SCENE I.—A half-formed Cave, partly roofed with rock and partly open to the sky, which is seen through the overhanging bushes; a Burn or Brook crossing the mouth of it, at the bottom of the Stage, banked by precipitous rocks mixed with wood and fern.

⁠Indeed, thou canst not pass this way.

​

⁠I don't mind it at all; the water will do me no harm. ⁠Thou shalt not wet thy feet, my dear child, when a father's arms are here, so able and so happy to carry thee.

Enter Murrey by the mouth of the cave, bearing Violet in his arms, whom he sets down by some loose rocks near the front of the Stage.

⁠Set me down, my dear father; I am heavy. ⁠I could carry thee to the world's end, my own dear girl. O that thou wert again a baby, and mine arms lock'd round thee as of yore! ⁠I remember it, father. ⁠Dost thou, sweet one? Ah, ah! thee in my arms, and she whom I loved by my side, and thy pretty worldless lips cooing to us by turns—an utterance that made all words contemptible! Alas, alas! such days, and many bright succeeding days have been and are gone. The fatal passion of a few short moments has made ​me a homeless outlaw, while reproach, instead of protection, is a father's endowment for thee. ⁠Dear, dear father! do not reproach yourself so harshly. If the world call what you have done by a very dreadful name, it is not a true one: equal fighting, though for a foolish quarrel, deserves not that appellation. ⁠Whatever it may deserve, it will have it, when there is no witness to prove the contrary. Fatheringham alone was present, and he disappeared on the instant. When my trial came, I could not prove that the man I had slain fell in equal combat; nay, was the real aggressor in first attacking me. ⁠It was cowardly and strange,—it was not the act of a friend to disappear and leave you so exposed. ⁠Some evil fate befell him: he was not alive, I am certain, when I was apprehended, else he would have come forward like an honest, manly friend in my justification. The sentence of death ​is upon me; the mark of Cain is on my forehead; I am driven from the fellowship of men. ⁠Say not so; for you have by the accidental death of your servant been, as it were, providentially saved from a fearful end; and being so saved, I must needs believe that some better fortune is in reserve for you. ⁠Ay, poor Donald! I believe he would willingly have died for my sake, and Providence did so dispose of him. I little thought, after my escape from prison, when I had changed apparel with him, how completely our identity was to be confounded. He lies in the grave as James Murrey of Torwood,—in an unhallowed grave, as a murderer. ⁠Were you near him when he fell into the pit? ⁠Dear Violet, thou art bewildered to ask me such a question! When we had changed clothes completely, and I had even forced upon him as a gift, which he well deserved, the gold watch and seals of my family, we parted; and when his body was discovered, many weeks afterwards, the face, as I understand, from the mutilations of bruises and corruption, was no longer ​recognizable. But this is a mournful subject, and it is useless to dwell upon it now. ⁠Very true; let us speak of those things for which there is still cause of thankfulness. The Irish home you have found on the mountains of Wicklow, is it not a pleasant one? ⁠Pleasant to those who look on sky and cliff, on wood and torrent, to rouse and refresh the mind, in the intervals of such retirement as hath a purpose and a limit. To the lonely outcast what scene is pleasant? The meanest man who plies his honest trade in the narrow lane of a city, where passers-by may wish him a good day, or bid God speed him, has a domicile and a home which I think of with envy. ⁠O do not, then, live any longer in this deserted situation! ⁠I know what thou wilt offer, but it must not be. ⁠Why so? Since I have lost my dear mother, and have no farther duties to detain me here, may I not cross the sea with you now, and spend ​some time with you in Wicklow. It will be thought that I am gone to visit our Irish relation. ⁠No, my affectionate child, that may not be. ⁠I should go to our relation first, and nobody should know that I went anywhere else but Dungarren; nor should I even tell it to him without your permission. ⁠Which thou shalt never have. ⁠Why do you utter those words so vehemently? He is honourable and true. ⁠He is thy lover, and thou believest him to be so. ⁠Are you displeased that he is my lover? ⁠Yes, I am displeased, for he will never be thy husband. ⁠O think not so hardly of him! in his heart there is honour even stronger than affection. And if I might but tell him of your being alive—— ​ ⁠Art thou mad? art thou altogether bereft of understanding? Swear to me, on the faith of a Christian woman, that thou wilt never reveal it. ⁠He is incapable of betraying any one, and far less—— ⁠Hold thy tongue! hold thy tongue, simple creature! Every man seems true to the woman whose affections he hath conquered. I know the truth of man and the weakness of woman. Reason not with me on the subject, but solemnly promise to obey me. I should feel myself as one for whom the rope and the gibbet are preparing, should any creature but thyself know of my being alive. ⁠Woe is me! this is misery indeed. ⁠Do not look on me thus with such mingled pity and surprise. Call what I feel an excess of distrust—a disease—a perversion of mind, if thou wilt, but solemnly promise to obey me. ⁠Let my thoughts be what they may, I dare not resist the will of a parent; I solemnly ​promise (looking up to heaven, and then bending her head very low). ⁠I am satisfied, and shall return to my boat, which waits for me on the Clyde, near the mouth of this burn, with a mind assured on so important a point, and assured of thy good conduct and affection. (Looking about, alarmed.) I hear a noise. ⁠'Tis the moving of some owlet or hawk in the refts of the rock over-head. To this retired spot of evil report no human creature ever ventures to come, even at mid-day.

⁠Yes, I remember it used to be called the Warlock's den, and had some old legendary pretensions to the name. But there is a noise. (Looks up to the open part of the cave, and discovers Dungarren above, looking down upon them.)

⁠It is Dungarren; what shall we do? Begone, father? ⁠I must stand to it now; he will be down upon us in an instant: it is too late to avoid him. ​ ⁠No, it is not; he shall not come down. (Calling up to him.) Robert Kennedy, is it thou? ⁠Does the voice of Violet Murrey dare to ask me the question? ⁠Stay where thou art, and come no farther; I dare ask of thee to be secret and to be generous. ⁠Distracting and mysterious creature, I obey thee. (Retires.) ⁠He retires, and we are safe. Let us now separate. (In a low voice.) Farewell, my dear father! you will come and see me again? ⁠I hope next summer to pay thee another and a less hurried visit. Farewell. (Holding her back.) No, no! do not embrace me. ⁠He has retired, and will not look again. ⁠Be not too confident. Farewell, and remember thy solemn promise. My ship will sail for ​Ireland to-morrow morning early, and thou shalt hear from me soon.

⁠[Exit by the way he entered.

⁠If they should meet without, and they may do so!—But that must not be. (Calling in a loud voice.) Dungarren, Dungarren! art thou still within hearing? I cannot speak to thee in so loud a voice; come down to me here.

O Robert Kennedy! look not on me thus! I meant to thank you for your friendly forbearance, but now I have no utterance: I cannot speak to you when you so look upon me.

⁠Silence is best where words were vain and worthless. ⁠You deserve thanks, whether you accept them or not. ​ ⁠To obey the commands of a lady deserves none. ⁠Nay, but it does, and I thank you most gratefully. He who was with me is gone, but—but—— ⁠But will return again, no doubt, when the face of a casual intruder will not interrupt your conference. ⁠O no! he will not return—may never return. Who he is, and where he goes, and how I am bound to him, O how I long to tell thee all, and may not! ⁠What I have seen with mine eyes leaves you nothing to tell which I am concerned to hear. ⁠Be it so, then; since the pride of your heart so far outmates its generosity. ⁠You have put it out of my power to be generous; but you desire me to be secret, and shall be obeyed. Is it your pleasure, madam, that I should conduct you to your home, since he who was with you is gone? ​ ⁠That I accept of a service so offered, shows too well how miserably I am circumstanced. But I do accept it: let me leave this place.

⁠(Goes toward the mouth of the cave.)

⁠Not by the burn, the water is too deep. ⁠I came by it, and there is no other way. ⁠Came by it, and dry-shod too! (Looking at her feet.) He who was with thee must have carried thee in his arms. ⁠Yes, he did so; but now I will walk through the stream: wet feet will do me no injury. ⁠There is another passage through a cleft rock on this side, concealed by the foxglove and fern. ⁠Lead on, then, and I'll follow.

⁠[Exeunt. ​

Enter Nurse with a tankard in her hand, followed presently by Anderson, who calls after her as she is about to disappear by the opposite side.

⁠Nurse, Nurse, I say! Is the woman deaf? ⁠What are ye roaring after me for? Can a body get nae peace or comfort ony time o' the day or night? Neither o' them, by my trouth, bring muckle rest to me. ⁠That may be, but ye'r tankard comforts, that belang, as it wad seem, to baith day and night, maun be stinted at present; for the sheriff and a' his rascally officers frae Paisley are at the yett, and writers beside, Lord preserve us! wi' ink-horns at their buttons and paper in their hands. Gae tell the Leddy quickly, and set ye'r tankard down. ​ ⁠For the sheriff officers to lay their lugs in. Na, na! sma'er browst may serve them; I'll mak' sure o' some o't. [Takes a drink, and exit. ⁠I wonder whaur the laird is: its an unchancy time for him to be out of the gaet. Donald, Donald! Whaur's the laird? He should be here to receive the sheriff. ⁠He's no in the house. ⁠Gang and find him in the fields, then. ⁠He's no in the fields, neither. ⁠Whaur is he, then? ⁠He'll be a clever fellow, I reckon, that finds him on the hither side o' Dumbarton. ⁠How dost tu ken that sa weel? What suld tak him to Dumbarton? ​ ⁠His ain ill humour, I believe, for he returned fra' the fishing wi' his knit brows as grumly as a thunner cloud on the peak o' Benloman, and desired me to saddle his meir: and he took the road to the ferry without speaking anither word; and the last sight I gat o' the meir and him was frae the black craig head, whan they war baith in the boat thegether, halfway over the Clyde. ⁠That's unlucky: I maun gang to the yett and receive the sheriff mysel, as creditably as I can. ⁠Ye may save yoursel that trouble, I trow, for he has made his way into the house already. ⁠We would see the Laird of Dungarren. ⁠He's frae hame, an please your honour. ⁠From home! are you sure of this? we come on no unfriendly errand. ​ ⁠I mak' nae dout o' that, your honour: but he is frae hame, and far a-field, too. ⁠That is unfortunate; for I am here officially to examine the members of his household. His mother, I presume, is at home? ⁠Yes, your honour; the leddy is at hame, and will come to you immediately. ⁠It is said you have been disturbed with strange noises and visitations in this family, and that the young lady is more tormented than ever. What kind of noises have been heard? ⁠O Lord, your honour, sic elrich din! I can compare it to nothing. Sometimes it's like the soughing o' wind; sometimes like the howling o' dogs. ⁠Sometimes like the mewling o' cats; sometimes like the clattering o' broomsticks. ⁠Sometimes like the hooting o' howlets; and sometimes like a black sow grunting. ​ ⁠A black sow grunting! ⁠Ay, please your honour. The grunt of a black sow is as deil-like as its colour: I wad ken 't, in the dark, frae ony white sow that ever wore a snout. ⁠Well, sometimes hooting of owlets, and the grunting of a black sow. ⁠And sometimes like a{{bar|2]} ⁠Spare me, spare me, good folks! I can listen but to one at a time. Good day, and my good service to you, Lady Dungarren. I'm sorry the laird is from home: my visit may perhaps disturb you. ⁠Do not say so, Sheriff; I am at all times glad to see you; but were it otherwise, we are too well accustomed to be disturbed in this miserable house, to think much of any thing. ​ ⁠I am very sorry for it,—very sorry that your daughter continues so afflicted.—(Showing her a paper.) Have you any knowledge of this paper? The information contained in it is the cause of my present intrusion. ⁠I know nothing of the paper itself; but the information it conveys is true. ⁠Have you ever seen the hand-writing before? ⁠No—yes—I think I have. Look at it, Annabella: it is somewhat like your own. ⁠Dear Madam, how can you say so? The l's, and the m's, and the n's are all joined stiffly together, and you know very well that I never join my letters at all. ⁠Very true, cousin; I see there is a great difference now, and I don't know whose hand it is, though doubtless the hand of a friend; for we cannot remain in this misery much longer. It should be examined into, that the guilty may be ​punished, and prevented from destroying my poor child entirely. ⁠Has any person of evil repute been admitted to see her? Who has been in her chamber? ⁠Who has been visibly in her chamber, we can easily tell; but who has been invisibly there, the Lord in heaven knows. ⁠Have they never been visible to the child herself whom they torment? ⁠She has stared, as though she saw them. ⁠She has shrieked, as though they laid hold of her. ⁠She has clenched her hands, as if she had been catching at them, in this way. (Showing how.) ⁠Ay, and moved her lips so (showing how), as if speaking to them. I saw her do it. ⁠And so did I; and I saw her grin, and shake her head so, most piteously. ​ ⁠And I saw her—— ⁠Softly, softly, good women! Three tellers are too many for one tale, and three tales are too many for one pair of ears to take in at a time.—(Turning to the Lady.) Has she ever told you that she saw witches by her bed-side? ⁠Yes; several times she has told me so, in wild and broken words. ⁠Only in that manner. ⁠You forget, Madam, to mention to the Sheriff, that she told us distinctly, a few hours ago, how a witch had been sitting on her breast, as she lay in bed; and that, when she struggled to get rid of her, she rent a piece from the sleeve of her gown. ⁠The witch rent the sleeve from her gown? ⁠No, no, your honour; our poor child rent a piece frae the sleeve o' the witch's gown. ⁠Has the piece been found? ​ ⁠Ay, ay! it has! it has!

⁠Silence, I say!—(To Annabella.) Have the goodness to answer, Madam: has the rag been preserved?

⁠It has, Sir; but it is no rag, I assure you. ⁠As good silk, your honour, as ever came frae the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh. ⁠Are not witches always old and poor? The devil must have helped this one to a new gown, at least; and that is more than we have ever heard of his doing to any of them before. ⁠We have read of witches who have been neither old nor poor. ⁠Ha! is there warrantry, from sober sensible books, for such a notion? I am no great scholar on such points: it may be so.—But here comes the minister: his better learning will assist us. I thank you, my reverend Sir, for obeying my ​notice so quickly. Your cool head will correct our roused imaginations: you believe little, I have heard, of either apparitions or witches. ⁠My faith on such subjects was once, indeed, but weak.

⁠And have you changed it lately?—(A pause for Rutherford to answer, but he is silent.) Since when has your faith become stronger?

⁠Since the storm on Friday night; when Mary Macmurren and a' the crew were on the moor. ⁠Silence, I say again! Can the minister not answer for himself, without your assistance?—You heard my question, Mr. Rutherford: were you upon the moor on that night? ⁠I was. ⁠And saw you aught upon the moor contrary to godliness and nature? ⁠What I saw, I will declare in fitter time and place, if I must needs do so. ​ ⁠Well, well, you are cautious, good Sir; and, perhaps, it is wise to be so.—Lady Dungarren, with your permission, I will go into the sick chamber and examine your daughter myself. ⁠You have my permission most willingly. Follow me immediately, if you please, and ask the poor child what questions you think fit. Mr. Rutherford, do you choose to accompany us? ⁠And he'll gie nae answer at a', even to the Sheriff. ⁠Certes, were he ten times a minister, he should hae tauld what he saw to the Sheriff of the county. ⁠A gentleman born and bred, and the king's appointed officer into the bargain. ⁠And he winna tell' what he saw afore us, forsooth—for that 's what he means by fitter time and place—foul befa' his discretion! He ​wadna believe in witches, I trow; but they hae cowed him weel for 't at last ⁠To be sure, he looket baith ghastly and wan, when the Sheriff speered what he saw upon the moor. ⁠Ay, ay, it was some fearfu' sight, nae doubt. God's grace preserve us a'! the very thought o' what it might be gars my head grow cauld like a turnip. ⁠It was surely something waur than witches dancing that frightened the minister. ⁠As ye say, Donald: either Highlander or Lowlander has wit enough to guess that. I like nane o' your ministers that 'll speak naewhere but in the pu'pit. Fitter time and place, quotha! ⁠Hoot, toot, woman! he has gotten his lear at the college, and he thinks shame to be frightened. ⁠Foul befa' him and his lear too! It maun be o' some new-fangled kind, I think. Our auld minister had lear enough, baith Hebrew and Latin, and he believed in witches and warlocks, honest man, like ony ither sober, godly person. ​ ⁠So he did, Nurse; ye 're a sensible woman, but somewhat o' the loudest, whan ye 're angry. Thae gude folks want some refection, I trow; and there's gude yill and ham in the buttery.—Come, Sirs, follow me. ⁠Whaur can Black Bauldy be a' this while? His smooty face is seldom missing whan ony mischief is ganging on? ⁠What do you want with him? ⁠To send him owre the craft for the new-laid eggs, that the ploughman's wife promised us. ⁠He has been sent further off on another errand already. ⁠And wha sent him, I should like to ken, whan we are a' sae thrang? ⁠My lady sent him. ​⁠Your leddy, say ye! She has grown unco intimate wi' that pawky loon o' late: I wish gude may come o' t. I maun gang for the eggs mysel, I warrant.—But I maun e'en gang first to the chaumer door, and listen a wee; though we'll only hear the hum o' their voices, an our lugs war as gleg as the coley's. ⁠And I'll go with you too: the hum of their voices is worth listening for, if nothing more can be heard.
⁠ [Exeunt.