The Poetry Corner

The Borderers. A Tragedy

By William Wordsworth

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 Mahommedan 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 That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. WIL. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is MAR. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? WIL. You know that you have saved his life. MAR. I know it. WIL. And that he hates you!, Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. MAR. Fy! no more of it. WIL. Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul. Nobody loves this Oswald, Yourself, you do not love him. MAR. 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. WIL. Oh, Sir! MAR. Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. WIL. May He whose eye is over all protect you! [Exit. Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand). OSW. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. MAR. (looking at them). The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favourite, Oswald? OSW. That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal, [Looking forward. Not yet in sight!, We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. MAR. (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like 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 asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. MAR. Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. OSW. Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. MAR. This day will suffice To end her wrongs. OSW. But if the blind Man's tale Should 'yet' be true? MAR. 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; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 'tis much The Arch-Impostor, MAR. 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 playmates 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. OSW. See, they come, Two Travellers! MAR. (points). The woman is Idonea. OSW. And leading Herbert. MAR. We must let them pass, This thicket will conceal us. [They step aside. Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind. IDON. Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled. HER. Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. IDON. 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. HER. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. IDON. Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeballs dark, dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: 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, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature HER. I comprehend thee, I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning. The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone? IDON. Is he not strong? Is he not valiant? HER. 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 broker reed, This Marmaduke, IDON. O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple 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. 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 thousand. 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, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both. IDON. Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. Enter a Peasant. PEA. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you! IDON. My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome. PEA. Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel, shall I support you? HER. I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you. PEA. God speed you both. [Exit Peasant. HER. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed, 'Tis but for a few days, a thought has struck me. IDON. 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. MAR. This instant will we stop him OSW. 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. MAR. I have been much deceived. OSW. 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. 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. OSW. Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity! I'd wager on his life for twenty years. MAR. We will not waste an hour in such a cause. OSW. Why, this is noble! shake her off at once. MAR. Her virtues are his instruments, A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child, what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver?, no, no, no, 'Tis but a word and then OSW. Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear, you have had enemies. MAR. Enemies! of his own coinage. OSW. That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere. I am perplexed. MAR. What hast thou heard or seen? OSW. 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 MAR. What cannot be? OSW. Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child MAR. Nay, you abuse my friendship! OSW. Heaven forbid!, There was a circumstance, trifling indeed, It struck me at the time, yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. MAR. What is your meaning? OSW. Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest. MAR. Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door, It could not be. OSW. 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. MAR. 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 OSW. 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. HER. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request. IDON. You know me, Sire; farewell! HER. And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part, I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest, and now I will not play the sluggard. IDON. Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host. Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, [Looking at the dog. We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befall thee! Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well. HOST. Fear not, 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. IDON. 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. HER. Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears. IDON. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back, protect him, Saints, 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 a while; She could not, Sir, have failed of company. HER. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. HOST. (calling). Holla! HER. 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. OSW. Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert. HOST. Mercy, the Baron Herbert! OSW. So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you? HER. Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir? OSW. I do not see Idonea. HER. Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither? OSW. A slight affair, That will be soon despatched. HER. Did Marmaduke Receive that letter? OSW. Be at peace. The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of 'him'. HER. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times! That noise! would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed 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. OSW. 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. HER. Alas! I creep so slowly. OSW. Never fear; We'll not complain of that. HER. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? OSW. 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. OSW. (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. MAR. 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. OSW. 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 Ah! what is here? [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep a Child in her arms. BEG. Oh! 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. MAR. We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money. BEG. 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. OSW. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover. BEG. 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. OSW. 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. BEG. Thanks to you both; but, O 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. MAR. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes? BEG. 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. MAR. Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch! BEG. 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. OSW. Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you? BEG. 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. MAR. As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other! BEG. '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. OSW. But why so violent Against this venerable Man? BEG. 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. MAR. But to your story. BEG. 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. OSW. I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door. BEG. Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there. OSW. I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry. BEG. 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. OSW. What's this? I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent. BEG. And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. OSW. How say you? in disguise? MAR. But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter? BEG. Daughter! truly But how's the day? I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves. Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go. MAR. I must have more of this; you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert? BEG. You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir? MAR. No trifling, Woman! OSW. You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak. MAR. Speak! BEG. He is a most hard-hearted Man, MAR. Your life is at my mercy. BEG. Do not harm me, And I will tell you all! You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor. OSW. Speak out. BEG. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. OSW. Nay, but speak out! BEG. He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child. MAR. Parted with whom? BEG. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine. MAR. Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife? BEG. 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. MAR. Enough. OSW. We've solved the riddle Miscreant! MAR. Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice. OSW. A lucky woman! go, you have done good service. [Aside. MAR. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power that saved her! OSW. (gives her money). Here's for your little boy and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather. BEG. Oh 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. MAR. (to himself). The cruel Viper! Poor devoted Maid, Now I 'do' love thee. OSW. I am thunderstruck. MAR. 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. OSW. (interrupting). In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it? BEG. Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more. OSW. Lord Clifford? BEG. What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. OSW. Lord Clifford did you see him talk with Herbert? BEG. 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. OSW. Enough! you may depart. MAR. (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 abhorred 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. OSW. 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. MAR. These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks! OSW. Who is it? MAR. I have seen her. OSW. Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness. MAR. I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls. OSW. 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. MAR. At her door Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. OSW. But the pretended Father MAR. Earthly law Measures not crimes like his. OSW. '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. MAR. Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold. OSW. 'Tis most perplexing: What must be done? MAR. We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it from first to last He shall reveal himself. OSW. 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. MAR. Let us be gone and bring her hither; here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me. OSW. 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 MAR. 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 OSW. You will forgive me MAR. 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. OSW. 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 MAR. Seize! OSW. Yes, they Men who are little given to sift and weigh Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. MAR. The cloud will soon disperse farewell but stay, Thou wilt relate the story. OSW. Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness? MAR. I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee. OSW. When I'm dishonoured! MAR. I would preserve thee. How may this be done? OSW. 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. OSW. (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. HER. Thanks for your care. [Sits down and writes. Exit Host. OSW. (aside to MARMADUKE). Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name. [MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT then writes examines the letter eagerly. MAR. I cannot leave this paper. [He puts it up, agitated. OSW. (aside). Dastard! Come. [MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT and supports him MARMADUKE tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place. MAR. (as he quits HERBERT). There is a palsy in his limbs he shakes. [Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT MARMADUKE following. SCENE changes to a Wood a Group of Pilgrims and IDONEA with them. FIRST PIL. A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw. SEC. PIL. The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. OLD PIL. This news! It made my heart leap up with joy. IDON. I scarcely can believe it. OLD PIL. 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. IDON. You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you. OLD PIL. 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. IDON. And I was with you? OLD PIL. If indeed 'twas you But you were then a tottering Little-one We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: I struck my flint, and built up a small fire With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads The thunder rolled in peals that would have made A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. 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! IDON. God be praised, That I have been his comforter till now! And will be so through every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires. Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. [Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims. SCENE, The Area of a half-ruined Castle on one side the entrance to a dungeon OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and forwards. MAR. 'Tis a wild night. OSW. I'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire. MAR. The wind blows keen; My hands are numb. OSW. 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. MAR. I think I see a second range of Towers; This castle has another Area come, Let us examine it. OSW. '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. MAR. It would. OSW. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded. MAR. Most cruelly. OSW. As up the steep we clomb, I saw a distant fire in the north-east; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening. [Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon. MAR. When, upon the plank, I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice blessed me: You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks With deafening noise, the benediction fell Back on himself; but changed into a curse. OSW. As well indeed it might. MAR. And this you deem The fittest place? OSW. (aside). He is growing pitiful. MAR. (listening). What an odd moaning that is! OSW. Mighty odd The wind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in this way! I'll begin And count the stars. MAR. (still listening). That dog of his, you 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. OSW. How? MAR. 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. OSW. He has a tender heart! [OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon. MAR. How now, what mean you? OSW. 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. MAR. Stop, stop. OSW. 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! MAR. These drowsy shiverings, This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, What do they mean? were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: Why do I tremble now? Is not the depth Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought? And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again my breast Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: I look at him and tremble like a child. OSW. Is it possible? MAR. One thing you noticed not: Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; But there's a Providence for them who walk In helplessness, when innocence is with them. At this audacious blasphemy, I thought The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. OSW. Why are you not the man you were that moment? [He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon. MAR. You say he was asleep, look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon OSWALD. OSW. This is some sudden seizure! MAR. A most strange faintness, will you hunt me out A draught of water? OSW. Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing. I will try To gain the torrent's brink. [Exit OSWALD. MAR. (after a pause). It seems an age Since that Man left me. No, I am not lost. HER. (at the mouth of the dungeon). Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night. MAR. 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place. HER. I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. MAR. A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage. HER. How good it was in you To stay behind! Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed. MAR. No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into 'your' heart. HER. Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort, Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me! My Girl will weep When she is told of it. MAR. This Daughter of yours Is very dear to you. HER. Oh! but you are young; Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child. MAR. Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside. HER. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blest with such a daughter! When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly. MAR. Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on. HER. You will forgive me, but my heart runs 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? MAR. Oh, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me. HER. 'Twas a foolish question. MAR. 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. HER. 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? MAR. Yes. HER. More than ever Parent loved a Child? MAR. Yes, yes. HER. I will not murmur, merciful God! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. Enter OSWALD. OSW. Herbert! confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn. A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night. HER. Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice. OSW. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless; and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate. (To MARMADUKE aside). He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained? But soft! how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour? MAR. I believe You have guessed right. HER. The trees renew their murmur: Come, let us house together. [OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon. OSW. (returns). Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature, 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. MAR. Touch not a finger OSW. What then must be done? MAR. Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed. OSW. 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. MAR. Weak! I am weak there does my torment lie, Feeding itself. OSW. Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. MAR. And never heard a sound so terrible. OSW. Perchance you think so now? MAR. 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. OSW. 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. MAR. Fallen should I be indeed Murder perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow Away! away! [Flings away his sword. OSW. Nay, I have done with you: We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his Barony, And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters, And most despise the men who best can teach us: Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man Is brave. [Taking MARMADUKE'S sword and giving it to him. To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim haply to this desolate house. MAR. (advancing to the dungeon). It must be ended! OSW. 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 Greybeard 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. BEG. Forgive me, gracious Sir! OSW. (to her companions). Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrighted. BEG. Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle 'I repent me.' [OSWALD goes to the dungeon listens returns to the Beggar. OSW. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. BEG. I 'do' repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, sir OSW. Begone! BEG. (going). There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside. Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. [Exit Beggar. MARMADUKE: re-enters from the dungeon. OSW. It is all over then; your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is. MAR. Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place! OSW. Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom. MAR. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it. OSW. But after that? MAR. The features of Idonea Lurked in his face OSW. Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph? MAR. Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep OSW. A pretty feat of Fancy! MAR. Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers. OSW. Is he alive? MAR. What mean you? who alive? OSW. Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot is 'he' living? MAR. The old Man in that dungeon 'is' alive. OSW. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity! Avenger you of outraged innocence! MAR. 'Twas dark dark as the grave; yet did I see, Saw him his face turned toward me; and I tell thee Idonea's filial countenance was there To baffle me it put me to my prayers. Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, Beheld a star twinkling above my head, And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhasted. OSW. (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 recall them: I feel my error; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing. MAR. Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt. OSW. 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. MAR. A thought that's worth a thousand worlds! [Goes towards the dungeon. OSW. I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. MAR. Think not of that! 'tis over we are safe. OSW. (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. MAR. 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! OSW. What! dogged like thieves! Enter WALLACE and LACY, etc. LACY. You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us. OSW. (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. MAR. 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? WAL. (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon OSWALD). Ay, what is it you mean? MAR. Hark'e, 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. MAR. (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 MAR. (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! MAR. 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 WAL. 'Tis too horrible; Oswald, what say you to it? LACY. Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens. MAR. But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. WAL. (with an appearance of mistrust). But how, what say you, Oswald? LACY. (at the same moment). Stab him, were it Before the Altar. MAR. What, if he were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind LACY. Blind, say you? OSW. (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! OSW. 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! WAL. How! what? your Idonea? To MARMADUKE. MAR. '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! MAR. (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. OSW. 'Tis nobly thought; His death will be a monument for ages. MAR. (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. WAL. We will obey you. (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer. MAR. 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. IDON. (to Host). Farewell! HOST. Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. [Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims. SCENE A desolate Moor. OSWALD (alone). OSW. 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. OSW. (turning to meet him). But listen, for my peace MAR. Why, I 'believe' you. OSW. But hear the proofs MAR. 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! OSW. 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.'" MAR. I am your hearer. OSW. 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 Favourite. MAR. Misery! OSW. 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. MAR. 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. Oh 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. OSW. You take it as it merits MAR. 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? OSW. Troth, I begin to think so. MAR. 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. OSW. Nay, you leave me behind. MAR. That such a One, So pious in demeanour! in his look So saintly and so pure! Hark'e, 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. OSW. 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? MAR. Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. OSW. You know we left him sitting see him yonder. MAR. Ha! ha! OSW. 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. HER. 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. MAR. (aside looking a 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? HER. 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. MAR. 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! HER. For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? No traveller, peasant, herdsman? MAR. Not a soul: Here is a tree, ragged, and bent, and bare, That turns its goat's-beard flakes of peagreen moss From the stern breathing of the rough seawind; 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. HER. Where is our common Friend? MAR. 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. HER. Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation MAR. A bold word from 'you'! HER. Restore him, Heaven! MAR. 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 HER. Mercy! Sir, what mean you? MAR. You have a Daughter! HER. 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. MAR. (aside). I do believe he weeps I could weep too There is a vein of he