The Borderers

A Tragedy.

Composed 1795-6.—Published 1842

The Play

Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines^A, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy. February 28, 1842^B. This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of 'The Borderers' was composed^C. Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's History of the Borders, but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of Remorse; and it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently motiveless actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.—I. F.

The Play

Dramatis Personæ:

Marmaduke...

Oswald...

Wallace... ...all of the Band of Borderers

Lacy...

Lennox...

Herbert...

Wilfred Servant To Marmaduke

Host

Forester

Eldred A Peasant

Idonea

Female Beggar

Eleanor Wife To Eldred

Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

Scene: Borders of England and Scotland Time: The Reign of Henry III.

Act I

Scene: Road in a Wood

.

Wallace and Lacy..

.

Lacy The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. —-Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service.

Wallace Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.

Lacy True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain.

Wallace I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him—then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine?

Lacy Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled.

Exeunt

Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred

Wilfred Be cautious, my dear Master!

Marmaduke I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm.

Wilfred Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is—

Marmaduke Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?

Wilfred You know that you have saved his life.

Marmaduke I know it.

Wilfred And that he hates you!—Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty.

Marmaduke Fy! no more of it.

Wilfred Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him.

Marmaduke I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest.

Wilfred Oh, Sir!

Marmaduke Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.

Wilfred May He whose eye is over all protect you!

Exir

Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand)

Oswald This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.

Marmaduke (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald?

Oswald 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.

Marmaduke (a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it?

Oswald And saw the tears with which she blotted it.

Marmaduke And nothing less would satisfy him?

Oswald 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.

Marmaduke Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.

Oswald Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed.

Marmaduke This day will suffice To end her wrongs.

Oswald But if the blind Man's tale Should yet be true?

Marmaduke 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?

Oswald 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; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor—

Marmaduke Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken.

Oswald See, they come, Two Travellers!

Marmaduke (points) The woman¹ is Idonea.

Oswald And leading Herbert.

Marmaduke We must let them pass— This thicket will conceal us.

[They step aside.]

[Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind.]

Idonea Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled.

Herbert Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine.

Idonea That dismal Moor— In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic 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.]

Herbert (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

Idonea 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, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give.

Herbert Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate—my grave, And thee, my Child!

Idonea Believe me, honoured Sire! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature—

Herbert 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?

Idonea Is he not strong? Is he not valiant?

Herbert 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—

Idonea 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 meekness: 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.

Herbert Unhappy Woman!

Idonea 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.

Herbert Thy Mother too!—scarce had I gained the door, 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 Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.

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

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

Idonea 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]

Peasant Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you!

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

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

Herbert I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you.

Peasant God speed you both.

[Exit Peasant.]

Herbert Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed— 'Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me.

Idonea That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

[Exit Herbert supported by Idonea.]

[Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald]

Marmaduke This instant will we stop him—

Oswald Be not hasty, 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.

Marmaduke I have been much deceived.

Oswald But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions!—death— There must be truth in this.

Marmaduke 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.

Oswald 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.

Marmaduke We will not waste an hour in such a cause.

Oswald Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.

Marmaduke 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—

Oswald Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear—you have had enemies.

Marmaduke Enemies!—of his own coinage.

Oswald That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.— I am perplexed.

Marmaduke No—no—the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear;—for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be—

Oswald What cannot be?

Marmaduke Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child—

Oswald 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.

Marmaduke What is your meaning?

Oswald 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, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest.

Marmaduke Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door— It could not be.

Oswald And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me.

Marmaduke No—it cannot be— I dare not trust myself with such a thought— Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures—

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

[Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald.]

Scene—The door of the Hostel

Herbert, Idonea, and Host

Herbert (seated) As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request.

Idonea You know me, Sire; farewell!

Herbert And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part,—I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest,—and now I will not play the sluggard.

Idonea 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, I 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.

Idonea You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a 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.

Herbert Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears.

Idonea No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back—protect him, Saints—farewell!

[Exit Idonea.]

Host 'Tis never drought with us—St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; She could not, Sir, have failed of company.

Herbert Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.

Host (calling) Holla!

Herbert No, no, the business must be done.— What means this riotous noise?

Host The villagers Are flocking in—a wedding festival— That's all—God save you, Sir.

[Enter Oswald]

Oswald Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert.

Host Mercy, the Baron Herbert!

Oswald So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you?

Herbert Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir?

Oswald I do not see Idonea.

Herbert Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither?

Oswald A slight affair, That will be soon despatched.

Herbert Did Marmaduke Receive that letter?

Oswald Be at peace.—The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him.

Herbert 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 Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King;—the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter—he's a dangerous Man.—That noise!— 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me,—the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back.

Oswald You are most lucky; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion—here he comes; our journey [Enter Marmaduke] Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.

Herbert Alas! I creep so slowly.

Oswald Never fear; We'll not complain of that.

Herbert My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour?

Oswald Most willingly!—Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.

[Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit Marmaduke.] [Enter Villagers]

Oswald (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) I have prepared a most apt Instrument— The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires.

[Exit Oswald.] [Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them]

Host (to them) Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish.

Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—

[

Marmaduke and Oswald entering]

Marmaduke I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how.

Oswald To-day will clear up all.—You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work: She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one— She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep— Ah²! what is here?

[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep— a Child in her arms.]

Beggar O Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.—My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die.

Marmaduke We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.]

Beggar The Saints reward you For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream.

Oswald When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover.

Beggar Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary-worn.—You gentlefolk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am.—But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me—wind and rain Beat hard upon my head—and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven.— You must forgive me.

Oswald Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint—no matter—this good day Has made amends.

Beggar Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust.

Marmaduke This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes?

Beggar Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one—it cuts me to the heart— Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face— But you, Sir, should be kinder.

Marmaduke Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!

Beggar Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now—but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better!—Charity! If you can melt a rock, he is your man; But I'll be even with him—here again Have I been waiting for him.

Oswald Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you?

Beggar Mark you me; I'll point him out;—a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit.

Marmaduke As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other!

Beggar 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age—yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven.

Oswald But why so violent Against this venerable Man?

Beggar I'll tell you: He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.

Marmaduke But to your story.

Beggar I was saying, Sir— Well!—he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all;—at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I—I'll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.

Oswald I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door.

Beggar Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there.

Oswald I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry.

Beggar Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.—Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now.—That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half.

Oswald What's this?—I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent.

Beggar And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress.

Oswald How say you? in disguise?—

Marmaduke But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter?

Beggar Daughter! truly— But how's the day?—I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go.]

Marmaduke I must have more of this;—you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert?

Beggar You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir!

Marmaduke No trifling, Woman!—

Oswald You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak.

Marmaduke Speak!

Beggar He is a most hard-hearted Man.

Marmaduke Your life is at my mercy.

Beggar Do not harm me, And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor.

Oswald Speak out.

Beggar Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.

Oswald Nay, but speak out!

Beggar He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child.

Marmaduke Parted with whom³?

Beggar Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine.

Marmaduke Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?

Beggar Wife, Sir! his wife—not I; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald—many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! He has been two years in his grave.

Marmaduke Enough.

Oswald We've solved the riddle—Miscreant!

Marmaduke Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice.

Oswald A lucky woman!—go, you have done good service.[Aside.]

Marmaduke (to himself) Eternal praises on the power that saved her!—

Oswald (gives her money) Here's for your little boy—and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather.

Beggar O Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me.—These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for you— God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters.

[Exit Beggar.]

Marmaduke (to himself) The cruel Viper!—Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee.

Oswald I am thunderstruck.

Marmaduke Where is she—holla! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] You are Idonea's Mother?— Nay, be not terrified—it does me good To look upon you.

Oswald (interrupting) In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it?

Beggar Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more.

Oswald Lord Clifford?

Beggar What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.

Oswald Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert?

Beggar Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak At Herbert's door—and when he stood beside The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it.

Oswald Enough! you may depart.

Marmaduke (to himself) Father!—to God himself we cannot give A holier name; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!— Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries— Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin.

Act II

Scene—A Chamber in the Hostel. Oswald alone, rising from a Table on which he had been writing.

Oswald They chose him for their Chief!—what covert part He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred; both are flown; That either e'er existed is my shame: 'Twas a dull spark—a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. —These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of the north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, They think it is to feed them. I have left him To solitary meditation;—now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, And he is mine for ever—here he comes.

[Enter Marmaduke.]

Marmaduke These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks!

Oswald Who is it?

Marmaduke I have seen her.

Oswald Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness.

Marmaduke I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls.

Oswald I too have seen her; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard: The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, Her lips for ever moving.

Marmaduke At her door Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea.

Oswald But the pretended Father—

Marmaduke Earthly law Measures not crimes like his.

Oswald We rank not, happily, With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence; she loves him.

Marmaduke Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold.

Oswald 'Tis most perplexing: What must be done?

Marmaduke We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it—from first to last He shall reveal himself.

Oswald Happy are we, Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph.

Marmaduke Let us begone and bring her hither;—here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me.

Oswald You will be firm: but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause, Caution must not be flung aside; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Upon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a Band Of fierce barbarians into Ministers Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Your generous qualities have won due praise, But vigorous Spirits look for something more Than Youth's spontaneous products; and to-day You will not disappoint them; and hereafter—

Marmaduke You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all: You are a Man—and therefore, if compassion, Which to our kind is natural as life, Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, Even as I do; but I should loathe the light, If I could think one weak or partial feeling—

Oswald You will forgive me—

Marmaduke If I ever knew My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 'Tis at this moment.—Oswald, I have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow;—there is something Which looks like a transition in my soul, And yet it is not.—Let us lead him hither.

Oswald Stoop for a moment; 'tis an act of justice; And where's the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office? The deed is done—if you will have it so— Here where we stand—that tribe of vulgar wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in—the villains seize us—

Marmaduke Seize!

Oswald Yes, they— Men who are little given to sift and weigh— Would wreak on us the passion of the moment.

Marmaduke The cloud will soon disperse—farewell—but stay, Thou wilt relate the story.

Oswald Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness?

Marmaduke I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee.

Oswald When I'm dishonoured!

Marmaduke I would preserve thee. How may this be done?

Oswald By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies—with the gloom, And very superstition of the place, Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock Father's guilt.

[Enter Host conducting Herbert.]

Host The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure.

Oswald (to Host) We are ready— (to Herbert) Sir! I hope you are refreshed.—I have just written A notice for your Daughter, that she may know What is become of you.—You'll sit down and sign it; 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. [Gives the letter he had written.]

Herbert Thanks for your care.

[Sits down and writes. Exit Host.]

Oswald (aside to Marmaduke) Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name.

Marmaduke I cannot leave this paper.

[He puts it up, agitated.]

Oswald (aside) Dastard! Come.

[Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and supports him—Marmaduke tremblingly beckons Oswald to take his place.]

Marmaduke (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 Pilgrim A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw.

Second Pilgrim The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.

Old Pilgrim This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.

Idonea I scarcely can believe it.

Old Pilgrim Myself, I heard 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.

Idonea You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you.

Old Pilgrim It seems but yesterday That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, In a deep wood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in.

Idonea And I was with you?

Old Pilgrim 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. O 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!

Idonea 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.

Marmaduke 'Tis a wild night.

Oswald I'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire.

Marmaduke The wind blows keen; My hands are numb.

Oswald Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. [Blowing his fingers.] I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed.

Marmaduke I think I see a second range of Towers; This castle has another Area—come, Let us examine it.

Oswald 'Tis a bitter night; 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.

Marmaduke It would.

Oswald Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.

Marmaduke Most cruelly.

Oswald 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.

[He looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.]

Marmaduke When, upon the plank, I had led him 'cross⁴ 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.

Oswald As well indeed it might.

Marmaduke And this you deem The fittest place?

Oswald (aside) He is growing pitiful.

Marmaduke (listening) What an odd moaning that is!—

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

Marmaduke (still listening) That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us—he must have perished; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks—that he Would trouble us; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies.

Oswald How?

Marmaduke The old blind Man, When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung, Listening in vain.

Oswald He has a tender heart!

[Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon.]

Marmaduke How now, what mean you?

Oswald Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, Three good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this.

Marmaduke Stop, stop.

Oswald Perhaps, You'd better like we should descend together, And lie down by his side—what say you to it? Three of us—we should keep each other warm: 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!

Marmaduke 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: I look at him and tremble like a child.

Oswald Is it possible?

Marmaduke 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.

Oswald Why are you not the man you were that moment?

[He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon.]

Marmaduke You say he was asleep,—look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon Oswald.]

Oswald This is some sudden seizure!

Marmaduke A most strange faintness,—will you hunt me out A draught of water?

Oswald Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing.—I will try To gain the torrent's brink.

[Exit Oswald.]

Marmaduke (after a pause) It seems an age Since that Man left me.—No, I am not lost.

Herbert (at the mouth of the dungeon) Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night.

Marmaduke 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place.

Herbert I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald.

Marmaduke A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage.

Herbert How good it was in you To stay behind!—Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed.

Marmaduke No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into your heart.

Herbert 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.

Marmaduke This Daughter of yours Is very dear to you.

Herbert 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.

Marmaduke Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.]

Herbert 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.

Marmaduke Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on.

Herbert You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start—where are we?

Marmaduke Oh, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me.

Herbert 'Twas a foolish question.

Marmaduke But when you were an Outcast?—Heaven is just; Your piety would not miss its due reward; The little Orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not.

Herbert I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To the wide world I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity; She was my Raven in the wilderness, And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her?

Marmaduke Yes.

Herbert More than ever Parent loved a Child?

Marmaduke Yes, yes.

Herbert 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.]

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

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

Oswald 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 Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour?

Marmaduke I believe You have guessed right.

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

[Oswald conducts him to the dungeon.]

Oswald (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, And smothered all that's man in me?—away!— [Looking towards the dungeon.] This man's the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; It now becomes my duty to resume it.

Marmaduke Touch not a finger—

Oswald What then must be done?

Marmaduke Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed.

Oswald Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples.

Marmaduke Weak! I am weak—there does my torment lie, Feeding itself.

Oswald Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's.

Marmaduke And never heard a sound so terrible.

Oswald Perchance you think so now?

Marmaduke I cannot do it: Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast.

Oswald Justice—is there not thunder in the word? Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide— 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.

Marmaduke 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.]

Oswald 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 him.] To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim—haply to this desolate house.

Marmaduke (advancing to the dungeon) It must be ended!—

Oswald 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 me; I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. The look With which he gave the boon—I see it now! The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.— For this old venerable Grey-beard—faith 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face Which doth play tricks with them that look on it: '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 withered 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 he— This 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.]

Beggar Forgive me, gracious Sir!—

Oswald (to her companions) Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrighted.]

Beggar Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle—I repent me. [Oswald goes to the dungeon—listens—returns to the Beggar.]

Oswald Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant—keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit.

Beggar I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir,—

Oswald Begone!

Beggar (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]

Oswald It is all over then;—your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is.

Marmaduke 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!

Oswald Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom.

Marmaduke 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.

Oswald But after that?

Marmaduke The features of Idonea Lurked in his face—

Oswald Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph?

Marmaduke Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep—

Oswald A pretty feat of Fancy!

Marmaduke Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers.

Oswald Is he alive?

Marmaduke What mean you? who alive?

Oswald Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot—is he living?

Marmaduke The old Man in that dungeon is alive.

Oswald 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!

Marmaduke '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. [Sinks exhausted.]

Oswald (to himself) Now may I perish if this turn do more 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.

Marmaduke Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt.

Oswald We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There is guilt in this, 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.

Marmaduke A thought that's worth a thousand worlds! [Goes towards the dungeon.]

Oswald I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain.

Marmaduke Think not of that! 'tis over—we are safe.

Oswald (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 Blown to you from a trumpet.

Marmaduke Why talk thus? Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear— [The sound of a horn is heard.] That horn again—'Tis some one of our Troop; What do they here? Listen!

Oswald What! dogged like thieves!

[Enter Wallace and Lacy, etc.]

Lacy You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us.

Oswald (looking at Wallace) That subtle Greybeard— I'd rather see my father's ghost.

Lacy (to Marmaduke) My Captain, We come by order of the Band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies As, in these long commotions, have been seized. His Power is this way tending. It befits us To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent.

Marmaduke Lacy! we look But at the surfaces of things; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought: The deeper malady is better hid; The world is poisoned at the heart.

Lacy What mean you?

Wallace (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon Oswald) Ay, what is it you mean?

Marmaduke Hark'ee, my Friends;— [Appearing gay.] Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father—

Lacy Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him.

Marmaduke (going on) And should he make the Child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not—

Lacy Troth, 'tis hard— But in a world like ours—

Marmaduke (changing his tone) This self-same Man— Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of Father—could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When he should give her up, a Woman grown, To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution—

Lacy The whole visible world Contains not such a Monster!

Marmaduke For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice, And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim Both soul and body—

Wallace 'Tis too horrible; Oswald, what say you to it?

Lacy Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens.

Marmaduke But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable.

Wallace (with an appearance of mistrust) But how, what say you, Oswald?

Lacy (at the same moment) Stab him, were it Before the Altar.

Marmaduke What, if he were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind—

Lacy Blind, say you?

Oswald (coming forward) Are we Men, Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine courage Is not an accidental quality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant's strength; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm— She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, And craft of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence—do they protect The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities, Which have enabled this enormous Culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary To cover him from punishment? Shame!—Justice, Admitting no resistance, bends alike The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. —We recognise in this old Man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice.

Lacy By heaven, his words are reason!

Oswald Yes, my Friends, His countenance is meek and venerable; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!— I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it!— Poor Victim! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe.

Lacy Idonea!

Wallace How! What? your Idonea? [To Marmaduke.]

Marmaduke Mine; But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford; He is the Man to whom the Maiden—pure As beautiful, and gentle and benign, And in her ample heart loving even me— Was to be yielded up.

Lacy Now, by the head Of my own child, this Man must die; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs!—

Marmaduke (to Lacy) I love the Father in thee. You know me, Friends; I have a heart to feel, And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions.

Lacy We will have ample justice. Who are we, Friends? Do we not live on ground Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind? Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open— _here,_ Where Reason has an eye that she can use, And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp He shall be led, and there, the Country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall Nature be avenged.

Oswald 'Tis nobly thought; His death will be a monument for ages.

Marmaduke (to Lacy) I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the rest It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared.

Wallace We will obey you. (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer.

Marmaduke Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause.

[Exeunt.]

Act III

Scene—The door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; Idonea and the Host among them

Host Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent As I have told you: He left us yesterday With two Companions; one of them, as seemed, His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten.

Idonea (to Host) Farewell!

Host Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand.

[Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims.]

Scene—A desolate Moor. Oswald alone.

Oswald Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp. Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, That half a word should blow it to the winds! This last device must end my work.—Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief—as thus— Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; Each rises as the other falls: and first, Passion a unit and against us—proof— Nay, we must travel in another path, Or we're stuck fast for ever;—passion, then, Shall be a unit for us; proof—no, passion! We'll not insult thy majesty by time, Person, and place—the where, the when, the how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. A whipping to the Moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing: for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, He talks of a transition in his Soul, And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind?— These are strange sights—the mind of man, upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle; In some a hideous one—hem! shall I stop? No.—Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, And something shall be done which Memory May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work.

[Enter Marmaduke, from behind]

Oswald (turning to meet him) But listen, for my peace—

Marmaduke Why, I believe you.

Oswald But hear the proofs—

Marmaduke Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then Be larger than the peas—prove this—'twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise!

Oswald Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the Villains—every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is," continued the detested Slave, "She is right willing—strange if she were not!— They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True," continued he, "When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) And said, 'My Father he will have it so.'"

Marmaduke I am your hearer.

Oswald This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration; and they said, With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, That they should share the banquet with their Lord And his new Favorite.

Marmaduke Misery!—

Oswald I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news, And therefore chose this solitary Moor, Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us.

Marmaduke Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things were shadows—yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless, Or but the mutual mockeries of body, Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Fool! To let a creed, built in the heart of things, Dissolve before a twinkling atom!—Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies.

Oswald You take it as it merits—

Marmaduke One a King, General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground With carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own, But that they cannot stand up of themselves; Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook—a Hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift; But have they not a world of common ground To occupy—both fools, or wise alike, Each in his way?

Oswald Troth, I begin to think so.

Marmaduke Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, And send it with a fillip to its grave.

Oswald Nay, you leave me behind.

Marmaduke That such a One, So pious in demeanour! in his look So saintly and so pure!—Hark'ee, my Friend, I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable.

Oswald In faith, a pleasant scheme; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.— But first, how wash our hands of this old Man?

Marmaduke Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten.

Oswald You know we left him sitting—see him yonder.

Marmaduke Ha! ha!—

Oswald As 'twill be but a moment's work, I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done.

[Exeunt.]

Scene changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance— Herbert is discovered seated on a stone.

Herbert A sound of laughter, too!—'tis well—I feared, The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush!—'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas! 'tis cold—I shiver in the sunshine— What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks Of God's parental mercies—with Idonea I used to sing it.—Listen!—what foot is there?

[Enter Marmaduke]

Marmaduke (aside—looking at Herbert) And I have loved this Man! and she hath loved him! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford! And there it ends;—if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore, Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose—verily to weep with! [Looking round.] A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill! (To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage? Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre?

Herbert How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not Wherein I have offended you;—last night I found in you the kindest of Protectors; This morning, when I spoke of weariness, You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, And I, no coward in my better days, Was almost terrified.

Marmaduke That's excellent!— So, you bethought you of the many ways In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all Nature up against him—pshaw!—

Herbert For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? No traveller, peasant, herdsman?

Marmaduke Not a soul: Here is a tree, raggèd, and bent, and bare, That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind; This have we, but no other company: Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fathoms underground.

Herbert Where is our common Friend?

Marmaduke A ghost, methinks— The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance— Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in.

Herbert Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation—

Marmaduke A bold word from you!

Herbert Restore him, Heaven!

Marmaduke The desperate Wretch!—A Flower, Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now They have snapped her from the stem—Poh! let her lie Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well—ay, there, Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew The worm was in her—

Herbert Mercy! Sir, what mean you?

Marmaduke You have a Daughter!

Herbert Oh that she were here!— She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, And if I have in aught offended you, Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us.

Marmaduke I do believe he weeps—I could weep too— There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth From the first moment that I loved the Maid; And for his sake I loved her more: these tears— I did not think that aught was left in me Of what I have been—yes, I thank thee, Heaven! One happy thought has passed across my mind. —It may not be—I am cut off from man; No more shall I be man—no more shall I Have human feelings!—(To Herbert)--Now, for a little more About your Daughter!

Herbert Troops of armed men, Met in the roads, would bless us; little children, Rushing along in the full tide of play, Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard The boisterous carman, in the miry road, Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts.

Marmaduke And whither were you going?

Herbert Learn, young Man,— To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy.

Marmaduke Now, this is as it should be!

Herbert I am weak!— My Daughter does not know how weak I am; And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, By the good God, our common Father, doomed!— But I had once a spirit and an arm—

Marmaduke Now, for a word about your Barony: I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to—what's your title—eh? your claims Were undisputed!

Herbert Like a mendicant, Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;— I murmured—but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe— While in my lap I held my little Babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief—I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; It said, "I will be with thee." A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, And said, with tears, that he would be our guide: I had a better guide—that innocent Babe— Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth—and more And higher far than lies within earth's bounds: Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, I bless her with sad spirit,—when of God, I bless her in the fulness of my joy!

Marmaduke The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays! With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff.—Innocent!— If he were innocent—then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.) I have read In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste? Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him—here—All-seeing God! Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, I will commit him to this final Ordeal!— He heard a voice—a shepherd-lad came to him And was his guide; if once, why not again, And in this desert? If never—then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger!—Pain is of the heart, And what are a few throes of bodily suffering If they can waken one pang of remorse? [Goes up to Herbert.] Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my hand to save thee from perdition: Thou wilt have time to breathe and think—

Herbert Oh, Mercy!

Marmaduke I know the need that all men have of mercy, And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment.

Herbert My Child, my blessèd Child!

Marmaduke No more of that; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. [He pauses and looks at Herbert's staff.] Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand! [Reads upon the staff.] "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!" Yes, be it so;—repent and be forgiven— God and that staff are now thy only guides. [He leaves Herbert on the Moor.]

Scene—an Eminence, A Beacon On The Summit Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, Etc. Etc.

Several of the Band (confusedly) But patience!

One of the Band Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!— Our Captain made a prey to foul device!—

Lennox (to Wallace) His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, Knowing what otherwise we know too well, That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy, if you Deny me your support.

Lacy We have been fooled— But for the motive?

Wallace Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy! I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. I know him well; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being; where he cannot govern, He will destroy.

Lacy To have been trapped like moles!— Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: There is no crime from which this man would shrink; He recks not human law; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face.

Lennox Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own.

Wallace I have seen traces of it.

Lennox Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said, "I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven."

Lacy He is no madman.

Wallace A most subtle doctor Were that man, who could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men No heart that loves them, none that they can love, Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined Beings.

One of the Band What if he mean to offer up our Captain An expiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends!

Wallace Now, if the event Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here.

Lacy What need of swearing!

One of the Band Let us away!

Another Away!

A Third Hark! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale.

Lacy Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, Light up this beacon.

One of the Band You shall be obeyed.

[They go out together.]

Scene—The Wood on the edge of the Moor. Marmaduke (alone)

Marmaduke Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, Yet calm.—I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. [Enter Oswald]

Oswald Ha! my dear Captain.

Marmaduke A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed.

Oswald Alone, I see; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now I feel that you will justify.

Marmaduke I had fears, From which I have freed myself—but 'tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part.

Oswald Nay, then—I am mistaken. There's a weakness About you still; you talk of solitude— I am your friend.

Marmaduke What need of this assurance At any time? and why given now?

Oswald Because You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach;—and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise.

Marmaduke Wherefore press this on me?

Oswald Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance, How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny That lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world's masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age: You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise; the immediate law, From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent Intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path; Your faculties should grow with the demand; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps.

Marmaduke I would be left alone.

Oswald (exultingly) I know your motives! I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles I witness'd, and now hail your victory.

Marmaduke Spare me awhile that greeting.

Oswald It may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!— Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!— The Eagle lives in Solitude!

Marmaduke Even so, The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone.

Oswald Now would you? and for ever?—My young Friend, As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we must have, willing or no; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear Ill names, can render no ill services, In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world, And opposites thus melt into each other.

Marmaduke Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved With such a weight upon his wings as now; But they will soon be lightened.

Oswald Ay, look up— Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can suffer greatly.

Marmaduke Very true.

Oswald Action is transitory—a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle—this way or that— 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

Marmaduke Truth—and I feel it.

Oswald What! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. —I see I have disturbed you.

Marmaduke By no means.

Oswald Compassion!—pity!—pride can do without them; And what if you should never know them more!— He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, Finds ease because another feels it too. If e'er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end—to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. —Nay, you are pale.

Marmaduke It may be so.

Oswald Remorse— It cannot live with thought; think on, think on, And it will die. What! in this universe, Where the least things control the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world; What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals.

Marmaduke Now, whither are you wandering? That a man So used to suit his language to the time, Should thus so widely differ from himself— It is most strange.

Oswald Murder!—what's in the word!— I have no cases by me ready made To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!— A shallow project;—you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation Banished from human intercourse, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him: our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation?— This flimsy barrier you have overleaped.

Marmaduke My Office is fulfilled—the Man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things.

Oswald Dead!

Marmaduke I have borne my burthen to its destined end.

Oswald This instant we'll return to our Companions— Oh how I long to see their faces again!

[Enter Idonea with Pilgrims who continue their journey.]

Idonea (after some time) What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! (To Marmaduke.) On will we to my Father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; We'll go together, and, such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours.

Oswald I interrupt you?

Idonea Think not so.

Marmaduke Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment!

Idonea Forgive me.—Oswald knows it all—he knows, Each word of that unhappy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart.

Oswald 'Twas even so.

Marmaduke I have much to say, but for whose ear?—not thine.

Idonea Ill can I bear that look—Plead for me, Oswald! You are my Father's Friend. (To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not, And never can you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age— [Hides her face.]

Marmaduke Patience—Heaven grant me patience!— She weeps, she weeps—my brain shall burn for hours Ere I can shed a tear.

Idonea I was a woman; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my Father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me;—if erring, Oh let me be forgiven!

Marmaduke I do forgive thee.

Idonea But take me to your arms—this breast, alas! It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it.

Marmaduke (exultingly) She is innocent. [He embraces her.]

Oswald (aside) Were I a Moralist, I should make wondrous revolution here; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth— [Addressing them.] I see I interrupt you; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; Follow me to the Hostel. [Exit Oswald.]

Idonea Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My Father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength, Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; His good works will be balm and life to him.

Marmaduke This is most strange!—I know not what it was, But there was something which most plainly said, That thou wert innocent.

Idonea How innocent!— Oh heavens! you've been deceived.

Marmaduke Thou art a Woman To bring perdition on the universe.

Idonea Already I've been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately.] I see you love me still, The labours of my hand are still your joy; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended Herbert's scrip.]

Marmaduke Mercy of Heaven! [Sinks.]

Idonea What ails you? [Distractedly.]

Marmaduke The scrip that held his food, and I forgot To give it back again!

Idonea What mean your words?

Marmaduke I know not what I said—all may be well.

Idonea That smile hath life in it!

Marmaduke This road is perilous; I will attend you to a Hut that stands Near the wood's edge—rest there to-night, I pray you: For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, But will return to you by break of day.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV

Scene—A desolate prospect—a ridge of rocks—a Chapel on the summit of one—Moon behind the rocks— night stormy—irregular sound of a bell— Herbert enters exhausted.

Herbert That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. Oh that I had but strength to reach the place! My Child—my Child—dark—dark—I faint—this wind— These stifling blasts—God help me!

[Enter Eldred.]

Eldred Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man's head, Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard.] Ha! what sound is that? Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises—and that weary bell! Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night Is ringing it—'twould stop a Saint in prayer, And that—what is it? never was sound so like A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man— Murdered! alas! speak—speak, I am your friend: No answer—hush—lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart—(Kneels to him.) I pray you speak! What has befallen you?

Herbert (feebly) A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger I must die.

Eldred Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: [Raises him.] This is a dismal place—well—that is well— I was too fearful—take me for your guide And your support—my hut is not far off. [Draws him gently off the stage.]

Scene—A room in the Hostel— Marmaduke and Oswald

Marmaduke But for Idonea!—I have cause to think That she is innocent.

Oswald Leave that thought awhile, As one of those beliefs which in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. This day's event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story; you must hear it, And without further preface.—In my youth, Except for that abatement which is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue—as you are now. You've heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our Captain Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell; We lay becalmed week after week, until The water of the vessel was exhausted; I felt a double fever in my veins, Yet rage suppressed itself;—to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride;—for many days, On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted By man and nature;—if a breeze had blown, It might have found its way into my heart, And I had been—no matter—do you mark me?