That you too should subscribe your name. [MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT-then writes -examines the letter eagerly. Mar. I cannot leave this paper.

[He puts it up, agitated. Osw. (aside). Dastard! Come. [MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT and supports him--MARMADUKE tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place. Mar. (as he quits HERBERT). There is a palsy

in his limbs-he shakes. [Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT-MARMADUKE following.

SCENE changes to a Wood-a Group of Pilgrims, and IDONEA with them.

First Pil. A grove of darker and more lofty shade

I never saw.

Sec. Pil. The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. Old Pil. This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.

Idon. I scarcely can believe it.

Myself, I heard

Old Pil. The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady,

Filled my dim eyes with tears.-When I returned

From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort,

I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast:
He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but grieved
He was that One so young should pass his youth
In such sad service; and he parted with him.
We joined our tales of wretchedness together,
And begged our daily bread from door to door.
I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady!
For once you loved me.
Idon.
You shall back with me
And see your Friend again. The good old Man
Will be rejoiced to greet you.
It seems but yesterday
That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with

Old Pil.

travel,

In a deep wood remote from any town.
A cave that opened to the road presented
A friendly shelter, and we entered in.
Idon. And I was with you?

Old Pil.
If indeed 'twas you-
But you were then a tottering Little-one-
We sate us down. The sky grew dark and
darker:

I struck my flint, and built up a small fire
With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the
winds

of many autumns in the cave had piled.
Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods:
Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth
And we were comforted, and talked of comfort;
But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads
The thunder rolled in peals that would have

made

A sleeping man uneasy in his bed.

Lady, you have need to love your Father.
His voice-methinks I hear it now, his voice
When, after a broad flash that filled the cave,
He said to me, that he had seen his Child,
A face (no cherub's face more beautiful)
Revealed by lustre brought with it from
Heaven;

And it was you, dear Lady!
Idon.

God be praised,
That I have been his comforter till now!
And will be so through every change of fortune
And every sacrifice his peace requires.-
Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear
These joyful tidings from no lips but mine.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.

SCENE, the Area of a half-ruined Castle-on one side the entrance to a dungeon-OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and forwards.

I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman,
Who at full speed swept by us where the wood
Roared in the tempest, was within an ace
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge:
That would have been a vile mischance.
Mar.
It would.
Osw. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.
Mar. Most cruelly.
Osz.
As up the steep we clomb,
I saw a distant fire in the north-east;
I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon :
With proper speed our quarters may be gained
To-morrow evening.

[Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.

Mar.

When, upon the plank,

I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice blessed me:

You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks
With deafening noise,-the benediction fell
Back on himself; but changed into a curse.
Osw. As well indeed it might.
Mar.

The fittest place?

Osw. (aside).

And this you deem He is growing pitiful.

Mar. (listening). What an odd moaning that is !

Osw.

Mighty odd

The wind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in this way!-I'll begin And count the stars.

Mar. (still listening). That dog of his, you

I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us; further I'll not engage; Come, come, for manhood's sake!

Mar.

These drowsy shiverings,
This mortal stupor which is creeping over me,
What do they mean? were this my single body
Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble:
Why do I tremble now?-Is not the depth
Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of
thought?

And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment,
Something I strike upon which turns my mind
Back on herself, I think, again-my breast
Concentres all the terrors of the Universe:
look at him and tremble like a child.
Osw. Is it possible?
Mar.

One thing you noticed not:
Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder
Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force.
This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder;
But there's a Providence for them who walk
In helplessness, when innocence is with them.
At this audacious blasphemy, I thought
The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air.
Os. Why are you not the man you were
that moment?

He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon. Mar. You say he was asleep,-look at this

arm,

And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work.

Oswald, Oswald ! [Leans upon Oswald.
Osw.
This is some sudden seizure!
Mar. A most strange faintness,-will you
hunt me out

A draught of water?
Osw.
Nay, to see you thus
Moves me beyond my bearing. I will try
To gain the torrent's brink. [Exit OSWALD.
Mar. (after a pause). It seems an age
Since that Man left me.--No, I am not lost.
Her. (at the mouth of the dungeon). Give me
your hand; where are you, Friends?
and tell me
How goes the night.

Mar.

'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place. Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend Os

wald.

Mar. A minute past, he went to fetch a draught

Of water from the torrent. "Tis, you'll say,
A cheerless beverage.

Her.
How good it was in you
To stay behind!-Hearing at first no answer,
I was alarmed.
Mar.
No wonder; this is a place
That well may put some fears into your heart.
Her. Why so? a roofless rock had been a
comfort,

Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were;
And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks
To make a bed for me!-My Girl will weep
When she is told of it.

Mar.

Is very dear to you. Her.

This Daughter of yours

Oh! but you are young: Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child.

Mar. Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.

Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blest with such a daughter!When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast-but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly.

Mar. Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on. Her. You will forgive me, but my heart runs

Mar. Yes.

Her. More than ever Parent loved a Child?
Mar. Yes, yes.
Her.

I will not murmur, merciful God! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice,

And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively
Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith.
Enter OSWALD.

Osw. Herbert confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn. A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night.

Her. Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice.

Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless: and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate.

(To MARMADUKE aside). He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained? But soft!-how came he forth? The Nightmare Conscience

Has driven him out of harbour?
Mar.

You have guessed right.

Her.

I believe

The trees renew their murmur: Come, let us house together.

[OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon. Osw. (returns). Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature,

Mar.

Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour
Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature
Whom he to more than filial love and duty
Hath falsely trained - shall he fulfil his purpose?
But you are fallen.
Fallen should I be indeed-
Murder-perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone,
Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow-
Away! away!-
[Flings away his sword.
Osw.
Nay, I have done with you:
We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live,
And she shall love him. With unquestioned title
He shall be seated in his Barony,
And we too chant the praise of his good deeds.
I now perceive we do mistake our masters,
And most despise the men who best can teach us:,
Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only
Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man
Is brave.

[Taking MARMADUKE's sword and giving it to

Osw.

him.

To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim-haply to this desolate house. Mar. (advancing to the dungeon). It must be ended!Softly; do not rouse him; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. [MARMADUKE descends to the dungeon. (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy

'Twas this that put it in my thoughts-that

countenance

His staff-his figure-Murder!-what, of
whom?

We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women
Sigh at the deed? Hew down a wither'd tree,
And none look grave but dotards. He may live
To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches,
Highways of dreaming passion, have too long,
Young as he is, diverted wish and hope
From the unpretending ground we mortals
tread ;-

Then shatter the delusion, break it up

And set him free. What follows? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world

Do never dream of. I have been what heThis Boy-when he comes forth with bloody hands

Might envy, and am now,- but he shall know What I am now

[Goes and listens at the dungeon. Praying or parleying?-tut! Is he not eyeless? He has been half dead These fifteen years—

Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.

(Turning abruptly. "Ha! speak-what Thing art thou? (Recognises her). Heavens! my good friend! [To her. Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir!Osw. (to her companions). Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves [They retire affrighted. Beg. Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge

sometimes

In this deserted Castle-I repent me.

[OSWALD goes to the dungeon-listensreturns to the Beggar.

Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infantkeep

Thy secret for its sake, or verily
That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit.
Beg. I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse
Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money,
sir-

Osw. Begone▸ Beg. (going).

There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside. Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. [Exit Beggar. MARMADUKE re-enters from the dungeon. Osw. It is all over then-your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is.

Mar. Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place! Osw. Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom.

Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached

the Spot,

When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it. Osw. But after that?

He who will gain his Seignory when I donea
Hath become Clifford's harlot is he living?

Mar. The old Man in that dungeon is alive. Osw. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it.

You a protector of humanity!
Avenger you of outraged innocence!

Mar. 'Twas dark-dark as the grave; yet did I see,

Saw him his face turned toward me; and I tell thee

Idonea's filial countenance was there
To baffle me-it put me to my prayers.
Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice,
Beheld a star twinkling above my head,
And, by the living God, I could not do it.

turn do more

[Sinks exhausted. W ant Osw. (to himself). Now may I perish if this he'> Than make me change my course. (To MARMADUKE.) Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken: I recal them: I feel my error; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing. Mar. Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt. Osw. Been most presumptuous. this,

We have indeed There is guilt in

Else could so strong a mind have ever known
These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven
Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose
crimes

Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat,
Or be chastised by mortal instruments.
Mar. A thought that's worth a thousand
worlds! [Goes towards the dungeon.
Osw.
I grieve
That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much
pain.

Mar. Think not of that! 'tis over-we are safe.

OST. (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud). The truth is hideous, but how stifle it? [Turning to MARMADUKE. Give me your sword-nay, here are stones and fragments,

The least of which would beat out a man's brains:

Or you might drive your head against that wall.
No! this is not the place to hear the tale:
It should be told you pinioned in your bed,
Or on some vast and solitary plain