There cannot come a day when I shall cease
To love him. I remember, when a Boy

Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her Father's terrible adventures,
Till all the band of play-mates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.
And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old Man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.
Osw.

Two Travellers!

See, they come,

Idon. That dismal MoorIn spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!— I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us : and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sodsA miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side

Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily,
Father,-

That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling 't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength ;-come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There-indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank.
[He sits down.
Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent,
And I divine the cause.

Idon.

Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,

Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
Her.
Nay, be composed :
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate-my grave,
And thee, my Child!

Idon.
Believe me, honoured Sire!
'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of Nature-

Her. I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such

As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
Idon.

Is he not valiant?

Her.

Is he not strong?

Am I then so soon

Nay, it was my duty

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.
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.

Truth in his story!

Mar.
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-

SCENE, the door of the Hostel.

HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host.

Her. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember,

Child!

That may be,

This last request.

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 befal 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 twelvemonth.

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.

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!

Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand
times !-

That noise !-would I had gone with her as far
As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed
Compassion for me. His influence is great
With Henry, our good King ;-the Baron might
Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court.
No matter he's a dangerous Man.-That noise!--
'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest.

Idonea would have fears for me, the Convent
Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good
Host,

And he must lead me back.

Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have prepared a most apt Instrument— The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere

About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
By mingling natural matter of her own
With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
To win belief, such as my plot requires.

[Exit OSWALD.

Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them.

And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,

perch yourself

Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids,
Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,

Are here, to send the sun into the west
More speedily than you belike would wish.

SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel

MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering.

Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
It struck upon my heart I know not how.

Osw. To-day will clear up all.-You marked a
Cottage,

That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of One,
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone,
Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
She eats her food which every day the peasants
Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived
Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
But every night at the first stroke of twelve
She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring
Churchyard

Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one—
She paces round and round an Infant's grave,
And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn
A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep———
Ali! what is here ?

[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in
sleep-n Child in her arms.

Beg. Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.-My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die. Mar. We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip;

Here's what will comfort you.

Beg.

[Gives her money. The Saints reward you

Came to my child as by my side he slept
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head :
But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have
been a dream.

Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
And put your head, good Woman, under cover.
Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew
What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
The weary-worn.-You gentlefolk have got
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
A stone than what I am.-But two nights gone,
The darkness overtook me-wind and rain
Beat hard upon my head-and yet I saw
A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky:

At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-
You must forgive me.

Osw.
Ay, and if you think
The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide
Your favourite saint-no matter this good day
Has made amends.

Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes?

Beg.

Oh Sir, you are like the rest.
This Little-one-it cuts me to the heart-
Well they might turn a beggar from their doors,
But there are Mothers who can see the Babe
Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it:
This they can do, and look upon my face-
But you, Sir, should be kinder.
Mar.
Come hither, Fathers,
And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch !
Beg. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us.
Why now-but yesterday I overtook

A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass
He should have used me better !—Charity !
If you can melt a rock, he is your man;
But I'll be even with him-here again
Have I been waiting for him.

Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before