I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.
Wil. May He whose eye is over all protect
you!
[Exit.
Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand).
Osw. This wood is rich in plants and curious
simples.

Mar. (looking at them). The wild rose, and
the poppy, and the nightshade:
Which is your favourite, Oswald?

Osw. That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal[Looking forward. Not yet in sight!-We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. Mar. (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald: 'Tis a strange letter this!-You saw her write it? Osw. And saw the tears with which she blotted it.

you

Mar. And nothing less would satisfy him?
Osw.
No less;

For that another in his Child's affection
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery,
He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
Which you've collected for the noblest ends,
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
To guard the Innocent-he calls us "Outlaws;"
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
This garb was taken up that indolence
Might want no cover, and rapacity
Be better fed.

To end her wrongs.
Osw.

Should yet be true?
Mar.

This day will suffice

But if the blind Man's tale

Would it were possible!
Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself,
And others who survived the wreck, beheld
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
Upon the coast of Cyprus?

Osw.
Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;

shape!

I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods-
A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited
strength,

Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily,

Father,

That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling 't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength :-come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There-indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank.
[He sits down.
Her. after some time). Idonea, you are
silent,
And I divine the cause.
Idon.

Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,

We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 'tis The name of Marmaduke is blown away:

And look upon the pleasant face of Nature-
Her. I comprehend thee-I should be as
cheerful

As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
Idon.

Is he not valiant?
Her.

Is he not strong?

Am I then so soon
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed-
This Marmaduke-

Idon.

O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him

with you)

All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
A deep and simple meckness: and that Soul,
Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,

Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,

By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.
Her. Unhappy woman!

Idon.
Nay, it was my duty
Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-
Dear Father! how could I forget and live--
You and the story of that doleful night
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,
You rushed into the murderous flames, returned
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,
Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.
Her. Thy Mother too!-scarce had I gained
the door,

Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed;
Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,
Traitor to both.

Idon.

Oh, could you hear his voice!
I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.
Enter a Peasant.

Pea. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want
a Guide,

Let me have leave to serve you!

Idon.
My Companion
Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel
Would be most welcome.

Pea.
Yon white hawthorn gained,
You will look down into a dell, and there
Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs ;
You seem worn out with travel-shall I support
Old Man,
The house is hidden by the shade.

you?

For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
He tempted me to think the Story true;
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her

After his death.
Mar.
I have been much deceived.
Osw. But sure he loves the Maiden, ard
never love

I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
I felt thy infant brother in her arms;
She saw my blasted face-a tide of soldiers
That instant rushed between us, and I heard Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thou-Thus to torment her with inventions!-death-
sand.
There must be truth in this.
Mar.
Truth in his story!
He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.

Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.

Her. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that
time-

For my old age, it doth remain with thee
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been
told,

That when, on our return from Palestine,
I found how my domains had been usurped,
I took thee in my arms, and we began
Our wanderings together. Providence
At length conducted us to Rossland, -there,
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger
To take thee to her home-and for myself,
Soon after, the good Abbot of St Cuthbert's
Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot
Where now we dwell.-For many years I bore
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities
Exacted thy return, and our reunion.

I did not think that, during that long absence,
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,

Osw.
Strange pleasures
Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
To see him thus provoke her tenderness
With tales of weakness and infirmity!
I'd wager on his life for twenty years.
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a

cause.

Osw. Why, this is noble! shake her off at

once.

Mar. Her virtues are his instruments.-A

Man

Who has so practised on the world's cold sense
May well deceive his Child-what! leave her
thus,

A prey to a deceiver?-no-no-no-
'Tis but a word and then-
Osw.
Something is here
More than we see, or whence this strong aver-
sion?

Osw.

What cannot be?

Yet that a Father
Should in his love admit no rivalship,
And torture thus the heart of his own Child-
Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship!
Osw.
Heaven forbid!
There was a circumstance, trifling indeed-
It struck me at the time-yet I believe
I never should have thought of it again
But for the scene which we by chance have
witnessed.

Mar. What is your meaning?
Osw.

Two days gone I saw,
Though at a distance and he was disguised,
Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose

figure

Resembled much that cold voluptuary,

When these old limbs had need of rest,--and

now

I will not play the sluggard.
Idon.

Nay, sit down.
[Turning to Host.
Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
Let this old Man find at your hands; poor
Leader,
[Looking at the dog.
We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!-Look,
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.

Host. Fear not, will obey you;--but One

so young,

And One so fair, it goes against my heart
That you should travel unattended, Lady!-
I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?)
And for less fee than I would let him run
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too long

your guard

Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
Why, ifa wolf should leap from out a thicket,
A look of mine would send him scouring back,
Unless I differ from the thing I am
When you are by my side.

Her.
Idonea, wolves
Are not the enemies that move my fears.
Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three days
at farthest

Will bring me back-protect him, Saints-fare-
well!
[Exit IDONEA.
Host. 'Tis never drought with us-St Cuth-
bert and his Pilgrims,

The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:

knows

Not used to rash conjectures-
Osw.

If you deem it
A thing worth further notice, we must act
With caution, sift the matter artfully.

[Exunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.
SCENE, the door of the Hostel.
HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host.
Her. (seated). As I am dear to you, remem-
ber, Child!
This last request.
Idon.
You know me, Sire; farewell!
Her. And are you going then? Come, come,
Idonea,

We must not part,- I have measured many a
league

Pity the Maiden did not wait a while;
She could not, Sir, have failed of company.
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her

Be at peace. The tie
Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand
times !--

That noise! would I had gone with her as far
As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed

WorM