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 sods-
A 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.

On this green bank.

Let us rest awhile

[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 the music; could you see the sun,
And look upon the present 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

Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child:

Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed

This Marmaduke

Idon.

O could you hear his voice:

Alas! you do not know him. He is one

(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. 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
Osu'.

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 befall 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