SCENE I.—The inside of a miserable Cottage, with a Board or coarse Table by the wall, on which stand some empty wooden Bickers or Bowls.

⁠Na, na! tuim yet! a' tuim yet! Milk nane!

​parritch nane! (Pointing to the bowls, and then pressing his stomach.) Tuim there! tuim here! Woe worth it! to say they wad be fou, an' they're no fou! Woe worth it! woe worth them a'!

⁠Han's aff, I tell thee! ⁠Hast brought ony thing? Gie me 't, gie me 't. ⁠Stan' aff, I say! Nane o' your witch nips for me! I hae, maybe, brought what thou winna like, an tu hae wit enough to ken what it is. ⁠Will 't kill me? ⁠Ay; fule as he is, he's frightened for't;—the true mark of warlockry. They hae linket him in wi' the rest: naething's owre waff for Satan, an it hae a saul o' ony kind to be tint. ⁠Will 't kill me? ​ ⁠No: but I'll score thy imp's brow wi 't,—that's what I'll do,—an tu lay a finger on me. But dinna glow'r sae: stan' aff a bit, an answer my quastions, and there's siller for thee. (Throwing him some pence.) Was tu on the moor i' the night-time, wi' thy mither? ⁠Mither? ⁠Ay; was tu on the moor wi' her, whan the thunner roared? ⁠Thunner roared, fire roared, thunner roared! hurl! hurl! hurl! (Imitating the noise of thunder.) ⁠Ay; an' ye ware there? ⁠Ay, there. (Nodding his head.) ⁠An' wha was there beside? ⁠Beside? ⁠Beside thee an' thy mither. What saw ye there? ​ ⁠Black man an' fire: hurl! hurl! (Making a noise as before.) ⁠Gude saf' us! has tu seen the deil then, bodily? ⁠Deil, deil! ⁠Keep me frae scathe! That I should stan' sae near ane that has been wi' Satan himsel! What did tu see forbye? ⁠Saw? Saw folk. ⁠What folk? Auld women? ⁠Auld women; young women. Saw them a' on fire. Hurl! hurl! hurl! ⁠Saw a young woman? Was it Maggy Kirk's crooket daughter? ⁠Na, joe! young woman. ⁠What's her name? What did they ca' her? ​ ⁠Leddy—young leddy, on fire. ⁠Gude saf' us a'! can this be true!

⁠[Voices without.]

⁠I'll tak amends o' her for cheating us again. ⁠An' sae will I, spitefu' carlin! Maun naebody hae power but hersel? ⁠There's power to be had, that's certain: power that can raise the storm and the fiend; ay, that can do ony thing. But we're aye to be puir yet: neither meat nor money, after a' s dune! ⁠Neither vengeance nor glawmery, for a' the wicket thoughts we hae thought, for a' the fearfu' words we hae spoken, for a' the backward prayers we hae prayed!—I'll rive her eyen out o' her head, though they shou'd glare upon us frae their hollow sconces, like corpse-can'les frae a grave-stane. ​

⁠Even thay puir cogs are as toom as before, and my puir idiot as hungry. Hast tu had ony thing, Wilkin? (Turns round to him and discovers Bawldy.) Ha! wha has tu wi' thee? (To Bawldy.) What brought thee here, in a mischief to thee! Thou's Dungarren's herd, I reckon.

⁠I came frae the tower of Dungarren wi' an errand, I wou'd hae ye to wit. ⁠Tell thy errand, then, and no lurk that gate, in a nook, like a thoumart in a dowcot: for if tu be come here without an errand, thou shalt rue it dearly to the last hour o' thy life. ⁠Isna this Grizeld Bane's house? ⁠No, silly loon! it's my house. She's but a rinagate rawny, frae far awa' parts, that came to be my lodger. Ay; and she may gang as she came, for me: I'll no harbour her ony mair. Nae mair Grizeld Banes in my house, to reeve an' to herrie me sae! She maun pack aff wi' hersel this very day. ​

⁠Who speaks of Grizeld Bane with such unwary words? Repeat them, I pray thee. (Mary stands abashed.) Thou whit not.—(To Elspy, in like manner.) And what hast thou to say of Grizeld Bane? (A pause.) And thou, too, art silent before my face.

⁠There's a callant frae Dungarren, i' the nook, that comes on an errand to thee. ⁠Do not tremble so, silly child! What is thine errand? ⁠She bade me——she bade me say—ye maun come to her. ⁠To whom, and where? Thou speakest as if my hand were already on thy throat, where it shall very soon be, if thou tell not thy errand more distinctly. ⁠The stranger leddy at the tower, the Leddy ​Annabell, desires that ye wad meet her in the lone shed, near the outer gate, in the afternoon. Gi' me an answer, an please ye. ⁠Is that an answer? ⁠She may take it for one; but if it please thee better, thou may'st say to her, I will do as she desires. And take this token with thee, youngster. (Going close to him.) ⁠Na, na, I thank ye; I have answer enough.

⁠[Exit in a fright.

⁠And ye are dissatisfied, forsooth! you must have power as you will and when you will. ⁠Thou hast deceived us. ⁠Was there not storm enough to please ye? ​ ⁠Enough to crack the welkin; but what got we by it? ⁠Did he come in the storm? Did you not see him and hear him? ⁠Certes did he; but what gat we by it? He keepit na' his tryste wi' us the second time; an' we gaed wearily hame on our feet, as wat and as puir as we came. ⁠O that false tongue! ye rode upon clouds: I saw you pass over my head, and I called to you. ⁠The woman is a fiend or bereft a' thegether! I walket hame on my feet, en' gaed to my miserable bed, just as at ony ither time, an' sa did she. ⁠But rode ye not afterwards, my chucks? I saw you both pass over my head, and I called to you,

⁠If we ware upon clouds, we ware sleeping a' the while, for I ken naething anent it. Do ye, neighbour? (To Mary Macmurren.) ​

⁠I dare na' just say as ye say, kimmer, for I dreamt I was flying in the air and somebody behint me. ⁠Ay, ay, ay; ye will discern mist and mysteries at last. But ye must have power, forsooth! as ye list and when ye list. If he did not keep tryste in the night, let us cast a spell for him in the day. When doors and windows are darkened, mid-day is as potent as midnight. Shut out the light and begin. But if he roar and rage at you when he does come, that is no fault of mine.

⁠(Draws a circle on the floor.)

⁠Na, na ! dinna bring him up now.

He is now at hand; the floor yawns under my feet, and the walls are running round; he is ​here! (bending her head very low and then raising it.) Ha! is it thou? art thou risen in thy master's stead? It becomes thee to answer my call; it is no weak tie that has bound us together. I loved thee in sin and in blood: when the noose of death wrung thee, I loved thee. And now thou art a dear one and a terrible with the Prince of the power of the air. Grant what I ask! grant it quickly. Give me of thy power; I have earned it. But this is a mean, narrow den; the cave of the lin is near, where water is soughing and fern is waving; the bat-bird clutching o'er head, and the lithe snake stirring below; to the cave, to the cave! we'll hold our council there.

A Flower Garden by the cottage of Violet Murrey, with the building partly occupying the bottom of the Stage, and partly concealed.

Enter Dungarren, who stops and looks round him, then mutters to himself in a low voice, then speaks audibly.

⁠The lily, and the rose, and the gillyflower; ​things the most beautiful in nature, planted and cherished by a hand as fair and as delicate as themselves! Innocence and purity should live here; ay, and do live here: shall the ambiguous whisper of a frightened night-scared man, be his understanding and learning what they may, shake my confidence in this? It was foolish to come on such an errand. (Turns back, and is about to retire by the way he entered, then seems irresolute, and then stops short.) Yet being here, I had better have some parley with her: I may learn incidentally from her own lips, what will explain the whole seeming mystery. (Looking again on the flowers as he proceeds towards the house.) Pretty pansey! thou hast been well tended since I brought thee from the south country with thy pretty friend, the carnation by thy side. Ay, and ye are companions still; thou, too, hast been well cared for, and all thy swelling buds will open to the sun ere long. ⁠You are come to look after your old friends, Dungarren? ⁠I have friends here worth looking after, if ​beauty and sweetness give value. Thou art an excellent gardener, Violet; things thrive with thee wonderfully, even as if they were conscious whose flowers they are, and were proud of it. ⁠Ah! that were no cause for pride. Methinks, if they were conscious whose flowers they are, they would droop their heads and wither away. ⁠Say not so: thou art melancholy; the storm has affected thy spirits. Those who were abroad in it say that the lightning was tremendous. ⁠It was tremendous. ⁠And the rolling of the thunder was awful. ⁠It was awful. ⁠And the moor was at times one blaze of fiery light, like returning bursts of mid-day, giving every thing to view for an instant in the depth of midnight darkness. (A pause.) One who was there told me so. (Another pause, and she seems uneasy.) And more than that, a strange unlikely story. (A still longer pause, and she more uneasy.) But thou hast no desire to hear ​it: even natural curiosity has forsaken thee. What is the matter? ⁠Nothing is the matter: tell me whatever you please, and I will listen to it. Were witches on the moor? ⁠Yes, witches were there, but that is not my story. There was a form seen on the moor most unlike any thing that could be evil. Thou art pale and disturbed; hast thou a guess of my meaning? ⁠The moor is wide, and benighted wanderers might be upon it of different forms and degrees. ⁠But none who could look like one, whom, nevertheless, 'tis said, it did resemble. ⁠Nay, nay, Dungarren! do not amuse yourself with me: if the devil has power to assume what form he pleases, that will account for your story at once. If he has not, you have only to suppose that some silly girl, with her plaid over her head, was bewildered by the storm at her trysting place, and that will explain it sufficiently. ​ ⁠These are light words, methinks, to follow upon melancholy gravity so suddenly. ⁠If my words displease you, Dungarren, there is more cause for sorrow than surprise, and the sooner I cease to offend the better. ⁠Violet Murrey of Torewood!!! ⁠Robert Kennedy of Dungarren!!! ⁠What am I to think? ⁠Thoughts are free: take your range. Thinking is better than speaking for both of us; and so, if you please, we shall wish each other good morning. (Turning from him with a hurried step towards the house.) ⁠We must not so part, my Violet. Had any woman but thyself used me thus,—but what of that! I love thee and must bear with thee. ⁠No, Robert Kennedy; thou lovest me not: for there is suspicion harboured in thy mind which love would have spurned away. ​ ⁠Say not harboured. O no! Spurned and rejected, yet, like a trodden adder, turning and rearing again. I ask to know nothing that thou seekest to conceal. Say only that thou wert in thy own home during the night, as I am sure thou wert, and I will be satisfied, though all the diabolical witnesses of Renfrewshire were set in array against thee. ⁠Must I be forced to bear witness in my own behalf? There is one who should bear witness for me, and lacking that evidence, I scorn every other. ⁠And where is that witness to be found? ⁠In the heart of Dungarren. ⁠Thou wring'st it to the quick! I am proud and impetuous, but have I deserved this haughty reserve? Dost thou part with me in anger? ⁠I am angry, and must leave thee; but perhaps I am wrong in being so. ⁠Indeed thou art wrong. ​ ⁠Be thou charitable, then, and forgive me; but for the present let us part.

⁠[Exit into the house.

⁠Her behaviour is strange and perplexing. Was her anger assumed or sincere? Was she, or was she not, on that accursed moor? "Some silly girl bewildered by the storm at her trysting place,"—were not these her words? Ay, by my faith! and glancing at the truth too obviously; at the hateful, the distracting, the hitherto unsuspected truth. It is neither witch, warlock, nor devil, with whom she held her tryste. Yea, but it is a devil, whom I will resist to perdition! It is a devil who will make me one also. O, this proud rising of my heart! it gives the cruelty of distraction; and, but for the fear of God within me, would nerve my hand for blood. ⁠Oh Robert, Robert! what mean those tossings of the arms—those gestures of distraction? You doubt my faith, you think me unworthy, and it moves you to this fearful degree. If I deserve your attachment I deserve to be trusted. ​Think of this, dear Robert, for it kills me to see you so miserable. ⁠Dear! you call me dear, only because you pity me. ⁠I call thee dear, because—because——Out on thee, Robert Kennedy! hast thou no more generosity than this? (Bursting into tears.) ⁠O forgive me, forgive me! I have treated thee ungenerously and unjustly: forgive me, my own sweet girl! ⁠I will not only forgive thee, but tell thee every thing when I am at liberty to do so. Let us now separate; I have need of rest. ​

⁠What's the cunning loon standing, wi' his lug sae near that door for? (Calling loud.) What's tu doing there, rascal? Wha gies thee leave to come near the chambers o' gentle folks, and lay thy blackened lug sae close to the key-hole? ⁠As for gentle folks, they come to me oftener nor I gang to them; and as for my lug, there was nae need to lay it to the key-hole whan the door was half open. ⁠Catch thee who can unprovided wi' a ready answer! Thou hast the curiosity o' the deevil in thee and his cunning to boot: what business hast thou to pry into people's secrets? ​ ⁠A secret, forsooth, tauld wi' an open door and voices as loud as twa wives cracking in the lone! And gude be wi' us a'! they war only talking o' what we are a' talking or thinking o' fra' morning till night and fra' Sabbath day till Saturday. ⁠And what is that, ne'er-do-weel? ⁠What should it be but witchcraft and the young leddy? But this last bout, I trow, is the strangest bout of a'. ⁠What has happened now? ⁠As I was passing by the door, I heard Nurse tell the Leddy Annabell how the young leddy was frightened frae her rest, as she lay in her bed, wi' the room darkened. ⁠And how was that? ⁠Witches cam' into the room, I canna tell how mony o' them, and ane o' them cam' upon the bed, and a'maist smoored her. ⁠The Lord preserve us! ​ ⁠Ay; and she would hae been smoored a'thegither, gin she had na claught haud of the witch's arm, and squeezed it sae hard that the witch ran awa', and left a piece o' her gown sleeve in the young leddy's han'. ⁠It was Grizeld Bane or Mary Macmurren, I'll be bound for 't. ⁠Wha it was she could na say, for she could na see i' the dark. ⁠But the piece of the gown sleeve will reveal it. Show me that, and I'll ken wha it was, to a certainty. I ken ilka gown and garment belanging to them. ⁠So does Nurse, too: but the young leddy took a fit, as the roodies left the chaumer, and she has lost the clout. ⁠That was a pity. The chamber maun be searched for it carefully, else they'll come again, and wi' some cantrup or ither, join it into the sleeve it was riven frae, as if it ne'er had been riven at a'. But gang to thy crowdy, man, and dinna tine a meal for a marvel. Thou hast nae ​business here: the kitchen and the byre set thee better than lobbies and chambers. [Exit Bawldy.] That callant lurks about the house like a brownie. He's a clever varlet, too: he can read the kittle names in the Testament, and ding the dominie himsel at the quastions and caratches. He's as cunning and as covetous as ony gray-haired sinner i' the parish;—a convenient tool, I suspect, in the hands of a very artful woman.⁠ [Exit.

The Apartment of Annabella, who enters, and throws herself into a chair, remaining silent for a short time, and then speaks impatiently.

⁠What can detain her so long? Could she miss finding him? He is seldom far off at this hour of the day, when broth and beef are on the board; and he can send a boy to the hill as his substitute. I wish the sly creature were come; for time passes away, and with it, perhaps, opportunity. ⁠He's here, Madam. ​ ⁠That's well. Let him enter immediately, and do thou keep watch in the outer room.

I want thee to do an errand for me again, Bawldy. Do not look so grave and so cowed, man: thou shalt be well paid for it.

⁠A'tweel, I'm ready enough to do ony errand, gin there be nae witchery concerned wi 't. ⁠And what the worse wilt thou be if there should? Didst thou not go to Grizeld Bane this morning, and return safe and sound as before, both soul and body, with a good crown in thy pocket to boot? ⁠Certes my body cam' back safe enough; but for my puir saul, Lord hae mercy on it! for when I gaed to my kye on the hill again, I tried to croon o'er to mysel the hunder and saxteen psalm, and second commandment, and could hardly remember a word o' them. Oh! she's an awfu' witch, and scares the very wit frae ane's noddle. ​ ⁠Never fear, Bawldy: she has left thee enough of that behind to take care of thine own interest. Thou hadst wit enough, at least, to do thy business with her; for she came to me in good time, to the spot which I appointed. ⁠If she kens the place, she may meet you there again, without my ganging after her. The Lord preserve us! I wadna enter that house again for twa crowns. ⁠Be not afraid, man: it is not to that house I would send thee; and thou shalt have two crowns for thy errand, though it be both an easy and a short one. ⁠As for that, Madam, an it war baith lang an' hard, I wadna mind it, so as it be an errand a Christian body may do. ⁠A Christian body may go and speak a few words privately to Mrs. Violet Murrey's pretty maid, I should think. ⁠There's nae great harm in that, to be sure. ​ ⁠And a Christian body may slip a crown quietly into her hand, and—— ⁠Ay, ane o' the twa ye spak o'. ⁠No, indeed, Bawldy; a third crown, which I will give thee to take from thine own pocket, and put into her pretty hand.—Perhaps it may prove the forerunner of some other token between you. She is a good tight girl, but a few years older than thyself: she may take a fancy to thee. ⁠Ah! Madam Annabell, somebody has been telling you that I hae a fancy for her; for they never devall wi' their havers.—But what is she to do for the crown? for I reckon she maun won it some way or anither. ⁠In a very easy way. Tell her to send me her mistress's striped lutestring gown, for I want to look at the pattern of it, and will restore it to her immediately. ​ ⁠Is that a'? ⁠Only thou must make her promise to conceal, from her mistress and from every body, that I borrowed the gown. Be sure to do that, Bawldy. ⁠That's very curious, now. Whaur wad be the harm o' telling that ye just looket at it. ⁠Thou 'rt so curious, boy, there's no concealing any thing from thee. Art thou silly enough to believe that I only want to look at it? ⁠Na, I guessed there was somewhat ahint it. ⁠And thou shalt know the whole, if thou wilt promise to me solemnly not to tell any body. ⁠I'll tell naebody. Gif my ain mither war to speer, she wad ne'er get a word anent it frae me. ⁠I have been consulting with Grizeid Bane, about what can be done to relieve our poor sick child from her misery,—for those who put her into it can best tell how to draw her out of it,—and she says, a garment that has been upon the ​body of a murderer, or the child of a murderer,—it does not matter which,—put under the pillow of a witched bairn, will recover it from fits, were it ever so badly tormented. But, mark me well! should the person who owns the garment ever come to the knowledge of it, the fits will return again, as bad as before. Dost thou understand me? ⁠I understand you weel enough: but will witches speak the truth, whan the deil is their teacher? ⁠Never trouble thy head about that: we can but try. Fetch me the gown from thy sweetheart, and thou shalt have more money than this, by and by. (Gives him money.) ⁠Since you will ca' her my sweetheart, I canna help it; though I ken weel enough it's but mocking.

⁠Go thy ways, and do as I bid thee, without loss of time, and thou wilt soon find it good, profitable earnest. She will make a very good thrifty wife, and thou a good muirland drover, when thou 'rt old enough.⁠[Exit Bawldy. ​

⁠Now shall I have what I panted for, and far better, too, than I hoped. To be tormented by witchcraft is bad; but to be accused and punished for it is misery so exquisite, that, to purchase it for an enemy, were worth a monarch's ransom. Ay, for an enemy like this, who has robbed me of my peace, stolen the affections of him whom I have loved so ardently and so long; yea, who has made me, in his sight, hateful and despicable. I will bear my agony no longer. The heart of Dungarren may be lost for ever; but revenge is mine, and I will enjoy it.——It is a fearful and dangerous pleasure, but all that is left for me.——Oh, oh! that I should live to see him the doating lover of a poor, homely—for homely she is, let the silly world call her what they please—artful girl, disgraced and degraded; the daughter of a murderer, saved only from the gibbet by suicide or accident! That I should live to witness this!——But having lived to witness it, can revenge be too dearly purchased? No; though extremity of suffering in this world, and beyond this world, were the price——Cease, cease! ye fearful thoughts! I shall but accuse her of that of which she is, perhaps, really guilty. Will this be so wicked, so unpardonable? How could a creature like this despoil such a woman ​as myself of the affections of Dungarren, or any man, but by unholy arts? ⁠Madam, Madam! there are people in the passage. ⁠And what care I for that? ⁠You were speaking so loud, I thought there was somebody with you. (Looking fearfully round.) ⁠Whom dost thou look for? Could any one be here without passing through the outer room? ⁠I crave your pardon. Madam, they can enter by holes, as I have heard say, that would keep out a moth or a beetle. ⁠Go, foolish creature! Thy brain is wild with the tales thou hast heard in this house.—Did I speak so loud? ⁠Ay, truly, Madam, and with such violent ​changes of voice, that I could not believe you alone. ⁠I was not aware of it. It is a natural infirmity, like talking in one's sleep: my mother had the same.—I'll go to the garden, where the flowers and fresh air will relieve me. ⁠Are you unwell? ⁠Yes, girl; but say so to no one, I pray thee.

⁠[Exeunt.