal lips till now — 
 Give out thy very soul — save, save thy friend! 
 
 Men. Alas, my Flora! how shall I attempt 
 This work of more than mortal eloquence ? 
 Thou teachest me how little, save my love, 
 I have to make him listen. 
 
 Flo. If that love 
 Be less than Heaven's fire to human lips, 
 God help us, we are lost! But, in such love, 
 All earthly power is ever overmatched. — 
 It cannot fail thee ! Oh ! if I had words 
 To aid thee in this miracle of speech. 
 Which thou hast hope to work, not angel tongues 
 Should more prevail than mine. But I, alas! 
 While love transfigures thee, and makes thee seem 
 Less man than angel, have but my poor prayers 
 To aid thy holy work. 
 
 Men. It is thy prayers. 
 It is thy love, that Heaven inspires me with. 
 If I am altered, surely, 'tis thy love 
 That so transfigures me, sweet flatterer ! 
 
 Flo. I flatter not — for, as thou standest here, 
 I feel thy presence as a holier one 
 Than earth could give thee. 
 
 Men. Hark ! Ardvoirlich comes. 
 Go in, my sister. \_Fxit Flora.] Now, my heart, be brave \ 
 
 [Enter Soldiers with ARDVOIRLICH.] 
 What means this violence? Ardvoirlich, thou 
 A prisoner ? 
 
 Ard. Aye — prisoner in mind 
 
Si6 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 As well as body — prisoner to you ! 
 Hear me, Menteith ! If ever thou didst love 
 The wretched man, whose stubborn knees 
 Refuse to kneel for what his heart implores, 
 Go to Montrose. If I must bear this shame, 
 At least be thou as free from such a wrong, 
 As I would be of murder. Go — go — go! 
 Lose not a moment. Fate is not so hard. 
 As so to arm thee 'gainst my going hence. 
 Some pity, surely, must remain in Heaven — 
 Thou must not be my jailor. 
 
 Men. Jailor! I! {Soldier hands pa-per.) 
 
 Ard. My jailor! thou! Is not the office fit? 
 Was't not to be my jailor that you shared 
 My joys of youth, my manhood's hope and pride ? 
 Was't not to be my jailor, that your life 
 Was given to my hand by gracious Heaven ? 
 Is not the office kindly — is't not fit? 
 Oh ! throw it off, Menteith ! If ever thou 
 Didst love Ardvoirlich, show it, show it now! 
 Select of all that follow great Montrose, 
 The meanest, least of heart — choose out from all, 
 The growth most monstrous, bearing name of man — 
 — Make me his prisoner — let my prison be 
 The dampest dungeon, let me there decay 
 To mouldering death — do any, all of this, 
 Rather than hold me prisoner to-night. 
 With thee to guard me. O, Menteith, Menteith! 
 Be pitiful ! 
 
 Men. Shame, shame, my friend ! This is 
 A mood unworthy of thy love and mine. 
 I am, indeed, compelled until the morn 
 To hold thee prisoner ; but I foresee 
 The morrow's sun shall greet thee free again. 
 
 Ard. The morrow's sun ? Shall I again awake 
 To choiring birds, and skies of morning light? 
 Can morning dawn on earth for me again ? 
 
 Men. I know the charge is foolish — all pretence — 
 I know thoul't meet it. I am sure, my friend, 
 Thy wouldst not leave the King, Montrose, thy friend. 
 Urged by fanatic counsels. 
 
 Ard. Malice made 
 The lying charge. I would, indeed, have fled. 
 But not to play the traitor ! Fr'om myself. 
 
WAS IT FATE? 57 
 
 From Fate, from thee — from thee, I would have fled ; 
 But thou art made to hold me chained to doom, 
 And now I know that thou wilt hold me fast: 
 I cannot flee. 
 
 [At a sign from Menteith, exeunt Soldiers.] 
 
 Men. Thou seest we are alone. 
 I mean, indeed, to hold thee fast till morn, 
 But not with chains, or by the force of arms. 
 My love shall hold thee ! Friend, await me here ; 
 I will remove the guards, and be myself 
 Your jailor sole. [Exit Menteith.] 
 
 Ard.Why not ? Remove the guards ? 
 What guards are needed to secure me now ? 
 Am I not quite submissive to my doom? 
 Can I not save him ? Shall I tell him all 
 That threatens now his murder? God ! It is too much ! 
 I cannot tell him ! Midnight ! thou shalt shriek 
 What now I dare not whisper to myself 
 The fatal night has fallen. Ere the cock 
 Shall clarion the morn, he shall know all ; 
 For all shall be accomplished. Knowledge, then. 
 Shall be too full for question. [Enter Menteith.] 
 
 Men. Now, my friend. 
 The hour has come, when all the mystery 
 That has of late so veiled thy soul from mine, 
 Must lift its curtain. I already know 
 Much thou wouldst hide. Tell me, in sooth. 
 Dost think I love thee ? Oh ! my friend, reflect! 
 
 Ard. Reflect — reflect ? Look on my blasted youth, 
 My perished hopes, love given to despair, 
 Ambition's pageantry, the meed of fame-^ — 
 Gone from me, all ! Could I resign all these, 
 And not reflect ? 
 
 Men. A mind at fever heat 
 Reflects not truly. This unwilling hand, 
 Which now so shudders at the touch of mine. 
 Not always shrank with horror from my clasp. 
 Why does it tremble now ? 
 
 Ard. Why? Say that thy touch 
 Called up the visions of a damning doom 
 
 Men. I will nor say nor think so. Touch of mine 
 Should stir affection, thrill thy very soul 
 With fondest memories, and promise thee 
 A friend devoted to thee while I live. 
 
S8 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 A damning doom ? What doom can curse two hearts, 
 Which loved as ours, when hfe was in its morn, 
 And every hour till now grew closer still ? 
 It cannot be — or good is nought but ill, 
 And both a cheat to mock us with a name. 
 
 Ard. Beware, beware f This is a fearful theme ; 
 'Tis not for argument. I only feel, 
 Feel, in the shudder waken'd at thy touch. 
 Feel, in the horror raised in Flora's breast, 
 When I revealed my doom, my fate is fixed. 
 If I could tell thee all ! How I have tried 
 To fling my life away, thou knowest full well — 
 But that I had already flung away 
 Love dearer than my life, thou knowest not. 
 And thou wilt hate me, when I tell it thee. 
 
 Me7i. I know already how that madman's act 
 Divided thee and Flora. Flora's lips 
 Imparted Flora's wrongs, if wrong was done. 
 
 Ard. How? Flora here ! 
 
 Men. Within the hour, she was 
 Where now we are. Thou seest, Ardvoirlich, how 
 Her story made me hate thee. Seer ! I know 
 What thou hast hidden — Second-Sight and all. 
 
 Ard. Thou knowest all ? No — no. If thou couldst guess 
 All I have known and suffered, since the hour. 
 When last we freely answered, thought to thought. 
 Whatever grew to question — if what I 
 Have hidden from thee were now all revealed, 
 Not even love like thine could hold thee to my heart. 
 Would I could tell thee all. I dare not, friend ! 
 
 Me7i. To do what 'good thing would Ardvoirlich check, 
 And say, I dare not ? 
 
 Ard. No Ardvoirlich lives. 
 He died when Fate deprived him of a will. 
 And made him slave to its accursed behests. 
 
 Mefi. Ardvoirlich dead ! Ardvoirlich grown a slav^e 
 To fancied powers of ill ! Dost thou not shame 
 At such degrading thoughts? Ardvoirlich lives — 
 This is his manly hand I clasp in mine. 
 As I have done so often, when our love 
 Despised suggestions which might make it less. 
 Be they from earth or hell! This noble breast, 
 My friendship's tru.st and citadel so long, 
 Hath not surrendered to that fellest fiend, 
 
WAS IT FATE? 59 
 
 Dark superstition! No! Ardvoirlich lives — 
 Ardvoirlich loves, Ardvoirlich yet shall hope. 
 
 Ard. [Aside.l^ Can this be possible? Have I but dreamed, 
 And shall these horrid visions pass away? 
 
 Men. I will not boast my love — thou knowest it 
 My sole ambition! Never man loved man, 
 As thy Menteith loves thee. If second sight 
 Indeed is thine, tell me its visions all — 
 I will subject them to the honest test. 
 The sober one, of reason. Tell me, friend. 
 What are thy visions? Tell me, by thy love! 
 I will not shrink, though thou should'st picture one, 
 In which thy dirk, which thou didst cast away, 
 When thou wert reckless, threatens this true heart. 
 
 Ard. \_Aside.^ O horror, horror! Has he seen my fate? 
 
 31en. I, too, have visions — but they come in dreams; 
 And I will tell thee one, at which I smile. 
 Because 'tis false, though it were horrible 
 If I should trust it. Learn from me, my friend. 
 To spurn thy visions as a brood of hell. ,^,, 
 
 Ard. What was thy dream? I pray thee, tell it me! 
 
 Men. I dreamed 'twas midnight. My disturbed sleep 
 Broke often into startings of alarm. 
 As often quieted. At last, my breast 
 Felt pressure of a hand. I 'woke, and saw 
 Thy dirk uplifted, fury in thine eyes — 
 But ere the blow could fall, I woke indeed! 
 Thou dost not fear a dream ? 
 
 Ard. If dreams were all, 
 I'd smile with thee, to hear their terrors told. 
 
 Men. I tell thee dreams are all. Thy visions are 
 JBut waking dreams, thy fears are fancies mere. 
 Have you not heard how bodily disease 
 Will wo/k these wonders, fill the mind with dread, 
 Furnish imagination with the forms 
 Of horrid phantoms, and compel each sense 
 To do it service? Thou, my friend, art ill 
 In such a sort. Haggard are thy looks — 
 If mind's distraught, the body suffers too, 
 And each the other tortures. Tell me true, 
 Has sleep, the angel, given thee repose 
 A single hour since first this mood began ? 
 I'm sure it has not! 
 
 Ard. Sleep ? Wouldst have me sleep 
 
6o WAS IT FATE? 
 
 With such a vision taxing all my soul 
 To lay its horrors? 
 
 Men. Sleep will lay them — sleep 
 Restore thee to thyself. If not, I'll find 
 A medicine more potent in the morn. 
 But be my patient now — I pray thee, come, 
 And seek thy couch — Let fever rest awhile — 
 Be ruled in this. 
 
 Ard. (^Aside.) Why not? One hour of sleep 
 Beyond the fatal hour would show me if 
 These visions are but false, or nerve my arm 
 To do its destined part, if they be true. 
 {Aloud.) Do with me as thou wilt! 
 
 Men. Why, this is well ! 
 Dost thou forget thou art my prisoner ? 
 Thy cell is here, where love shall spread a couch 
 To rest thy weariness. Come on, 'tis here. 
 
 [Exeunt Menteith a7ul Abdvoiblich.] 
 
 [Enter Floba and Helen.] 
 
 Flo. He has succeeded ! Heaven ! if my prayers 
 Deserve one blessing. Oh ! annoint his eyes 
 With holy sleep, that knows no troubled dream! 
 
 Mel. Thank Heaven! happiness once more is yours. 
 
 Flo. Hope not too much! O Helen! bitterly 
 I feel what truth hid in thy mockery, 
 When thou did'st tell me, love must mix with dread, 
 Ere it be truly love ! 
 
 Hel. Forget, my Flora, 
 That mock of wisdom, which my thoughtless tongue 
 So glibly utter'd! Hope, my Flora! hope! 
 
 Flo. Do I not hope ? Yes ! Helen, when the task, 
 Which Heaven sent me hither to perform, 
 Shall be accomplished, thou shalt own I hop'd 
 Heaven's choicest blessing. [Aside.) Is not death that boon,. 
 When love's divorc'd from love while life shall last? 
 Ardvoirlich prophecied! "Flora!" he said, "farewell! 
 On earth we meet no more!" 
 
 Hel. Nay, rouse thee. Flora ! 
 Thou'lt live to smile, remembering this hour! 
 Thou shalt my Flora! — 
 
 Enter Menteith. 
 Flo. Brother ! does he sleep ? 
 31en. He does, my sister — tlioa may'st now repose 
 
WAS IT FATE? 6i 
 
 Thy anxious thoughts in hope, that, come the morn, 
 This mood will pass, and be the last he'll know. 
 
 Flo. Bless thee, my brother ! 
 
 Meji. Sister, now retire. 
 If vigil must be kept, I'll hold it here. 
 But thou must rest ; for I have promised him 
 If sleep should prove no cordial, I will find 
 To-morrow better medicine ! Nay, thou must ! Helen.] 
 
 It is thy duty — leave him to my care. ^Exeunt Flora and 
 Thou holiest hour ! 
 
 I own thy presence, and my heart is bow'd 
 In thankfulness to Him, who rules thy silence. 
 Yet still my gladness will foredawn the morn. 
 I long for sunlight, that my happy thoughts. 
 Hailing my friend restor'd to love and hope. 
 May take their larklike flight, and come again* 
 To nestle in my heart. Silence ! take 
 My fluttering spirits underneath thy wing ! 
 A bright presentiment of boundless joy. 
 Assures me, that this night shall join 
 Ardvoirlich's soul to mine by such a bond. 
 As death itself will ne'er have power to break. 
 That light annoys me — it so mocks the day 
 For which I long. I will go make it less. 
 But first observe my friend. 
 [He goes out with lamp — the light is diminished. Re-enters with lamp.] 
 
 Thank Heaven ! His sleep 
 
 Is undisturbed by dream or fever now. 
 
 My pleased eyes drink in a drowsiness. 
 
 In sympathy with him. I'll here recline — 
 
 If sleep surprise me, I will yield myself 
 
 To its dominion, fearless for my friend. 
 
 Nearer to whom it seems to draw my soul. 
 
 My sight grows heavy — {blows out lamp) — Sleep ! I welcome 
 
 thee, 
 [He sleeps. After a inomenVs pause, enter Ardvoirlich with a light.'] 
 
 Ard. Why did I wake with such a start ? 
 I sprang from sleep as though a voice had called ; 
 Yet all is silence. 
 {Sets the lamp on the table. As he does so, he accidentally touches the dirk, 
 
 which he then seizes.) 
 Ha! what weapon's this? By Heaven, 'tis mine! 
 Oh! horror, horror ! {The clock strikes twelve.) And hark! 
 the clock strikes twelve. 
 
62 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 The Fates do not relent. 
 
 Vain all the struggles of my foolish will 
 
 Against the fixed decree of doom. This dirk 
 
 Comes back again to arm my wretched hand 
 
 Against Menteith. I am no more a man : 
 
 I have no function of humanity, 
 
 No office, left, but that infernal one, 
 
 Which makes me murder where I fondly love. 
 
 The weapon and the hour demand the deed — 
 
 My hopes were madness. Murder ! to thy work I 
 
 [Attempts to stab Menteith.J 
 
 I cannot stab him sleeping! Yet if he 
 Should waken now, I could not meet his eyes ! 
 They'd make me falter, when I'd strike him home. 
 No ! no ! If mine must be the hand to seal 
 Forever those dear eyes, Oh ! let him die, 
 Unconscious, that the blow was struck by love! 
 
 [Again offers to stab MenTEITH.] 
 
 Again I falter! Yet why should I fear 
 
 To do the office foreordained for me ? 
 
 Not mine the murder, if the deed is foul. 
 
 Oh! how he loves me! Wayward as I am, 
 
 How has he borne with me, from year to year. 
 
 Filling each hour with blessings mocking count. 
 
 And must I kill him — kill him in his sleep? [Men. stor/5 up.] 
 
 Murder Menteith — murder my life, my soul ? 
 
 I say, I saw it! On th^ bleeding earth, 
 
 I saw thee dead, this weapon in thy heart. — 
 
 Is there no way to break the spell of Fate ? 
 
 If Heav'n allow, or hell point out a way, 
 
 'Tis mine ! I'll take it ! I will not do this deed. 
 
 Let Fate perform what Fate alone resolves — 
 
 I fling defiance in the teeth of doom. 
 
 {Stabs himself.) Thus, thus, and thus, I make my challenge 
 
 good. 
 [Menteith sti uygles with him for the dirlc^ receivinu himself, in thestriuj' 
 gle, his death wound.'\ 
 
 Men. O fatal, fatal rashness ! I am slain. {Dies.) 
 [Enter FLORA.] 
 
 Flo. Help, help ! O Heaven ! help ! 
 [Throws herself on the body o/Menteith.] [Enter Hel., Mon. a7id 
 others.] 
 
 Man. What do I see ? {Raising Flora.) 
 
WAS IT FATE? 65 
 
 Ard. A sight to make thee mad as I have been. 
 Menteith ! Menteith ! My ivill had spared thy life, 
 And yet my wretched hand has murdered thee. 
 Murdered ? Ah ! no ! Let me not die with that 
 To make my memory hideous through all time. 
 There is a life — I feel it in this hour — 
 Where love is fated but to love and live ! — 
 Where thou, my Flora — (Flora shudders) mother — friend — I 
 die! 
 
 [Dies. Flora kneeh.] 
 Mon. Death will not long divide her from the dead ! 
 [The Curtain Falls] 
 

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