Sir Alex.—­’Tis of my sons!—­what! what of them, Lord Percy?  What of them?

Percy.—­Yes, ’tis of your sons I’d speak!—­ They live—­they’re well!—­can you be calm to hear me?  I would speak of your sons.

Sir Alex.—­I feel!—­I feel!  I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!—­ Go, thrust thy head into a lion’s den, Murder its whelps, and say to it, Be calm!  Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart!  ’Twas kindly said!—­kind! kind! to say, Be calm!  I’m calm, Lord Percy! what—­what of my sons?

Percy.—­If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked—­ Choked with my shame and loathing—­I will tell thee!  But each particular word of this black mission Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth.

Sir Alex.—­Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst; My ears can hear—­my heart can hold no more!

Enter LADY SETON.

Percy.—­Hear them in as few words as I can tell it:  Edward hath sworn, and he will keep his vow, That if to-day ye yield not up the town, Become his prisoners, break your faith with Scotland, Ye with the morning dawn shall see your sons Hung up before your windows.  He hath sworn it; And, by my earldom—­faith as a Christian—­ Honour as a peer—­he will perform it!

Lady Seton [aside].—­Ruler of earth and heaven! a mother begs Thy counsel—­Thy protection!  Say I mother!  No voice again shall call me by that name—­ Both! both my boys!

Sir Alex.—­Ha! my Matilda!  Thou here!  Dry up thy tears, my love! dry up thy tears!  I cannot sacrifice both sons and mother!  Alas, my country!  I must sell thee dearly!  My faith—­mine honour too!—­take—­take them, Percy!  I am a father, and my sons shall live!—­ Shall live! and I shall die! [Unsheathing his sword.

Lady Seton.—­Hold! hold, my husband—­save thy life and honour!  Thou art a father—­am not I a mother?  Knowest thou the measure of a mother’s love?  Think ye she yearns not for her own heart’s blood?  Yet I will live! and thou shalt live, my husband!  We will not rob this Edward of his shame; Write—­I will dictate as my sons had done it—­ I know their nature, for ’twas I who gave it.

Sir Alex.—­Thou wait’st an answer, Percy—­I will give it. [Sits down to write.

No; I cannot, Matilda.

Lady Seton.—­Write thus:  “Edward may break his faith, but Seton cannot!  Edward may earn disgrace, but Seton honour!  His sons are in your power!  Do! do as ye list!”

[He starts up in agitation.

Sir Alex.—­No, no! it cannot be—­say not my sons!  Lord Percy, let your tyrant take my life!  Torture me inchmeal!—­to the last I’ll smile, And bless him for his mercy!—­but spare, oh spare my children!