University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—The open Country.
Enter Ethelbert and Hardolf, cautiously, R. S. E.
Eth.
(L.)

Hush!—Methought I heard the trampling of
horses; if so, we must be on the alert. Where is Fernwold?

Har.
(R.)

Gone foraging for provisions. 'Tis high
time, I'm sure, we had something in the shape of a dinner,
or the crows will very shortly make a meal of us.

Eth.

Very true, Hardolf; we are, indeed, a set of
poor miserable wretches.

Har.

How so, captain?

Eth.

Why, look ye: first of all, the tyranny of the
great, who rule the land with an iron sceptre, forced us
to take up arms in our own defence; that they call rebellion,
and send their soldiers to cut us down like
grass. Now, we are reduced by defeat and ill-success
to wander about the country, and take whatever we can
find, to satisfy the cravings of nature—that they call
robbery; so that, look which way we will, death stares
us in the face; for none but a fool would expect mercy
from Lord Raymond.

Har.

Why, then, stand thus shillishalli? Since tyranny
has reduced us to such extremity, why not declare
war against the whole human race at once? I
only wish my comrades had chosen me for their leader;
I'll wager they'd have been a devilish deal better off
than they are now.

Eth.

Thou art no flatterer, Hardolf, to tell me this to
my face. However, if our comrades repent their choice,
they can easily fix upon some one else; but this I am
resolved on—as long as I am their commander, our
swords shall never be drawn against the defenceless.

Har.

What! not if we are starving?

Eth.

No, not even then. Better to die by inches than
have innocent blood to answer for.

[Crosses to L.
Har.
(R.)

Ha! ha! ha! Do the tyrants who oppress
us think so? Where is there a more cruel and merciless
villain than Lord Raymond?

Eth.

Let him look to himself—I'll not imitate him.
Yet live we must; and, whenever we happen to meet
with a haughty lord, a purse-proud citizen, an overfed
parson, or a lawyer laden with plunder, I'll be the very
first to attack and ease them of their superfluous pelf;
but never let me catch a man under my command offering
the least violence to the poor. If I do, death shall
be his portion.

Har.

Well, don't be angry, captain. [Aside.]
A stupid
fool!—I wish I was leader! But, see, here comes
Fernwold.

Enter Fernwold, and others of the Rebel Party, L.
Fer.
(L.)

The queen's troops, headed by that remorseless
tyrant, Lord Raymond, have discovered our retreat,
and are hastening hither to rob us of all we have left in

the world—our lives. Away!—We have not a moment
to lose.

Eth.

Now, then, my gallant comrades, be firm. If
we shrink from danger, we know our doom. The mountain
pass is the only way now left us to life and liberty.
Away!

[Exeunt, R. S. E.
Enter Lord Raymond, Henry, Edwin, Officers, and troops, L. S. E.—Grand Flourish.
Lord R.
(C.)
If our information be correct,
The remnant of the rebels are now lurking
About these parts; not daring openly
To face us in the field, but plundering,
Assassin like, the poor defenceless traveller.
To your posts; and show no mercy to the wretches.
Rush on, and cut them down!—For, when the poor
Rebel, they are but whetstones to our swords.
Murmur they may—ay, and petition too,
And humbly beg redress on bended knee;
But, if impatiently they fly to arms,
To fight for what we prudently deny them,
We then let loose our bloodhounds, to destroy
Their lives and hopes at once. 'Tis policy.

[Trumpet without.
Enter an Officer, L.
Offi.

My lord, a party of the rebels have been observed
making in haste towards the mountain pass.

Lord R.
We'll intercept them by a nearer path.
Some men, when cross'd in love, lose charity,
[To Henry.
And hate their rivals; yet we will be friends,
Though we do both adore one lovely object,
A maiden worthy of a monarch's throne.
You she prefers, despising all advantage
Of fortune. Honour, therefore, now compels me
To think no more of her. Yet, favour'd youth,
I feel an earnest interest in your welfare,
And will, if you deserve it, which I doubt not,
Do all I can to further your promotion.

Hen.
(R.)
My lord, your kindness is a spur to action.
Give me a post of honour and of danger;
And, if I shrink from death, hold me a wretch,
Unworthy of Jane's love and your protection.

[Bows.
Lord R.
'Tis well. Then hasten to the narrow pass,
Through which the rebels mean to cut their way.
Their numbers are but few, yet desperation
Will make them fight like lions.

Hen.
And lions they shall find to combat with.
Away!

[Exeunt all but Lord Raymond, R.
Lord R.
Enthusiastic idiot! Go, fight on!
If thou escape, then to more desp'rate means
I'll have recourse. Assassination—ay,
Or poison! Anything to rid me of thee.
Fate, I am thine! If thou propitious prove,
Let Henry ne'er return to joy and love!

[Exit, R.
Enter Eugene, L., driving Buckram on before.
Eug.
(L.)

Come, move on, sirrah. I'll soon make a
soldier of you. [Puts a helmet on Buckram's head, knocking it over his eyes.]

Now, hang on your sword. [Buckram awkwardly obeys.]

Why, I declare you look quite a different
man altogether now.

Buc.
(R.) [Coughing.]

Now, pray, Mr. Officer, do
consider—what use should I be in the field of battle,
with this poor lame leg, and terrible churchyard
cough?

[Coughing.
Eug.

No hesitation, sir, or—

[Raising his sword.
Buc.

Come, come, I say; take care what you're about
with that great bodkin.

Eug.

Will you march, I say? We shall be too late.

Buc.

What, to get our throats cut? Plenty of time
for that, believe me. But you will let me just stop to
tie my shoe-string, won't you?

Eug.

Not a moment. March, I say!

Buc.

Oh, dear! what a terrible stitch that was in my
side! Oh! I'm extremely ill! This is cruel usage for
a poor, weak, lame, consumptive creature, like me!—
Oh, dear! oh, dear!

[Exit, driven off by Eugene, R.

SCENE II.

—A Romantic Pass in the Mountains—Alpine Bridge, &c.
Enter Henry, Edwin, and Troops, L. U. E.
Hen.
(R. C.)

This is the pass; yon bridge must be
defended, cost what it will.

Edw.
(L.)

But, I say, Henry, if anything serious
should happen to us, what would become of the poor
girls at home? When do you intend to send off Mr.
Pigeon, the postman, with a letter, eh?

Hen.

Soon as we know the issue of the combat.
Where did you leave the pretty bird?

Edw.

At our head-quarters, the village alehouse;
and I told the hostess to be sure and give him plenty to
eat.

Hen.

Alas! poor thing; I fear he will not eat.

Edw.

Why not? Because he is in love? So am I,
too, over head and ears; yet my appetite's as good as
ever it was. No, no: if I were to starve myself to
death, I might as well be shot dead at once; and then
what would poor Amy do? Our sweethearts are really
to be pitied, poor girls; for, if they were to lose us, they
might search the world through before they'd find two
such nice, charming, agreeable young men, as you and
I, Henry.

Hen.
Fear not, my friend.
Heaven will protect the man who does his duty;
And cowards are not worth a fair maid's love.
[Horn sounds without.
Hark!—The appointed signal. To the bridge!

[All advance to the bridge.
Enter Eugene, driving Buckram along as before, L.
Eug.
(L.)

Now to show your courage. This is the
field of battle.

Buc.
(R.)

And a cursed ugly-looking field it is, too.
Not a morsel of cabbage growing in it. Suppose, now,
I were to climb up this tree; I could give you warning
of danger, you know.

[Offers to climb—Eugene pulls him down.
Eug.

No skulking, sir. To your post—follow me.

[Retires to the bridge.
Buc.

To my post! I wish I was a post myself, or
anything but what I am. Egad! I've a mind to put my
best leg foremost, and—

[Is about to run off, R., when he is alarmed by the report of a musket; he then runs to L., and is driven back by a second shot; he scampers about, confused and terrified, and at length climbs up a tree for protection.
Enter Ethelbert, Hardolf, Fernwold, and Rebels, R.
Eth.
(R.)

Now, my brave companions in misfortune,
to force the mountain pass, or perish in the attempt!—It
is our only way to life and liberty.

[Advances with his men to the bridge.
Hen.
[From the bridge.]

Halt, rebels!—Yield, or die!

Eth.

Never!

[A general combat; the rebels retreat, and draw the yeomanry from their position; they are at length compelled to retire, pursued by the rebels, R.
Buc.
[Peeping out.]

There's precious work for you!
The coast is clear, however, at last; so I'll descend, and
make the best of my way home. [Comes down from the tree.]

What folly it is to go to war!—As if there was
any pleasure in a man's getting his throat cut, or a great
button-hole made in his body! [Gun fired without.]
Oh,
dear! oh, dear!—There it goes again! Now, legs, be
true as gold, and swift as lightning!

[Runs off, L.
Loud Alarum. Re-enter Hardolf, Fernwold, and several Rebels, with Henry, a prisoner, bound, R. S. E.
Fer.
(R.)

So, you are compelled to yield at last, my
fine fellow?

Hen.
(C.)

Since you are brave, be merciful as well;
not for my sake, but the dear girl I love.

Har.
(L.)

Oh, you're in love, are you? Ha! ha!
ha! But, come, let's see what you've got about you. [Observing Jane's and Lady Jane's pictures round Henry's neck.]

A picture!—And here's another. [Tears them off his neck, and hangs them round his own.]

Two devilish fine
girls, upon my soul! You seem to have been a mighty
favourite with the soft sex. How many sweethearts
have you got in all, eh?

Hen.
[Struggling.]
Unfeeling monsters!—Strip me—leave me nothing,
But that dear picture!

Fer.

So, one of them is your favourite, I suppose.—
Poor girl, I pity her with all my heart! But say,
youngster, have you got any money about you?

Hen.

None—I am poor; yet, surely, poverty is not a
sin.

Har.

So great a sin, that you've no hope of mercy;
so here goes.

[Offers to despatch Henry.
Enter Ethelbert, rushing between, with several followers, R.
Eth.

Hold!—Who dares harm that youth? He has
fought bravely, and therefore should be by the brave
respected. He is our prisoner—let that suffice. Convey
him hence, well guarded. Away!

Hen.

Oh, for a sword, that I might cut my way,
Through a whole host of foes, to her I love!

[Exit Henry, guarded, R.
Edw.
[From the bridge.]

This way, my lord. They
were too many for us before; but now I think we are
more than a match for them.

[Grand flourish and alarum.
Enter Lord Raymond, with Yeomanry, from the bridge.— The Rebels, after a short resistance, are subdued and bound.
Lord R.
(C.)

Convey the miscreants hence, and guard
them well.

Edw.
(L.) [Looking round.]

But where is Henry?

Har.
(R. C.)

If you mean that milk-faced lady-looking
youth, who gave us so much trouble, he's safe
enough.

Edw.

What, a prisoner? Come, some of ye [To the Yeomen]
;
we'll rescue him if he were in the clutches of
the devil himself.

Lord R.
Stay, Edwin. I lament poor Henry's fate;
Yet, recollect we've prisoners to guard;
'Twere hazardous to leave them.

Edw.

What! let Henry remain in the hands of such
cruel bloodthirsty monsters! No, never! To save my
friend, damme but I'd disobey the queen herself, and
take the consequences. So, come along, some of ye, to
Henry's rescue. What! not a soul offers to stir! Well,
no matter; give me but another sword for Henry, and
here goes, single-handed, to save my dear friend's life,
or perish in the attempt!

[Exit, R.
Lord R.
Hence with your prisoners,
[To the Yeomanry.
And wait for further orders at the inn,
Where we have fix'd our quarters.
[Pointing to Hardolf, who is still bound.
This miscreant I will myself examine.
[Exeunt all the Rebels but Hardolf, L., guarded by Yeomanry.
Come hither, fellow. If the countenance
Be, as some say, an index to the mind,
Thy heart must be one foul and loathsome mass
Of black deformity: thy scowling brow
Betrays the tempest of a troubled soul,
And stamps thee reprobate. What wouldst thou do
For life and liberty?

Har.
(L.)
Anything, my lord.

Lord R.
These baubles I shall keep. [Taking the two miniatures from Hardolf's neck.]
Yet I'll not rob thee,
Though thou art a robber. There's ten times the value
Of such a paltry booty.

[Throws him a purse.
Har.

Your lordship's very gracious; but, unless my
hands be untied, the purse may lie there till doomsday,
ere I can take it up.

[Tries in vain.
Lord R.
If thou for gold wilt do a desperate deed,
I will unbind thee.

[Unbinds his hands.
Har.
I'll do anything, my lord, for liberty— [Eagerly snatching up the purse.]
—and money.

Lord R.
Thou shalt have both. Now mark well what I say:
Shouldst thou betray me, thou, as rebel, diest
With thy companions. It would not avail thee
To say thou wert my hireling: thy oath
Would never gain belief 'gainst the mere word
Of Raymond. You beheld that youth—young Henry?

Har.
I did, my lord.

Lord R.
He is my bitterest enemy;
Yet from no private motive—that were wrong.
I fear he may prove dangerous to the state,
Through his great popularity, and wish
He were remov'd. You understand me well?

Har.
Perfectly, my lord. And the reward—

Lord R.
Should he be rescued, and thou do the deed,
A thousand crowns, besides thy life and freedom.

Har.
Agreed! But I've no arms.

Lord R.
[Giving a dagger.]
Take thou this dagger. At the inn to-night,
When all are buried in the arms of sleep,
Thou canst perform thy task. Fear not detection;
I will protect thee from all consequences.
Trust thou my word.

[Crosses to L.
Har.
And mine, my lord.

Lord R.
Nay, I would rather trust that look of thine,
Which speaks hell's language plainer than thy tongue!
If thy hand falter at the bloody deed,
Let thine eye be its prompter, and the scene
Of murder will not halt.
Away!—Remember time and place.—Be firm!

Har.

Ay, as a rock, my lord. Yet, should I be
questioned who 'twas unbound me, what am I to say?

Lord R.
Leave all to me.
The vilest rogues, supported by the great,
Are often used as instruments of state.

[Exeunt, L.

SCENE III.

—Outside of a Country Inn.
Enter Buckram, L., running, quite out of breath, and splashed all over with mud.
Buc.

Oh, dear! oh, dear! I narrowly escaped being
overtaken, by wading through a horse-pond. I declare
I feel quite exhausted, and extremely uncomfortable.—
Ah, here's a friendly inn.

[Knocks.
The Hostess appears at the window.
Hos.

Who's there?

Buc.

A gentleman traveller, ma'am, in need of some
refreshment. Open the door, if you please; I've not a
moment to lose—I must be off.

Hos.

You'll excuse me, sir, but I never open the door
to any suspicious-looking characters in these troublesome
times, especially when my husband's not at home.

Buc.

Suspicious-looking characters! What do you
mean, madam, by—But, no matter; you'll hand me a
cup of sack through the window, I suppose, won't you?

Hos.

Oh, certainly, sir, as many as you please.

[Goes from the window.
Buc.

If she had but a civiller tongue in her head, this
country hostess would be a nice comfortable woman
enough. And her husband not at home! Egad! I've
half a mind to jump in at the window, and pay her my
respects. I never found a woman in my life that didn't
fall desperately in love with me after five minutes' conversation.
The lavish hand of nature must certainly
have made me very engaging. Ah, here comes the
charming hostess with my sack.

Hos.

Here, sir, is a cup of as excellent sack as ever
moistened a gentleman's lips, since the days of Adam
and Eve.

Buc.
[Smacks his lips.]

Very acceptable—never was so
dry—inside, I mean—in all my life.

[Offers to take the wine.
Hos.
[Drawing back the cup, and holding out the other hand for money.]

One shilling, sir, if you please.

Buc.

Oh, very well, ma'am. 'Pon my word!—
Pretty behaviour this, to a gentleman of my cloth!—
But you shall have your shilling, ma'am—oh, yes!—I'd
not have you for a moment imagine that a person of my
respectability is without a shilling in his pocket. [Feels in his pockets.]

Why, odds bodkins and shears!—How

the devil is this? May I never stitch a button-hole
again, but I left home in my hurry with empty pockets!
I'm not master of a farthing!—But never mind: you'll
trust me, ma'am—I know you will. I see good nature
in your agreeable countenance.

Hos.

None of your flattery, Mr. Snip. I'm not to be
imposed upon by gentlemen of your cloth; for I neither
take in swindlers, nor suffer them to take me in. Ah!
here come the brave yeomanry, who have fixed their
head-quarters with me. Now I shall not want for protection.

Buc.
[Alarmed.]

The yeomanry!—The devil!—That
dreadful intelligence is enough to make a gentleman—
run as fast as his legs can carry him.

[Scampers off, R.
Enter Eugene, with Yeomanry and Rebels, L., the latter bound.
Hos.
[Opening the door.]
Welcome, gentlemen; this way, if you please.

[Exeunt Hostess, Eugene, Yeomanry, and Rebels, into the inn.
Enter Lord Raymond, followed by Hardolf, L.
Lord R.
(L.)
This is the inn—you know the rest.—Be firm.
What ho!

[Knocks at the door.
Re-enter Hostess, courtesying.
Lord R.
[To Hardolf.]
Go in—I'll come anon.
[Exeunt Hostess and Hardolf into the inn.
Henry not yet return'd! 'Tis a good omen:
He may, perchance, ere this have met his fate,
Without my interference. Would it were so!
I then might reap the harvest of success
Without the stings of conscience. What an idiot
Am I to talk thus! Conscience, I defy thee!
Hence, with thy babbling!—thou spurious brat,
Of prejudice and superstition born!
I'll revel in delight until it cloys,
In spite of thee, thou mar-feast of man's joys!

[Exit into the inn.

SCENE IV.

—A Room in the Inn.—Two practicable doors in flat, with window, L.—over the Chimney-Piece, a loaded Gun, near which is Henry's Pigeon in a Cage.
Eugene, Yeomanry, and Prisoners, discovered at table; Hardolf sitting apart, L., drinking, the Hostess, C., waiting on him.
Eth.
[Aside to Fernwold.]

Our comrade, Hardolf, seems
to have got mightily into favour with Lord Raymond.
As sure as death, that scoundrel has betrayed all our
secrets—I knew he was a villain.

Eug.
[To the Yeomanry.]

Retire, and take some refreshment.
Guard well your prisoners; if but one escape,
remember you answer for him with your lives.

[Exeunt Yeomanry with Rebels, all but Hardolf, R. S. E.
Hos.

Ay, if they offer to stir, shoot the villains! I
always keep a loaded gun in the house.

[Exit, L. S. E.
Har.

A loaded gun!—Egad, I should like to render
that harmless before I perform the task assigned me by
Lord Raymond. I'll discharge it; and yon pigeon will
serve both as an excuse and a mark to shoot at. [Takes the pigeon out of the cage, throws it out at the window, and fires.]

Down he goes!—No—he mounts again—he's
only wounded.

Enter Lord Raymond, R. D., Hostess, L., Eugene and Yeomanry, alarmed, R.
Hos.
(C.)
Murder! fire!—What's the matter?

Lord R.
(R.)
Have any of the prisoners escaped?

Har.
(L.)

No, my lord; I only shot at a pigeon for
my own amusement, that's all.

Hos.

What, that pretty innocent little creature? Get
out of my house directly, you cruel monster, you.

Lord R.
Nay, nay, good woman.
I know the man, and answer for his conduct.

[A loud knocking at L. D. without.
Hos.
Who's there?

Edwin.
[Without.]

Open the door; here's Henry safe
and sound—I've rescued him. Hurrah!

Lord R.

Perdition!—Henry safe! [To Hardolf.]
You
know the rest.

[Exit Hardolf, R. D.
Hos.
[Opening the door.]

You're welcome, gentlemen.

Edw.
(L. D.)

Here he is, safe and sound, though I
had a hard struggle for it!

Hen.
To friendship do I owe my life, and now,
Since danger is no more, let's think of love,
And send some tidings to the darling girls,
Who wait impatiently to hear from us.

Edw.

So do, Henry; write something quite tender
and sentimental, d'ye hear? Yet, upon second thoughts,
you may as well spare yourself the trouble, as we all
march home to-morrow morning.

Lord R.
Not so: for, though the rebels are subdued,
It were not safe to quit the country yet—
Henry and you remain; and, since you both
Have prov'd yourselves most worthy of my confidence,
I leave you in command till further orders.

Edw.

You are very kind, my lord; but really we are
not in the least ambitious: all we wish, with due submission,
is to make haste home and get married.

Lord R.
Full time enough to run into the snares
Which woman lays for inconsiderate youth.
[Crosses, R., to Henry.
It grieves me sorely, Henry, to inform you,
That the poor bird your Jane gave you at parting,
Has, by a most untoward accident,
Been suffer'd to escape—yet write your letter,
And, as I journey homeward, I will be
Myself your messenger.

Hen.
(C.)

My lord, you are most kind: what ho!
good hostess.

Enter Hostess, L.

Pens, ink, and paper here.

[Exit Hostess, L., and re-enters, L., with pens, ink, and paper.
Hos.

Here, sir, is every thing you called for.

[Exit, L.
Lord R.

Be brief, young man; for I depart to-night

[Exit, R..
Edw.

Well, Henry, I'll not interrupt you—our supper
is ready; when you have done, you'll join us.

[Exit, L.
Hen.
[Solus.]
Delay in love is death, by slow degrees!
Oh, what are rank and titles but a sound,
To him whose soul longs for more pure delights?
This cruel separation from my Jane
May prove most fatal to our happiness.
Lord Raymond goes to-night: does he mean well
He seems so friendly, that I dare not doubt him—
Now for a few fond words to her I love.

[Sits down at the table, and writes—Hardolf slinks in behind him, R. D., with a dagger in his hand, and is about to stab him, when Lord Raymond, who follows, arrests his arm.
Lord R.
[Softly.]
Not yet.

[Lord Raymond retires with Hardolf, R. D.—Henry finishes and folds up his letter—an alarm of drums and trumpets is heard without.
Hen.
[Starting up, and leaving his letter on the table.]
To arms again! What can this tumult mean?

[Rushes out, L. D.
Enter Edwin and Yeomanry, R., who follow Henry in haste.
Enter Lord Raymond, cautiously, R. D.
Lord R.

Whence this alarm? No matter, here's the
letter—I'm curious to know what he has written. [Opens the letter and reads.]

“Dearest Jane—Kind heaven has hitherto
protected me from every danger. We remain still some time here
to watch the rebels, which grieves me, as I long to be with the
dear object of my affections. As for the other Jane, whose picture
I wear, though I pity, fidelity to thee forbids my loving her.
Lord Raymond has kindly offered to be the bearer of these few
lines from thy faithful—

“Henry.”

Lord R.
Short, but expressive; and the whole contents
As applicable to my sister, Lady Jane,
As to the Jane for whom they are intended—
And luckily the letter's not directed—
That task be mine— [Goes to the table, and writes the direction on the letter.]
'tis done—“To Lady Jane.”
The poisonous seeds of jealousy once sown
In the fair maiden's bosom, she is mine;
Her love was gold-proof, knowing Henry true—
But when she thinks him faithless, she will grasp
My offer with an eager hand—success!

Re-enter Henry, Edwin, and Yeomanry, L. D.
Hen.
'Twas but a false alarm.

[Goes to the table to direct his letter, when Lord Raymond stops him.
Lord R.
[To Henry, L.]
Fearing you might not speedily return,
I have myself directed your love-letter,
And now depart. Good Henry, fare you well.

[Exit at L. D.
Edw.
(C.)
Come, Henry, your supper will be cold.

Hen.
(R.)
I want no supper, Edwin, for fatigue
Has quite subdued my spirits, and sleep invites me.

Enter Hostess, L. S. E.
Hos.

Gentlemen, I am sorry to say my house is so
full, that one of you will be obliged to sleep in yonder
arm-chair, but I'll make it as comfortable for you as I
can.

Edw.

Very well; I'll sleep in the arm-chair with all
my heart.

Hen.
Nay, go to bed; I wish to be alone:
My mind is melancholy, and the jesting
Of our jocose companions would ill suit
The sadness of my thoughts. Good night, dear Edwin.

Edw.
Well, Henry, e'en as you please. Good night!

[Exit with Hostess lighting him, R.
Hen.
I've often heard it said, that strange forebodings
Seize on the heart when danger is at hand:
Yet what have I to fear? This peaceful dwelling
Affords secure repose—whence, then, this tremor?
'Tis the effect of weariness—no more.
Come, sleep! thou sweet reviver of the spirits;
Into thy arms I sink: and, gracious heaven,
Bless thou this house, and all who dwell therein!
Dear Jane! had I thy picture, which the villains stole,
I now could press it to these longing lips!
Sweet love, good night.

[Sinks asleep on the chair.
Enter Edwin and Ethelbert, softly, R.
Eth.
(R.)

Since you have treated me with such humanity,
I'll do all I can to serve you.

Edw.
(L.)

You suspect your comrade Hardolf of some
foul design, you say?

Eth.

I do; for even now I overheard him say, drawing
a dagger, “He sleeps! now's the time!”—But soft,
he comes this way! let's step aside and watch him.

They retire.
Enter Hardolf, R. D., with a drawn dagger—He first convinces himself that Henry is asleep—Henry, by moving his arm, throws down and extinguishes the lamp—stage dark.
Har.

Yonder he slumbers—that sleep shall be his last.
This to his heart.

[Offers to stab Henry, but is prevented by Edwin and Ethelbert, who had closely followed him, unperceived—Hardolf drops the dagger.
Edw.
[Calling out.]
Murder! lights here!

[Henry starts up alarmed.
Enter Hostess, followed by Eugene and Yeomanry, with lights.
Hos.
Mercy on us! what is the matter?

Edw.
Why, that villain attempted to murder Henry.

Hen.
Detested wretch! what had I done to thee,
To prompt thee to so foul a deed?

Har.

Nothing particular: I was hired by Lord Raymond
to do your business for you.—I don't care who
knows it—if you doubt my word, yonder lies his lordship's
dagger, and here's my reward. [Shows the purse with an insolent smile.]

He's a good employer who finds both
tools and wages.

Edw.
[Binding his hands.]
Never fear, I'll take care of you.

Eug.
And I'll take care of the dagger.

[Picks it up.
Hen.
Nor shall the noble miscreant escape.
Retire to rest, my friends: to-morrow's dawn
Shall see us on our homeward march again:
And if in England justice be not dead,
This treachery shall cost Lord Raymond's head.

[All form a picture, Hardolf struggling with Edwin and the Yeomanry, till the scene closes.

SCENE V.

—A Chamber in Lord Raymond's Castle.
Enter Lady Jane, in black, R. D., followed by Old Francis.
Fra.
(R.)

Prithee, now, good my lady, be comforted;
and tell your old and faithful servant the cause of your
grief. Why do you assume this mournful dress? It
reminds me of a funeral. Alack! there is no rest, I
fear, but in the grave, and I almost wish I was myself
at the bottom of it.

Lady J.
(L.)
Good Francis, that my heart is sorrowful
I'll not deny. The cause remains a secret—
You say the youth—I mean young Henry—
He did accept the picture which I sent him?

Fra.

Ay, marry did he, my lady; and it would have
been most unpardonable insolence in him to have refused
it. I hung it about his neck myself with these aged hands.

Lady J.

And did he gaze upon it? Speak the truth.

Fra.

No, my dear lady, he did not gaze upon it; and it
vexed me sorely, after such an astonishing proof of your
ladyship's great condescension, to see young Henry's

eyes so firmly rivetted, not on your picture, but on Jane,
old Walter's daughter. I thought it vastly mysterious,
and tried all I could, but in vain—I could not get at the
bottom of it.

Lady J.
[Crosses to R.]
Enough! now hasten to the neighbouring convent,
And say that Lady Jane requests an audience
Of the good mother abbess.

Fra.
(L.)

Why, my dear young lady, you surely do
not mean to shut yourself up in a nunnery?

Lady J.

Good Francis, go; and do as I command you.

Fra.

I will, because I needs must, my lady: mercy
on me! go into a nunnery in the very spring and blossom
time of life! heaven forbid! Rather than ever live to
see that day, I'd suffer myself to be thrown headlong
into the castle ditch; though I'm sure, if I was, I should
very soon get at the bottom of it.

[Exit, L.
Lady J.
Fond, foolish heart, be still! it is in vain!
Why, then, thus agitate this heaving bosom?
If 'tis a crime to love, I am a sinner,
In need of more than ordinary penance!

[Exit, R. D.

SCENE VI.

—Exterior of Walter's Cottage.
Enter Jane, from the Cottage.
Jane.
'Tis a most lovely morning; yet they say
An early sun shines rarely through the day.
I have had dreams to-night, which might alarm
A heart that had no confidence in heaven,
And loved not with unlimited affection.
Methought I wander'd o'er the field of battle,
And found my Henry welt'ring in his blood:
My screams awoke him from his death-like trance;
And, casting up his lovely eyes, he cried,
“Oh, Jane! beware Lord Raymond—he's a fiend,
Such as are none on earth, and few in hell!”
Then, pressing to his lips my trembling hand,
He breathed a pious parting prayer, and died.

Rob.
[Appearing at the cottage window.]
I see nothing of your favourite pigeon yet, sister.

Jane.
The messenger of love not yet returned!
Spur thee, dull time, and doff thy leaden wings!
At love's call thou shouldst fly more swiftly far,
Than thou art wont to do at eventide,
When loving youths and maidens, void of care,
Enjoy their sportive gambols on the green,
And chide the parting hour.

Enter Lord Raymond, in haste, L. U. E.
Lord R.
(L.)
Where is Walter?

Jane.
(R.)
Within, my lord; and Henry—

Lord R.
Is well, I hope.
[Looking up to heaven.
I wish to see your father.

Jane.
I go, my lord.—What means this mystery?

[Exit into the cottage.
Lord R.
[Solus.]

She must—she shall be mine! My
rival, long ere this, has met his fate: he is no more!

Enter Walter from cottage—Jane remains anxiously listening at the cottage-door.
Wal.
(R.)
My lord, I joy to see you safe return'd—
What news?

Lord R.
(L.)
None of good import, Walter; it is true,
We have repulsed the rebels—yet poor Henry!

[Feigns grief—Jane is greatly alarmed.
Wal.
What of him, my lord?

Lord R.
Alas! he is no more.

[Pretends to weep.
Jane.
[Rushing frantic between them, and kneeling to Lord Raymond.]
Oh, gracious heaven! recall that horrid word,
For pity's sake! Plant daggers in my bosom,
And I will hold it as a deed of mercy;
But do not say, my lord, that Henry's dead!

Wal.
(R.)
Do, my dear lord, revoke the dreadful tidings!
For Henry was so good, so brave a youth—
We all adored him.

Lord R.
(L.)
Would it were possible! but truth is sacred!
He fell a victim to the foul revenge
Of an assassin—yet, my pretty Jane,
Trust me, he was unworthy of thy love,
For he did love another.

Jane.
(C.)
'Tis false! and though from heaven an angel came
To blast mine ear with such foul calumny,
I'd not believe him! Henry prove untrue!
As easy might the ewe become a wolf,
And lacerate the tender lamb she bore,
Or mothers give their children gall for milk,
As Henry prove a traitor to his love!
My lord, I know him better.

[Crosses to L.
Lord R.
(C.) [Producing a letter and Jane's picture.]
Walter,
Peruse that letter; [To Jane.]
and, if you still doubt,
Here is your picture, which he sends you back,
Declaring he preferred to wear my sister's.

Jane.
[Dreadfully agitated.]
Kind heaven, preserve my reason!

Wal.
[After reading the letter, hands it to Jane, who also peruses it.]
'Tis villanous!

Lord R.
[To Jane.]
Still doubtful, lovely Jane?

Jane.
Henry dead, and faithless ere he died!
Impossible!
[Regarding the letter and picture.
Yet these are dreadful proofs.
He kept her picture!

Lord R.
Since all obstructions are at length remov'd,
Now, Walter, let me urge my own pretensions;
I love your daughter, Jane, as well, you know—
Her hand will cancel every debt between us,
And make us friends for ever. Her refusal
I shall resent with a becoming spirit,
And let impartial justice take its course.

Wal.
Come, my child, think no more of this Henry—
He has most shamefully deceiv'd us all,
For which he now must answer to high heaven.
Lord Raymond claims thee as his bride—consent.

Lord R.
Ay, lovely Jane! speak, for it rests with you
To save your poor old father from a prison.

Jane.
A prison, said you? 'Tis a cruel word!
[Kneeling to Lord Raymond.
It came not from your heart—that heart, my lord,
Which is so noble, just, and generous.

Lord R.
Why parley thus? Wilt thou be mine or not?

Wal.
Come, Jane, this obstinacy is absurd—
Decide, then, quickly; wilt thou wed Lord Raymond?

Jane.
[Heroically.]
Never!

Lord R.
Unpardonable insult!

[Crosses to L.
Wal.
(R.)
Then I disown thee, stubborn, self-will'd girl!
I will to prison, and my latest breath
Shall call down curses on the unnatural child,
Who felt no pity for her poor old father

Jane.
[Between both, imploring, C.]
Father! for mercy's sake! My lord, in pity spare me!

Wal.
Thou know'st my temper, Jane: wake not the lion
That slumbers in my bosom, or I may
Most grievously offend 'gainst heaven and thee.
No answer yet? Perdition seize thee, then,
Thou ingrate child! hence from my door for ever!
Go! wander as a beggar through the world,
A wretched outcast, friendless, and forlorn!
Bareheaded may the tempest overtake thee!
Barefooted mayst thou tread on naught but thorns!
A miserable monument of vengeance!

Jane.
Father, in pity hear me!

Wal.
Begone! and detestation follow thee!
I will to prison; and, while I languish there,
May conscience lash thee with her scorpion scourge,
From door to door to beg for mouldy bread—
Thy beauty blasted, and thy reason fled!

[Jane utters a piercing shriek, as if deprived of her reason.
Lord R.
Come, lovely Jane, speak but the word; and say
Thou wilt be mine!

Jane.
[Piteously regarding her father, and smoothing down his gray locks with her hand.]

Oh, yes, certainly—I will be
your's, my lord: I could do any thing to save these
venerable locks—Oh, yes—yes.

Lord R.
[Exulting.]

She's mine! success!

Jane.

Did I say yes? Forgive me, heaven! [Staring at Lord Raymond for a moment, then turning from him with a shriek of horror.]

No, never! never!

[Tears the bridal flowers from her hair, and in a fit of frensy rushes off, L. U. E.
Lord R.

Perdition.

[Exeunt, R.