_A Room in the Governor’s House._

LADY SETON (_sola_.)

I dread the blow is struck! O Heaven forfend! The stroke be not too heavy for my lord, Whose feelings are acute, since it may urge him Over the fatal precipice of death; I’m wondrously supported at this time— Heaven sends afflictions, but it also sends A supernatural strength to bear them out.

_Enter_ MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

O that the night had never grown to day When I was born, to be the messenger Of such sad tidings!

LADY SETON.

Well, then, speak them out! Since what has happen’d cannot be undone.

MESSENGER.

Lady, your son has yielded his fair life, Innocent as the flower hid in the bud.

LADY SETON.

Was there no spark of feeling in their breasts? Were they not men cast in a fleshly mould, That thus they did outrage both God and man?

MESSENGER.

The men-at-arms look’d grim, and many hearts Felt warm beneath the icy steel that braced them; And married men shed tears. Perhaps the youths Reminded them of home, and of their young ones By Ouse’s side. I can no more, good lady. [_Exit_ MESSENGER.

LADY SETON.

Monster! for once revenge shall be a virtue! My son has died to win immortal fame, To bloom like laurel on the shield of Cheyne, And be a stain for aye on Edward’s chaplet. Sound the war-slogan now—“Set-on,” to the siege, Let the red crest spit fire—Revenge, revenge! [_Exit_ LADY SETON.