University of Virginia Library

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
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 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 favorite, 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 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.

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 broken reed—
This Marmaduke—

Idon.
O could you hear his voice:
Alas! you do not know him. He is one
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
A deep and simple 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 talkthus, 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, 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.

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.
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 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.