The Family Legend

Front matter

THE

FAMILY LEGEND:

A TRAGEDY.

To the Reader

TO THE READER.

The following Play is not offered to the Public as it is acted in the Edinburgh Theatre, but is printed from the original copy which I gave to that Theatre. It may suffer, perhaps, from my not having adopted some of the stage abridgments or alterations; but, as, at this distance, it was difficult for me to judge what part of these I could avail myself of with real advantage, my friends have thought it better that I should print it in its primitive state.

The story, from which I have taken the plot, was put into my hands in the year 1805, by the Hon. Mrs Damer, as a legend long preserved in the family of her maternal ancestors, which appeared to her well fitted to produce strong effect on the stage. Upon reading it, I thought so too: it was, besides, a story of my native land; and being at the time in quest of some subject for the drama, I seized upon it eagerly, and was glad to be permit ted to make use of it. As my reader may probably wish to know how far in the following scenes I have strictly adhered to mine authority, I shall, with his leave, relate the substance of the story, a copy of which I have now upon my table.—In the 15th century, a feud had long subsisted between the Lord of Argyll and the Chieftain of Maclean; the latter was totally subdued by the Campbells, and Maclean sued for peace, demanding, at the same time, in marriage, the young and beautiful daughter of Argyll. His request was granted, and the lady carried home to the island of Mull. There she had a son, but the Macleans were hostile to this alliance with the Campbells.—They swore to desert their chief if they were not suffered to put his wife to death, with her infant son, who was then at nurse, that the blood of the Campbells might not succeed to the inheritance of Maclean. Maclean resisted these threats, fearing the power and vengeance of Argyll; but at length fear for his own life, should he refuse the demands of his clan, made him yield to their fury, and he only drew from them a promise that they would not shed her blood. One dark winter night she was forced into a boat, and, regardless of her cries and lamentations, left upon a barren rock, mid-way between the coasts of Mull and Argyll, which, at high-water, is covered with the sea. As she was about to perish, she saw a boat steering its course at some distance; she waved her hand, and uttered a feeble cry. She was now upon the top of the rock, and the water as high as her breast, so that the boatmen mistook her for a large bird. They took her, however, from the rock, and, knowing her to be the daughter of Argyll, carried her to the castle of her father.

The Earl rewarded her deliverers, and desired them to keep the circumstance secret for a time, during which he concealed her till he should hear tidings from Mull. Maclean solemnly announced her death to Argyll, and soon came himself with his friends, all in mourning, to condole with the Earl at his castle. Argyll received him, clad also in black. Maclean was full of lamentations; the Earl appeared very sorrowful; a feast was served with great pomp in the hall; every one took his place, while a seat was left empty on the right hand of Argyll; the door opened, and they beheld the Lady of Maclean enter, superbly dressed, to take her place at the table. Maclean stood for a moment aghast, when, the servants and retainers making a lane for him to pass through the hall to the gate of the castle, the Earl's son, the Lord of Lorne, followed him, and slew him as he fled. His friends were detained as hostages for the child, who had been preserved by the affection of his nurse.—"So far," says my copy of the legend, "the story is authentic, as delivered from age to age in ancient Gaelic songs; and it is likewise a tradition from generation to generation in the family of Argyll. The same authorities also add, that this deserving daughter of Argyll was rewarded for her sufferings by wedding, with her father's consent, an amiable young nobleman who adored her, and was mutually beloved. To this man her father had formerly refused her hand, disposing of her as a bond of union, to unite the warring clans of Argyll and Maclean."

Such is the substance of my story, with no circumstance of the smallest consequence omitted; and my reader will perceive I have deviated from it very slightly. In regard to the characters that people it, I was left, except in two instances, entirely to invention; viz. that of Argyll, who, in keeping secret the return of his daughter, &c. gives one the idea of a cautious and crafty man; and in that of Maclean, who, being said not to have consented at first to give up his wife for fear of the vengeance of his father-in-law, and afterwards to have done so for fear of losing his life, though with a promise drawn from the clan that they should not shed her blood, gives one the idea of a man cowardly and mean, but not savage, a personage as little fitted for the drama as one could well imagine. To make the Chief of Mull, therefore, somewhat interesting and presentable, and yet fit for the purposes of the story, has been the greatest difficulty I have had to contend with: a difficulty, I readily admit, which it required a more skilful hand to overcome. To have made him sacrifice his wife from jealousy, was a common beaten path, which I felt no inclination to enter; and, though it might have been consistent with his conduct in the first part of the story, would not, as I conceive, have been at all so with his conduct in the conclusion of it, when he comes to the castle of Argyll. To have made him rude, unfeeling, and cruel, and excited against her by supposing she was actually plotting his ruin at the instigation of her father, would only have presented us with a hard, bare, unshaded character, which takes no hold of our interest or attention. I have, therefore, imagined him a man of personal courage, brave in the field, but weak and timid in counsel, irresolute and unsteady in action; super , and easily swayed by others, yet anxious to preserve his power as chieftain; attached to his clan, attached to his lady, and of an affectionate and gentle disposition. I have never put him in the course of the play at all in fear of his life. The fear of being deserted by his clan, and losing his dignity as their chief, with the superstitious dread of bringing some terrible calamity upon the Macleans, are represented as the motives for his crime. These qualities, I supposed, might have formed a character, imperfect and reprehensible indeed to a deplorable degree, but neither uninteresting nor detestable. As to his telling a direct lie when the Earl questions him so closely about his wife's death, his whole conduct at the castle of Argyll, coming there in mourning as from a funeral, is an enacted lie; and it would have been very inconsistent with such conduct to have made him, when so hardly beset, hold out against this last act of degradation and unworthiness, which exhibits a lesson to every ingenuous mind more powerful than his death.

This character, however, the design of which I am doing what I can to defend, has not, I fear, been very skilfully executed; for, I understand, it has been pretty generally condemned; and when this is the case, particularly by an audience eminently disposed to be favourable, there must be a fault somewhere, either in design or execution, I must con , I should wish this fault to be found in the last particular rather than the first: not for the sake of the play itself, which suffers equally in either case, but because there is a taste, that too generally prevails, for having all tragic characters drawn very good or very bad, and having the qualities of the superior personages allotted to them according to established heroic rules, by which all manner of cruelty, arrogance, and tyranny are freely allowed, while the slightest mixture of timidity, or any other of the tamer vices, are by no means to be tolerated. It is a taste, indeed, that arises from a nobleness in our nature; but the general prevalence of which would be the bane of all useful and natural delineation of character. For this reason, then, I would fain justify, if I could, the general design of Maclean's character, leaving the execution of it to the mercy of all who may do me the honour to bestow upon it any attention.

Had I not trusted to what Maclean and others, in the course of the play, assert of his personal courage, but brought out some circumstance in the cavern scene, before his spirits were cowed with superstitious dread, that would really have shewn it, his character, perhaps, would have appeared less liable to objection. It was my intention in that scene that he should have been supposed to leave the stage with his mind greatly subdued and bewil , but not yet prevailed upon to give up his wife; leaving the further effects produced upon him by the seer of the Isle, which did prevail on him to take the oath demanded by his vassals, to be imagined by the audience; thinking it unsafe to venture such an exhibition upon the stage, lest it should have a ludicrous effect. But this my intention I must have badly fulfilled, since it has been, I believe, almost entirely overlooked. In the cavern scene, I doubt, I have foolishly bestowed more pains on the vassals than the laird. Some time or other, perhaps, if I am encouraged to do it, I will alter these matters; but then the talents of the first actor must be bestowed on Maclean, not on John of Lorne.

I beg pardon for having detained my reader so long with this character; and, to make amends for it, will not allow myself to say any more, either upon the conduct of the piece, or the other characters that belong to it.

A pleasanter part of my task remains behind; to express the deep and grateful sense I have of the very favourable—I must be permitted to say, affectionate reception this piece, which I have a pleasure in calling my Highland Play, has met with in my native land. It has been received there by an audience, who willingly and cordially felt that I belonged to them; and, I am well assured, had it been marred with more defects than it has, and I readily allow it has many, the favour so warmly bestowed upon it would have been but insensibly diminished. What belongs to me, therefore, is not triumph, but something far better. And could any one at this moment convince me that the work, by its own merit alone, had it come from the hand of a stranger, would have met with the same reception, I should give him little thanks for his pains. He might brighten, indeed, the tints of my imaginary wreath, but he would rob it of all its sweetness. I have truly felt upon this occasion the kindliness of kin to kin, and I would exchange it for no other feeling. Let my country believe, that whatever may hereafter happen to shade or enliven my dramatic path, I have already received from her what will enable me to hold on my way with a cheerful heart, and the recollection of it will ever be dear to me.

I cannot take leave of my reader without begging leave to offer my warmest acknowledgments to my friend Mr Scott, at whose desire, cheered with much friendly encouragement, I offered the Family Legend to the Edinburgh Theatre, and who has done more for its service than I could have done had I been upon the spot myself. They are also due to Mr Mackenzie for the very kind support he has given it; and Mr W. Erskine must permit me to mention my obligations to him for the interest he has taken in its success.

I must likewise beg that Mr Siddons and Mrs H. Siddons will accept my best thanks, for the great and successful exertions they have made in the two first characters in the play. To Mr Siddons I am doubly indebted, both as an able actor, and a diligent and friendly manager, who has taken great pains in adapting and preparing it for the stage.

To Mr Terry, and the other actors, I offer many thanks.

Hampstead, March 19, 1810.

The Family Legend

THE

FAMILY LEGEND:

A TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. | MEN.

Maclean, Chief of the Clan of that name, | Mr Thompson.

The Earl of Argyll, | Mr Terry.

John of Lorne, Son to Argyll, | Mr Siddons.

Sir Hubert de Grey, friend to Lorne, | Mr Putnam.

Benlora. }The Kinsmen and | Mr Archer.

Lochtavish, } chief Vassals of | Mr Mason.

Glenfadden, } Maclean. | Mr Vining.

Morton, | Mr Jones.

Dugald, | Mr Kelly.

Piper, Fishermen, Vassals, &c.

WOMEN.

Helen, Daughter of Argyll, and Wife of Maclean, | Mrs H. Siddons.

Rosa, | Miss Fenwick.

Fisherman's Wife, | Mrs Nicol.

Scene in the Island of Mull, and the opposite Coast, &c. and afterwards in Argyll's Castle.

The Family Legend Act 1

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

'Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; 'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the ear; But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, We list the legends of our native land, Linked as they come with every tender tie, Memorials dear of youth and infancy. Chief thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son; Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Acadia's * winter-fettered soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild-waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot, beneath whose simple porch was told By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, The infant groupe that hush'd their sports the while, And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.

The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again. Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! for She, within whose mighty page Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a daughter's love.

THE

FAMILY LEGEND.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Before the gate of Maclean's castle, in the Isle of Mull: several Highlanders discovered crossing the stage, carrying loads of Fuel; whilst Benlora is seen on one side, in the back Ground, pacing to and fro, and frequently stopping and muttering to himself.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

This heavy load, I hope, will be the last: My back is almost broken.

SECOND HIGHLANDER.

Sure am I,

Were ev’ry beeve in Mull slain for the feast, Fuel enough already has been stow'd To roast them all: and must we still with burdens Our weary shoulders gall?

Enter Morton.

MORTON.

Ye lazy lubbards!

Grumble ye thus?—Ye would prefer, I trow. To sun your easy sides, like household curs, Each on his dung-hill stretch'd, in drowsy sloth. Fy on't! to grumble on a day like this, When to the clan a rousing feast is giv'n, In honour of an heir born to the chief— A brave Maclean, still to maintain the honours Of this your ancient race!

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

A brave Maclean indeed!—vile mongrel hound!

Come from the south, where all strange mixtures be Of base and feeble! sprung of varlet's blood! What is our race to thee?

SECOND HIGHLANDER, (to Morton.)

Thou'lt chew, I doubt not,

Thy morsel in the hall with right good relish. Whether Maclean or Campbell be our lord.

MORTON.

Ungracious surly lubbards! in, I say.

And bring your burdens quicker. And, besides,

Where are the heath and hare-bells, from the glen, To deck my lady's chamber?

SECOND HIGHLANDER.

To deck my lady's chamber!

MORTON.

Heartless hounds!

Is she not kind and gentle? spares she aught Her gen'rous stores afford, when you or yours Are sick, or lack relief? Hoards she in chests, When shipwreck'd strangers shiver on our coast, Or robe or costly mantle?—All comes forth! And when the piercing shriek of drowning mariners Breaks through the night, up-starting from her couch, To snatch, with eager haste, the flaming torch. And from the tower give notice of relief, Who comes so swiftly as her noble self? And yet ye grumble.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Ay, we needs must own,

That, were she not a Campbell, fit she were To be a queen, or e'en the thing she is— Our very chieftain's dame. But, in these towers, The daughter of Argyll to be our lady!

MORTON.

Out! mountain savages! is this your spite?

Go to!

SECOND HIGHLANDER.

Speakst thou to us? thou Lowland loon!

Thou wand'ring pedlar's son, or base mechanic! Com'st thou to lord it here o'er brave Macleans? We'll carry loads at leisure, or forbear, As suits our fancy best, nor wait thy bidding. (Exeunt Highlanders grumbling, and followed by Morton.) (Manet Benlora, who now comes forward, and after remaining some time on the front of the stage, wrapt in thought, not observing Lochtarish, who enters behind him.)

Heigh ho! heigh ho, the day!

LOCHTARISH.

How so? What makes Benlora sigh so deeply?

BENLORA, (turning round.)

And does Lochtarish ask? Full well thou know'st,

The battles of our clan I've boldly fought, And well maintain'd its honour.

LOCHTARISH.

Yes, we know it.

BENLORA.

Who dar'd, unpunish'd, a Maclean to injure?

Yea; he who dared but with a scornful lip Our name insult, I thought it feeble vengeance If steed or beast within his walls were left, Or of his holds one tower unruined stood.

LOCHTARISH.

Ay; who dared then to brave us?

BENLORA.

Thus dealt Benlora e'en with common foes;

But in the warfare of our deadly feud, When rang the earth beneath our bloody strife. And brave Macleans brave Campbells boldly fronted, (Fiends as they are, I still must call them brave,) What sword more deeply drank the hated blood Than this which now I grasp—but idly grasp!

LOCHTARISH.

There's ne'er a man of us that knows it not,

That swears not by thy valour.

BENLORA.

Until that fatal day, by ambush ta'en,

And in a dungeon kept, where, two long years, Nor light of day, nor human voice e'er cheer'd My loneliness, when did I ever yield, To e'en the bravest of that hateful name, One step of ground upon the embattled field— One step of honour in the banner'd hall?

LOCHTARISH.

Indeed thou hast our noble champion been;

Deserving well the trust our chief deceas'd, This chieftain's father, did to thee consign. But when thou wast a captive, none to head us, But he, our youthful lord, yet green in arms, We fought not like Macleans; or else our foe, By fiends assisted, fought with fiend-like power. Far—far beyond the Campbells' wonted pitch. E'en so it did befal:—we lost the day:— That fatal day!—Then came this shameful peace.

BENLORA.

Ay, and this wedding; when, in form of honour

Conferr'd upon us, Helen of Argyll Our sov'reign dame was made,—a bosom worm, Nursed in that viper's nest, to infuse its venom Through all our after race. This is my welcome! From dungeons freed, to find my once-loved home With such vile change disgraced; to me more hateful

Than thraldom's murkiest den. But to be loosen'd From captive's chains to find my hands thus bound!

LOCHTARISH.

It is, indeed, a vile and irksome peace.

BENLORA.

Peace, say they! who will bonds of friendship sign

Between the teeming ocean's finny broods, And say, "Sport these upon the hither waves, And leave to those that farther billowy reach?" A Campbell here to queen it o'er our heads, The potent dame o'er quell'd and beaten men, Rousing or soothing us, as proud Argyll Shall send her secret counsel!—hold, my heart! This, base degen'rate men!—this, call ye peace! Forgive my weakness: with dry eyes I laid My mother in her grave, but now my cheeks Are, like a child's, with scalding drops disgrac'd.

LOCHTARISH.

What I shall look upon, ere in the dust

My weary head be laid to rest, heav'n knows, Since I have lived to see Benlora weep.

BENLORA.

One thing, at least, thou ne'er shalt live to see—

Benlora crouching, where he has commanded.

Go ye, who will, and crowd the chieftain's hall, And deal the feast, and nod your grizzled heads To martial pibrochs, play'd, in better days, To those who conquer'd, not who woo'd their foes; My soul abhors it.—On the sea-beaten rock, Remov'd from ev'ry form and sound of man; In proud communion with the fitful winds Which speak, with many tongues, the fancied words Of those who long in silent dust have slept; While eagles scream, and sullen surges roar— The boding sounds of ill;—I'll hold my feast,— My moody revelry.

LOCHTARISH.

Nay, why so fierce?

Think'st thou we are a tame and mongrel pack? Dogs of true breed we are, though for a time Our master-hound forsakes us.—Rouse him forth The noble chace to lead: his deep-toned yell Full well we know; and for the opening sport Pant keenly.

BENLORA.

Ha! is there amongst you still

Spirit enough for this?

LOCHTARISH.

Yes, when good opportunity shall favour.

Of this, my friend, I'll speak to thee more fully When time shall better serve. Maclean, thou know'st, Is of a soft, unsteady, yielding nature; And this, too well, the crafty Campbell knew, When to our isle he sent this wily witch To mould, and govern, and besot his wits, As suits his crafty ends.—I know the youth: This dame or we must hold his will in thraldom: Which of the two,—But softly: steps approach. Of this again.

BENLORA.

As early as thou wilt.

LOCHTARISH.

Then be it so: some staunch determined spirits

This night in Irka's rocky cavern meet; There must thou join us. Wear thou here the while A brow less cloudy, suited to the times.

Enter Glenfadden.

See, here comes one who wears a merry face ;

Yet, ne'ertheless, a clan's-man staunch he is, Who hates a Campbell, worse than Ilcom's monks The horned fiend.

BENLORA.

Ha! does he so? (Turning graciously to Glenfadden.)

Glenfadden! How goes it with thee?—Joyous days are these— These days of peace.

GLENFADDEN.

These days of foul disgrace!

Com'st thou to cheer the piper in our hall, And goblets quaff to the young chieftain's health, From proud Argyll descended?

BENLORA, (smiling grimly.)

Yes, Glenfadden,

If ye will have it so; not else.

GLENFADDEN.

Thy hand—

Thy noble hand!—thou art Benlora still. (Shaking Benlora warmly by the hand, and then turning to Lochtarish.) Know ye that banish'd Allen is return'd— Allen of Dura?

LOCHTARISH.

No; I knew it not.

But in good time he comes. A daring knave:

He will be useful. (After considering.) Of Maclean we'll crave His banishment to cancel; marking well How he receives it. This will serve to show The present bent and bearing of his mind. (After considering again.) Were it not also well, that to our council He were invited, at a later hour, When of our purpose we shall be assured?

GLENFADDEN.

Methinks it were.

LOCHTARISH.

In, then; now is our time,

BENLORA.

I’ll follow thee, when I a while have paced

Yon lonely path, and thought upon thy counsel. (Exeunt Lochtarish and Glenfadden into the castle, and Benlora by the opposite side.)

SCENE II.—An apartment in the castle.

Enter Morton and Rosa, speaking as they enter.

ROSA.

Speak with my lady privately?

MORTON.

Ay, please you:

Something I have to say, regards her nearly. And though I doubt not, madam, your attachment—

ROSA.

Good Morton, no apology: thy caution

Is prudent; trust me not till thou hast prov'd me. But oh! watch o'er thy lady with an eye Of keen and guarded zeal! she is surrounded— (Looking round the room.) Does no one hear us?—O those baleful looks That, from beneath dark surly brows, by stealth, Are darted on her by those stern Macleans! Ay; and the gestures of those fearful men, As on the shore in savage groups they meet, Sending their loosen'd tartans to the wind, And tossing high their brawny arms where oft, In vehement discourse, I have, of late, At distance mark'd them.—Yes; thou shakest thy head: Thou hast observed them too.

MORTON.

I have observed them oft. That calm Lochtarish,

Calm as he is, the growing rancour fosters: For, fail the offspring of their chief, his sons Next in succession are. He hath his ends,

For which he stirs their ancient hatred up; And all too well his dev'lish pains succeed.

ROSA.

Too well indeed! The very bed-rid crones

To whom my lady sends, with kindly care, Her cheering cordials,—could'st thou have believed it? Do mutter spells to fence from things unholy, And grumble, in a hollow smother'd voice, The name of Campbell, as unwillingly They stretch their wither'd hands to take her bounty. The wizards are in pay to rouse their fears With dismal tales of future ills foreseen, From Campbell and Maclean together join'd, In hateful union.—Ev'n the very children, Sporting the heath among, when they discover A loathsome toad or adder on their path, Crush it with stones, and, grinding wickedly Their teeth, in puny spite, call it a Campbell. Benlora too, that savage gloomy man—

MORTON.

Ay, evil is the day that brings him back.

Unjustly by a Campbell hath he been, The peaceful treaty of the clans unheeded, In thraldom kept; from which but now escaped, He like a furious tyger is enchased,

And thinks Argyll was privy to the wrong His vassal put upon him. Well I know His bloody vengeful nature: and Maclean, Weak and unsteady, moved by ev'ry counsel, Brave in the field, but still in purpose timid, Oft times the instrument in wicked hands Of wrongs he would abhor,—alas, I fear, Will ill defend the lovely spouse he swore To love and cherish.

ROSA.

Heavy steps approach:

Hush! see who comes upon us!—sly Lochtarish, And his dark colleagues.—Wherefore come they hither? (Morton retires to the bottom of the stage, and enter Lochtarish, Benlora, and Glenfadden.)

LOCHTARISH.

We thought, fair maid, to find the chieftain here.

ROSA.

He is in these apartments.

LOCHTARISH.

Would it greatly

Annoy your gentleness to tell his honour, We wait to speak with him upon affairs Of much concernment?

ROSA.

My service is not wanted; to your wish,

See, there he comes unwarn'd, and with him too His noble lady. (Retiring to the bottom of the stage.)

LOCHTARISH.

Ha! there they come! see how he hangs upon her,

With boyish fondness!

GLENFADDEN.

Ah, the goodly creature!

How fair she is! how winning!—See that form; Those limbs beneath their foldy vestments moving, As though in mountain clouds they robed were, And music of the air their motion measur'd.

LOCHTARISH.

Ay, shrewd and crafty earl! 'tis not for nought

Thou hither sent'st this jewel of thy race. A host of Campbells, each a chosen man, Could not enthral us, as, too soon I fear, This single Campbell will. Shrewd crafty foe!

BENLORA.

Hell lend me aid, if heaven deny its grace,

But I will thwart him, crafty though he be!

LOCHTARISH.

But now for your petition: see we now

How he receives your suit.

Enter Maclean and Helen.

BENLORA. (eyeing her attentively as she enters.)

A potent foe it is: ay, by my faith,

A fair and goodly creature!

MACLEAN.

Again, good morrow to you, gallant kinsmen:

Come ye to say I can with any favour The right good liking prove, and high regard I bear to you, who are my chiefest strength,— The pillars of my clan?

BENLORA.

Yes, we are come, Maclean, a boon to beg.

LOCHTARISH.

A boon that, granted, will yourself enrich.

MACLEAN.

Myself enrich?

LOCHTARISH.

Yes; thereby wilt thou be

One gallant man the richer. Hear us out. Allen of Dura, from his banishment2

MACLEAN.

False reaver! name him not.—Is he return'd?

Dares he again set foot upon this isle?

BENLORA.

Yes, chief; upon this isle set foot he hath:

And on nor isle nor main-land doth there step A braver man than he.2Lady, forgive me: The boldest Campbell never saw his back.

HELEN.

Nay, good Benlora, ask not my forgiveness:

I love to hear thee praise, with honest warmth, The valiant of thy name, which now is mine.

BENLORA, (aside).

Ha! good Benlora!—this is queenly pride.

(Aloud.) Madam, you honour us.

HELEN.

If so, small thanks be to my courtesy,

Sharing myself with pride the honest fame Of every brave Maclean.2I'll henceforth keep A proud account of all my gallant friends: And every valiant Campbell therein noted, On the opposing leaf, in letters fair,