s, do as your hearts shall bid you,
And that is weep, I hope.

_Mary_.
O let's go back.

_Jean_.
We have no friends spiked on the Scottish Gate.

_Man_.
No? Well, there's quite a quire of voices there,
Blessing the King's just wisdom for his stern
Strong policy with the rebels.

_Mary_.
Who are those?--
I think it's fiendish to have killed so many.

_Man_.
The chattering birds, my lass, and droning flies:
They're proper Whigs, are birds and flies,--or else
The Whigs are proper crows and carrion-bugs.

[_He goes on past them_.

_Katrina_.
A Jacobite?

_Jean_.
That's it, I warrant you.
One of the stay-at-homes.

_Mary_.
Now promise me,
We'll only take a glimpse, girls, a short glimpse.

_Jean (laughing)_.
Yes, just to see how horrible they are.

[_They go on towards the gate_.

II

_The Scottish Gate, Carlisle. Among the crowd_.

_Mary_.
O why did we come here?

_Jean_.
One, two, three, four--
A devil's dozen of them at the least.

_Katrina_.
Poor lads! They did not need to set them up
So high, surely. Which is the one you'ld call
Prettiest, Jean?

_Jean_.
That fellow with the sneer;
The axe's weight could not ruffle his brow,--
How signed it is with scorn!

_Katrina_.
Ah yes, he's dark
And you are red: Mary and I will choose
Some golden fellow. Which do you think, Mary?

_Jean_.
O, but mine is the one! Look--do you see?--
He must have put his curls away from the axe;
Or did they part themselves when he knelt down,
And let the stroke have his nape white and bare?
O could a girl not nestle snug and happy
Against a neck, with such hair covering her!

_Katrina_.
Now, Mary, we must make our yellow choice;
You've got good eyes; which do you fancy?--Jean!
What ails her?

_Jean_.
How she stares! which is the one
She singles out? That topmost boy it is,--
Pretty enough for a flaxen poll indeed.
Is that your lad, Mary?

_Katrina_.
She's ill or fey;
They are too much for her; and I truly
Am nearly weeping for them and their wives and lasses.
Her eyes don't budge! She's fastened on his face
With just the look that one would have to greet
The ghost of one's own self. See, all her blood
Is trapt in her heart,--pale she is as he.

_A Man in the Crowd_.
Can't you see she's fainting? 'Tis no sight
For halfling girls.

_Jean_.
Halfling yourself.

_Katrina_.
Mary!

_Mary_.
Let us go home now: help me there