University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Subterranean apartment in the Hostelry or Inn at Kilnsey. At a rude table, garnished with drinking-vessels, sit a company of men in jerkens and armed.
HENRY.
A truce to song. My voice is out of tune.—
They do us wrong, my Brothers of the night
And of the forest, blithe and brave as e'er
Sung catch or shot a deer in merry Sherwood,
When Robin Hood was the bold monarch there—
They do us utter wrong who style us Outlaws.
'Tis true we love the greenwood, press for couch
The mountain heather—strewed upon the floor
Of some rock-vaulted cavern—and 'tis true,
When whim commands, our arrows mark the deer,
Marked fondly by Lord Clifford as his own.
'Tis also true, that when to dine we sit
Beneath the spreading oak, if thirst awake,
We slake it with a draught of noble vintage,
Cooled in some vaults we wot of. But it is
Most incorrect to call us, therefore, Outlaws.
We live as men o'th'world, who clothe themselves
By fleecing well their neighbours; only we,
Too honourable to imitate their meanness,
Take that by force which they obtain by fraud.
[The door flies open.
To arms! there is intrusion—
[Enter the Host.
Kindly meant, though,
And therefore welcome. 'Tis our ancient Host,
Good Harman Trueman. Wherefore, worthy friend,
This visit at so late an hour? It must
Be near the time when sky-larks stir their wings
To quit the dewy mead-flowers. But I judge
Thy guests so long have revelled, they have left
But empty casks at Kilnsey; and thou com'st,
Most wisely com'st, to quaff with us of Fountains.
Quaff then, and tell us—if the truth wont choke thee—
How far the Abbot's wine exceeds thine own.
One fault it has; but that is found, good Trueman,
Neither in taste nor hue, and Sawley's vaults
Shall furnish the corrective.

HOST.
Noble souls!
The Abbot's vintage is indeed delicious.
But much I fear the end of this wild course,
Which gives you thus to drink the wine of Abbots,
Is hurrying on; and that these eyes must soon
Rain tears as copiously as April skies,
To see you caper, every breeze's pastime,
'Twixt heaven and earth, or mark your grinning heads
Blacken on Skipton's gate-way.

HENRY.
Kind old man,
I well believe that thou wilt weep for us.
But drink again! 'Twill greatly help the flow
Of tears whose fount hath long been frozen up,
And every drop, when thus distilled from wine,
Will be more worthy of the friends it falls for.

HOST.
Well, well, ye heed me not. And since it is so,
Since moral precepts and advices sage
Glance from your bosoms, as the pointed steel
From warrior's breast-plate, I must tell my tidings;
And mark me, tidings that involve a project,
Which, deftly managed, will insure you sport
Richer than frightening monk, or robbing convent.

OMNES.
Name it!

HOST.
Perchance ye know my roof to-night
Is honoured by two ladies. Passing fair
Are both; but one—by good St. George of Kilnsey!
My Father's saint and mine—that one's an Angel!
When Margery was young, she rolled, methought,
As fine an eye as ever beamed through lash;
But with this stranger's matched, 'twere as that taper
Against the star of evening!

HENRY.
Fair indeed
Must be the maid thou talk'st of, since her charms
Have kindled in thy cranium—where till now
Idea ne'er was bred that deeper reached
Than spirit-vault, or higher rose than board
At which thy topers congregate—a flash
So very bright that it might half illumine
A Poetaster's page!—But for the project,
What wouldst advise?

HOST.
Catch Yorkshire, friend? Not so.
What if I said this falcon, come to flaunt
In Craven skies, might well repay the lure?
That every feather of her wing outweighs
A good King Harry's broad-piece? My description
Might lead you into guilt, and Trueman's conscience,
Light as a child's, might with a load be burthened,
That it were best ye share among yourselves.
No, no! I'm but a Guide-post—standing so—
[Extends his arm.
To point the way that leads you on to fortune,
Or seems to lead; but into that same way
I force no man to enter.

HENRY.
Honest Harman,
I own thy prudence and morality.
But say, what is the service to be done,
And who the nymph that asks it?

HOST.
Why, the service
Is but to lead the Northern Cavalcade
Through this wild land of ours, to Sawley Abbey;
And the fair nymph that asks it, is the same
I just described you.

HENRY.
And her name, dull proser?

HOST.
The Lady Margaret Percy.

[Henry starts up, and strides through the apartment in a state of great mental excitement. He then gives the Host a sign to withdraw, which is obeyed with marks of deference and humility.
HENRY.
Here ends the Outlaw!

FIRST OUTLAW.
For a play so good
It ends too soon.

HENRY.
Farce, friend, a wretched farce,
In which I've played the part of chief buffoon,
But shall no more. A nobler stage awaits me,
A nobler part demands my energies.
Norton, a word with you.

[Exeunt Henry and Norton, and re-enter Host speaking.
HOST.
By good St. George!
Why, what's up now? I met the Chief and Norton,
Who pass'd me like the wind; and, sooth to say,
Have almost taken mine in that strait passage!

FIRST OUTLAW.
That speed, my friend, bodes no good speed to thee.

HOST.
What! How! Hath there been treachery?

FIRST OUTLAW.
Calm thy fears.
The Chief hath turned devout, that's all, and means
To join his monkish sire in chanting hymns,
And calculating horoscopes.

HOST.
'Tis time
So wild a colt should own the curb, and learn
To go in harness.

FIRST OUTLAW.
Dost thou take it so?
When it is sure as Kilnsey Crag itself,
That thou mayst whistle for thy gains.

HOST.
Well be't so;
Old Trueman hath enough of wealth.

SECOND OUTLAW.
Come, come;
Pretend not this indifference, but confess
Thou lik'st the chink of gold, wouldst rather hear
The music of a thousand good broad-pieces
Jingling at once, than that of Sunday bells
Chiming to chapel.

HOST.
Why, for that, they both
Are too familiar to afford a joy
Superlative from either—thank the saint!
But, to say truth, my pleasure is not in
A rush or sudden overflux of fortune,
Which might deprive me of my footing, and
Take sense away i'th'current.

FIRST OUTLAW.
Thou dost like
To see it come in gentle rill, as streams
The wine from out the cask.

HOST.
Precisely so;
And thou hast pilfered my comparison.
—The heir of others' wealth knows not the joy,
The honest joy of him who makes his own.
To start in life with little; with keen eye
And ready hand, to watch and seize the first
Advantage-step in Fortune's upward ladder;
To lay the future pyramid's broad base
With piece on piece, as day succeeds to day;
To see it rise and rise, and yet to know
There is not in the growing heap a coin
But was placed there by labour or by thought,
The hand's work or the head's;—this, this is pleasure!

FIRST OUTLAW.
I thank thee, Harman, for that homily,
Learned at the tap—it could be learned but there—
Where each day hoards its little mite of gain.

SECOND OUTLAW.
A mite would buy the Widow's ten times doubled,
Or else good water's costly.

THIRD OUTLAW.
That remark,
Old Harman, is too bad. He means to say
The Wharf hath some acquaintance with thy wine.

HOST.
The river, like his wit, is far beneath
The level of my cellar.

OMNES
(laughing).
Well said, Trueman.

SECOND OUTLAW.
But water may be carried, good mine Host?

HOST.
And your wit cannot.

FIRST OUTLAW.
Why? Is it so heavy?

HOST.
No; 'tis too light—'tis nought, which he who winnows
Will not have even chaff for his reward.

SECOND OUTLAW.
Thou'rt sharp, sir. But the Crag hath nearer springs,
And cooler than the river.

HOST.
I know brains
To which the springs of Kilnsey, if applied,
With a slight tinge of Rhenish, might be useful,
So useful as to give the name of virtue
To the considerate knavery that bilked them.
[A general laugh.
But when I showed
The joy of saving cash, I meant not that
Of him who hoards it for its own vile sake.
I meant the pleasure of a man who cares
As little for the dross which men call gold
As any one that hears me; but who loves
The independence and the power it gives,
And, for their sakes, would strain each nerve to gain it
By fair and honest means.

FIRST OUTLAW.
Dost glance at us
In these sagacious saws?

HOST.
I glance at ye!
Rest every cask on its own end, say I.
To him that stands on Whernside-top, our Crag
Appears a mole-hill; so what I might deem
A crime, or fault, to your exalted eyes
May seem a frolic.

THIRD OUTLAW.
[Throwing a piece of Money on the Table.
Canst thou, in consistence
With thy new-found morality, take that,
And bring us its equivalent in wine?

HOST.
Most surely, Sir! with pleasure.

THIRD OUTLAW.
What, although
'Twas taken from a Bishop, honest Trueman?

HOST.
If thou hadst said 'twas taken from the Devil,
'Twere nought to me. Thou shalt have beverage
Fit for a King—imported from the Rhine.

SECOND OUTLAW.
And innocent of Wharf?

FIRST OUTLAW.
Come, come; we joke
The honest man too far. Away, and put
That piece upon the pyramid.

HOST.
(going out).
I will.
But not while thou art here.

[Aside and exit.
FIRST OUTLAW.
Shrewd knave!
The very pink of publicans, whose rule
Is, ne'er to contradict a guest's opinion
That bears a goodly purse.

SECOND OUTLAW.
Enough of him.
What of our Leader? Will he quit the pack?
Or hunt with us as erst? His opening note
Gives token that the scent lies strong.

FIRST OUTLAW.
Nor, doubtless,
Is the fair Hind unworthy of the chase;
And we will drink success to him.—Host! Host!

[Calling.
HOST
(entering).
Coming, ye madcaps! coming. There—

[Setting the Wine on the Table.
FIRST OUTLAW.
Fill round.—
Now—standing—drain a bumper; then to cover:
“Soon may the noble Doe from northern woods
Be captive in his toils!”
[All drink and a general huzza follows.
Kind Host, adieu.
Broad be the basis of thy pyramid,
And may its height match Whernside!

HOST.
Thanks
[Exeunt Outlaws.
God mend them!
Yet if he did, it would not mend my profits.
O self—self—self!—How virtuous one might be,
If it cost nought to be so!

SCENE II.

Kilnsey Crag. Henry and Norton discovered at the base of it.
HENRY.
O! to have seen her, Norton, in these arms,
Pale as a lily—pale as if the death
These arms had saved her from, had found her there!
Then to have watched returning colour faintly
Shine through the white—as dawn's red clouds through mist!—
And O! returning light to that fair eye
Which opened on me like the star of Morning—
Heavens! 'twas a moment and a rapture, worth
All the best hours and feelings of my life!

NORTON.
A tender moment, and a fortunate
For a disclosure of your name and love,
By which, of course, you profited.

HENRY.
It seems
Indeed, a time most opportune; but, Norton,
We are made up of inconsistencies.
I hardly know, e'en yet, why I let 'scape
That golden moment. Something I had learned
Of visit to these wilds; and it might be
That my romantic fancy nursed some scheme
Of gay adventure—some surprise—when She
Should grace my native scenes.

NORTON.
But your return
To the wild band of old associates,
And leading them in wrong, or in excess,
Seems a strange burying of new hopes.

HENRY.
It may.
Yet think of habit, Norton. And besides,
Perchance I thought my band of gallant Outlaws
Might be of use to aid whatever plan
Should catch my wayward humour.

NORTON.
And they will;
Depend upon their faith, and zeal to serve you.

HENRY.
You touch the very point on which I want
Your best co-operation. As I told you,
This Outlaw farce must terminate. Myself
Will counsel D'Eston, Farrand, and the rest.
Your word will weigh with the inferior names,
And eke with those brave peasants, whom our leading
Hath somewhat injured. Go, my friend; share this
[Gives him a Purse.
Among my humble followers, and assure them
That if they now abandon this wild life,
And settle down to honest villagers,
That small donation of their grateful Chief
Shall often be repeated. Act with firmness.
My order, tell them, is imperative.
That they must understand; yet mildly say it,
Nor wound a single feeling.—Pardon me
A caution which I feel your prudence needs not.
Farewell a while. Remember.

[Exit Henry.
NORTON
(solus).
Yes—I swear it!
Bear witness, ye pale stars, I will remember!
If thou and thine had covered me with favours;
If my House—which is ancient as thine own—
Had been distinguished by the courtesies
Lavished on richer, not on better men;
I might have been forgetful—like the world.
If thou and thine had ne'er o'ershadowed me,
As the proud oak the shrub; if thou—ay, thou—
Hadst never crossed my path, nor dashed my hopes,
E'en where my dearest feelings were concerned;
I might have been forgetful. But deep wrongs,
And slights that cut like wrongs, and—worse than all—
That show of kindness to disguise a heart
Of haughtiness and pride, demand remembrance!
To benefits the memory is a sieve,
Which injuries will not pass through. Be it so.
Mine shall be treasured here—until avenged!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Kilnsey Crag as before, but brightened by the advancing morn. Cathleen discovered near the base. To her enter Roddam.
RODDAM.
Sweet dawn and sweet Cathleen, met in a place
Both wild and sweet!
Why, you at least, Cathleen,
Have entered early on the pleasant trifling,
That brings your Lady to the emerald dales
And craggy hills of Craven.
[Contemplates the Crag.
Well, this rock,
Which hangs its rugged, high, and beetling mass,
As if a touch might hurl it to the plain,
Is worthy the attention it arrests.
So, doubtless, thinks Cathleen?

CATHLEEN.
In sooth, fair sir,
Cathleen had other musings.

RODDAM.
O, no doubt;
Such as young maidens will have, who have faith
In their own loveliness.

CATHLEEN.
Nay, Roddam, hear:
I had a dream last night.

RODDAM.
I guess, so, sweet.
You dreamt last night, and you are dreaming now,
As soldiers dream—of blood— (she starts)
I only mean
Of bleeding hearts, and conquests. In your vision,
How many Knights of Craven, fair Cathleen,
Bound in the magic circle of your gaze,
Paid their devoirs.

CATHLEEN.
Not quite a hundred, sir.

RODDAM.
Ha, well; but fifty?—twenty?—ten or five?

CATHLEEN.
Nay, more than five or ten. I think a score.

RODDAM.
By Venus, a fair number to select from!
I hope the vision gave you time to choose?

CATHLEEN.
It did, and I made choice.

RODDAM.
Now, kind Cathleen,
You crucify me! Do not jest too far.
You know my temper, and you know my heart.

CATHLEEN.
The one's like summer lightning, and the other
Like winter snow.

RODDAM.
My heart's not cold, Cathleen.

CATHLEEN.
Indeed I would not have it so.

RODDAM.
You would not?
Then are you kind as beautiful; and I
Must thank you thus— (Attempts to embrace her.)


CATHLEEN.
Presume not so, bold sir.
This was not in my dream—which is a trifle
Too light for Roddam's ear.

RODDAM.
By heaven, you wrong me!
When Cathleen speaks, the ear of Roddam finds
No music in the tones of harp or lute!
Forgive my levity. I long to hear
The dream that to my Cathleen's beauty lends
The charm of pensiveness.

CATHLEEN.
It seemed, at first,
We still were on our journey from the North.
The vales of Tyne, of Tees, and streamy Ure,
I saw again, as in a picture. Then
We reached a Dell which, ever as we went,
Narrowed and deepened, and at last closed in
Dark as a cavern. As we stood, methought,
Flashed the red lightning. Peal on peal the roar
Of thunder followed; and it seemed the rocks,
Piled o'er our heads, had each a separate echo,
Wherewith to mock the elements!

RODDAM.
You woke
In horror at the tumult?

CATHLEEN.
No; my dream
Was still prolonged, till deeper horror struck
The nerves of sleep. The noise of mortal conflict
Followed the thunder's rattle. Man met man—
Though whence the foe, or why there was a foe,
I knew not—and there rose the clash of arms;
And dying groans and garments rolled in blood
Attested well the havoc of the strife.
Anon, I found me in a circle grim
Of savage figures, and with me enclosed
The Lady Margaret and the Lady Emma,
Who shrieked for rescue. To our rescue came
Yourself, methought. One arm around me flung,
The other wielding its red weapon,—you
Had almost freed me from the ghastly ring,
When some one came behind—O God!—and stabbed you!
I saw you die!

RODDAM.
And sweeter death, Cathleen
I cannot die.

CATHLEEN.
I woke, and hastened forth,
To try if the fresh dawn-breeze would blow off
The vapour from my mind.

RODDAM.
And if it will not,
Love, like the beam that gilds yon mountain mist,
Shall shine it into beauty!
[Sounds are heard.
Hark! the Crag
Mutters, as if a hundred hammers plied
Their strokes within its bowels.

CATHLEEN
(looking out).
It but echoes
The trampling of our horsemen who, last night,
Sought at a neighbouring town the rest and food
This village had not. See, they gallop on,
Half screened by yon tall elms. Their white plumes toss,
And their arms glitter in the sun.—But who
Rides at their head? the monkish dress he wears
Contrasting oddly with the martial splendour
Of the gay train behind him.

RODDAM.
Our new Guide;
The same of whom the Host apprised Lord Fenwick.
Cathleen, we must return—by separate routes;
And, kind Cathleen, remember that our parting
Must not be quite an age. It must not, sweet.

CATHLEEN.
And you remember—to forget my dream!

[Exit Cathleen.
RODDAM.
(solus).
There passed the Flower of Beaumont! destined soon
To bloom, I trust, amid the bowers of Roddam.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

An open Country with Whernside and other hills in the distance. Enter Henry on horseback in the disguise of a Monk (solus).
HENRY.
The holy garb of monks full oft, 'tis said,
Mantles Hypocrisy; and if so, I
Not much shall desecrate these sacred robes
By brief assumption. Admirably they
Will aid my scheme. Under this peaceful frock
May ambush warlike weapons, prompt for use
If comes occasion; and this hood, close-drawn,
Will shade the features which the Lady Margaret
Might recognise beneath a secular hat.
—Now, Fortune, smile! and the fair maiden, wooed
By Alnwick's princely turrets, shall be won
Amid the wilds of Craven.

[Exit Henry.
[The Procession (consisting of Lords, Knights, &c. Billmen, Archers, &c. variously armed, and all on horseback) now appears, headed by the Lady Margaret Percy, the Lady Emma Fenwick, and Cathleen. Henry and Roddam, meeting, come forward as if in conversation.
HENRY.
The Tweed, you say?

RODDAM.
Yes. Some good two hours' ride from Tweed, is placed
The mansion of my fathers.

HENRY.
A fine stream
Old ballads say the Tweed is; I suppose
A noble river.

RODDAM.
Why, 'tis somewhat broader
Than any mountain rivulet which here
Obtains the name.

HENRY.
You wear not yet the belt
And spur of Knighthood?

RODDAM.
For that fault thank Fate,
That wrote me Man five years behind the time
When arms might win them. Since the fight of Flodden,
Our Scottish neighbours have not ventured aught
Beyond a straggling inroad, made in darkness,
And ere the morn abandoned—no fair field
In which the brave reap laurels.

HENRY.
True, and therefore
You come to find them here.

RODDAM.
If laurels grew
In Craven, I do think the sword I bear
Quite sharp enough to crop them, Father. But
I come on milder purpose. I would find
The mistress, Pleasure, not the goddess, Glory,
In these soft vales; and so I deem my friends would.

HENRY.
A goodly number, by the bones of Beckett,
In search of Pleasure! Can you tell, fair sir,
The names of half her votaries?

RODDAM.
O, for these,
I would, sir Monk, you heard the lay of Duncan,
Earl Percy's gray-haired Minstrel, which he sung
What time the wine-cup sparkled, and this jaunt
To Craven was the theme of all; for then
You might have heard the catalogue, adorned
With all the pomp of sound and circumstance.
He sung how out of castle, hall, and bower,
From Tweed to Tyne, from Cheviot to the sea,
Northumberland had called her chivalry!
Then, picturing that as blown which yet was folded
In the intent, his strain described the land
As saddened by desertion: “Wansbeck sees
Each tower she mirrors by its Chief forsaken;
The Coquet murmurs of a similar loss;
The Till laments her Grey; the Beaumont mourns
The absence of her Copeland. Alne alone,”
He sung, “may sea-ward flow in silent joy,
For she hath still her Percy.” Ha, ha, ha,
[Laughing.
I've caught the Bardic measure.

HENRY.
Means the song
That Percy stays behind?

RODDAM.
It doth so, Father;
And sooth it means; the Earl remains in Alnwick.

HENRY.
And trusts his sister here, and thus?

RODDAM.
Sir Monk,
If thou shalt dare insinuate that aught
Unworthy may befall the Lady Margaret,
The Lady Emma, or that other Maiden,
From any noble, knight, or squire thou see'st,—
I give thee warning that thy saintly garb
Will scarce protect thy carcass! Here there rides
Not one that would not battle to the death,
Suffer all tortures—sooner than permit
A single breath to taint the virgin fame
Of the least noble yonder!

HENRY.
Why this heat?
I meant no slur upon your Northern virtues!
But mark me, gentle Squire! if to return
Unscathed from Craven hath in your esteem
A feather's weight,—rein in your fiery temper
With firmer hand. There are, and you may meet them,
Who will not brook what my profession bids me
Sustain with patience.

RODDAM.
Father, I will trust
The sword of Roddam to defend its master,
Whene'er th'emergence comes. Of this enough.
If in my warmth offensive phrase escaped me,
I pray you pardon it. I bear a soul
That scorns to give an insult—least of all
Where it were safely given.

HENRY.
(aside).
Ha! safely! Ha!
Soft, fool; he judges of me as I seem,
And so disarms resentment.

RODDAM.
Did you speak?

HENRY.
I wot not that I did. I was but musing,
And wist not that my thoughts grew into words.—
But you did name, I think, a Lady Emma:
Is she a daughter of the House of Percy?

RODDAM.
No; of the House of Fenwick. She is sister
To the young Noble whom you see in speech
With Lady Margaret.

HENRY.
Bosom friends, of course,
The two fair maidens are?

RODDAM.
As close their union
As that of roses intermingling leaves
On the same stalk. From infancy, their sky
Hath worn one colour—sable now with clouds,
Now azure all and sunny. Side by side,
Their valiant Fathers oft rolled back the surge
Of Border war; and all was triumph. Death
Saddened the towers of Wallington and Alnwick
At the same time; for in one week were slain
The Fenwick and the Percy—one in fight
With the rude Scot, the Percy by the rabble
Led on by Archamber. Then brightly rose
Fair years that bade them cease to sorrow, when,
Admired, beloved, and sued for, in one sphere
The bright companions moved. The Brothers, too,
Prolong the friendship that allied their Fathers;
And rumour says that yet a closer link
Will join their future fortunes.

HENRY
(aside).
Hell and death!

RODDAM.
What moves you so, sir Monk?

HENRY.
This fiery steed
Chafes underneath a rider little skilled
In horsemanship.—But I neglect mine office.
For see, the ladies pause, in doubt, perchance,
Which of yon tracks to follow. Sir, adieu.

[Exit Henry.
RODDAM.
(solus).
Beshrew me, but I do admire this Monk,
He is no canting knave, and hath a spirit
Which better would become a son of Mars,
Than one of his calm order.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

Flasby Wood. Norton and other Outlaws discovered in consultation.
NORTON.
We are abandoned, and perhaps—I dread
To speak the word—betrayed.

OMNES
(with energy).
Betrayed!

NORTON.
Be calm.
It is too true; unless obedience prompt
To the Chief's mandate, sooth his altered humour.
And more, my friends; of all the gentles leagued
With us in revel or in guilt—so, now,
It suits their mood to term it—I alone
Remain to head you. Most unfit—

OMNES.
No! no!

NORTON.
I am, 'tis true, devotedly your friend.
Our interests are the same. In sports and perils
I have participated; in your fall—
If that awaits you—I will also share.

OMNES.
Spoke like a man!

NORTON.
Yet be not rash, my friends!
The Chief hath kindness in his nature still
For the poor devils by himself misled.
For proof, behold this purse, which is the bribe
He offers for submission. I advise
You take it on his terms.

OMNES.
No! never! never!

NORTON.
Ye are brave spirits. Yet bethink you, friends;
The very act that spurns his kindness, makes
His anger sure.

AN OUTLAW.
His anger I defy!
If, after calling us around him—after
Encouraging to deeds where Danger sat
And warned us off—if, after all, he leave us;
Nor only leave, but slight; nor only slight,
But hint—Disclosure! by th'infernal fiend,
I, for myself, bid him defiance—thus!
[Draws.
And sooner will I dye this blade in gore—
His or my own—than cringe to him, and beg
With all humility he would not tell
What we have done beneath his high direction!

OMNES
(drawing).
Defiance!

NORTON.
Then Defiance be the word!—
Yet hearken me this once. Consider well
What that bold word imports! The sword once bared,
Ye do begin a quarrel of which none
May tell the issue.

AN OUTLAW.
No; themselves begin it,
By thus deserting and denouncing us.

THE OTHER OUTLAWS.
Most true.

NORTON.
Would I could say 'tis false!—Since, then,
In spite of every warning, ye resolve
Th'event to hazard, and to range, as erst,
A band of gallant Brothers,—here stands one
Who, though he sees the peril, will not shrink,
If so ye will, to meet it at your head.
First, swear ye will be true to me.

OMNES
(kissing their Swords).
We swear!

NORTON.
And I, as Leader, swear—
But here comes one
That must not know of this.
[They sheath their swords.
[Enter Fanny Ashton.
A fair good day
To Fanny Ashton!

FANNY.
And to you, fair sirs,
A better than you're like to have!

NORTON.
Why so?

FANNY.
My Father hath missed the snow-white buck, so prized
By the Lord Clifford, and, suspecting harm to't,
He ranges now the Forest with a band
Of armed attendants.

NORTON.
'Twas a noble deer!
A savoury haunch of it reposes now
In Gennet's cave—to which your sire is welcome.

FANNY.
Ye are strange madcaps! but I must be gone.

[Going.
NORTON.
No, stay; I would admire that pretty wreath
Your tasteful skill hath chosen, to set off
The glossy jet of those wild ringlets, Fanny.

FANNY.
I meant it not to gain your admiration.

NORTON.
You give me needless pain, by telling me
What I too truly understood before.
But I can have revenge.

FANNY.
Pr'ythee, how so?

NORTON.
By saying, in return, that all in vain
You rifled dell and mountain for those sweets;
For they will wither ere you see the Youth
To please whose eye you sought and plaited them.

FANNY
(agitated).
You jest.

NORTON.
Indeed I do not. And besides,
He follows one whose artificial gems
So far outshine these simple natural ones,
That I do fear he will henceforth despise them.

FANNY.
You speak to try me, now?

NORTON.
By'r Lady, no!
I speak with the most virtuous intent
To teach you resignation. Henry's false.

FANNY.
Thou'rt false to say that Henry's false, base man!
He hath a noble nature.

NORTON.
Right; he hath!
And seeks a noble mate. The Cottage girl,
Cuthbert the Ranger's daughter, may not hope
To be his final choice; and I suggest
A transfer of your heart, sweet maid.

FANNY.
To whom?

NORTON.
Would it offend you if I said—to me?

FANNY.
Who may the apple pluck, will scarcely turn
To take the hip or wild-rasp.

NORTON.
But the apple
Being destined for another, may give value
To the inferior fruit.

FANNY
(taking him apart).
With me, it will not.
But this is idle talk. O! tell me all.
To know the certainty of what I fear,
Can but be agony!

NORTON.
The tale is brief.
You recollect his absence when the moon
Was last at full? 'Twas then his hap to save,
During a hunt, the life of Lady Margaret,
Earl Percy's stately sister; and to lose
His heart at the same time. That Northern Flower,
Brought from its native scenes to bloom awhile
In Craven, your most faithful Lover now
Takes means to keep its fragrance to himself.

FANNY.
Then Fanny Ashton is most miserable!
—He promised he would meet me by this tree,
And in this hour. I flew and culled the wreath;
For he hath sworn that not the brightest Fair
In Henry's court so well became her jewels,
As I the flowerets of my native dell!
Then would he talk a thousand gay conceits
Above the simple thought of woodland girl,
Suiting their colours to my face and mind,
And telling me in every wreath I made
Not to omit the violet—which meant truth,
And this is Henry's truth!—Off, off, vain flowers,
[Casting the wreath to the ground.
There—wither like my hopes!

NORTON.
I did not think
That you would take it so to heart, else I
Had told you it less bluntly.

FANNY.
O! most sharp
Your tidings were!—The prickles on the bramble,
Whence I did pluck that rose-bud, from my hand
Drew forth a blood-drop, which I meant to show
For Henry's pity—foolish girl! he leaves
Thy heart to bleed, and will not pity!—O!—

NORTON.
Be calm, sweet Fanny; all will yet be well.

FANNY.
Ay, all will yet be well, when this poor heart
And this hot brain have ceased to throb!—The turf
Will hide my frailties from the eye of shame;
And pity—I want none of it! Tell him
That Fanny Ashton hath no memory
That ever Henry lived!

[Exit Fanny.
AN OUTLAW.
Alas, poor girl!
She will go mad.

NORTON.
Tush! she hath too much passion
For that effect. It is the hurricane
That clears the atmosphere.

AN OUTLAW.
And tears the blossom
From its green stalk, to whirl it into nothing.
But for her warning?

NORTON.
Did I widely err
In the conclusion that we are betrayed?
Already, as you hear, the chase is up!
They might have given us time—a single day—
For calm deliberation, ere they struck
Th'annihilating blow.—Ha! heard you that?
[A whistle is heard.
We are beset!—Stand firm.

[Enter Cuthbert Ashton, and followers.
CUTHBERT.
Soho!—At last
We have them. In Lord Clifford's name I ask
What make ye here?

NORTON.
And in our own, we answer,
It does not suit our humour to declare
Our purpose—or to Clifford, or to thee.

CUTHBERT.
Ill-mannered churls! but though ye veil your purpose,
Mine wears no mask. Ye are my prisoners.

NORTON.
Yes—when our good swords fail us—not till then!

CUTHBERT.
Forward, then, lads, and seize them!

NORTON.
Draw—and on!

[A Battle. Cuthbert Ashton falls wounded. Norton stands over him exultingly in the centre of the Stage. The Rangers, prostrate beneath the uplifted weapons of the Outlaws, on each side form a picture.