rovoke, and one that's meant to injure.

BLAND.

Hast thou no sense of honour?

M'DONALD.

Truly, yes:
For I am honour's votary. Honour, with me,
Is worth: 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a thing,
So high pre-eminent, that a boy's breath,
Or brute's, or madman's blow, can never reach it.
My honour is so much, so truly mine,
That none hath power to wound it, save myself.

BLAND.

I will proclaim thee through the camp a coward.

M'DONALD.

Think better of it! Proclaim not thine own shame.

BLAND.

I'll brand thee--Damnation! [_Exit._

M'DONALD.

O, passion, passion!
A man who values fame, far more than life;
A brave young man; in many things a good;
Utters vile falsehood; adds injury to insult;
Striving with blood to seal such foul injustice;
And all from impulse of unbridled feeling.-- [_Pause._
Here comes the mother of this headstrong boy,
Severely rack'd--What shall allay her torture?
For common consolation, _here_, is insult.

_Enter MRS. BLAND and CHILDREN._

MRS. BLAND.

O my good friend!

M'DONALD [_taking her hand_].

I know thy cause of sorrow.
Art thou now from our Commander?

MRS. BLAND [_drying her tears, and assuming dignity_].

I am.
But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'd
He hears my words, he sees my desperate sorrow.
Fain would I blame his conduct--but I cannot.
Strictly examin'd, with intent to mark
The error which so fatal proves to _me_,
My scrutiny but ends in admiration.
Thus when the prophet from the Hills of Moab,
Look'd down upon the chosen race of heaven,
With fell intent to curse; ere yet he spake,
Truth all resistless, emanation bright
From great Adonai, fill'd his froward mind,
And chang'd the curses of his heart to blessings.

M'DONALD.

Thou payest high praise to virtue. Whither now?--

MRS. BLAND.

I still must hover round this spot until
My doom is known.

M'DONALD.

Then to my quarters, lady,
There shall my mate give comfort and refreshment:
One of your sex can best your sorrows soothe. [_Exeunt._

SCENE, _the Prison._

_Enter BLAND._

BLAND.

Where'er I look cold desolation meets me.
My father--Andre--and self-condemnation!
Why seek I Andre now? Am _I_ a man,
To soothe the sorrows of a suffering friend?
The weather-cock of passion! fool inebriate!
Who coul