February 28, 1842.

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.

Wal. 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.

Wal.

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. Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master! Mar. I perceive

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

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

Osw. That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal[Looking forward. Not yet in sight!-We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. Mar. (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like 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? Osw. And saw the tears with which she blotted

it.

Mar. And nothing less would satisfy him? Osw.

No less;

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

To end her wrongs. Osw.

Should yet be true? Mar.

This day will suffice

But if the blind Man's tale

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

Osw.
Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail

To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;

light

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.

Her. after some time).
silent,

And I divine the cause.
Idon.

[He sits down. Idonea, you are

Do not reproach me:

Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
Her.
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!

Idon.
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,

Her. I comprehend thee-I should be as cheerful

As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such

As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
Idon.

Is he not valiant? Her.

Is he not strong?

Am I then so soon

Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child:
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed-
This Marmaduke-
O could you hear his voice:
Alas! you do not know him. He is one
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged nim
with you)

Idon.

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

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

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 thou-
sand.

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

it all.

Her. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time

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

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

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

Idon.

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

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

Let me have leave to serve you!

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

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

you?

For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
He tempted me to think the Story true;
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her
After his death.
Mar.
I have been much deceived.
Osw. But sure he loves the Maiden, ard
never love

Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Thus to torment her with inventions!-death--
There must be truth in this.
Mar.
Truth in his story!
He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.