[He leaps into the boat and pushes off.

SCENE IX.—­The English camp.  A fire in the distance. 
Enter HENRY and RICHARD, fettered and guarded.

Henry.—­Would it were morning, and the hour were come.  For still my heart misgives me, lest our parents Do, in fond weakness, save us by dishonour!

Richard.—­Rather than purchase life at such a price,
And have my father sell his faith for me,
And sell his country, I would rather thou,
My brother in my birth and in my death,
Should be my executioner!  We know them better!

Henry.—­Now I seem old and weary of this life, So joy I in our death for Scotland’s sake; For this death will so wed us to our country, We shall be old in years to all posterity!  And it will place a blot on Edward’s name, That time may blacken, but can ne’er efface.

Richard.—­My heart, too, beats as light as if tomorrow Had been, by young love, destined for my bridal; Yet oft a tear comes stealing down my cheek, When I do think me of our mother, Henry!

Henry.—­Oh speak not of our parents! or my heart Will burst ere morning, and from the tyrant rob His well-earned infamy.

Richard.—­Oh!  I must speak of them:  They now will wander weeping in their chamber, Or from their window through the darkness gaze, And stretch their hands and sigh towards the camp; Then, when the red east breaks the night away—­ Ah! what a sight will meet their eyes, my brother!

Henry.—­My brother! oh my brother!

Enter FRIAR.

Guard.—­Who would pass here?

Friar.—­A friend! a friend!—­a messenger of mercy!

Guard.—­Nay, wert thou mercy’s self, you cannot pass.

Friar.—­Refuse ye, then, your prisoners their confessor?

Guard.—­Approach not, or ye die!

Friar.—­Would ye stretch forth your hand ’gainst Heaven’s anointed?

Guard.—­Ay! ’gainst the Pope himself, if he should thwart me.

Friar.—­Mercy ye have not, neither shall ye find it.

[Springs forward and stabs him—­approaches RICHARD and HENRY, and unbinds their fetters.

Friar.—­In chains as criminals!  Ye are free, but speak not.

Richard.—­Here, holy father, let me kneel to thank thee.

Henry.—­And let me hear but my deliverer’s name, That my first prayer may waft it to the skies.

Friar.—­Kneel not, nor thank me here.  There’s need of neither; But be ye silent, for the ground has ears; Nor let it hear your footsteps.

[He approaches the fire; kindles a torch and fires the camp.

Henry.—­Behold, my brother, he has fired the camp!  Already see the flames ascend around him.

Friar.—­Now! now, my country! here thou art avenged!  Fly with me to the beach! pursuit is vain!  Thou, Heaven, hast heard me! thou art merciful! [Exit.