forth your hand 'gainst Heaven's
anointed?

_Guard_.--Ay! 'gainst the Pope himself, if he should thwart
me.

_Friar_.--Mercy ye have not, neither shall ye find it.

_[Springs forward and stabs him_--_approaches_ RICHARD
_and_ HENRY, _and unbinds their fetters_.

_Friar_.--In chains as criminals! Ye are free, but speak
not.

_Richard_.--Here, holy father, let me kneel to thank thee.

_Henry_.--And let me hear but my deliverer's name,
That my first prayer may waft it to the skies.

_Friar_.--Kneel not, nor thank me here. There's need of neither;
But be ye silent, for the ground has ears;
Nor let it hear your footsteps.

_[He approaches the fire; kindles a torch and fires the
camp_.

_Henry_.--Behold, my brother, he has fired the camp!
Already see the flames ascend around him.

_Friar_.--Now! now, my country! here thou art avenged!
Fly with me to the beach! pursuit is vain!
Thou, Heaven, hast heard me! thou art merciful! _[Exit_.

SCENE X.--_Apartment in_ SETON'S _House_.

_Sir Alex_.--Oh, what is honour to a father's heart?
Can it extinguish nature--soothe its feelings--
Or make the small still voice of conscience dumb?
My sons! my sons! Though ye should hold me guiltless, there's a tongue
Within me whispers, _I'm your murderer!_
Ah! my Matilda! hadst thou been less noble,
We both had been less wretched! But do I,
To hide my sin, place't on the mother's heart?
Though she did hide the _mother_ from _men's_ eyes,
Now, crushed by woes, she cannot look on _mine_.
But, locked in secret, weeps her soul away,
That it may meet her children's! I alone,
Widowed and childless, like a blasted oak
Reft of its root and branches, must be left
For every storm to howl at!

[ELLIOT _enters with a dagger_.

Ah, my sons!
Could anguish rend my heartstrings, I should not
Behold another sun rise on my misery!

_Elliot [springing upon him]_.--By Heavens, mine enemy,
I swear thou shalt not!

_They struggle. Shouting without. Enter_ FRIAR _and_
SETON'S SONS, PROVOST RAMSAY. FRIAR _springs forward_.

_Friar_.--Down! traitor, down! [_Stabs_ ELLIOT.

_Sir Alex_.--My sons! my sons!
Angels of mercy, do you mock my sight!
My boys! my boys!

_Provost Ramsay_.--Save us a'! save us a'!--callants, come
to my arms too! Here's an hour o' joy! This, in my solemn
opinion, is what I ca' livin' a lifetime in the twinklin' o' an
ee. And what think ye, Sir Alexander! The English camp is a' in
a bleeze, and there they are f