University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Changes to another Part of the Valley near the Hermitage.
Enter EDITHA followed by the FALCONER.
EDITHA.
Begone, false traitor! blessings on the man,
Whoe'er he be, that shackled thus thy arms!
Unbind them, ruffian? no, justice forbids
Thy suit, and prudence too. I will not aid thee.

Fal.

Nay sweet, dear lady, untie but this one hard knot, that cramps my wrist so miserably, (was I to tell her that Lord Oswald tied it 't would stand me but in small stead, therefore I'll hide that part of the story) [aside]
now for mercy's sake, most gentle lady (for that fair face of your's bespeaks you to be a gentle lady, far more truly than my rough one declares me a false traitor) do but suffer your white hands to condescend to so charitable an office, and I will follow you ever after thro' this dreary wilderness, like a tame spaniel; nay, on occasion, be your bold mastiffe, to defend you from wrong and robbery.

Ed.
O my disastrous fate! I've miss'd the path,
Pursued by this vile spy of wicked Edel.
Whither to turn I know not, or how drive
This miscreant from me. Ha! a hut is near:
The hallow'd rood fixt on its thatched top
Speaks it the cell of some sage solitary.
What if I seek asylum for a while
Beneath his lonely roof! The good old man,
For Christian charity, will guide me hence,
When my spent limbs have rested me awhile.
Nay, he perchance, in pity to my case,
May force this knave to leave me. [Raps at the door of the Cell.

Holy Sir!
A young and toil-worn traveller invokes
Your aid, and from your saintly orisons
Is fain to steal a moment, not mispent,
If giv'n in charity to help the wretched.
He answers not. He is not in the cell.
Yet thro' this wicker grate I spy his beads,
His book, and lamp, the oil yet burning in it.
Let me attempt the latch: it is not barr'd;
He cannot be far off. I'll venture in.

Fal.

Now that would not I do for a King's ransom; for should she in his absence venture but to touch his breviary or any of his holy geer, she may chance be struck with a dead palsey for the sacrilege. I have often heard of such misadventures. I shall however take no harm, I trust, if I stand here at this due distance and watch the upshot. But here comes the old hermit, and a fine long, white, venerable beard is he blest withal; eighty years growth, I'll warrant it: Yet walks he withal as upright as a wand. This comes of temperance

and spare diet! I shall never look half so well at his years.

Enter EDWIN.
Ed.
I've trod yon path in vain. The Envoy's son,
I look'd, must have been here by early dawn,
And now the golden sun has half-way reach'd
His noontide summit. Some mischance, I fear—
Who have we here? His face I know full well,
'Tis the King's Falconer; there be spies abroad.
Who art thou, Yeoman, and what ruffian hand
Has thus enthrall'd thee?

Fal.

Alas! holy Father, we live in such bad times, that nobles may be called ruffians, acting as thou seest, thus ruffian like. In few words, I am neither more nor less than his Majesty's Yeoman Falconer, come hither, I trow, on no disloyal errand, but to detect disloyalty in the person of a certain great Earl, who, for reasons best known to himself, has feloniously decoy'd from our court the fair Princess Argentile. I have already, ev'n under the hinderance of these vile gyves, found means to come up with one stray kid of the flock, namely the Lady Editha.

Ed.
Stupendous chance! and where—

Fal.

Now, would your holiness please to untie these bonds and lend me the key of your cell, I would instantly make her my prisoner, for in that cell have I kennel'd her.

Ed.
The Lady Editha, and in my cell;
Say'st thou in very truth?

Fal.

Nay, was you to see her, you might chance to think me a liar; for her present humour is to man it in a green jerkin and hose, but I spy'd her thro' all her disguises; therefore would'st thou but assist me in detaining her 'twould be the making of us both; as for your sanctity, I could promise in the king's name to dub you an abbot: for myself, as being no clerk, I shall be content with simple knighthood.

Ed.
Peace, fellow, peace. Let me reflect awhile—
It must not be. This meeting is too sudden;
It might o'ercome her spirits; yet to hide
My transports much exceeds a mortal's power.
O you, ye radiant tutelary Powers,
That rule our destinies, arm, arm my soul
With your own prudence! make me for a while
That old and wither'd anchorite I seem!
Chill the warm tide of joy, that boils within me!
Be all my passions mortified and dead,
Till reason bids them wake to life and rapture!
It is resolved. I still will be disguis'd.
Now to the interview—Villain, approach not!
If thou but stirr'st one step nearer yon threshold,
I've spells within shall shrivel up thy limbs,
As lightning blasts the oak!

[Exit Edwin.
Fal.

Yes truly, and I doubt it not; for there be many of these solitaries, who, holy as they may seem, amuse themselves now and then with as unhallowed a trade as downright witchcraft. Now, if the sight of a young

wench in that lonely place should conjure up a devil in his own breast! But 'tis ill talking of the devil; see where he comes—

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Knave, are we met again?

Fal.

In sooth, noble Sir, this second meeting was none of my seeking, whatever the first was; and ev'n then I never wish'd to meet you single-handed.

Osw.
I then indeed did leave my work half done;
I now will finish it. Thy feet no longer
Shall crawl at large; they too shall have their fetters.

Fal.

Have ye no bowels? this exceeds the barbarity of a Turk or an infidel. Help, good father, help! will you see a good Christian murder'd in the very purlieus of your holy place?

Re-enter EDWIN.
Ed.
What bloody business, in the face of day,
Does the arch fiend of darkness now attempt,
To stain our holy sanctuary? avaunt!
Whate'er thou art. (Just Heav'ns, it is my father!
This day doth teem with wonders) [Aside.

Gracious beard,
Conceal me from his knowledge! [Aside.

Whence? what art thou,
That thus, in fierce and menacing act, assault'st
This peaceful traveller?

Osw.
I know him, Seer,
To be a villain, and a dangerous spy.
I am an honest yeoman, and I bide
I' th' neighb'ring valley.

Fal.

'Tis I, good sir Hermit, that am the honest yeoman, and he, saving his nobility, no better than a false—

Osw.
Be silent, knave, or this avenging blade
Shall nail thy tongue fast in thy traitor jaws.
Poor coward, may'st thou hope that this same hermit,
Thus old, thus palsied, if he dar'd to aid thee,
Could shield thee from my fury!

Fal.

Why indeed it must needs be said, when one feels that plaguy strong twist of your honour's wrist, that one cannot have much hope of that in a natural way; but if he was so minded, being a holy man, he might by his prayers—and yet after all, it may be as well now at once to yield to thee at discretion.

[Oswald binds his feet.
Ed.
Take not his life.

Osw.
I do not mean it, Father.
I'll but secure the knave from further mischief.

Fal.

Look ye, my Lord, noble yeoman I mean, whatever mischief might have been in my intention, as we are all sinners you know, I have done you none in practice. I told you one piece of news, you know, that pleas'd you so much, that you pinion'd my arms for it, and now that you have shackled my legs I could tell you another, that would please you still better. But this I do not mean, unless you will set both at their liberty.

Osw.
Give me thy news, and let me judge its worth.

Fal.

Know then, that the princess's gentlewoman is— but will you in very deed promise me my freedom?

Ed.
There is no need. I without fee will speak
The rest; she now is lodg'd in yonder cell.

Fal.

Methinks now, master Hermit, you might, in charity to my pitiful plight, have suffer'd me to make some small profit by my own secret.

Osw.
Haste, call her forth.

Ed.
Alas, Sir, long fatigue
Has much exhausted her too tender frame!
Ev'n now my skill was charitably bent
On brewing cordials, which might best restore
Her strength and spirits.

Osw.
Trust me, holy Father,
I am her best physician. Lead me to her.

Ed.
Wait but a little hour.

Osw.
No, I must see
Her instantly; for she is dear to me.

Ed.
Dear to thee! O repeat the blessed word!
What has my rashness utter'd?

[Aside, having through joy altered his voice into its natural tone in the preceding line.
Osw.
Sure that voice—
And yet it cannot be; Heav'ns, how I tremble!
It pierc'd my very soul! surely it came
Thro' the thin air, not from his aged organs;
But still it was the voice of my lost Edwin.

[Leaning against the side of a rock.
Ed.
Hence with disguise! it was indeed thy Edwin's;
For thou hast call'd him thine.

[Pulling off his beard.
Osw.
This is too much! [Falling into his Son's arms.

Strengthen me, Heav'n, to bear it!

Ed.
O my Father!

Osw.
My Son, my Son, words cannot speak my transport!
Lead me into thy mansion.

Ed.
Pause a while,
And bless me on this spot with your forgiveness;
Or on this spot again reject your son!

Osw.
Reject thee, Edwin!

Ed.
Yes, Sir, here this instant!
Nay take the very life-blood, which ye gave me,
But take it here; for Editha as yet
Knows not I live, therefore she will not weep.

Osw.
But she shall weep, and weep such tears as these.
See how they course, my Boy, down these old cheeks!
Dost pardon me, Edwin? I see thou dost.
Thy Editha is thine; this hand shall join you.
Let's to the happy business. Haste, my Son,
This is a meeting of that wond'rous sort,
As seems contrived by holier agents far
Than common chance.

Ed.
It is, and my full soul
Piously thanks their holy agency.
Yet, Sir, if I reveal myself thus rashly
To tender Editha, I fear me much—

Osw.
Fear nothing, Son! at such a fateful time
He acts the best, who acts upon the sudden,
And is but engine to the purposes
Of those supernal workers, who disdain
The aid of our weak reason; nay, perchance,
May frown if it submits not to their guidance.
—But who comes here?

Enter a DANE.
Dane.
The Danish envoy, Father,
Commends him to your benizon, and asks
For tidings of his son.

Ed.
Hence, Sir, with speed,
And tell him, tho' that son be not return'd,
I shall full soon attend him at his tent
With news of special moment. [Exit Dane.

I not doubt, [To Oswald.

The princess, Sir, is lodg'd in safety near us.

Osw.
She is—and soon as I have seen my daughter.—

Ed.
O, Sir, this goodness overcomes me wholly!
What shall I do or say?

Osw.
Follow me, Boy,
Into the cell. A moment there shall show
How kindly I will own her for my child,
How make her thine for ever. Then, my Son,
I'll with thee to the strand, salute the Envoy,
And plan, while Heav'n beholds us with a smile,
How best to avenge the wrongs of Argentile.