His face bespeaks

A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul,

Which with the motion of a virtuous act

Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,

Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,

By a miraculous finger stilled at once.

HER.

Unhappy Woman!

IDON.

Nay, it was my duty

Thus much to speak; but think not I forget –

Dear Father! how could I forget and live? –

You and the story of that doleful night

When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,

You rushed into the murderous flames, returned

Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,

Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.

HER.

Thy Mother too! – scarce had I gained the door,

I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,

I felt thy infant brother in her arms;

She saw my blasted face – a tide of soldiers

That instant rushed between us, and I heard

Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.

IDON.

Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.

HER.

Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time –

For my old age, it doth remain with thee

To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,

That when, on our return from Palestine,

I found how my domains had been usurped,

I took thee in my arms, and we began

Our wanderings together. Providence

At length conducted us to Rossland, – there,

Our melancholy story moved a Stranger

To take thee to her home – and for myself,

Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's

Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,

And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot

Where now we dwell. – For many years I bore

Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities

Exacted thy return, and our reunion.

I did not think that, during that long absence,

My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,

Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,

Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,

Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,

Traitor to both.

IDON.

Oh, could you hear his voice!

I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,

But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.

 

Enter a Peasant.

 

PEA.

Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide,

Let me have leave to serve you!

IDON.

My Companion

Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel

Would be most welcome.

PEA.

Yon white hawthorn gained,

You will look down into a dell, and there

Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs;

The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man,

You seem worn out with travel – shall I support you?

HER.

I thank you; but, a resting-place so near,

'Twere wrong to trouble you.

PEA.

God speed you both.

 

Exit Peasant.

 

HER.

Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed –

'Tis but for a few days – a thought has struck me.

IDON.

That I should leave you at this house, and thence

Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength

Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

 

Exit Herbert supported by Idonea.

 

Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald.

 

MAR.

This instant will we stop him –

OSW.

Be not hasty,

For sometimes, in despite of my conviction,

He tempted me to think the Story true;

'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said

That savoured of aversion to thy name

Appeared the genuine colour of his soul –

Anxiety lest mischief should befal her

After his death.

MAR.

I have been much deceived.

OSW.

But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love

Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,

Thus to torment her with inventions! – death –

There must be truth in this.

MAR.

Truth in his story!

He must have felt it then, known what it was,

And in such wise to rack her gentle heart

Had been a tenfold cruelty.

OSW.

Strange pleasures

Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!

To see him thus provoke her tenderness

With tales of weakness and infirmity!

I'd wager on his life for twenty years.

MAR.

We will not waste an hour in such a cause.

OSW.

Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.

MAR.

Her virtues are his instruments. – A Man

Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,

May well deceive his Child – What! leave her thus,

A prey to a deceiver? – no – no – no –

'Tis but a word and then –

OSW.

Something is here

More than we see, or whence this strong aversion?

Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales

Have reached his ear – you have had enemies.

MAR.

Enemies! – of his own coinage.

OSW.

That may be,

But wherefore slight protection such as you

Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere. –

I am perplexed.

MAR.

What hast thou heard or seen?

OSW.

No – no – the thing stands clear of mystery;

(As you have said) he coins himself the slander

With which he taints her ear; – for a plain reason;

He dreads the presence of a virtuous man

Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart,

Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds

The punishment they merit. All is plain:

It cannot be –

MAR.

What cannot be?

OSW.

Yet that a Father

Should in his love admit no rivalship,

And torture thus the heart of his own Child –

MAR.

Nay, you abuse my friendship!

OSW.

Heaven forbid! –

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed –

It struck me at the time – yet I believe

I never should have thought of it again

But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.

MAR.

What is your meaning?

OSW.

Two days gone I saw,

Though at a distance and he was disguised,

Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure

Resembled much that cold voluptuary,

The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows

Where he can stab you deepest.

MAR.

Clifford never

Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door –

It could not be.

OSW.

And yet I now remember

That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue,

And the blind Man was told how you had rescued

A maiden from the ruffian violence

Of this same Clifford, he became impatient

And would not hear me.

MAR.

No – it cannot be –

I dare not trust myself with such a thought –

Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man

Not used to rash conjectures –

OSW.

If you deem it

A thing worth further notice, we must act

With caution, sift the matter artfully.

 

Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald

 

Scene, The door of the Hostel.

 

Herbert, Idonea, and Host.

 

HER seated.

As I am dear to you, remember, Child!

This last request.

IDON.

You know me, Sire; farewell!

HER.

And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea,

We must not part, – I have measured many a league

When these old limbs had need of rest, – and now

I will not play the sluggard.

IDON.

Nay, sit down.

 

Turning to Host.

 

Good Host, such tendance as you would expect

From your own Children, if yourself were sick,

Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader,

 

Looking at the dog.

 

We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect

This charge of thine, then ill befall thee! – Look,

The little fool is loth to stay behind.

Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,

Take care of him, and feed the truant well.

HOST.

Fear not, I will obey you; – but One so young,

And One so fair, it goes against my heart

That you should travel unattended, Lady! –

I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad

Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?)

And for less fee than I would let him run

For any lady I have seen this twelve-month.

IDON.

You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard

Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.

Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,

A look of mine would send him scouring back,

Unless I differ from the thing I am

When you are by my side.

HER.

Idonea, wolves

Are not the enemies that move my fears.

IDON.

No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest

Will bring me back – protect him, Saints – farewell!

 

Exit Idonea.

 

HOST.

'Tis never drought with us – St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,

Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:

Pity the Maiden did not wait a while;

She could not, sir, have failed of company.

HER.

Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.

HOST calling.

Holla!

HER.

No, no, the business must be done. –

What means this riotous noise?

HOST.

The villagers

Are flocking in – a wedding festival –

That's all – God save you, Sir.