University of Virginia Library

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 begone 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 Grey-beard—faith
'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face
Which doth play tricks with them that look on it:
'Twas this that put it in my thoughts—that countenance—
His staff—his figure—Murder!—what, of whom?
We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women
Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree,
And none look grave but dotards. He may live
To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches,
Highways of dreaming passion, have too long,
Young as he is, diverted wish and hope
From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;—
Then shatter the delusion, break it up
And set him free. What follows? I have learned
That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world
Do never dream of. I have been what he—
This Boy—when he comes forth with bloody hands—
Might envy, and am now,—but he shall know
What I am now— [Goes and listens at the dungeon.

Praying or parleying?—tut!
Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead
These fifteen years— Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.
(Turning abruptly).

Ha! speak—what Thing art thou? (Recognises her).

Heavens! my good Friend!

[To her.
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 exhausted.
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 recal them:
I feel my error; shedding human blood
Is a most serious thing.

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

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

Osw.
(looking at Wallace).
That subtle Grey-beard—
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.
Harkee, 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.