University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Mr. Ardenford's apartments. Side doors, and a door at the back; here and there are lying about, foils, paintings, music, china, &c., &c., in a negligè, yet tasteful manner. Chairs, and table, with a bell on it, on the right. On the left, a causeuse. Ardenford discovered, seated at the table, and a Servant standing at a slight distance.
Ard.

Take these letters to their several addresses. (Exit Servant)

Another hour, and my destiny will be determined! Involved in a
duel! I, who deemed myself privileged from all insult. But it is
impossible to avoid it now! The audacious wretch who has dishonored
me in the eyes of the woman I love, and, in the presence
of all those I am known to, shall not live another day! (throwing himself in an arm chair.)

And she!—oh, what will she think of me?
(rising up).
I cannot meet that thought—it may unman me!

[Mal-a-pro-pos enters, in a state of stupefaction, at side door.
Mal.

Oh, Mr. Ardenford—Master—that is, sir—I know not
by what name to call him—you see before you a perfect wretch—
a man in no common passion, but in a regular rage!

Ard.

A rage? With whom?

Mal.

With whom? Why, with myself, to be sure. It is contrary
to law to hang one's self, as the law monopolizes that pleasure;
but, I have a right to be in a passion with myself, as much as
I please.

Ard.
(impatiently)

Well, proceed.

Mal.

With the best of all possible intentions, I have done
nothing but blunder. A blackey would have had a thousand times
more tact; and, henceforth, I shall have a thorough contempt for
the whites—in my own person!

Ard.
(vexed)

Did you deliver my letter to Count Floreville?

Mal.

Delivered it? Why, I thought I should have jumped
completely out of my skin, when I recognized the underhand rascal
that worm'd the secret out of me. I wasn't commonly civil to him;
in fact, I should have strangled him, if he had not slammed the
door in my face.

Ard.

He served you quite right—what did you interfere about?

Mal.

What about! Oh, was there ever so good a master—
what about? (falling on his knees).
Oh, sir, crush me, kill me—
dispose of me, somehow, if you please, and you will ease me of an
enormous weight!

Ard.
(crossing)

A truce with this nonsense!

Mal.
(in an imploring manner)

Then only kick me for an hour
or two; do something, for mercy's sake!

Ard.

Enough, I say. What answer did the Count return?

Mal.
(recollecting himself)

Why, that in an hour's time, he and
his second would be at the appointed place.

Ard.
(to himself)

An hour more to wait. (Then to Mal-a-pro-pos)
.
Did you apprize the Count Morliere?

Mal.

I found him in a most delightful sleep, and when I told him
my business, he burst into a fit of laughter. Oh, if by any accdent
an unlucky shot might—

Ard.

Phoo! Nonsense! (listening)
. Some one is coming up
stairs—the Count Morliere, no doubt.

Mal.
(aside)

No matter whom, I shall be in attendance, below;
and, if the other Count only dare show his face, I'll treat him as
I used to treat the blacks, at St. Domingo!

[Exit.
Enter the Count Morliere, in full uniform.
Mor.

Ah! here he is.

Ard.
(shaking him by the hand)

A thousand thanks, Morliere.

Mor.

Nothing but this matter could have got me out of bed, for
I did not get into it, until four this morning. 'Tis a serious affair,
then, is it?

Ard.

Most so!

Mor.

So much the better; it's a long time since you've given
me a lesson (throwing himself on a sofa)
. By the-bye, you never
came to the dear little Duchess de Villequier's last night; we had a
most delightful soirée! Swords or pistols?

Ard.

I do not, yet know.

Mor.

The supper was magnificent, and there was some high
play. Whom do you fight with?

Ard.

The Count Floreville.

Mor.
(laughing and rising)

What, the fellow you sent off to the
Bastile? Ha! ha! ha! that universal aversion. I am not at all
astonished; there are many of these anti-pathetical people going
about, and it is a positive duty to get rid of them. After all's said,
it will only be one lord less in the world, and there are too many in
it already. Where is the place of meeting?

Ard.

I shall know presently.

Re-enter Mal-a-pro-pos, mysteriously.
Mal.

Sir.

Ard.

Well!

Mal.
(in a whisper)

There is a lady below, veiled.

Mor.
(advancing)

A lady.

Mal.

And one who won't take “No” for an answer!

Ard.

At six in the morning?

Mor.

This is a meeting where no second is necessary, so I'll retire
(about to go)
.

Ard.
(stopping him)

Pray, stay; I pledge you my honor I have
not the remotest idea who she is.

Mor.
(getting towards the door)

My dear fellow, you forget;
I've had no breakfast, and it is no fun fighting on an empty
stomach; I'll wait for you, below, and as to this fair incognita—

Mal.

Here she is; but, as it's a petticoat, why, there's no
danger.

[Mal-a-propos exit at back. as Morliere exit into O. P. room, making a sign to Ardenford at the same moment that Corinne enters.
Cor.
(throwing back her veil)

I feared I should arrive too late.

Ard.

Whom do I see? Is it you, Madame? You—here?

Cor.
(pale and disordered)

Ask me not how I came; I know
not—I remember nothing. I was even ignorant of your address.
I however found it, and here I am!

Ard.

What means this pallid cheek—this alarm? Oh, pray be
seated!

Cor.

No, I have but a moment to stay. I left my carriage in
the next street. I am about to leave Paris, for ever!

Ard.

Leave Paris!

Cor.

Yes, for a calmer scene, that I ought never to have
quitted; but, before leaving, I wished to see you, for the last time,
if only to beseech you, in the name of all that is dear to you, to
carry this matter no further.

Ard.
(much moved)

And would you have me, madame, suffer
this unparalleled outrage to pass unpunished?

Cor.

Do not deceive yourself, Ardenford; a duel, whatever may
be its result, can repair no injury. If you survive it, you are a lost
man—your days will be for ever clouded!

Ard.
(bitterly)

Are they not so, even now? Have I not been
robbed of respect—of honor—of station—all, by the mere breath
of a fool?

Cor.

Oh, do not believe it.

Ard.
(excited)

This man has blighted my hopes of the last
fifteen years; and seeing you now, perchance, for the last time, I
may reveal the secret of my life. From my earliest dawn of reason,
a guardian angel appeared before me, sent by providence, to be
the guide of all my actions, for one of whose smiles I would have
laid down my life. Though forced to fly from St. Domingo, that
love—that worship—that deep—that sole thought—became the
essence of my existence; and when once distinction and dignity
should have obliterated that opprobrium which the lash had branded
on my brow, I should have turned to you, and said, to you I owe
whate'er I am; and, if not yet, worthy of you, tell me—oh, tell
me, what I can accomplish to make myself more so!

Cor.
(with emotion)

Ah, Camille, you guessed the feelings of
my heart too truly!

Ard.
(half wild)

And you would have me forgive him!
Never!

Cor.

In the name of Heaven, hear me! Is there not more
courage in conquering yourself, than in overcoming another? (With great tenderness).

Ardenford, yesterday you belonged to me—a
portion of my worldly wealth, and with a single word, I had the
power to prevent this meeting. The restoration of your liberty—
(Ardenford betrays a sudden emotion)
—I do not repent, for you
were worthy of it, and had long since won it by your high merits;
but, have I ceased to possess the influence over you I had before I
gave you up its power? (hastily, and with a view of preventing his reply)

Answer me not, but recall the days of our childhood,
Camille.

ROMANCE.

In those days, if I had asked at your hands the sacrifice of a resentment,
the forgetfulness of an injury, the life itself of your mortal
enemy, you would not have hesitated; and when, NOW, I no longer
ask, but supplicate, will you refuse me less, and thereby punish me for
an act, you have said is one of goodness and generosity?

Ard.
(as if a sudden thought struck him)

Ah! a light breaks in
upon me.

Cor.
What mean you?

Ard.
It is this Count Floreville you are engaged to marry.

Cor.
Well—

Ard.
And you tremble thus for him?

Cor.
(with abandonment)
For him? it is for YOU!

FINALE.
Ard.
(in a transport of feeling)
For me! Great heav'ns! What words are those you say

Cor.
Words that no tears were wanting to betray—
Your danger—your injustice, too, have wrung
The secret from a heart to which it clung,
Which, now, no longer hesitates to own
That you I love, and tremble for—alone!

Ard.
Can I have heard aright? and can there be
Such bliss reserv'd, howe'er remote, for me?

Cor.
And while on thee depends my peace, my life,
Thou wilt renounce this most unequal strife—
I know thou wilt—I read it in thine eyes—
Forget the outrage which thou must despise!

Ard.
(energetically)
Less, now, than ever—you have sealed his fate,
By words you can't recall, and said too late,—
And though my nature might such wretch forgive,
The man you love cannot dishonored live!

Cor.
And wilt thou—canst thou blight the hopes of her
Thy pride beyond all others to prefer?
Of her who now commands no more—but prays?

Ard.
No pow'r on earth can save his destin'd days!

Mar.
(outside)
Nay, stop me not—for speak with him I will—

Cor.
(alarmed)
What tones are those my soul with fear that fill?

Ard.
The Marquis!

Cor.
Should he see me I am lost—
With all the hopes this hour my heart hath cost!

Ard.
(pointing to the P. S. door, which he opens)
This door and staircase to the garden lead,
And thence you'll reach the street with moment's speed

Cor.
(taking up her veil, and hastening)
Enough—enough—farewell!

Ard.
You cannot mean
With words like these to close our parting scene?

Cor.
(holding the door on the jar)
Camille, you hear me—and that love despite
Which fills my soul, and may consume it quite—
With all that deep devotion which I feel,
Too fond, intense, and settled, to conceal—
If this encounter should take place, deplore
My loss you may—we meet on earth no more!

Ard.
(with a struggle)
And such a sacrifice—
(Then pausing, and with an effort addressing Corinne, who is all anxiety)
I strive in vain—

Cor.
(with desperation)
Why, then, farewell!

[She disappears, and closes the door after her.
Ard.
(alone)
We never meet again!

Enter Mal-a-pro-pos, hesitating, and with a kind of stammer.
Mal.
The Marquis—Sir—De Vernon!

[Exit.
Ard.
(coldly and dignified, to the Marquis, as he enters)
What may be
The purport of this visit paid to me?

Mar.
(moved)
I can believe I was not looked for here,
And in such cause 'twere rash to interfere—
But I one hour this meeting have outrun,
And what I say is known not to my son!

Ard.
(ironically)
I understand—you bring some poor excuse
That certain men have always for their use.

Mar.
No—but this duel, spite of all disgrace,
It is impossible can e'er take place!

Ard.
(with continued irony)
The noble Marquis has, no doubt, conceal'd
Another order the police has seal'd—
These usual arms which he is wont to wield,
Serve, at one time, for weapon and for shield!

Mar.
(greatly moved)
I might have spoken to the King, while bent
The sorrow pending o'er me to prevent,
But I would rather it were judg'd by you,
Convinc'd the secret which, by chance, I knew
But yesternight—that destiny had hid
As though its knowledge were a thing forbid—
Reveal'd to thee, that moment would arrest
All the deep hatred rankling in thy breast;
And that one word, pronounc'd by me, would turn
To gentle nature, feelings now so stern!

Ard.
(in astonishment)
I!

Mar.
(to himself)
At the moment when this task I seek,
I scarce have nerve my faltering words to speak!

Ard.
Proceed—

[Corinne appears at the door by which she had gone out.
Mar.
Well, Ardenford, his life this day,
To your resentment which may fall a prey—
My son—the Count de Floreville—he—that youth—

Ard.
Well!

Mar.
(with an inward struggle)
He—is—your BROTHER!

Ard.
(staggering back)
What?

Mar.
(greatly moved)
I speak the truth.

Ard.
What! He! My brother!

Mar.
Your reproaches spare,
And all the pangs they cause too great to bear.
(Then dropping his voice, and, as if deeply humiliated)
Your mother—

Ard.
Ah!

Mar.
Her pure and spotless love
Deserv'd a fate her wretched lot above—
A wealthy marriage, flatt'ring to my pride,
All other feelings made me cast aside—
Forgetting what poor Naomi I owed,
For faith and fondness, all in vain bestowed,
E'en at the moment destin'd to behold
Her new-born infant— (in a still lower tone, and violently trembling)

I its mother sold!

Ard.
(with indignation)
You sold! Her! And her child!!

Mar.
I cannot use
Terms such a fault to pardon or excuse
Nothing can justify—some hours ago
I learnt a truth, I shudder now to know—
You are my son—a father's voice may claim—

[Corinne, who has overheard this, closes the door.
Ard.
A father! I abjure—renounce the name—
“I think but of the wretched slave, who smiled
“In all her griefs, on her more wretched child—
“Who lavish'd on him all her bosom's care,
“Despite the tortures that were harboured there—

Mar.
(overcome)
Then, you disown me!

Ard.
(energetically)
You yourself disowned—
(Then with great bitterness)
By acts that ever must be unatoned—
“And think you, sir, a father's name so light,
“Its claims so doubtful, and its cares so slight,
“You can repudiate it, should it gall,
“And when 'tis needed, can that name recall—
“That you can exercise its rights one day,
“And all its duties with the next betray?
“That you can say, now years have o'er us past,
“To one thus humbled, outrag'd to the last;
“I never recognized thee—never sought
“To waste upon thee either wish or thought—
“Vowed thee to bondage, thy parental hearth
“Polluted, and then sold thee, ere thy birth—
“The very aspect of thy brow and face,
“Conveyed emotions of a deep disgrace—
“But now that he, my house and fortune's heir,
“To place his life within thy hands could dare,
“Thou must thy pride, thy feelings sacrifice,
“And honour, too—the first of human ties;
“Such is my mandate—see that it be done—
“I am thy father, and obey, my son!”

Mar.
(in a supplicating tone)
Oh, Ardenford!

Ard.
(more bitterly than ever)
A father! When the whip
Had ploughed my brow, and torture writhed my lip,
When blood was reeking, drawn from it by men
They call the free,—where was that father, THEN?—
When life no more against such crime could stand,
When forc'd to fly along the burning sand—
For bread to beg, my nature to sustain,
To slake my thirst, some fœtid spring to drain,—
When parch'd and fainting, with that thirst unquench'd,
And sinking on the earth my sweat which drench'd,
Where was that father?—ready to extend
The hand which caused the pang, relief to lend?—
In after years, when beating fortune down,
A new existence seem'd my days to crown,
Where was he, THEN?—To press me to his heart,
To bid me feel of him, and it, a part?—
No—no—your lawful son, your love may claim,
The slave, you curse—forgetfulness—and shame:
You, sir, can judge if what I say be true—
I HAVE no father!—ne'er a father knew!

Mar.
(quite subdued.)
I have deserved it all, and more,—yet, pray
Be not inflexible to all I say,—
Forget an insult, soften'd down by time,
Renounce a combat that will be a crime!

Ard.
(proudly.)
That none may dare my honor to defame,
You must our ties of brotherhood proclaim.
Not on this spot—to me, alone,—while here
I see you trembling between guilt and fear,
But, to the world, at large, (pausing,)
—that downcast eye,
That silent tongue, your seeming aim be-lie:
You would, while my forbearance thus you crave,
One brother ruin, and the other save—
Pronounce the shame of your infected son,
And blast his honor—proving YOU have none!

Ensemble.
Ard.
(aside.)
What worthless, silent fears,
Can pride betray!
Whose guilt, not all its tears
Can clear away!
And better for thee, it may be, oh! pride,
Thy course, in its career, sometimes to chide!

Mar.
(aside.)
These sad, but silent fears
I must betray,
Their weight, not all my tears
Can clear away!
And better for me, to, at once, have died,
Than witness, thus, the downfall of my pride!

Mar.
(to Ardenford.)
“I may unjust and cruel, too, be held—
“But if by rule, or, prejudice, compell'd
“To cast thee from my arms, my heart enchain,
“Nor own a love the cold world may disdain,—”
Will not thy noble nature comprehend
The pangs I suffer, and their torture end?
Here, on my knees, their anguish I unmask,
For 'tis my son's—thy brother's life,—I ask! (falls on his knees.)


Ard.
(hastily raising him.)
Sir!—

Mar.
—Oh, I blush not,—

Ard.
—Leave me, sir, I pray,—

Mar.
For mercy's sake, for—

Ard.
—Leave me, sir, I say!—

Mar.
I can endure it all,—but, bear in mind—

Ard.
(quickly.)
I promis'd nothing, am to reason blind.—

REPRISE OF ENSEMBLE.
Ard.
(aside)
What worthless, silent fears,
Can pride betray! &c., &c.

Mar.
(aside)
These sad, but silent fears
I must betray, &c., &c.

[At the end of the duo, Ardenford rushes out of the door, in a hurried manner, followed by the Marquis.

SCENE II.

—Park and Grounds of the Count Morliere's Chateau by sunrise, from the further end of which a body of Chasseurs are seen advancing, who come forward, and sing the following
CHORUS.
Through wood and through forest, the hind lightly leaveth,
When morning her mantle of gossamer weaveth—
Afar over hills, where the wild deer are leaping,
In dells where the dew in the sunbeams is weeping;
Through vale where the cowslip is modestly blowing,
On banks where the streamlet is tranquilly flowing,
O'er plain, over meadow, in dingle and hollow,
The horn of the huntsman doth bid us all follow.
The sound of that music the air round is filling,
With tones which the heart of the hearer is thrilling,
When soft and then deeper its accents are swelling,
Has charms which none other there's any such spell in—
Through vale where the cowslip is modestly blowing,
On banks where the streamlet is tranquilly flowing.
O'er plain, over meadow, in dingle and hollow,
The horn of the huntsman doth bid us all follow.

[Exeunt all the Chasseurs, and as the refrain of the Chorus is dying away, Count Morliere, stealthily enters, looking out to see that no one is near.
Mar.
They are departed, and the smiling day
Thows round its beams to light them on their way—
All now is still—the silence here around,
Becomes the scene to follow.

[Enter Ardenford, with a firm step, followed by Mal-a-pro-pos in a fright, carrying a case of pistols.
Ard.
(to Mala-pro-pos)
Here's the ground!
There lay that case—watch well that none encroach,
And quick return if stranger steps approach.
[Exit Mala-pro-pos where he entered.
“Once more thy hand Morlière—thou wilt allow
“That mine was never calmer than 'tis now;
“And all I feel is that my lot hath been
“To be affronted with a thing so mean.”

Enter Count Floreville, dressed in his morning costume, followed by Mal-a-pro-pos, attempting to stop him.
Mal.
(backing)
No sir, you cannot—

Cou.
(to Ardenford, as he advances.)
—Silence, pray, impose
Upon this knave, who no distinction shews—
Or, 'twill to those who know you not appear,
To stop my coming he was posted here!

Ard.
(to Mal-a-pro-pos.)
Go—

Mal.
—S—ir!

Ard.
—I bid thee go—and be discreet—

Mal.
I'll run and call in every one I meet.

[Exit, holding up his clench'd fist at the Count.
Ard.
(calmly pointing to the Count Morliere, and addressing Floreville, at the same time.)
Here is my second, count,—and where may be
Your own? for no one I, at hand, can see!

Cou.
I was quite sick of waiting—but, the spot
He knows, and he will come—

Mar.
(entering with the utmost fury and distraction)
—No—he will not!

Mor.
De Vernon here!

Cou.
(staggering back.)
My father!

Mar.
(stepping forth with energy.)
Face to face,
The second you expected, I replace!

Cou.
You! Heavens!

Ard. and Mor.
Impossible!

Mar.
No reas'ning use,
Who has the right my presence to refuse?
Who can more jealous of his honor be,
Than father of a son,—of him than me?
[Both Ardenford and the Count, here, manifest a strong feeling.
Oh, you need nothing fear—I would not stay,
For wealth of worlds, this combat, for a day!
[Then looking pointedly, at Ardenford, but still addressing Count Floreville.
“It is inevitable, now, I know,—
“And since my son hears not my fervent vow,
“Since he will list not to a father's voice,
“And hate, instead of duty, is his choice,
“Forget, then, who I am,—and, in me, still,
“Your second see, who can the task fulfill.”

Cou.
In Heav'n's name, yourself such anguish spare.

Mar.
(springing forward.)
Oh! I should suffer unless here I were,
A thousand deeper pangs—

All three.
Sir!

Mar.
(with energy.)
I repeat
None has the right my purpose to defeat—
(Then advancing and bowing to Count Morliere)
Pray, the arrangements let me understand?

Ard.
(apart.)
Oh! what a trial—

Cou.
—Ardenford's own hand
Has drawn them up!

Mar. and Morl.
How!—

Cou.
(to Ardenford.)
Sir, my thanks receive,
That you to me the choice of weapons leave—
The pistol I prefer,— (then addressing the Marquis and Morliere.)

Aside retire.— (then to Ardenford.)

And, as the injured, you are first to fire!

Mar.
(in alarm.)
He, first!

Ard.
(to Morliere.)
What say you?

Mor.
It is just and clear,—

Cou.
I ask no favour, and, partake no fear,—

QUARTETTE.
Ard.
There is a destiny which leads
Our actions, and our hearts,—
And bright, or tearful, to our deeds,
Its fullest force imparts;
Oh, Destiny! I may avow
I feel thy impulse now!

Mor.
(regarding Ardenford.)
There is a destiny which leads
Our actions, and our hearts,
And bright, or sad, unto our deeds
Its influence imparts;
Oh, Destiny! he must avow
He feels thy impulse now!

Cou.
There is a destiny, which needs
Must guide our heads and hearts;
And, in some measure, to our deeds
An energy imparts;
Oh, Destiny! I must allow,
'Tis thee I follow, now!

Mar.
There is a destiny which leads
The motives of our hearts;
And bright, or, gloomy, to our deeds
An influence imparts!
Oh, Destiny! I here avow
I own thy guidance, now!

(At the end of the Quartette, La Morliere goes up the stage, with Count Florevillle, as if to measure the ground, when the Marquis, in a tone subdued, but still one of utter despair, goes to Ardenford.
Mar.
He is thy brother—Oh, doth not his sight
Disarm thee, as it doth unman me quite.

Ard.
(stopping him from saying more, and then addressing him with great bitterness.)
Oh, sir, you have no mercy—'tis through you
I fall from that proud height, till now I knew
I have lost all—but honor still was left,
And, now, of that, by you I am bereft.
Well, let it be—this sacrifice I make,
This infamy consummate—for your sake—
To whom I owe, while I reject your claim,
This depth of degradation, and of shame!

Cou.
(in utter astonishment, and returning to Ardenford).
What may this mean, sir?

Ard.
(addressing the Count, after a moment's hesitation, and with an evident internal struggle)
I cannot deny
Your right, the worst construction to apply
You may that man, whom some have fear'd, now deem
The wretched coward which I feel, I seem—
One, to his honour, faith, and word untrue—
But, be it so—I combat not with you!

Cou., Mor.
What do I hear?

Marq.
(overjoyed.)
Ah!

Ard.
(with concentrated bitterness)
“Go, and tell the world,
“That Ardenford, from fortune's summit hurl'd,
“Is so devoid of courage, sunk so low,
“As self-esteem—opinion—to forego;—
“So lost to that respect of pride the due,
“As to refuse to—even fight with you!!
“Upon his head the scorn and hatred call
“Of the wide earth, he will accept it all.
[Then addressing the Marquis in a subdued tone.
“Thus trampled down, thus humbled and disgraced,
“Are you content?—Am I enough debased?

Mor.
(confused)
“Oh, Ardenford!

Cou.
(in amazement)
Impossible! this may not be—
(Then turning round and addressing the Marquis.)
“The purport of his words I seek from thee!
My father, when you spoke with him—what pass'd?

Cor.
(suddenly making her appearance at the O. P. and rushing between Ardenford and Floreville.
Whatever stigma on me may be cast,
I heard it all—

Mar. and Cou.
(astounded)
Corinne!

Cor.
(greatly moved, and pointing to the Marquis, and then to Ardenford, while she addresses Count Floreville)
Heard him declare,
With deep emotion, you his BROTHER were!!!

Mor. and Cou.
His brother!!!

Cor.
(with animation, yet tenderness)
Yes, and now to one esteemed
More noble, yet, than man hath ever seem'd,
To one, though shunn'd—repulsed, by all he be,
Is, for that reason, more endeared to me—
To him the heiress of Corinne, too proud
To own that worth, by others disallow'd,
From wordly thoughts, or feelings, all apart,
Now gives her hand, as she hath given her heart!

[A general movement—Ardenford transported with joy, seizes the hand of Corinne, bending over it. The Marquis is completely overpowered, while Count Floreville, in great excitement, rushes into the arms of Ardenford, who opens them to receive him.
QUINTETTE.
Cor.
(looking at Ardenford)
There are secret ties that bind us,
Which, like some misty star,
Shew their light but to remind us,
How beautiful they are;
And whose magic hath entwined us,
Though gazed on from afar!

Ard.
(gazing rapturously on Corinne)
There are ties of love that bind us,
Which like some silent star,
Shew their light but to remind us
How beautiful they are:
And whose spell hath long entwined us,
Though gazed on from afar!

Mar.
(aside)
There are secret ties that bind us,
Which like some clouded star,
Break their darkness to remind us
What faithless things they are!
And they glimmer but to find us
In greater wonder far!

Cou.
(pointing to Corrinne)
There are certain ties that bind us
Which like some twinkling star,
Shine, then darken, to remind us
What faithless things they are;
And which, for a moment, bind us,
Then wing their flight afar!

Mor.
(looking at Corinne and Ardenford)
There are secret ties that bind us,
Which like some faithful star,
Shine for ever to remind us,
How still unchanged they are;
And which firmly have entwined us,
Though gazed on them afar!

[Just at the termination of this Quintette, Mal-a-pro-pos rushes in, beckoning a whole host of friends of Ardenford, whom he has hastily summon'd, and who take up the refrain of the Quintette, joined by the Huntsmen, who return on hearing it.
FULL CHORUS.
Oh, these happy ties that bind us,
Which like some constant star,
Shine out always to remind us,
How unsubdued they are:
Have a charm that hath entwined us,
Though gazed on from afar!

[At the end of this Chorus, Corinne springs forward in a joyous manner.
RONDO—Corinne.
In those moments of existence,
Which memory endears,
Howsoever tried by distance,
Or rendered sad by tears,
If we find 'tis vain concealing
The heart's unfading light,
There is no remember'd feeling,
So lasting or so bright!