Edward.—­How fares it with the son, our silent prisoner?

Percy.—­Poor soul, he leans his head against the wall, And stands with his arms thus—­across his breast—­ Pale as a gravestone, gnashing at his teeth, And looking on his guards just as his mother would!

Edward.—­’Tis now the hour that Elliot has proposed To stir the townsmen up to mutiny.  Take our conditions, and whatever you please; Get but the son as hostage!—­get but that!  And both shall die a thief’s death if he yield not; He is a father, Percy—­he’s a father!  The town is ours, and at an easy purchase. [Exit

Percy.—­And she’s a mother, Edward! she’s a mother!  Ay! and a mother; I will pledge my earldom, And be but plain Hal Percy all my life, If she despise not gallows, death, and children, And earn for thee a crown of shame, my master!  In sooth, I am ashamed to draw my sword, Lest I should see my face in its bright blade; For sure my mother would not know her son, As he goes blushing on his hangman’s errand.

SCENE VI.—­A Street—­the Market-place.

Enter_ ELLIOT and Populace.

Elliot—­You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious governor Did talk to us of honour—! you all heard him!  Can any of you tell us what is honour?  He drinks his wine, he feeds on beeves and capons; His table groans beneath a load of meats; His hounds, his hawks, are fed like Christian men! He sleeps in a downy couch, o’erhung with purple; And these, all these are honourable doings!  He talks of liberty!  Is it, then, liberty to be cooped up Within these prison walls, to starve from want, That we may have the liberty—­mark it, my friends!—­ The wondrous liberty to call him Governor?  Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had, You’d to the castle, take the keys by force, And ope the gates to let your children live.  Here comes your provost—­now appeal to him.

Enter PROVOST RAMSAY.—­The people demand bread.

Provost Ramsay.—­Gie you food!—­your bairns dee wi’ hunger!—­and ye maun hae bread!  It is easy saying, Gie ye! but where am I to get it?  Do you think there’s naebody finds the grund o’ their stamachs but yersels?  I’m sure I hae been blind fastin’ these four-and-twenty hours!  But wad ye no suffer this, and ten times mair for liberty, and for the glory and honour of auld Scotland?

Elliot [to the people].—­He, too, can cant of liberty and honour!

Provost Ramsay.—­I say, Mr. Hypocrite! it is my fixed and solemn opinion that ye are at the bottom o’ this murmuring.  I ken ye’re never at a loss for an answer; and there is anither wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up.  Do ye mind what a fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week, about getting ower the bed—­and your wife’s bosom being torn