OSW.
'Tis a bitter night;
I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman,
Who at full speed swept by us where the wood
Roared in the tempest, was within an ace
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge:
That would have been a vile mischance.
MAR.
It would.
OSW.
Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.
MAR.
Most cruelly.
OSW.
As up the steep we clomb,
I saw a distant fire in the north-east;
I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon:
With proper speed our quarters may be gained
To-morrow evening.
Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.
MAR.
When, upon the plank,
I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice blessed me:
You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks
With deafening noise, – the benediction fell
Back on himself; but changed into a curse.
OSW.
As well indeed it might.
MAR.
And this you deem
The fittest place?
OSW aside.
He is growing pitiful.
MAR listening.
What an odd moaning that is! –
OSW.
Mighty odd
The wind should pipe a little, while we stand
Cooling our heels in this way! – I'll begin
And count the stars.
MAR still listening.
That dog of his, you are sure,
Could not come after us – he must have perished;
The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters.
You said you did not like his looks – that he
Would trouble us; if he were here again,
I swear the sight of him would quail me more
Than twenty armies.
OSW.
How?
MAR.
The old blind Man,
When you had told him the mischance, was troubled
Even to the shedding of some natural tears
Into the torrent over which he hung,
Listening in vain.
OSW.
He has a tender heart!
Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon.
MAR.
How now, what mean you?
OSW.
Truly, I was going
To waken our stray Baron. Were there not
A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues,
We should deserve to wear a cap and bells,
Three good round years, for playing the fool here
In such a night as this.
MAR.
Stop, stop.
OSW.
Perhaps,
You'd better like we should descend together,
And lie down by his side – what say you to it?
Three of us – we should keep each other warm:
I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend
Shall not disturb us; further, I'll not engage;
Come, come, for manhood's sake!
MAR.
These drowsy shiverings,
This mortal stupor which is creeping over me,
What do they mean? were this my single body
Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble:
Why do I tremble now? – Is not the depth
Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought?
And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment,
Something I strike upon which turns my mind
Back on herself, I think, again – my breast
Concentres all the terrors of the Universe:
I look at him and tremble like a child.
OSW.
Is it possible?
MAR.
One thing you noticed not:
Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder
Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force.
This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder;
But there's a Providence for them who walk
In helplessness, when innocence is with them.
At this audacious blasphemy, I thought
The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air.
OSW.
Why are you not the man you were that moment?
He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon.
MAR.
You say he was asleep, – look at this arm,
And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work.
Oswald, Oswald!
Leans upon Oswald.
OSW.
This is some sudden seizure!
MAR.
A most strange faintness, – will you hunt me out
A draught of water?
OSW.
Nay, to see you thus
Moves me beyond my bearing. – I will try
To gain the torrent's brink.
Exit Oswald.
MAR after a pause.
It seems an age
Since that Man left me. – No, I am not lost.
HER at the mouth of the dungeon.
Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me
How goes the night.
MAR.
'Tis hard to measure time
In such a weary night, and such a place.
HER.
I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald.
MAR.
A minute past, he went to fetch a draught
Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say,
A cheerless beverage.
HER.
How good it was in you
To stay behind! – Hearing at first no answer,
I was alarmed.
MAR.
No wonder; this is a place
That well may put some fears into your heart.
HER.
Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort,
Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were;
And in a night like this to lend your cloaks
To make a bed for me! – My Girl will weep
When she is told of it.
MAR.
This Daughter of yours
Is very dear to you.
HER.
Oh! but you are young;
Over your head twice twenty years must roll,
With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain,
Ere can be known to you how much a Father
May love his Child.
MAR.
Thank you, old Man, for this!
Aside.
HER.
Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man;
Kindly have you protected me to-night,
And no return have I to make but prayers;
May you in age be blest with such a daughter! –
When from the Holy Land I had returned
Sightless, and from my heritage was driven,
A wretched Outcast – but this strain of thought
Would lead me to talk fondly.
MAR.
Do not fear;
Your words are precious to my ears; go on.
HER.
You will forgive me, but my heart runs over.
When my old Leader slipped into the flood
And perished, what a piercing outcry you
Sent after him. I have loved you ever since.
You start – where are we?
MAR.
Oh, there is no danger;
The cold blast struck me.
HER.
'Twas a foolish question.
MAR.
But when you were an Outcast? – Heaven is just;
Your piety would not miss its due reward;
The little Orphan then would be your succour,
And do good service, though she knew it not.
HER.
I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers,
Where none but those who trampled on my rights
Seemed to remember me. To the wide world
I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity;
She was my Raven in the wilderness,
And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her?
MAR.
Yes.
HER.
More than ever Parent loved a Child?
MAR.
Yes, yes.
HER.
I will not murmur, merciful God!
I will not murmur; blasted as I have been,
Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice,
And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively
Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith.
Enter Oswald.
OSW.
Herbert! – confusion!
aside.
Here it is, my Friend,
Presents the Horn.
A charming beverage for you to carouse,
This bitter night.
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