University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Another Part of the Valley.
Enter ARGENTILE in the dress of a Shepherdess.
ARGENTILE.
Welcome, these russet weeds, this pastoral crook,
More welcome than the sceptre and the train!
These are the simple 'tire that Nature meant
Her votaries should wear; sweet smiling Health,
And Happiness, and Peace, her holy sisters,
Never wore other, when, in better days,
They deign'd to dwell with mortals. Hail, thrice hail,
Thou solitary scene! how far beyond
The pageantry of courts thy stillness charms!
This grove my sighs shall consecrate; in shape
Of some fair tomb, here will I heap the turf,
And call it Adelbright's. Yon aged yew,
Whose rifted trunk, rough bark, and knarled roots
Give solemn proof of its high antientry,
Shall canopy the shrine. There's not a flower,
That hangs the dewy head and seems to weep,
As pallid blue bells, crow-toes, and marsh lilies,
But I'll plant here; and, if they chance to wither,
My tears shall water them: there's not a bird
That trails a sad soft note, as ringdoves do,
Or twitters painfully like the dun martlet,
But I will lure, by my best art, to roost
And plain them in these branches. Larks and finches
Will I fright hence, nor aught shall dare approach
This pensive spot, save solitary things
That love to mourn, as I do.

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Gracious Mistress!
I come with news.

Arg.
Is Editha then found?

Osw.
I know not that—

Arg.
Alas! why would'st thou mock me?

Osw.
The Danes, the Danes are still upon our coast;
I learn'd the tidings of a treacherous spy,
Whom I disarm'd and bound; and hast'ning back
Mounted yon hill, where I myself beheld
Their goodly fleet, some fifteen sail or more,
Moor'd in a neighb'ring creek. Pitch'd on the beach
Stood there a gallant tent, where, I not doubt,
The Envoy sojourns. Let me bear you quickly
To his protection; for, I fear me much,
Discov'ry waits us here.

Arg.
No, Oswald, no;
Till Editha be found I will not leave
This secret nook. Didst thou not promise me
To hie thee where the parting road might chance
Mislead her step?

Osw.
I did; but this event—
O let me instant lead you to the strand!

Arg.
What, Oswald! and forego the plighted word
I gave poor Editha! Here did I fix
Our place of meeting; Holy truth forbid
I should deceive her! Haste thee hence again.
Till her I see, I can resolve on nothing.
Take thou the valley, I myself will mount
Yon sidelong hill. My eye is younger, Earl,
And may descry her sooner. This when try'd,
Some two hours hence we'll meet at this same yew.
Let's lose no time; nay, answer not, good Oswald,
But to the search. To-morrow thou shalt rule,
If she be found to day. Heav'n speed thy errand.

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Valley.
Enter CURAN in a Forester's habit.
CURAN.
How have the mazy tangles of this wood
Misled my steps! since he, the faithless Falconer,
If faithless, or perchance himself misled,
Left me to journey with unguided foot
Thro' this wild wilderness. The opening vale
Now spreads a broader path; yet, ere I take it,
Tir'd as I am, I'll climb this rocky steep,
Which towers so high that it insures a sight
Of the broad sea. Methinks I'm near it now;
For on my breast the gale beats light and keen,
And has withal a smack of brine upon it,
That seems as freshly stolen from the wave.
I hope 'tis so; for much my strength is spent
With this long ramble. By your leave, fair bank!
Ere I mount further up this rugged hill,
I'll press awhile your violets and daisies
With my tir'd limbs. What if I sleep awhile?
This white thorn brake will screen me, and the brook,
That babbles at its foot, persuades to it
Most musically; prattle on, cool neighbour!
I'll take thy council, and forget my care.

[He sleeps.
Enter ARGENTILE.
Not here! full sure I saw from yonder heights
My Editha, in her green huntsman's tire,
Bolt from the coppice. It was all too distant
To mark her features, yet it sure was she;
For they, the boorish inmates of these hamlets,
Have none so gentle carriage. I'll not holla,
Lest haply I affright her. 'Tis most certain
She past by this same dingle. Gracious Powers
And here I find her couch'd; her faithful head
Wrapt in her scanty mantle! poor spent wench,
How fast does sleep infold thee! It were sin
To break thy slumbers. I will sit, and watch thee,
As oft thy faithfulness, in better days,
Has bended o'er my pillow. How her eye
Will glisten when she wakes! How will it start,
With a glad tear, to see her mistress near her!
Yes, the kind maid will weep. I crave thy pardon,
Thou'rt now a lusty yeoman, and in truth
Thy goat-skin belt, tagg'd with thy bugle horn,
And all thy forest geer become thee mainly:
Nay, thou might'st pass (thy softer features shrouded
Thus as they are) full well for what thou art not.
Yet, my best Editha, this rugged stone
Seems but a churlish bolster! I will raise
Thy head, and—Mercy shield me, ha!

[Starts back while Curan wakes.
Cur.
Where am I?
Methought some angel whisper'd me, and wak'd me:
I see it still, but ah! it flies; stay! stay!
Divinest vision, that e'er blest my slumbers;
'Tis not a vision, for I grasp her hand!
But yet a warmth, a softness all cœlestial
Thrills at the touch. O speak, thou wond'rous creature,
And tell me what thou art!

Arg.
An innocent maid,
That took thee for another like herself.
Forgive the crime of error; quit my hand,
Or I shall faint thro' fear.

Cur.
Why dost thou tremble,
Thou matchless paragon? by all the Saints
Thou art as safe—as sacred—

Arg.
But not free,
While thus you seize my hand.

Cur.
Thy pardon, Fairest!
It was a boldness nothing, but the fear
Of losing thee, could prompt, and for that boldness
Such fear must plead excuse. Dost thou forgive?

Arg.
I do, if so you suffer me to leave you.

Cur.
Stay but a moment. I'm a wand'ring youth,
Whom the wild mazes of this wood misled:
You must, for very charity, direct
My witless step.

Arg.
Where art thou bound?

Cur.
I know not.
There would I bide, where I could tend on you,
And call you my heart's idol.

Arg.
Cease, bold Youth!
I must not hear thee.

Cur.
Thou would'st hear, fair Nymph,
All this and more from him, that happy youth,
For whom while slumb'ring here it was so late
Thy error, and my bliss, that I should pass.
O for the wealth of this, and ev'ry isle
The broad sea circles; I would give it all
To be that youth!

Arg.
In sooth you wrong me, Stranger,
I know none such.

Cur.
Indeed!

Arg.
Or if I do,
'Tis one whom, finding, I should call my brother,

Cur.
Would I were then that brother! No, not that;
It is too cold a wish; can brothers feel
That throbbing extacy, that trembling ardor,
That wraps me from myself, fires all my soul,
And tells me thou art dearer far than sister,
Father, or friend, dearer than life itself?

Arg.
Ah! hope not, Youth, tho' practis'd as thou seem'st,
More than enough, in all those flattering arts
That false men use to guile unwary maids;
Hope not to win my credence to a tale
So palpable and gross: we are but now,
Some moments past, first met, and me thou lov'st
(Shame on thy fabling tongue) dearer than life.

Cur.
I do, and call the sweet celerity,
With which I love, best witness of its truth.
Say, I had seen thee once (if possible)
And but approv'd thy beauties; if at second,
Third, or some after meeting, love had grown
From that approof, I then had school'd my heart,
And question'd its tame motions, call'd in Judgment
To weigh in her slow scale the due degree
Of my cool passion. No, thou sylvan wonder,
I saw thee, and I lov'd without one pause
'Twixt sight and love; and I must love thee ever,
Because I lov'd so soon.

Arg.
And do I stay
To hear thee?

Cur.
Why not stay? the blessed spirits,
That rove yon realms of light, might deign descend
To hear a tale of love so chaste as mine,
And bear their saintly purity to heav'n
Unsullied as it came.

Arg.
Was I, like them,
Secure from mortal frailness, trust me, Youth,
I would not bid thee peace; but as I am
A simple maid, whose very simpleness
Makes her (so set with snares is this bad world)
Only the readier prey, I must not hear thee;
Indeed I must not. Fare thee well, good Youth!
A gentle one thou seem'st, and, sooth to say,
Such as, if chance had fixt thee in this vale
My rural neighbour, I had been well pleas'd
To call a friend,

Cur.
O! call me so, sweet Maid,
And I will ever—

Arg.
Hear me out, kind stranger,
I said, had chance so fixt thee, and withal
Had'st thou with that same rustic shamefac'dness
Demean'd thyself as simple shepherds use,
Nor dar'd to talk, but of our flocks and herds,
Or healing roots, their properties, and powers,
And which is found on hills, which loves to dip
Its tendrils on the stream—which flaunts on meads,
And such like innocent themes—but this thy rashness,
Not to say boldness, now has all undone,
And therefore must I leave thee.

Cur.
Stay thee, Nymph,
Or let me follow thee!

Arg.
I have an uncle,
With whom I dwell, who, should he meet thee, Youth,
Would chide thy frowardness.

Cur.
Ah! let him chide,
So thou but pitiest me.

Arg.
And canst thou hope it?

Cur.
Ah! why not hope from thee, what I might hope
From yon bright throne of mercy? pity thence
Falls on the penitent. Forgive then, fairest,
This first offence; and tho' I love thee still
To desperation—do not fly—my tongue
Shall ne'er again declare it. Stay, my Fair,
I'll talk alone of flocks, and flowers, and herbs,
So thou but listen me: and art thou gone?
I dread thy frown as death, yet more than death
I dread thy absence; therefore I'll pursue thee.

[Exeunt.

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.