SCENE I.— A Grove.

NEVER tell me!—I repeat it, you are a fel­low of a very scandalous course of life!

And I repeat it, I'm a perfect image of the purest virtue, compared to whom, for sobriety and continence, Ca­to was a drunkard, and Lucretia little better than she should be.

Oh! hardened in impudence!—Can you deny being a pilferer, a liar, a glutton—

Can I?—Heaven be thanked, I've courage enough to deny any thing!

Doesn't all the world cry out upon you?

Certainly my transcendant merit has procured me some enemies; and, in common with many other great men, my virtue at present labours under something of a cloud. But understand me right, Father: Though I don't assent to the sum-total of your accusations, possibly I may acknowledge some of the items; the best actions frequently appear culpa­ble, merely because their motives are unexplained. There­fore produce your charges, let me justify my conduct, and I doubt not I shall retrieve my reputation from your hands as immaculate and pure as a new sheet of foolscap.

To begin then with your pilfering—did you, or did you not, break open the pantry-door, and steal out the great goose-pye?

Begging your pardon, Father, that was no fault of mine.

Whose then?

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The cook's, undoubtedly; for if he hadn't locked the pantry-door, 'tis an hundred to one I shouldn't have taken the trouble to break it open.

Nonsense! Nonsense!—I tell you, you've been guilty of stealing, which is a monstrous crime! And what did you steal? Had you taken any thing else, I might have forgiven you: but to lay irreverent hands upon the goose-pye!—As I'm a Christian, the identical goose-pye which I intended for my own supper!—But this is not my only objection to your conduct.

No?

What principally offends me is, that you per­vert the minds of the maids, and keep kissing and smuggling all the pretty girls you meet. Oh, fye! fye!

I kiss and smuggle them? St. Francis forbid! Lord love you, Father, 'tis they who kiss and smuggle me. I protest I do what I can to preserve my modesty; and I wish that Archbishop Dunstan had heard the lecture upon chastity which I read last night to the dairy-maid in the dark! he'd have been quite edified. But yet what does talking signify? The eloquence of my lips is counteracted by the lustre of my eyes; and really the little devils are so tender, and so troublesome, that I'm half angry with nature for hav­ing made me so very bewitching.

Nonsense! Nonsense!

Why it was but yesterday that Cicely and Luce went to fifty-cuffs, quarrelling which looked neatest, my red leg, or my yellow one. Then they are so fond and so coax­ing! They hang about one so lovingly! And one says, "Kind Mr. Motley!" and t'other, "Sweet Mr. Mot­ley!"—Ah! Father Philip! Father Philip! How is a poor little bit of flesh and blood, like me, to resist such temp­tation?—Put yourself in my place: Suppose that a sweet smiling rogue, just sixteen, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, pouting lips, &c.

Oh, fye! fye! fye!—To hear such licentious discourse, brings the tears into my eyes!

I believe you, Father; for I see the water is run­ning over at your mouth. However, this shews you—

It shews me that you are a reprobate, and that my advice is thrown away upon you: In future, I shall keep those counsels to myself, which I offered you from motives of pure Christian charity.

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Charity, my good Father, should always begin at home: Now, instead of giving yourself so much trouble to mend me, what if you thought a little of correcting yourself?

I?—I have nothing to correct.

No, to be sure!

The odour of my sanctity perfumes the whole kingdom.

It has a powerful smell about it, I own, not un­like carrion; you may wind it a mile off.

All malice!

Not exactly: I could mention some little points which might be altered in you still better than in myself; such as intemperance, gluttony—

Gluttony?—Oh! abominable falsehood!

Plain matter of fact!—Why will any man pretend to say that you came honestly by that enormous belly, that tremendous tomb of fish, flesh and fowl? I protest I'm grate­ful to Heaven, that among the unclean beasts who accompani­ed Noah, there went not into the ark a pair of fat monks: they must infallibly have created a famine, and then the world would never have been re-peopled. Next, for incon­tinence, you must allow yourself that you are unequalled.

I? I?

You, you. May I ask what was your business in the beech-grove the other evening, when I caught you with buxom Margery the miller's pretty wife? Was it quite necessary to lay your heads together so close?

Perfectly necessary: I was whispering in her ear wholesome advice.

Indeed? Faith, then she took your advice as kindly as it was given, and exactly in the same way too: you gave it with your lips, and she took it with her's!—Well done, Father Philip!

Son, son, you give your tongue too great a li­cense.

Nay, Father, be not angry: Fools, you know, are privil [...]d persons.

I know they are very useless ones: and in short, Master Motley, to be plain with you, of all fools, I think you the worst; and for fools of all kinds I've an in­superable aversion.

Really? Then you have one good quality at least, [Page 6]and I cannot but admire such a total want of self-love!

But hark! 'tis the dinner horn. Away to ta­ble, Father—Depend upon't, the servants will rather eat part of their dinner unblessed, than stay till your stomach comes, like Jonas's whale, and swallows up the whole.

Well, well, fool, I am going: but first let me explain to you, that my bulk proceeds from no indulgence of voracious appetite: No, son, no. Little sustenance do I take; but St. Cuthbert's blessing is upon me, and that little prospers with me most marvellously. Verily, the saint has given me rather too plentiful an increase, and my legs are scarce able to support the weight of his bounties.

He looks like an overgrown turtle, wad­dling upon its hind fins! Yet at bottom 'tis a good fellow enough, warm-hearted, benevolent, friendly, and sincere; but no more intended by nature to be a monk, than I to be a maid of honour to the Queen of Sheba.

I cannot be mistaken: in spite of his dress, his features are too well known to me. Hist! Gilbert! Gilbert!

Gilbert? Oh Lord, that's I!—Who calls?

Have you forgotten me?

Truly, Sir, that would be no easy matter: I never forgot in my life what I never knew.

Have ten years altered me so much that you can­not—

Hey!—Can it be—Pardon, my dear master, pardon! In truth, you may well forgive my having forgotten your name, for at first I didn't very well remember my own. However, to prevent further mistakes, I must inform you, that he who in your father's service was Gilbert the knave, is Motley the fool in the service of Earl Osmond.

Of Earl Osmond? This is fortunate. Gilbert, you may be of use to me; and if the attachment which as a boy you professed for me still exits.—

It does with ardes unabated; for I'm not so un­just as to attribute to you my expulsion from Alnwic Castle. In fact, I deserved it; for I cannot deny but that at twenty I was as good-for-nothing a knave as ever existed; conse­quently old Earl Percy dismissed me from his service, but I know that it was sorely against your inclination. You were [Page 7]then scarce fourteen, and I had been your companion and play-fellow from your childhood. I remember well your grief at parting with me, and that you slipped into my hand the purse which contained the whole of your little treasure. That act of kindness struck to my heart: I swore at the moment to love you through life, and if ever I forget my oath, damn me!

My honest Gilbert!—And what made you as­sume this habit?

Ah, my Lord! what could I do? In spite of my knavery and tricks, I was constantly upon the point of starving; and having once contracted an idle habit of eat­ing, I never could bring myself to leave it off. After living five years by my wits, want drove me almost out of them. I knew not what course to take, when I heard that Earl Of­mond's jester had fled the country. I exerted my knavery for the last time in stealing the fugitive's cast coat, was accept­ed in his place by the Earl, and now gain an honest liveli­hood by persuading my neighbours that I'm a greater fool than themselves.

And your change is for the better?

Infinitely; indeed your fool is unive [...]sally preferred to your knave—and for this reason; your fool is cheated, your knave cheats. Now every body had rather cheat than be cheated.

Some truth in that.

And now, Sir, may I ask, what brings you to Wales?

A woman, whom I adore.

Yes, I guessed that the business was about a petti­coat. And this woman is—

The orphan ward of a villager, without friends, without family, without fortune!

Great points in her favour, I must confess. And which of these excellen [...] [...]ualities won your heart?

I hope I had better reasons for bestowing it on her. No, Gilbert; I loved her for a person beautiful with­out art, and graceful without affectation; for an heart tender without weakness, and noble without pride. I saw her at once beloved and reverenced by her village companions: they looked on her as a being of a superior order; and I felt, that she who gave such dignity to the cottage maid, must needs add new lustre to the coronet of the Percies.

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From which I am to understand that you mean to marry this rustic.

Could I mean otherwise, I should blush for myself.

Yet surely the baseness of her origin—

Can to me be no objection: In giving her my hand I raise her to my station, not debase myself to her's, nor ever, while gazing on the beauty of a rose, did I think it less fair because planted by a peasant.

Bravo! And what says your good grumbling fa­ther to this?

Alas! he has long slept in the grave!

Then he's quiet at last! Well, God grant him that peace in heaven, which he suffered nobody to enjoy on earth! But, his death having left you master of your ac­tions, what obstacle now prevents your marriage?

You shall hear. Fearful lest my rank should in­fluence this lovely girl's affections, and induce her to bestow her hand on the noble, while she refused her heart to the man, I assumed a peasant's habit, and presented myself as Edwy the low-born and the poor. In this character I gain­ed her heart, and resolved to hail, as Countess of Northum­berland, the betrothed of Edwy the low-born and the poor!

I warrant the pretty soul wasn't displeased with the discovery!

That discovery is still unmade. Judge how great must have been my disappointment, when, on entering her guardian's cottage with this design, he informed me, that the unknown, who sixteen years before had confided her to his care, had reclaimed her on that very morning, and convey­ed her no one knew whither.

That was unlucky.

Was it not? Ah! had I declared myself one day sooner, ere this she would have been my wife.

True; and being your wife, if a stranger then had conveyed her no one knew whith [...] you might have thought yourself mightily obliged to him.

However, in spite of his precautions, I have traced the stranger's course, and find him to be Kenric, a de­pendant upon Earl Osmond.

Surely 'tis not Lady Angela, who—

The very same! Speak, my good fellow, do you know her?

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Not by your description; for here she's under­stood to be the daughter of Sir Malcolm Mowbray, my mas­ter's deceased friend. And what is your present intention?

To demand her of the Earl in marriage.

Oh! that will never do; for in the first place you'll not be able to get a sight of him. I've now lived with him five long years, and, till Angela's arrival, never witnessed a guest in the Castle. Oh! 'tis the most melancholy man­sion! And as to its master, he's the very antidote to mirth. He always walks with his arms folded, his brows bent, his eyes lowering on you with a gloomy scowl. He never smiles; and to laugh in his presence would be high treason. He looks at no one, speaks to no one. None dare approach him, except Kenric and his four blacks; all others are or­dered to avoid him; and whenever he quits his room, ding­dong goes a great bell, and away run the servants like so many scared rabbits.

Strange! and what reasons can he have for—

Oh! reasons in plenty. You must know there's an ugly story respecting the last owners of this Castle. Os­mond's brother, his wife, and infant child, were murdered by a banditti, as it was said. Unluckily, the only servant who escaped the slaughter, deposed, that he recognized among the assassins a black still in the service of Earl Osmond. The truth of this assertion was never known, for the servant was found dead in his bed the next morning.

Good heavens!

Since that time, no sound of joy has been heard in Conway Castle. Osmond instantly became gloomy and fe­rocious; he now never utters a sound except a sigh, has broken every tie of society, and keeps his gates barred un­ceasingly against the stranger.

Yet Angela is admitted: But, no doubt, affec­tion for her father—

Why, no; I rather think that affection for her fa­ther's child—

How?

If I've any knowledge in love, the Earl feels it for his fair ward: But the lady will tell you more of this, if I can procure for you an interview.

The very request which—

'Tis no easy matter, I promise you; but I'll do [Page 10]my best. In the meanwhile, wait for me in yonder fishing­hut; its owner's name is Edric: tell him that I sent you, and he will give you a retreat.

Farewel, then; and remember that whatever re­ward—

Dear master, to mention a reward insults me. You have already shown me kindness; and when 'tis in my pow­er to be of use to you, to need the inducement of a second favour would prove me a scoundrel undeserving of the first.

How warm is this good fellow's attachment! Yet our Barons complain that the great can have no friends! If they have none, let their own pride [...]ar the blame. Instead of looking with scorn on those whom a smile would attract, and a favour bind forever, how many firm friends might our nobles gain, if they would but reflect that their vassals are men as they are, and have hearts whose feelings can be grateful as their own.

SCENE II.—The Castle Hall.

Now, Hassan, what success?

My search has been fruitless. In vain have I paced the river's banks, and pierced the grove's deepest recesses. Nor glen nor thicket have I passed unexplored, yet found no stranger to whom Kenric's description could apply.

Saw you no one?

A troop of horsemen passed me as I left the wood.

Horsemen, say you? then Kenric may be right. Earl Percy has discovered Angela's abode, and lurks near the Castle in hopes of carrying her off.

His hopes then will be vain. Osmond's vigilance will not easily be eluded, sharpened by those powerful mo­tives, love and fear.

His love I know; but should he lose Angela, what has he to fear?

If Percy gains her, every thing! Supported by such wealth and power, dangerous would be her claim to these domains should her birth be discovered. Of this our Lord is aware; nor did he sooner hear that Northumberland loved her, than he hastened to remove her from Allan's [Page 11]care. At first I doubt his purpose was a foul one: her resemblance to her mother induced him to change it. He now is resolved to make her his bride, and restore to her those rights of which himself deprived her.

Think you the lady perceives that our master loves her.

I know she does not. Absorbed in her own pas­sion for Percy, on Osmond's she bestows no thought; and, while roving through these pompous halls and chambers, sighs for the Cheviot hills, and Allan's humble cottage.

But as she still believes Percy to be a low-born swain, when Osmond days [...]his coronet at her feet, will she reject his rank and splendor?

If she loves well, she will. Saib, I too have loved! I have known how painful it was to leave her on whom my heart hung! how incapable was all else to supply her loss! I have exchanged want for plenty, fatigue for rest, a wretched hut for a splendid palace. But am I happier? Oh! no! Still do I regret my native land, and the partners of my poverty. Then toil was sweet to me, for I laboured for Samba; then repose ever blest my bed of leaves, for there by my side lay Samba sleeping.

This from you, Hassan?—Did love ever find a place in your flinty bosom?

Did it? Oh Saib; my heart once was gentle, once was good! But sorrows have broken it—insults have made it hard! I have been dragged from my native land! from a wife who was every thing to me, to whom I was every thing! Twenty years have elapsed since these Christ­ians tore me away; they trampled upon my heart, mocked my despair; and, when in frantic terms I raved of Samba, laughed, and wondered how a negro's soul could feel! In that moment, when the last point of Africa faded from my view, when as I stood on the vessel's deck, I felt that all I loved was to me lost forever! In that bitter moment did I banish humanity from my breast! I tore from my arm the bracelet of Samba's hair, I gave to the sea the precious token, and, while the high waves swift bore it from me, vowed aloud endless hatred to mankind. I have kept my oath, and I will keep it.

Ill-starred Hassan! your wrongs have indeed been great.

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To remember them, un-mans me—Farewel! I must to Kenric. Hold!—Look, where he comes from Osmond's chamber!

And seemingly in wrath.

His conferences with the Earl of late have had no other end. The period of his favour is arrived.

Not of his favour merely, Hassan.

How? Mean you that—

His anxiety for independence, his wish to withdraw himself from Wales—yet more, certain mysterious words and threats for some time past have made our Lord uneasy. By him was I this morning commissioned—Silence! He's here, you shall know more anon.

His promise ever evaded! My request still heard with impatience, and treated with neglect! Osmond, I will bear your ingratitude no longer.—Now, Hassan, found you the man described?

Nor any that resembled him.

Yet, that I saw Percy, I am convinced. As I crossed him in the wood, his eye met mine. He started as had he seen a basilisk, and fled with rapidity. Be on your guard, my friends; doubtless he will attempt to gain admis­sion to the Castle.

Can we be otherwise than watchful, when we see how well the Earl rewards his followers?

Of that, Kenric, you are an example. Have you obtained that recompense so long promised? Do you enjoy that independence which—

Saib, the Earl's ingtatitude cuts me to the heart! Attached to him from his infancy, I have long been his friend, long fancied him mine: The illusion is now over. He sees that I can serve him no further—knows that I can harm him much; therefore he fears, and, fearing, hates me. But I will submit no longer to this painful depedence. To-morrow, for the last time, will I summon him to perform his promise; if he refuses, I will bid him farewel forever! and, by my absence, free him from a restraint equally irksome to myself and him.

Will you so, Kenric? Be speedy then, or you will be too late.

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Too late! And wherefore?

You will soon receive the reward of your services.

Ha! Know you what that reward will be?

I guess, but may not tell.

Is it a secret?

Can you keep one?

Faithfully.

As faithfully can I. Come, Hassan.

What meant the slave? Those doubt­ful expressions....... Ha! should the Earl intend me false...... Kenric! Kenric! how is thy nature changed! There was a time when fear was a stranger to my bosom—when, guiltless myself, I dreaded not art in others. Now, where'er I turn me, danger appears to lurk; and I suspect treachery in every breast, because my own heart hides it.

Nonsense! You silly woman, what you say is not possible.

I never said it was possible; I only said it was true; and that if ever I heard music, I heard it last night.

Perhaps the fool was singing to the servants.

The fool indeed? Oh, fye! fye! How dare you call my Lady's ghost a fool?

Your Lady's ghost! you silly old woman.

Yes, Father, yes, I repeat it; I heard the guittar, lying upon the Oratory table, play the very air which the Lady Evelina used to sing while rocking her little daughter's cradle. She warbled it so sweetly—and ever at the close it went.

Nonsense! nonsense! Why, pr'ythee, Alice, do you think that your Lady's ghost would get up at night, only to sing Lullaby for your amusement? Besides, how should a spirit, which is nothing but air, play upon an instru­ment of material wood and cat-gut?

How can I tell? Why, I know very well that men are made; but if you desired me to make a man, I vow and protest I shouldn't know how to set about it. I can only [Page 14]say, that last night I heard the ghost of my murdered Lady—

Playing upon the spirit of a cracked guittar! Alice! Alice! these fears are ridiculous! The idea of ghosts is a vulgar prejudice; and they who are timid and absurd enough to encourage it, prove themselves the most contemptible—

Oh! Lord bless us!

What!—Hey!—Oh dear!

Look! look! A figure in white! It comes from the haunted room!

Blessed St. Patrick!—Who has got my beads? Where's my prayer-book?

It comes! it comes!—Now! now!—Lack-a-day, it's only Lady Angela!

Lack-a-day! I'm glad of it with all my heart!

Truly, so am I. But what say you now, Father, to the fear of spectres?

In good faith, Alice, that my theory was bet­ter than my practice. However, the next time that you are afraid of a ghost, remember and make use of the receipt which I shall now give you; and instead of calling for a priest to lay the spirits of other people in the red sea, call for a bottle of red wine to raise your own, Probatum est.

Wine indeed!—I believe he thinks I like drinking as well as himself. No, no! Let the old toping friar take his bottle of wine; I shall confine myself to plain cherry-brandy.

I am weary of wandering from room to room; in vain do I change the scene; discontent is every where. There was a time when music could delight my ear, and nature could charm my eye;—when, as the dawn unveiled the land­scape, each object it disclosed to me looked pleasant and fair; and while the last sun-beams yet lingered on the western sky, I could pour forth a prayer of gratitude, and thank my good angels for a day unclouded by sorrow!—Now all is gone, all lost, all faded!

Lady!

Perhaps at this moment he thinks upon me! Per­haps [Page 15]he wanders on those mountains where we so oft have strayed, reclines on that bank where we so oft have sat, or listens sadly to the starling which he taught to repeat my name. Perhaps then he sighs; and murmurs to himself: ‘The flowers, the rivulets, the birds, every object reminds me of my well-beloved; but what shall remind her of Edwy?’—Oh! that will my heart, Edwy; I need no other remembrancer!

Lady! Lady Angela!—She minds me no more than a post!

Oh! are you there, good Alice? What would you with me?

Only ask how your Ladyship rested?

Ill! very ill!

Lack-a-day! and yet you sleep in the best bed!

True, good Alice; but my heart's anguish strewed thorns upon my couch of down.

Marry, I'm not surprised that you rested ill in the Cedar-room. Those noises so near you—

What noises? I heard none.

How?—When the clock struck one, heard you no music?

Music!—None.

And never have heard any while in the Cedar-room?

No that I—Stay! now I remember that while I sat alone in my chamber this morning—

Well, Lady, well!

Methought I heard some one singing; it seemed as if the words run thus—

"Lullaby! Lullaby! Hush thee, my dear!"

The very words!—It was the ghost. Lady! it was the ghost!

The ghost, Alice!—I protest I thought it had been you.

Me, Lady!—Lord, when did you hear this singing?

Not five minutes ago, while you were talking with Father Philip.

The Lord be thanked!—Then it was not the ghost: It was I, Lady! It was I!—And have you heard no other singing since you came to the Castle?

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None. But why that question?

Because, Lady — But perhaps you may be fright­ened?

No, no!—Proceed, I entreat you.

Why, then, they do say, that the chamber in which you sleep is haunted. You may have observed two folding-doors, which are ever kept locked: they lead to the Oratory, in which the Lady Evelina passed most of her time, while my Lord was engaged in the Scottish wars. She would sit there, good soul! hour after hour, playing on the lute, and singing airs so sweet, so sad, that many a time and oft have I wept to hear her. Ah! when I kissed her hand at the Castle-gate, little did I suspect that her fate would have been so wretched.

And what was her fate?

A sad one, Lady! Impatient to embrace her Lord, after a year's absence, the Countess set out to meet him on his return from Scotland, accompanied by a few do­mestics and her infant daughter, then scarce a twelvemonth old. But, as she returned with her husband, robbers surpris­ed the party scarce a mile from the Castle; and since that time, no news has been received of the Earl, of the Countess, the servants, or the child.

Dreadful! Where not their corpses found?

Never! The only domestic who escaped, pointed out the scene of action; and as it proved to be on the river's banks, doubtless the assassins plunged the bodies into the stream.

Strange! And did Earl Osmond then become owner of this Castle?—Alice! was he ever suspected of—

Speak lower, Lady! It was said so, I own; but for my own part I never believed it. To my certain knowl­edge, Osmond loved the Lady Evelina too well to hurt her; and when he heard of her death, he wept and sobbed as if his heart were breaking. Nay, 'tis certain that he proposed to her before marriage, and would have made her his wife, only that she liked his brother better. Well she might, in­deed; for Earl Reginald was a sweeter gentleman by half.

And in that Oratory, you say—Good Alice, you have the key of it: Let me see that Oratory to-night.

To-night, Lady? Heaven preserve me! I wouldn't enter it after dark for the world!

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But before dark, Alice?

Before dark? Why that indeed—Well, well, we'll see, Lady. But I hope you're not alarmed by what I mentioned of the Cedar-room?

No, truly, Alice; from good spirits I have noth­ing to fear, and Heaven and my innocence will protect me against bad.

My very sentiments, I protest! But Heaven for­give me, while I stand gossipping here, I warrant all goes wrong in the kitchen! Your pardon, Lady: I must away! I must away!

Osmond was his brother's heir. His strange demeanour!—Yes, in that gloomy brow is written a volume of villany!—Heavenly powers! an assassin then is master of my fate!—An assassin too who—I dare not bend my thoughts that way!—Oh! would I had never entered these Castle walls!—had never exchanged for fearful pomp the security of my pleasures, the tranquillity of my soul!

SCENE I.—The Armoury.—Suits of Armour are arranged on both Sides upon Pedestals, with the Names of their Posses­sors written under each.

THE coast is clear!—Hist, hist!—You may enter.

Loiter not here!—Quick, my good fellow, con­duct me to Angela.

Softly, softly, a little caution is needful; and I promise you just now I'm not upon roses. You remember [Page 18]he servant, who hinted that Earl Osmond had an hand in his brother's murder!—Should I be suspected of admitting you to the Castle, his fate might be mine; and whatever you may think of it, my Lord, I shouldn't be at all pleased at waking to-morrow morning, to find myself dead in my bed.

If such are your fears, why not lead me at once to Angela? Are we not more exposed in this open hall.

Be contented, and leave all to me; I will con­trive matters so that Osmond shall have you before his eyes, and be no jot the wiser. Here,

put on this coat of mail; you must make up your mind to play a statue for an hour or two.

How?

Nay, 'tis absolutely necessary. Quick, quick! ere the servants quit the hall, where they are now at dinner. Here's the helmet, the gauntlet, the shield! So now take this truncheon in your hand, and there we have you armed cap a pee.

And now be good enough to explain what pur­pose this masquerade is to answer.

Willingly. You are to know, that since the late Earl's death, the Castle is thought to be haunted; the ser­vants are fully persuaded that his ghost wanders every night through the long galleries, and parades the old towers and dreary halls which abound in this melancholy mansion. He is supposed to be drest in a complete armour; and that which you wear at present was formerly his. Now hear my plan. The Earl prepares to hold a conference with Lady Angela; even now I heard her summoned to attend him in the Ar­moury. Placed upon this pedestal, you may listen to their discourse unobserved, and thus form a proper judgment both of your mistress and her guardian. As soon as it grows dark, I will conduct you to Angela's apartments: the ob­scurity will then shelter you from discovery; and even should you be observed, you will pass for Earl Reginald's spectre.

I do not dislike your plan; but tell me, Gilbert, do you believe this tale of the apparition?

Oh, Heaven forbid! Not a word of it. Had I minded all the strange things related of this Castle, I should have died of fright in the first half hour. Why, they say that Earl Hubert rides every night round the Castle on a white horse; that the ghost of Lady Bertha h [...]unts the west [Page 19]pinnacle of the Chapel-Tower; and that Lord Hildebrand, who was condemned for treason some sixty years ago, may be seen in the Great Hall, regularly at midnight, playing at foot-ball with his own head! Above all, they say that the spirit of the late Countess sits nightly in her Oratory, and sings her baby to sleep. However, if it be so—

—Hark! 'tis the Earl! Quick to your post!

Farewel!I must get out of his way; but as soon as he quits this chamber, I'll rejoin you.

Do so; and farewel.

I will not sacrifice my happiness to her's! For six­teen long years have I thirsted; and now, when the cup of joy again stands full before me, shall I dash it from my lip? No, Angela, you ask of me too much. Since the moment when I pierced her heart, deprived of whom life became odi­ous; since my soul was stained with his blood who loved me, with her's whom I loved, no form has been grateful to my eye, no voice spoken pleasure to my soul, save Angela's, save only Angela's! Doating upon one whom death has long clasped in his arms; tortured by desires which I never hop­ed to satisfy, many a mournful year has my heart known no throb but of anguish, no guest but remorse at committing a fruitless crime. Hope, that stranger, once more visits my bosom: the fiend, who led me through passion's mazes to the heights of guilt, owns that a crime so great well merits a reward. He bids the monument's jaws unclose: Evelina revives in her daughter, and soon shall the fires which con­sume me be quenched in Angela's arms. What though her heart be Percy's? What though she prefer a basilisk's kiss to mine? Because my short-lived joy may cause her eternal sorrow, shall I reject those pleasures sought so long, desired so earnestly? That will I not, by Heaven! Mine she is, [Page 20]and mine she shall be, though Reginald's bleeding ghost flit before me, and thunder in my ear—"Hold! hold!"—Peace, stormy heart! She comes!

Come hither, Angela. Where­fore so sad? That downcast eye, that listless air, neither suit your age or fortunes. Raised from obscurity to rank and splendour, can this change call no smile upon your cheek? Where'er you turn, respect and adoration wait you; a thou­sand servants move obedient to your nod. The treasures of India are lavished to adorn your person; yet still do I see you, forgetting what you are, look back with regret to what you were!

Oh! my good Lord, esteem me not ungrateful! I acknowledge your bounties, but they have not made me hap­py. I still linger in thought near those scenes where I pass­ed the blessed period of infancy; I still thirst for those sim­ple pleasures which habit has made to me most dear. The birds which my own hands reared, and the flowers which my own hands planted; the banks on which I rested when fatigued, the wild tangled wood which supplied me with strawberries, and the village church where I prayed to be virtuous, while I yet knew of vice and virtue but the name, all have acquired rights to my memory and my love!

What? these costly dresses, these scenes of pomp and greatness—

Dazzle my eyes, but leave my heart unsatisfied. What I would meet with is affection, not respect; I had rather be obliged than obeyed; and all these glittering gems are far less dear to me, than one flower of a wreath which Edwy's hands have woven.

Confusion!

While I saw you, Cheviot Hills, I was happy, Oh! how happy! While I listened to your artless accents, friends of my childhood, how swelled my fond heart with gratitude and pleasure! At morn, when I left my bed, light were my spirits, and gay as the zephyrs of summer; and when at night my head again pressed my pillow, I whis­pered to myself, "Happy has been to-day, and to-morrow will be as happy!" Then sweet was my sleep; and my dreams were of those whom I loved dearest.

[Page 21]

Romantic enthusiast! these thoughts did well fo [...] the village maid, but disgrace the daughter of Sir Malcolm Mowbray: Let them be changed for others, better suited to your birth, to the fortune which awaits you. Hear me [...] Angela; an English Baron loves you, a nobleman tha [...] whom our island boasts few more potent. 'Tis to him that your hand is destined; 'tis on him that your heart must be bestowed.

I cannot dispose of that which has long been anoth­er's. My heart is Edwy's.

Edwy's? A peasant's?

For the obscurity of his birth, chance must be blam­ed; the merit of his virtues belongs wholly to himself.

By Heaven, you seem to think that poverty is a virtue.

Sir, I think 'tis a misfortune, not a crime: And witen in-spite of nature's injustice, and the frowns of a preju­diced and illiberal world, I see some low-born but illustrious spirit prove itself superior to the station which it fills, I hail it with pleasure, with admiration, with respect! Such a spirit I found in Edwy, and, finding, loved.

My blood boils with passion!

You say, that by these sentiments I disgrace my rank: I say, that to break my given word, would disgrace it more. Edwy has my plighted faith: He received it on the last evening which I passed in Northumberland, as we sat on a [...]low bench before old Allan's cottage. It was an heavenly night, sweet and tranquil as the loves of angels: A gentle breeze whispered 'among the honeysuckles which bloomed above us, and the full moon tinged with her silver light the distant towers of Alnwick. It was then that for the first time I gave him my hand, and swore that I never would give it but to him: It was then that for the first time he pressed his lips to mine, and I swore that my lips should nev­er be pressed by another!

Girl! girl! you drive me to distraction!

You alarm me, my Lord! Permit me to retire.

Stay!—

Angela, I love you.

My Lord!

Love you to madness!—My bos­om is a gulph of devouring flames! I must quench them in [Page 22]your arms, or perish!—Nay, strive not to escape; remain and hear me! I offer you my hand; if you accept it, mis­tress of these fair and rich domains, your days shall glide away in happiness and honour; but if you refuse, and scorn my offer, force shall this instant—

Force? Oh, no!—You dare not be so base!

Reflect on your situation, Angela: You are in my power—remember it, and be wise.

If you have a generous mind, that will be my sur­est safeguard. Be it my plea, Osmond, when thus I sue to you for mercy, for protection! Look on me with pity, Os­mond: 'Tis the daughter of the man you loved; 'tis a crea­ture, friendless, wretched and forlorn, who kneels before you, who flies to you for refuge! True, I am in your pow­er: Then fave me, respect me, treat me not cruelly; for—I am in your power.

I will hear no more. Will you accept my of [...]er?

Osmond, I conjure you—

Answer my question!

Mercy! Mercy!

Will you be mine?—Speak! Speak!

Never—so help me Heaven!

Your fate then is decided!

Hold!

Ha! What was that?

Hark! hark!—Heard you not a voice?

It came from hence!—From Reginald!—Was it not a delusion?—Did indeed his spirit—

Well, be it so! Though his ghost should rush between us, thus would I clasp her—Horror! What sight is this?—

—I know that shield!—that helmet!—Speak to me, dreadful vision!—Tax me with my crimes!—Tell me, that you come—Stay! Speak!—

—He forbids my following!—He leaves me!—The door closes—

—Hell and fiends! I'll follow him, though lightnings blast med—

SCENE II.— The Castle-Hall.

Here's rudeness! Here's ill-breeding! On my conscience, this house grows worse and worse every day.

What can he have done with himself? Perhaps weary of waiting for me in the Armoury, he has found his way alone to Angela. How now, dame Alice, what has happened to you? You look angry.

By my troth, fool, I've little reason to look pleas­ed. To be frightened out of my wits by night, and thump­ed and bumped about by day, is not likely to put one in the best humour.

Poor soul! And who has been thumping and bumping you?

Who has? You should rather ask who has not.—Why only hear:—As I was just now going along the nar­row passage which leads to the Armoury—singing to myself, and thinking of nothing, I met Lady Angela flying away as if for dear life!—So I dropp'd her a courtsey—but might as well have spared my pains. Without minding me any more than if I had been a dog or a cat, she pushed me on one side; and before I could recover my balance, somebody else, who came bouncing by me, gave me t'other thump—and there I lay sprawling upon the floor. However, I tumbled with all possible decency; and took great care that my petticoats should cover my legs.

Somebody else! What somebody else?

I know not; but he seemed to be in armour.

In armour? Pray, Alice, looked he like a ghost?

What he looked like, I cannot say; but I'm sure he didn't feel like one. However, you've not heard the worst. While I was sprawling upon the ground, my Lord [Page 24]comes tearing along the passage—The first thing he did was to stumble against me—away went his heels—over he came—and in the twinkling of an eye there lay his Lordship! As soon as he got up again—Mercy? how he stormed!—He snatched me up; cal [...]ed me an [...]ugly old witch; shook the breath out of my body—then clapped me on the ground again, and bounced away after the other two!

My mind misgives me!. But what-can this mean, Alice?

The meaning I neither know, or care about; but this I know—I'll stay no longer in an house where I'm treat­ed so disrespectfully. "My Lady!"—says I—"Out of my way!"—says she, and pushes me on one side. "My Lord,"—says I—"You be damn'd!"—says he, and pushes me on t'other! I protest I never was so ill used, even when I was a young woman.

This account alarms me!—Should Percy be dis­covered—The very thought gives me a creak in my neck! At any rate, I had better inquire whether—

Get out of the house!—That's your way.

Why, what's the meaning—

Don't stand prating here; but do as I bid you.

But first tell me—

I can only tell you to get out of the house. Kenric has discovered Earl Percy—You are known to have introduced him—The Africans are in search of you: If you are found, you will be hung out of hand. Fly then to Edric's cottage; hide yourself there. Hark!—Some one comes! Away, away, ere it is too late!

But Earl Percy—But Angela—

Leave them to me. You shall hear from me soon. Only take care of yourself, and fly with all diligence!—Away!

So, so, he's off, and now I've time to take breath. I've not moved so nimbly for the last twenty years; and, in truth, I'm at present but ill calculated for ve­locity of motion. However, my exertions have not been throv [...] away: I've saved this poor knave from Osmond's ven­geance—and should my plan, for the Lady's release, succeed—Poor little soul!—To see how she took on, when Percy was [Page 25]torn from her! Well, well, she shall be rescued from her ty­rant. The moveable pannels—the subterraneous passages—the secret springs are well known to me—Oh! I cannot fail of success: But in order to secure it, I'll finally arrange my ideas in the Buttery. Whenever I've any great design in hand, I always ask advice of a flaggon of ale, and mature my plan over a cold venison pasty. Oh! what an excellent ge­nius must that man have had, who first invented eating and drinking!

SCENE III.—A spacious Chamber: On one Side is a Couch: On the other a Table, which is placed under an arched and lofty Window.

This, Sir, is your prison; but, doubtless, your con­finement will not continue long. The moment which gives me Angela's hand, shall restore you to liberty; and, till that moment arrives, farewel.

Stay, Sir, and hear me!—By what authority pre­sume you to call me captive?—Have you forgotten that you speak to Northumberland's Earl?

Well may I forget him, who could so far forget him­self. Was it worthy of Northumberland's Earl to steal dis­guised into my Castle, and plot with my servant to rob me of my most precious treasure?

Mine was that treasure. You deprived me of it basely, and I was justified in striving to regain my own.

Earl, nothing can justify unworthy means. If you were wronged, why sought you not your right with your sword's point? I then should have esteemed you a noble foe; and as such would have treated you: But you have stooped to paltry artisice, and attacked me like some midnight ruffian, privately, and in disguise. By this am I authorized to forget your station, and make your penance as degrading as your offence was base.

If such are indeed your sentiments, prove them now. Restore my sword, unsheathe your own, and be An­gela the conqueror's reward!

No, Earl Percy!—I am not so rash a gamester as to suffer that cast to be recalled, by which the stake is mine [Page 26]already. Angela is in my power: The only man who could wrest her from my arms has wilfully made himself my cap­tive: Such he is, and such he shall remain.

Insulting tyrant! Your cowardice in refusing my challenge proves sufficiently—

Be calm, Earl Percy!—You forget yourself. That I am no coward, my sword has proved in the fields of Scot­land. My sword shall again prove it, if, when you are re­stored to liberty, you still question the courage of my heart! Angela once mine, repeat your defiance, nor doubt my an­swering.

Angela thine?—That she shall never be! There are angels above who favour virtue, and the hour of retribu­tion must one day arrive.—

But long ere the arrival of that hour shall Angela have been my bride; and now farewel, Lord Percy!—Muley and Saib!

My Lord!

To your charge I commit the Earl. Quit not this apartment, nor suffer him for one moment from your sight.

My Lord, we shall obey you.

If she refuse me still, the death of this, her favourite—his death! Oh! through what bloody paths do I wander in pursuit of happiness! Yes, I am guilty! Heaven! how guilty! Yet lies the fault with me? Did my own pleas­ure plant in my bosom these tempestuous passions? No! they were given me at my birth; they were sucked in with my ex­istence. Nature formed me the slave of wild desires; and Fate, as she frowned upon my cradle, exclaimed; "I doom this babe to be a villain and a wretch!"

Look, Muley, how bitterly he frowns.

Now he starts from the sofa! Faith, he's in a monstrous fu [...]y.

That may well be: When you mean to take in oth­er people, it certainly is provoking to be taken in yourself.

H [...] gone to Angela! Gone, perhaps, to renew that outrage [...]ose completion my presence alone pre­vented. H [...]loless and unprotected, with no friend but inno­cence—no [...]cates save tears—how will she now repel his violence?

[Page 27]

Now he's in a deep study: Marry, if he studies himself out of this tower, he's a cleverer fellow than I take him for.

Were I not Osmond's captive, all might yet be well. Summoning my vassals, who by this time must be near at hand, forcing the Castle, and tearing Angela from the arms of her tyrant! Alas! my captivity has rendered my plan impracticable! Eternal curses upon Gilbert, who persuaded me to adopt this artifice! Curses on my own rash folly, which has thrown me defenceless in the power of my foe!

That's right—Another stamp or two, and the Tower comes rattling about our ears.

And are there then no hopes of liberty?

He fixes his eyes on us.

Might not these fellows—I can but try. Now stand my friend, thou master-key to human hearts! Aid me, thou potent devil, gold! Hear me, my worthy friends! Come nearer.

His worthy friends! Are we such, Muley?

Yes, truly are we; for friends in need are friends indeed: Marry, if he were not in need, he would call us his mortal foes.

My good fellows, you are charged with a disa­greeable office, and to obey a tyrant's mandates cannot be pleasant to you; there is something in your looks which has prejudiced me too much in your favour to believe it possible.

Nay, there certainly is something in our appear­ance highly prepossessing.

And I know that you must admire the delicacy of our complexions!

The tincture of your skin, my good fellow, is of little consequence: Many a worthy heart heats within a dusky bosom, and I am convinced that such an heart inhab­its your's; for your looks tell me that you feel for, and are anxious to relieve, my sufferings. See you this purse, my friends?

It's too far off, and I'm short-sighted. If you'll put it a little nearer—

Restore me to liberty! and not this purse alone, but ten times its value shall be your's.

To liberty?

[Page 28]

That purse?

Muley.

Saib!

By all my hopes, they hesitate! You well know, that my wealth and power are equal, not to say superior, to Earl Osmond's: Release me from my dungeon, and share that power and wealth! On the events of to-day depend my life's future happiness, nay, perhaps my life itself. Judge, then, if you assist me, how great will be the service rendered me, and believe that your reward shall equal my obligation.

I know not what to answer.

In truth, my Lord, your offers are so generous, and that purse is so tempting—Saib, what say you?

The Earl speaks so well, and promises so largely, that I own I'm strangely tempted.

Look you, Saib—will you stand by me?

I will!

There's my hand, then. My Lord, we are your servants!

This is beyond my hopes! A thousand thanks, my worthy fellows! Be assured that the performance of my promises shall soon follow the execution of your's.

Of that we make no doubt.

You agree, then, to release me?

'Tis impossible to do otherwise; for I feel that pity, generosity, and every moral feeling command me to trouble your Lordship for that purse.

There it is! And now unlock the door.

Here it is! And now I'm obliged to you. As for your promises, my Lord, pray don't trouble yourself to remember them, as I sha'n't trouble my­self to remember mine.

Ha! What mean you?

Earl, that we are faithful!

I wonder you didn't read that too in our amiable looks!

What! Will you not keep your word?

In good truth, no; we mean to keep nothing—except the purse.

Perfidious villains▪

[Page 29]

You mistake us, Sir; we cannot be villains; for I, you know, am your Lordship's "worthy friend!"

And I your Lordship's unworthy pensioner!

Confusion!—To be made the jest of such rascals!

Earl Percy, we are none; but we should have been, could your gold have bribed us to betray our master. We have but done our duty; you have but gained your just reward; for they who seek to deceive others, should ever be deceived themselves.

Silence, fellow!—Leave me to my thoughts.

Oh! with all our hearts! We ask no better.

Muley, we share that purse?

Undoubtedly: Sit down, and examine its con­tents.

How unfortunate, that the only merit of these villains should be fidelity! No hope now is left! Angela is lost, and with her my happiness!

Hark! What's that?

I'll see.

This window is so high—

Here, here! Take this chair.

Sleep you, or wake you, Lady bright?

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Now is the fittest time for flight.

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Surely I know that voice!

Now, what's the matter?

A boat lies at the foot of the tower, and the fisher­men sing while they draw their nets.

[Page 30]

I could not be mistaken—It was Gilbert!

Hark! They begin again!

Though deep the stream, though high the wall,

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

The danger, trust me, Love, is small:

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

I understand him. He bids me—Yet the dan­ger—What course shall I pursue?

Pr'ythee, come down, Saib; I long to divide the purse—

Stay a moment: one more stanza, and I'm with you. Now, silence!

Fair Emma hush'd her heart's alarms:

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

She sprang into her Lover's arms:

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Sing Megen-oh! Oh! Megen-Ee!

Will you never quit that window?

Here I am, and now for the purse.

Yes, I must brave the danger. I will feign to sleep; and when my gaolers are off their guard, then aid me, blest Providence!

Hold, Muley! What if, instead of sharing the purse, we throw for its contents? Here are dice.

With all my heart—And look! to pass our time the better, here's a bottle of the best sack in the Earl's cellar.

Good! good! And now, be this angel the stake—But first, what is our prisoner doing?

Oh! he sleeps: Mind him not. Come, come—Throw!

Here goes—Nine!—Now to you.

Nine too!—Double the stake.

[Page 31]

Agreed! and the throw is mine. Hark! What noise!

Oh! nothing, nothing!

Methought I heard the Earl—

Mere fancy: You see he is sleeping soundly Come, come—Throw!

There, then—Elven!

That's bad—Huzza!—Sixes!

Plague on your fortune!—Come, double or quits.

Be it so, and I throw.—Zounds! Only five!

Then I think this hit must be mine.—Aces, by heavens!

Ha, ha, ha!—Your health, friend.

They see me, and extend a cloth beneath the win­dow!—'Tis a fearful height!

Do you mean to empty the bottle? Come, come—Give it me.

Take it, blunder-head!

They encourage me to venture!—Now then, or never!

Angels of bliss, protect me!

Hell and furies!

Escaped! Escaped!

Huzza! huzza! huzza!

SCENE I.—The Castle Hall.

YONDER he stalks, and seems buried in himself. Now then to attack him while my late service is still fresh upon his memory. Should he reject my petition positively, [Page 32]he shall have good cause to repent his ingratitude. Percy is in the neighbourhood; and that secret, known only to myself, will surely—but, silence! Look where he comes!

It shall not be! Away with these foreboding terrors which weigh down my heart! Does not all smile upon my fortunes? my rival wears my chains, he cannot wrest her from me; and, with to-morrow's dawn, Angela shall be mine. Bound then high, my heart! Pleasure, sweet guest, so long a stranger, Oh to my bosom welcome once more! I will forget the past, and enjoy the present, and make those raptures again mine, which—Ah! no, no, no!—Con­science, that serpent, winds her folds around the cup of my bliss, and, ere my lips can reach it, her venom is mingled with the draught.

How profound the gloom which obscures his brow!—How fixed, how hopeless glares his dark eye-ball!—Oh! dreadful is the villain's look when he ponders on committed crimes!

Evening approaches fast.

Already the air breathes cooler, and the beams of the setting fun sparkle on the waters of Conway. How fair, how tranquil all without! How dark, how comfortless all within! Hark! the sound of music!—The peasants are returning from labour: they move with gay and careless steps, carolling as they go some rustic ditty; and will pass the night in rest, for they have passed the day in innocence!

Curses upon them—I will look, I will listen no more! I sicken at the sight of happiness, which I never more must enjoy: I hate the possessors of hearts untainted—hate, for I envy!—Oh! fly from my eyes, bright day! Speed thy pace, darkness! thou art my love! haste to unfold thy sable mantle, and robe the world in the colour of my soul!

Now then to accost him—yet I tremble!

Anguish! endless, hopeless anguish! Day or night, no moment of rest. When I sleep, dreams of strange horror [Page 33]still fright me from my couch! When I wake, I find in every object some cause for distrust—read the dread charge in every eye, "thou art a murderer!" and tremble, lest the agents of my guilt should work its punishment. And see where he walks, the chief object of my fears—he shall not be so long! His anxiety to leave me, his late mysterious threats—No, no, I will not live in fear.—Soft!—he advances!

So melancholy, my Lord?

Aye, Kenric, and must be so, till Angela is mine. Know, that even now, she extorted from me a promise, that till to-morrow I would leave her unmolested.

But till to-morrow?

But till to-morrow? Oh! in that little space a lover's eye views myriads of dangers! Yet think not good Kenric, that your late services are undervalued by me, or that I have forgotten those for which I have long been your debtor. When, bewildered by hatred of Reginald, and grief for Evelina's loss, my dagger was placed on the throat of their infant, your hand arrested the blow—judge then how grateful I must feel, when I behold in Ange [...]a her mother's living counterpart—behold her such, as when shielding with her body her fallen husband, Evelina received that dagger in her breast, which I aimed at the heart of Reginald—Worthy Kenric, how can I repay your services?

These you may easily: but what, Earl Osmond, what can repay me for the sacrifice of my innocence? I was virtuous till you bade me be guilty; my hands were pure till you taught me to stain them with blood! You painted in strong colours the shame of servitude—you promised free­dom, riches, independence—you vanquished the resistance of my better angel, and never since have I known one mo­ment of rest!

Good Kenric—

All here reminds me of my guilt—every object recalls to mind Reginald and his murdered Lady!—Let me then claim that independence so long promised, and seek for peace in some other climate, since memory forbids me to taste it in this.

Kenric, ere named, your wish was granted. In a far distant country a retreat is already prepared for you; there may you hush those clamours of conscience, which [Page 34]must reach me, I fear, even in the arms of Angela. Yet do not leave me till she is my bride; stay yet a week in Conway Castle; and then, though it will cost me many a [...] ­pang, Kenric, you shall bid it a long adieu.—Are you eontented?

My Lord!—Gratitude—Amaze­ment—And I doubted—I suspected—Oh! my good Lord, how have I wronged your kindness!

No more—I must not hear you.

Shame! shame! that ever my soul should stoop to dissembling with my slave!—Kenric, farewel: Till Angela is mine, keep a strict eye on Percy; and then—

How now? why this confusion?—why do you tremble?—Speak!

My Lord!—the prisoner—

The Prisoner?—Go on! go on!

Pardon, my Lord, pardon! our prisoner has escaped!

Villain!—

Hold! hold!—What would you do?

Unhand me, or by Heaven—

Away! away!—Fly, fellow, fly and save your­self!

Consider, my Lord—hap­ly 'twas not by his keeper's fault that—

What is't to me by whose?—Is not my rival fled?—Soon will Northumberland's guards encircle my walls, and force from me—Yet that by Heaven they shall not! No! Rather than resign her, my own hand shall give this Castle a prey to flames; then plunging with Ange­la into the blazing gulph, I'll leave these ruins to tell poster­ity how desperate was my love, and how dreadful my re­venge!—

—And you, who dared to rush between me and my resentment—you who c [...]ld so well succeed in saving others—now look to yourself!

Ha! that look—that threat—Yet he seemed so kind, so grateful!—He smiled too!—Oh! there is ever danger when a villain smiles.

Hist!—Kenric!

How now?—What brings—

Silence, and hear me!—You have saved my life, nor will I be ungrateful—Look at this phial!

Ha! did the Earl—

Even so: a few drops of this liquor should to­night have flavoured your wine—you would never have drank again! Mark me then—When I offer you a goblet at supper, drop it as by accident. For this night I give you life: use it to quit the Castle; for no longer than till to­morrow dare I disobey our Lord's commands. Farewel, and fly from Conway—You bear with you my thanks!

Can it be possible? Is not all this a dream?—Villain! villain!—Yes, yes, I must away!—But tremble, traitor!—A bolt, of which you little think, hangs over, and shall crush you!—The keys are still in my possession—Angela shall be the partner of my flight.—My prisoner too—Yet hold! May not resentment—may not Reginald's sixteen years captivity—Oh! no! Angela shall be my advocate; and, grateful for her own, for her parent's life preserved, she can, she will obtain my pardon. Yet, should she fail, at least I shall drag down Osmond in my fall, and sweeten death's bitter cup with vengeance!

SCENE II.—The Cedar-Room with folding Doors in the middle, and a large antique Bed; on one Side is the Portrait of a Lady, on the other that of a Warrior armed. Both are at full length.—After a pause, the Female Portrait slides back, and Father Philip, after looking in, advances cautiously.

Thus far I have proceed­ed without danger, though not without difficulty. Yon nar­row passage is by no means calculated for persons of my habit of body. By my Holidame, I begin to suspect that the fool is in the right! I certainly am growing corpulent.—And now, how shall I employ myself?—Sinner that I am, why did I forget my bottle of sack?—The time will pass tediously till Angela comes.—And, to complete the business, yonder is the haunted Oratory. What if the ghost should pop out on me? Blessed St. Bridget, there would be a tête-à-tête [Page 36] [...] this is a foolish fear:—'Tis yet scarce eight o'clock, and your ghosts always keep late hours; yet I don't like the idea of our being such near neighbours. If Alice says true, the apparition just now lives next door to me; but the Lord forbid that we should ever be visiting acquaint­ance!—Would I had something to drive her out of my head! A good book now, or a bottle of sack, St. Augustine, or a cold venison pasty, would be worth its weight in gold: but in the ch [...]bers of these young girls one finds nothing good either to read, drink, or eat. Now my last patroness, the Baroness O'Drench—Ah! to hear the catalogue of her crimes was quite a pleasure, for she always confessed them over a surloin of beef, and, instead of telling a bead, swal­lowed a bumper!—Oh! she was a worthy soul!—But hark!—Angela comes.

What, Alice!—Alice, I say!

By St. David, 'tis the Earl! I'll away as fast as I can!—

—I can't find the spring!—Lord forgive me my sins!—Where can I hide myself?—Ha! the bed!—'Tis the very thing—

—Heaven grant that it mayn't break down with me; for, Oh! what a fall would be there, my countrymen!—They come!—

You have heard my will, Lady. Till your hand is mine, you quit not this chamber.

If then it must be so, welcome my eternal prison!—Yet eternal it shall not be!—My hero, my guardian-angel is at liberty! Soon shall his horn make these hateful towers tremble, and your fetters be exchanged for the arms of Percy!

Beware, beware, Angela!—Dare not before me—

Before you! before the world!—Is my attach­ment a disgrace? No! 'tis my pride; for its object is deserv­ing. Long ere I knew him, Percy's fame was dear to me. While I still believed him the peasant Edwy, often, in his hearing, have I dwelt upon Northumberland's praise, and chid him that he spoke of our Lord so coldly! Ah! little did I think that the man then seated beside me was he whom I envied for his power of doing good, whom I loved for exerting that power so largely!—Judge then, Earl Osmond, [Page 37]on my arrival here how strongly I must have felt the con­trast!—What peasant names you his benefactor? What beg­gar has been comforted by your bounty? What sick man preserved by your care?—Your breast is unmoved by woe, your ear is deaf to complaint, your doors are barred against the poor and wretched. Not so are the gates of Alnwic Cas­tle; they are open as their owner's heart.

My hair stands on end to hear her!

Insulting girl!—This to my face?

Nay, never bend your brows!—Shall I tremble, because you frown? Shall my eye sink, because anger flashes from your's?—No! that would ill become the bride of Northumberland.

Amazement!—Can this be the gentle, timid Angela?

Wonder you that the worm should turn, when you trample it so cruelly?—Oh! wonder no more: Ere he was torn from me, I clasped Percy to my breast, and my heart caught a spark of that fire which flames in his unceas­ingly!

Caught fire, Lady!—Bless me, I hope you didn't burn yourself?

Silence, old crone!—I have heard you calmly, Angela; now then hear me. Twelve hours shall be allow­ed you to reflect upon your situation: till that period is elapsed, this chamber shall be your prison, and Alice, on whose fidelity I can depend, your sole attendant. This term expired, should you still reject my hand, force shall ob­tain for me what love denies. Speak not: I will hear noth­ing!—I swear that to-morrow sees you mine, or undone! And, skies rain curses on me, if I keep not my oath!—Mark that, proud girl! mark it, and tremble!

Heaven be praised, he's gone!

Tremble, did he say?—Alas! how quickly is my boasted courage vanished! Yet I will not despair: there is a Power in heaven; there is a Percy on earth: on them will I rely to save me.

The first may, Lady; but as to the second, he'll be of no use, depend on't. Now, might I advise, you'd ac­cept my Lord's offer. What matters it, whether the man's name be Osmond or Percy? An Earl's an Earl after all; and though one may be something richer than t'other—

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Oh! silence, Alice! nor aid my tyrant's designs, Rather instruct me how to counteract them. You have in­fluence in the Castle; assist me to escape, and be assured that Percy's gratitude and generosity—

I help you to escape! Not for the best gown in your Ladyship's wardrobe. I tremble at the very idea of my Lord's rage; and, besides, had I the will, I've not the power. Kenric keeps the keys: we could not possibly quit the Castle without his knowledge; and if the Earl threatens to use force with you—Oh Gemni! what would he use with me, Lady?

Threatens, Alice! I despise his threats! Ere it pillows Osmond's head, will I plunge this poniard in my bosom.

Holy fathers!—A dagger!

Even now, as I wandered through the Armoury, my eye was attracted by its glittering handle. Look, Alice! it bears Osmond's name; and the point—

Is rusty with blood!—Take it away, Lady! take it away!—I never see blood without fainting!

This weapon may render me good service. But, ah! what service has it rendered Osmond! Haply 'twas this very poniard which drank his brother's blood, or which pierced the fair breast of Evelina!—Said you not, Alice, that this was her portrait?

I did, Lady; and the likeness was counted ex­cellent.

How fair! how heavenly! What sweetness, yet what dignity, in her blue, speaking eyes!

No wonder that you admire her, Lady: she was as like you as one pea to another. But this morning you know I promised to show you her Oratory, and here I've brought the key. Shall I unlock the door?

Do so, good Alice! Haply for a moment it may abstract my thoughts from my own sorrows.

Will the old woman never be gone? I dare not discover myself in her presence.

This room has not been opened since my Lady's death, and every thing remains as she left it. Look, [Page 39]here is her veil—her prayer-book too, in which she was read­ing on the very night before she quitted the Castle, never to return!

I'm out of all patience.

And that guittar!—How often have I heard her play upon that guittar! She would sit in yonder window for hours, and still she played airs so sad, so sweet—To be sure she had the finest voice that ever—

What alarms you?

Is it you, Lady? let me die if I didn't take you for the ghost! Your air, your look, your attitude, all were so like the deceased Countess, that—Well, well, I'll not enter that room again in a hurry; I protest my hand trem­bles so, that I can hardly turn the key.

How contagious is terror; this silly woman's ap­prehensions have spread to my bosom, and scarce can I look round without alarm. The stillness too of evening—the wavering and mysterious light which streams through these pointed windows—And, hark! 'twas the shriek of the screech-owl, which nests in the tower above.

Ah! 'twas a sad day for me, when I heard of the dear Lady's loss! Look at that bed, Lady; that very bed was her's.

Was it so? Oh! ho!

How often have I seen her sleeping in that bed! and oh! how like an angel she looked when sleeping! I remember that just after Earl Reginald—O Lord! didn't somebody shake the curtain?

Absurd! it was the wind.

I declare it made me tremble. Well, as I was saying, I remember just after Earl Reginald had set out to the Scottish wars, going into her room one morning, and hearing her sob most bitterly; so advancing to the bed-side, as it might be thus—"My Lady," says I, with a low courtsey, "Isn't your Ladyship well?" so, with that she raised her [Page 40]head slowly above the quilt, and, giving me a mournful look—

Jesu Maria! the devil! the devil! the devil!

How now?

—Good heavens! a man concealed!

Stay, daughter, stay; if you run I can never overtake you.

Amazement! Father Philip!

The very same, and at present the best friend that you have in the world. Daughter, I came to save you.

To save me?—Speak!—Proceed!

Observe this picture; it conceals a spring, whose secret is unknown to all in the Castle except myself. Upon touching it, the pannel slides back, and a winding passage opens into the marble hall; thence we must proceed to the vaulted vestibule; a door is there concealed similar to this; and, after threading the mazes of a subterranean labyrinth, we shall find ourselves in safety on the outside of the Castle walls.

Oh! worthy, worthy Father! quick let us hasten! Let us not lose one moment!

Hold! hold! Not so fast. You forget, that between the hall and vestibule we must traverse many cham­bers much frequented at this early hour. Wait till the Cas­tle's inhabitants are asleep. Expect me, without fail, at one; keep up your spirits, and doubt not of success. Now then I must away, lest the Earl should perceive my absence

Stay yet one moment. Tell me, does Percy—

I have apprised him, that this night will restore you to liberty, and he expects you at the [...]sherman's cottage. Now, then, farewel, fair daughter.

Good friar, till one, farewel!

This is thy doing, God of Justice! receive my thanks.—Yes, Percy, we shall meet once more—shall meet, never again to separate! Those dreams shall be realized, those smiling golden dreams which floated before us in Allan's happy cottage. Hand in hand shall we wander [Page 41]together through life—partners in pleasure, partners in woe. And when the night of our existence arrives, one spot shall receive our bodies—one stone shall cover our grave. Allan too, and the worthy Maud!—my parents—my more than parents! to smooth the pillow of their age—to gild their last hours with sun-shine! that thought is heaven. So glo­rious are my prospects, that they dazzle me to look on, and scarce can I believe them really to exist. Oh! gracious God! should my brain be bewildered by fancy—should I be now the sport of some deceitful dream, seal up my eyes forever, never let me wake again!—I must not expect the Friar before one; till that hour arrives, will I kneel at the feet of yonder Saint, there tell my beads, and pray for morning.

SCENE I.—The Castle Hall. The Lamps are lighted.

'TIS near midnight, and the Earl is already retired to rest. What if I ventured now to the Lady's chamber? Hark! I hear the sound of footsteps.

How, Alice, is it you?

So! So!—Have I found you at last, Father?—I have been in search of you these four hours!—Oh! I've been so frightened since I saw you, that I wonder I keep my senses.

So do I; for I'm sure they're not worth the trouble. And, pray, what has alarmed you thus? I warrant you've taken an old cloak, pinned against the wall, for a Spectre, or discovered the devil in the shape of a tabby-cat.

For the love of Heav­en, Father, don't name the devil! or, if you must speak of him, pray mention the good gentleman with proper politeness. I'm sure, for my own part, I had always a great respect for him, and if he hears me, I dare say he'll o [...] as much.

[Page 42]

Respect for the devil, you wicked woman!—for that perfidious serpent—that crafty seducer—

Hush! Hush!—Father, you make my teeth chat­ter with fright. For aught I know he's within hearing, for he certainly haunts this Castle in the form of my late Lady.

Form of a fiddlestick!—Don't tell me of your—

Father, on the word of a virgin, I saw him this very evening in Lady Angela's bed.

In Lady Angela's?—On my conscience, the devil has an excellent taste! But, Alice! Alice!—how dare you trot about the house at this time of night, propa­gating such abominable falsehoods?—One comfort is, that nobody will believe you. Lady Angela's virtue is too well known, and I'm persuaded she wouldn't suffer the devil to put a single claw into her bed for the universe.

How you run on!—Lord bless [...]e, she wasn't in bed herself.

Oh!—Was she not?

No, to be sure: But you shall hear how it hap­pened. We were in the Cedar-room together; and while we were talking of this and that, Lady Angela suddenly gave a great scream. I looked round, and what should I se [...] but a tall figure all in white extended upon the bed! At the same time I heard a voice, which I knew to be the Countess Evelina's, pronounce in an hollow tone—"Alice!—Alice! Alice!"—three times. You may be certain that I was frightened enough. I instantly took to my heels; and just as I got without side of the door, I heard a loud clap of thunder, and the whole chamber shook as if tumbling into a thousand pieces!

Well done, Alice!—A very good story, upon my word: It has but one fault—'Tis not true.

Ods my life, Father, how can you tell any thing about it? Sure I should know best; for I was there, and you were not. I repeat it—I heard the voice as plain as I hear your' [...]: Do you think I've no ears?

Oh! far from it: I think you've uncommon­ly good ones; for you not only hear what has been said, but what has not. Hark!—the clock strikes twelve:—'Tis late, and I'm sleepy, so shall bid you farewel for the present. As to this wonderful story of yours, Alice, I don't believe [Page 43]one word of it: I'll be sworn that the voice was no more like your Lady's than like mine; and that the devil was no more in the bed than I was. Therefore, take my advice, set your heart at rest, and go quietly to your chamber, as I am now going to mine.—Good night.

Good night?—Surely you'll not have the heart to leave me in this terrible situation!—Suppose Satan should appear to me when I'm alone!—Sinner that I am, I should certainly die of the fright!—Good Father, you are a priest, and an holy man; your habit frightens the evil spirits, and they dare not come near you:—Oh! if you will but suffer me to pass the night in your company—

Oh! monstrous!—Oh! impudence unparal­leled!—You naughty, naughty woman, what could put such thoughts in your head?

What's the matter now?

Does not my sacred habit inspire you with awe?—Does not the exemplary chastity of my past life warn you to conceal such licentious desires?—Pass the night with me, indeed?—I'm shocked at the very thought!

The man's mad!—Father, as I hope to be saved—

Nay!—Come not near me!—Offer not to embrace me!

I embrace you?—Lord! Fellow, I wouldn't touch you for the universe!

Was it for this that you still flattered my person, and declared that nothing became a man more than a big belly?—Was it for this that you strove to win my heart through the medium of my stomach; that you used to come languishing every day with some liquorish dish; and, while you squeezed my left hand tenderly, placed a sack-posset in the right?—Heavens! how deep-laid were your plans of seduction!—But mark me, tempter: In vain has the soup been salted, the ragout seasoned, and the pepper-box shaken with unsparing hand! My virtue is proof against all your culinary spell; the fairness of my innocence is still [...]blem­ished; and in spite of your luscious stews and savoury hash­es, I retire like a second St. Anthony, victorious from Temp­tation's lists!

There, he's gone!—Dear heart! Dear heart! what shall I do now?—'Tis past twelve o'clock, and stay by [Page 44]myself I dare not.—I'll e'en wake the laundry-maid, make her sit up in my room all night; and 'tis hard if two women a'n't a match for the best devil in Christendom.

The Earl then has forgiven me!—A moment long­er, and his pardon would have come too late. Had not Ken­ric held his hand, by this time I should be at supper with St. Peter.

Your folly well deserved such a reward. Know­ing the Earl's hasty nature, you should have shunned him till the first storm of passion was past, and circumstances had again made your ministry needful. Anger then would have armed his hand in vain; for interest, the white man's God, would have blunted the point of his dagger.

I trusted that his gratitude for my past services—

European gratitude? Seek constancy in the winds—fire in ice—darkness in the blaze of sun-shine!—But seek not gratitude in the breast of an European!

Then, why so attached to Osmond? For what do you value him?

Not for his virtues, but for his vices, Saib: Can there for me be a greater cause to love him? Am I not branded with scorn? Am I not marked out for dishonour? Was I not free, and am I not a slave? Was I not once be­loved, and am I not now despised? What man, did I tender my service, would accept the negro's friendship? What wo­man, did I talk of affection, would not turn from the negro with disgust? Yet, in my own dear land, my friendship was courted, my love was returned. I had parents, children, wife!—Bitter thought, in one moment all were lost to me! Can I remember this, and not hate these white men? Can I think how cruelly they have wronged me, and not rejoice when I see them suffer?—Attached to Osmond, say you? Saib, I hate him! Yet viewing him as an avenging friend sent hither to torment his fellows, it glads me that he fills his office so well. Oh! 'tis a thought which I would not barter for empires, to know that in this world he makes oth­ers suffer, and will suffer himself for their tortures in the next!

But say, you be one of those whom he causes to suffer, how then? Hassan, I will sleep no more in the li­on's [Page 45]den! My resolve is taken: I will away from the Cas­tle, and seek in some other service that security—

What—Hoa! Help!—Lights there! Lights!

Hark! Surely 'twas the Earl!

Save me! Save me!—They are at hand! Oh! let them not enter!

What can this mean?—See, how his eyes roll! How violently he trembles!

Speak, my Lord—Do you not know us?

Ha! Whose voice?—Has­san's?—And Saib too here?—Oh! Was it then but a dream? Did not I hear those dreadful, those damning words?—Still, still they ring in my ears. Hassan! Hassan! Death must be bliss, in flames or on the rack, compared to what I have this night suffered!

Compose yourself, my Lord: Can a mere dream unman you thus?

A mere dream, say'st thou? Hassan, 'twas a dream of such horror! Did such dreams haunt my bitterest foe, I should wish him no severer punishment. Mark you not, how the ague of fear makes my limbs tremble? Rolls not my eye, as if still gazing on the Spectre? Are not my lips convulsed, as were they yet prest by the kiss of corruption? Oh! 'twas a sight, that might have bleached joy's rosy cheek for ever, and strewed the snows of age upon youth's auburn ringlets! Yet, away with these terrors!—Hassan, thou saidst, 'twas but a dream: I was deceived by fancy. Hassan, thou saidst true; there is not, there cannot be, a world to come.

My Lord!—

Answer me not! Let me not hear the damning truth! Tell me not, that flames await me! that for mo­ments of bliss I must endure long ages of torture! Plunge the rather in the thickest gloom of Atheism! Say, that with my body, must perish my soul! For, oh! should my fear­ful dream be prophetic!—Hark, fellows! Instruments of my guilt, listen to my punishment!—Methought I wandered through the low-browed caverns, where repose the reliques of my ancestors. My eye dwelt with awe on their tombs, with disgust on Mortality's surrounding emblems! Sudden­ly [Page 46]a female form glided along the vault: It was Angela! She smiled upon me, and beckoned me to advance. I flew towards her; my arms were already unclosed to clasp her—when suddenly her figure changed, her face grew pale, a stream of blood gushed from her bosom!—Hassan, 'twas Evelina!

Evelina!

Such as when she sank at my feet expiring, while my hand grasped the dagger, still crimsoned with her blood!—"We meet again this night!" murmured her hollow voice! "Now rush to my arms, but first see what you have made me! Embrace me, my bridegroom! We must never part again!"—While speaking, her form withered away: the flesh fell from her bones; her eyes burst from their sockets: a skeleton, loathsome and meagre, clasped me in her moul­dering arms!—

Most horrible!

Her infected breath was mingled with mine; her rotting fingers pressed my hand, and my face was covered with her kisses! Oh! then, then how I trembled with dis­gust! And now blue dismal flames gleamed along the walls; the tombs were rent asunder; bands of fierce spectres rushed round me in frantic cance; furiously they gnashed their teeth while they gazed upon me, and shrieked in loud yell—"Welcome, thou fratricide! Welcome, thou lost forev­er!"—Horror burst the hands of sleep; distracted I flew hither: But my feelings—words are too weak, too power­less to express them.

My Lord, my Lord, this was no idle dream! 'Twas a celestial warning; 'twas your better Angel that whispered—"Osmond, repent your former crimes! Com­mit not new ones!"—Remember, that this night should Kenric.—

Kenric?—Oh! speak! Drank he the poison?

Obedience to your orders, I presented it at supper; but ere the cup reached his lips, his favourite dog sprang up­on his arm, and the [...]uor fell to the ground untasted.

Praised be Heaven! Then my soul is lighter by a crime!—Kenric shall [...] good Saib. What though he quit me, and [...]etray my [...]rets? Proofs he cannot bring against [...] bare assertions will not be believed. At worst, sho [...] [...]ale be credited, long ere Percy can wrest [Page 47]her from me, shall Angela be mine. Angela!—Oh! at that name all again is calm in my bosom. Hushed by her image, my tumultuous passions sink to rest, and my terrors subside into that single fear—her loss! I forget that I have waded to her arms through blood; forget all, save my affec­tion and her beauty!

You forget too that her heart is another's? Oh! my Lord, reflect on your conduct while it is yet time; re­store the poor Angela to liberty; resign her to her favoured lover—

Sooner will I resign my life!—Fellow, you know not what you say: My heart-strings are twisted round the maid; ere I resign her, those strings must break. If I exist to [...]orrow night, I will pass it in her arms.— If I exist?—Ha! Whence that doubt? "We meet again this night!"—So said the Spectre!—Dreadful words, be ye blotted from my mind forever!—Hassan, to your vigilance I leave the care of my beloved. Fly to me that instant, should any unbidden footstep approach yon chamber door. I'll to my couch again. Follow me, Saib, and watch me whil [...] I sleep. Then, if you see my limbs convulsed, my teeth clenched, my hair bristling, and cold dews trembling on my brow, seize me! Rouse me! Snatch me from my bed! I must not dream again.—Oh! faithless sleep, why art thou too leagued with my foes? There was a time, when thy presence brought oblivion to my sorrows; when thy poppy-crown was min­gled with roses!—Now, Fear and Remorse thy sad compan­ions, I shudder to see thee approach my couch! Blood tric­kles from thy garments; snakes writhe around thy brows: thy hand holds the well-known s [...]al dagger, and plunges it still reeking in my breast!—Then do I shriek in agony; then do I start distracted from thy arms!—Oh! how I hate thee, Sleep!—Friend of Virtue, oh! how I dread thy coming!

Yes, thou art sweet, Vengeance! Oh! how it joys me when the white man suffers! Yet weak are his pangs, compared to those I felt when torn from thy shores, O native Africa! from thy bosom, my faithful Samba!—Ah! dost thou still exist, my wife? Has sorrow for my loss traced thy smooth brow with wrinkles?—My boy too, whom on that morning when the man-hunters seized me, I left sleep­ing [Page 48]on thy bosom, say, Lives he yet? Does he ever speak of me? Does he ask, "Mother, describe to me my father; show me how the warrior looked?" Ha! has my bosom still room for thoughts so tender? Hence with them! Vengeance must possess it all! Oh! when I forget my wrongs, may I forget myself! When I forbear to hate these Christians, God of my fathers! mayst thou hate me!—Ha! Whence that light? A man moves this way with a lamp! How cautiously he steals along! He must be watched. This friendly column will shield me from his regards. Silence! He comes.

All is hushed! The Castle seems buried in sleep. Now then to Angela!

It was Kenric!—Still he moves on­wards—Now he stops—'Tis at the door of Angela's cham­ber!—He unlocks it!—He enters!—Away then to the Earl: Christian, soon we meet again!

SCENE II.—ANGELA'S Apartment.

Will it never arrive—this tedious lingering hour? Sure an age must have elapsed since the Friar left me, and still the bell strikes not One!—Percy, does thy impatience equal mine? Dost thou too count the moments which divide us? Dost thou too chide the slowness of time's pinions, which moved so swiftly when we strayed together on the Cheviot Hills? Methinks I see him now, as he paces the Conway's margin: If a leaf falls, if a bird flutters, he flies towards it; for he thinks 'tis the footstep of Angela: Then, with slow steps and bending head, disappointed he regains the fisher's cottage. Perhaps, at this moment, his eyes like mine are sixed on yonder planet; perhaps this sweet wind which plays on my cheek, is freighted with the sighs of my lover.—Oh! sigh no more, my Percy! Soon shall I repose in safety on your bosom; soon again see the moon shed her silver light on Cheviot, and hear its green hills repeat the carol of your mellow horn!

The Castle seems to be still already: Would the Friar had named an earlier hour! By this I might have been safe in the fisher's cottage. Hark! Surely I heard—Some one unlocks the door!—Oh! should it be the Earl—should he not retir [...] ere the Monk arrives—The door opens!—How! Kenric here!—Speak—What would you?

Softly, Lady! If overheard, I am lost, and your fate is connected with mine.—

What means this mystery? This midnight visit—

Is the visit of a friend, of a penitent!—Lady, I must away from the Castle: The keys are in my possession: I will make you the companion of my flight, and deliver you safe into the hands of Percy. But, ere we depart,

Oh! tell me, Lady, will you plead for me with one, who to me alone owes sixteen years of hard captivity?

Rise, Kenric: I understand you not. Of what captive do you speak?

Of one, who by me has been most injured, who to you will be most dear. Listen, Lady, to my strange narra­tion. I was brought up with Osmond, was the partner of his pleasures, the confident o [...] [...] cares. The latter sprang solely from his elder brother, whose birth-right he coveted, whose superiority he envied. Yet [...] [...]rsion burst not forth, till Evelina Neville, rejecting his hand, bestowed her's with [Page 50]her heart on Reginald. Then did Osmond's passion over­leap all bounds. He resolved to assassinate his brother when returning from the Scottish wars, carry off the Lady, and make himself master of her person by force. This scheme he imparted to me: He flattered, threatened, promised—and I yielded to his seduction!

Wretched man!

Condemn me not unheard. 'Tis true, that I fol­lowed Osmond to the scene of slaughter, but no blood that day imbrued my hand. It was the Earl whose sword struck Reginald to the ground; it was the Earl whose dagger was raised to complete his crime, when Evelina threw herself up­on her husband's body, and received the weapon in her own.

Dreadful! Dreadful!

His hopes disappointed by this accident, Osmond's wrath became madness. He gave the word for slaughter, and Reginald's few attendants were butchered on the spot. Scarce could my prayers and arguments save from his wrath his infant niece, whose throat was already gored by his poniard. Angela, your's still wears that mark.

Mine?—Almighty Powers!

Lady, 'tis true. I concealed in Allan's cottage the heiress of Conway: There were you doomed to languish in obscurity, till, alarmed by the report of the spies that Per­cy loved you, and dreading your meeting with so powerful a supporter, Osmond decreed your death a second time. With this intention he sought your retreat; but when in you he beheld Evelina's living image, he changed his bloody pur­pose. He cause [...] me to reclaim you from Allan, and resolv­ed, by making you his wife, to give himself a lawful claim to these possessions.

The monster! Now then I know, when he pressed my hand, why still my blood ran cold! 'Twas nature, that revolted at the fratricide's touch: 'Twas my mother's spirit, that whispered, "Love not my murderer!" Oh! good, good Kenric! And you knelt to me for pardon? You, to whom I owe my life! You, to whom—

Hold! oh hold!—Lady, how little do I deserve your thanks!—Oh listen, listen!—I was the last to quit the bloody spot. Sadly was I retiring, when a faint groan struck my ear. I sprang from my horse; I placed my hand on Reginald's heart; it beat beneath the pressure!

It beat! it beat! Cruel, and your dagger—

Oh! that would have been mercy! No, Lady, I preserved his life to rob him of liberty. It struck me, how strong would be my hold over Osmond, while his brother was in my power; and this reflection determined me to pre­serve him. Having plunged the other bodies in the Conway's stood, I placed the bleeding Earl's on my horse before me, and conveyed him still insensible to a retreat, to all, except myself, a secret. There I tended his wounds carefully, and succeeded in preserving his life. Lady—Reginald still exists.

Still exists, say you? My father still exists?

He does, if a life so wretched can be termed ex­istence. While his swoon lasted, I chained him to his dun­geon wall; and no sooner were his wounds healed, than I entered his prison no more. Through a wicket in his dun­geon door I supplied him with food; and when in plaintive terms he sued to me for mercy, hastily I fled, nor gave an an­swer. Lady, near sixteen years have passed, since an human voice struck the ear of Reginald!

Alas! alas!

But the hour of his release draws near: I discov­ered this night that Osmond seeks my life, and resolved to throw myself on your mercy. Then tell me, Lady, will you plead for me with your father? Think you he. can forgive the author of his sufferings?

Kenric, you have been guilty, cruel—But restore to me my father; aid us to escape; and all shall be forgiven, all forgot.

Then follow me in silence: I will guide you to Reginald's dungeon: This key unlocks the Castle gates; and ere the cock crows, safe in the arms of Percy—

Horror!—the Earl!—Undone forever!

Miscreant!—Within there!

Hence with that traitor! confine him in the west­ern tower!

Yet speak once more, Kenric! Where is my Father? What place con­ceals him?

Let him not speak! Away with him!

Nay, stifle not your curses! Why should your lips be silent when your eye speaks? Is there not written on every feature, "Vengeance on the assassin! Justice on my mother's murderer?" But mark me, Angela! Compared to that which soon must be thine, these titles are sweet and lovely. Know'st thou the word parricide, Ange­la? Know'st thou their pangs who shed the blood of a par­ent? Those pangs must be thine, to-morrow. This long concealed captive—this new-found father—

Your brother, Osmond? Your brother?—Surely you cannot, will not—

Still doubt you that I both can and will? Re­member Kenric's tale! Remember, though the first blow failed, the second will strike deeper!—But from whom must Reginald receive that second? Not from his rival brother! not from his inveterate foe!—From his daughter, his un­feeling daughter! 'Tis she, who, refusing me her hand, will place a dagger in mine; 'tis she, whose voice declaring that she hates me, will bid me plunge that dagger in her father's heart!

Man! man! drive me not mad!

Look upon this picture! Mark, what a noble form! How sweet, how com­manding the expression of his full dark eye! Then fancy that he lies in some damp solitary dungeon, writhing in death's agonies, his limbs distorted, his eye-strings breaking, his soul burthened with crimes from which no priest has ab­solved him, his last words curses on his unnatural child, who could have saved him, but who would not!

Horrible! horrible!

Yet if you still reject my offers, thus must it be. Tortures shall compel Kenric to reveal what dungeon con­ceals your father; and ere to-morrow dawns shall Angela lie a bride in my arms, or Reginald a corse at my feet. Nay, [Page 53]spare entreaties! Why should I heed your sorrows? You have gazed unmoved upon mine! Why should I be soften­ed by your tears? Mine never were dried by your pity! Cold and inflexible have you been to my despair; so will I be to your's. Speak, then—Is Percy's love or your father's life most dear to you? Does the false mistress or the unnat­ural child sound most grating in your ears? Must Reginald die, or will Angela be mine?

Thine!—She will perish first!

You have pronounced his sentence, and his blood be on your head!—Farewel!

Hold! hold!—Oh! go not, go not yet!—Wretch that I am, where shall I fly for succour?—Mercy, Osmond! Oh! mercy!—Behold me at your feet, see me bathe them with my tears! Look with pity on a creature whom your cruelty has bowed to the earth, whose heart you have almost broken, whose brain you have almost turned!—Mercy, Osmond! Oh! mercy! mercy!

Lovely, lovely suppliant! And why not profit by the present moment? Why owe to cold consent what force may this instant give me?—It shall be so, and thus—

Away! Approach me not! Dare not to touch me, or this poniard—

Foolish girl! Let me but say the word, and thou art disarmed that moment.

But not by thee, Osmond! Oh! never by thee! Hadst thou the force of fabled giants, vainly wouldst thou strive to wrest this dagger from my hand.

Let this convince you how easily—

By hell, the very poniard which —

Ha! hast thou found me, vil­lain?—Villain, dost thou know this weapon? Know'st thou whose blood incrusts the point? Murderer, it flowed from the bosom of my mother!

Within there! Help!—

Oh! God in heaven!

[Page 54]

He faints!—Long may the villain wear thy chains, Oblivion! Long be it ere he wakes to commit new crimes!—My father in Osmond's power?—Oh! 'tis a dreadful thought!—But no, it must not, shall not be!—I will to Osmond, will promise to be his, will sacrifice my love, my happiness, my peace of mind—every thing but my father!—Yet, to bid an assassin rest upon my bosom, to press that hand in mine which pierced the heart of my parent—Oh! it were monstrous!—

Mother! Blessed Mother! If indeed thy spirit still lingers amidst these scenes of sorrow, look on my despair with pity! fly to my aid! Oh! fly, and save my father!—

Hark! the bell tolls!— 'Tis the time which the Monk appointed. He will not tar­ry: But I must not follow him; I will not fly and abandon my father!—Yet may not my flight preserve him? Yes, yes, I will away to Percy: By the same passage which favours my escape, his vassals may easily surprise the Castle, may seize Osmond ere he effects his crime, and to-morrow may see Reginald restored to freedom, to his domains, and to his daughter!—Oh! then sweet indeed will be my feelings! Then only can my heart know joy, when it throbs against a father's!—Ha! what was that? methought the sound of music floated by me! It seemed as some one had struck the guittar: I must have been deceived; it was but fancy.

Heavens! The very words which Alice—The door too!—It moves! it opens! Guard me, good Angelsd

Stay, lovely Spirit!—Oh! stay yet one moment!

Oh! Heaven protect me!

SCENE I.—A View of Conway Castle by Moon-light.

IN truth, my Lord, you venture too near the Castle. Should you fall into Osmond's power a second time, your next jump would be into a better world.

Oh! there is no danger, Motley. My followers are not far off, and will join me at a moment's warning; then fear not for me.

With all my heart; but permit me to fear for my­self. We are now within bow-shot of the Castle. The archers may think proper to amuse us with a proof of their skill; and were I to feel an arrow quivering in my gizzard, probably I should be much more surprised than pleased. Good my Lord, let [...] back to the fisherman's hut.

Your advice may be wise, Gilbert, but I cannot follow it. Angela's escape may be discovered; she may be pursued, and in need of my assistance. Then counsel not my retiring; my fears of losing Angela are too strong, the flame which burns in my bosom too ardent.

I'm sure no flame burning in your bosom, can give you so much pain as an arrow would give me sticking [Page 56]in mine; and as to your fears of losing the Lady, I'd bet mine of losing my life against any fears in Christendom!

How, Gilbert? have you not promised to stand by me to the last? Did you not say you could die in my service with pleasure?

Very true: But, Lord! if a man was always taken at his word, the world would soon be turned upside down. When a polite gentleman begs you to consider his house as your own, and assures you that all he has is at your disposal, he'd be in a terrible scrape if you began knocking down his walls, or requested the loan of his wife or daughters!—No, no, Sir, when I said that I should die in your service with pleasure, I intended to live in it many long years; since, to tell you the truth, from a child I had always a particular dislike to dying, and I think that with every hour the preju­dice grows stronger.—Good my Lord, let us be gone. Ere long I doubt not—

Hark! Did I not hear—No! she comes not! —Heavens, should the Friar's plot have failed!

Failed! and a priest and a petticoat concerned in it? O no! a plot composed of such good ingredients cannot but succeed. Ugh! would I were again seated by the fisher's hearth! The wind blows cruel sharp and bitter.

For shame, Gilbert! am I not equally exposed to its severity?

Oh, the flame in your bosom keeps you warm; and in a cold night, love wraps one up better than a blanket. But that not being my situation, the present object of my desires [...] a blazing wood fire; and Venus would look to me less lovely than a smoking sack-posset! Oh, when I was in love, I managed matters much better: I always paid my addresses by the fire-side, and contrived to urge my soft suit just at dinner time! Then how I filled my fair-one's ears with fine speeches, while she silled my trencher with roast beef! Then what sigures and tropes came out of my mouth, and what dainties and tid-bits went in! 'Twould have done your heart good to hear me talk and see me eat; and you'd have found it no easy matter to decide, whether I had most wit or appetite.

And who was the object of this voracious passion?

A person well calculated to charm both my heart and my stomach: It was a lady of great merit, who did your [Page 57]father the honour to superintend his culinary concerns. I was scarce fifteen, when she kindled a flame in my heare while lighting the kitchen fire, and from that moment I thought on nothing but her. My mornings were passed in composing poems on her beauty, my evenings in reciting them in her ear; for nature had equally denied the fair creature and myself the faculty of reading and writing.

You were successful, I hope?

Why, at length, my Lord, a Pindaric Ode upon her grace in frying pancakes melted her heart. She con­sented to be mine; when, oh! cruel fortune, taking one night a drop too much—poor dear creature, she never got the better of it! I wept her loss, and composed an elegy upon it, which has been thought, by many persons of great judgment, not totally destitute of taste and sublimity. It began thus:

Peace, peace! See you nothing near yonder tower?

Yes, certainly; two persons advance towards us: Yet they cannot be our friends, for I see neither the Lady's petticoat nor the Monk's paunch!

Still they approach, though slowly: One leans on his companion, and seems to move with pain. Let us retire and observe them.

Away, Sir; I'm at your heels.

Nay, yet hold up a while! Now we are near the fisher's cottage.

Good Saib, I needs must stop! Enfeebled by Ofmond's tortures, my limbs refuse to bear me further!— Here lay me down; then fly to Percy, guide him to the dungeon, and, ere 'tis too late, bid him save the father of Angela!

Hark! Did you hear?

Yet, to leave you thus alone!—

Oh, heed not me! Think, that on these few mo­ments depends our safety. Angela's freedom, Reginald's life!—You have the master-key! Fly, then—oh, fly to Percy!

[Page 58]

Said he not Reginald? Speak again, stranger! What of Reginald?

Ha! Look up, Kenric; 'tis Percy's self!

How!—Kenric?

Yes, the guilty, the penitent Kenric! Oh, surely 'twas Heaven sent you hither! Know, Earl Percy, that Reginald lives, that Angela is his daughter!

Amazement! And is this known to Osmond?

Two hours have scarcely passed since he surprised the secret. Tortures compelled me to avow where Regi­nald was hidden, and he now is in his brother's power. Fly then to his aid! Alas! perhaps at this moment his destruc­tion is completed! Perhaps even now Osmond's dagger—

Within there! Allan! Harold!—Quick, Gil­bert, sound your horn!—

Friends, may I depend on your support?

While we breathe, all will stand by you.

All! All!

Follow me, then!—Away!

Yet stay one moment!—Percy, to this grateful friend have I consided a master-key, which will instantly ad­mit you to the Castle, and have described to him the retreat of Reginald!—Be he your guide, and hasten—Oh! that pang!—

Look to him! He sinks! Bear him to your hut, Edric, and there tend his hurts.

Now on, good fellow, and swiftly!—Osmond, despair!—I come!

SCENE II.—A vaulted Chamber.

Thanks to St. Francis, we have as yet passed unobserved!—Surely, of all travelling companions, Fear is the least agreeable: I couldn't be more fatigued, had I run twenty miles without stopping!

[Page 59]

Why this delay?—Good Father, let us pro­ceed.

Ere I can go further, Lady, I must needs stop to take breath, and refresh my spirits with a taste of this cor­dial.

Oh! not now! Think that Osmond may discover me, and mar your kind intentions. This room, you say, conceals the private door:—Pr'ythee, unclose it! Let us from hence! Wait till we are safe under Percy's protection, and then drink as you list. But not now, Father; in pity, not now!

Well, well, be calm, Daughter!—Oh! these women! these women! They mind no one's comfort but their own!—Now, where is the door?

How tedious seems every moment which I pass within these hated walls!—Ha! Yonder comes a light!

So, so—I've found it at last.

It moves this way!—By all my fears, 'tis Osmond! In, Father, in! Away, for Heaven's sake!—

Is all still with­in the Castle?

As the silence of the grave.

Where are your fellows?

Saib guards the traitor Kenric: Muley and Ala­ric are buried in sleep.

Their hands have been stained with blood, and yet can they sleep?—Call your companions hither.

Away with the light! Its beams are hateful.

Yes! this is the place. If Kenrie said true, for sixteen years have the vaults beneath me rung with my brother's groans. I dread to unclose the door! How shall I sustain the beams of his eye when they rest on Eveli­na's murderer? How will his proud heart swell with rage at meeting his usurping brother! Ah, the beams of his eye must long since have been quenched in tears! The pride of his heart must by this be subdued by sufferings!—Great have [Page 60]been those sufferings—in truth so great, that even my hatred bends before them. Yet for that hatred, had I not cause? At Tournaments, 'twas on Reginald that each bright eye was bent; at Court, 'twas to Reginald that each noble prof­fered friendship. Evelina too!—Ha! at that name my ex­piring hate revives! Reginald! Reginald! for thee was I sacrificed! Oh! when it strikes a second blow, my poniard shall stab surer.

My Lord! My Lord!

Now, why this haste?

I tremble to inform you, that Saib has fled the Castle. A master-key, which he found upon Kenric, and of which he kept possession, has enabled him to escape.

Saib too gone?—All are false! All forsake me!

Yet more, my Lord; he has made his prisoner the companion of his flight.

How? Kenric escaped?

'Tis but too certain; doubtless he has fled to Percy.

To Percy?—Ha! Then I must be speedy: My fate hangs on a thread! Friends, I have ever found ye faith­ful; mark me now!—

Of these two passages, the left conducts to a long chain of dungeons: In one of these my brother still languishes. Once already have you seen him bleeding beneath my sword—but he yet exists. My fortune, my love; nay my life, are at stake!— Need I say more?—

— That gesture speaks me understood. On then before, I fol­low you.—

— Ha! Why roll these seas of blood before me? Whose mang­led corse do they bear to my feet?—Fratricide!—Oh! 'tis a dreadful name!—Yet how preserve myself and Regi­nald?—It cannot be! We must not breathe the same at­mosphere. Fate, thy hand urges me!—Fate, thy voice prompts me! Thou hast spoken; I obey.—

SCENE III.—A gloomy subterraneous Dungeon, wide and lofty: The upper part of it has in several places fallen in, and left large chasms. On one side are various passages leading to other Caverns: On the other is an Iron Door with Steps leading to it, and a Wicket in the middle. REGI­NALD, pale and emaciated, in coarse garments, his hair hang­ing wildly about his face, and a chain bound round his body, lies sleeping upon a bed of straw. A lamp, a small bashet, and a pitcher, are placed near him. After a few moments he awakes, and extends his arms.

My child! My Evelina!—Oh! fly me not, love­ly forms! They are gone, and once more I live to misery. Thou wert kind to me, Sleep! Even now, methought I sat in my Castle hall: A maid, lovely as the Queen of Fairies, hung on my knee, and hailed me by that sweet name, "Fa­ther!" Yes, I was happy!—Yet frown not on me, therefore, Darkness! I am thine again, my gloomy bride!—Be not incensed, Despair, that I left thee for a moment; I have passed with thee sixteen years! Ah! how many have I still to pass?—Yet fly not my bosom quite, sweet Hope I Still speak to me of liberty, of light! Whisper, that once more I shall see the morn break, that again shall my fevered lips drink the pure gale of evening!—God, thou knowest that I have borne my sufferings meekly: I have wept for myself, but never cursed my foes; I have sorrowed for thy anger, but never murmured at thy will. Patient have I been; oh! then reward me; let me once again press my daughter in my arms; let me, for one instant, feel again that I clasp to my heart a being who loves me. Speed thou to heaven, prayer of a captive!—

Be cautious, Father!—Feel you not how the ground trembles beneath us?

Perfectly well, and would give my best breviary to find myself once more on terra-firma. But the outlet cannot be far off; let us proceed.

[Page 62]

Look down upon us, blessed angels; aid us, pro­tect us.

Amen, fair daughter! And now away.

'Tis that door which divides me from happiness. How often against that door have I knelt and prayed, and ever knelt and prayed in vain! Fearful, lest my complaints should move him from his purpose, my gaoler listens not, replies not: Hasty through you wicket he gives my food, then flies as if this dungeon held a ser­pent. Oh! then, how my heart swells with bitterness, when the sound of his retiring steps is heard no more, when through you lofty chasm I catch no longer the gleam of his departing torch! How wastes my lamp? The hour of Ken­ric's visit must long be past, and still he comes not. How, if death's hand hath struck him suddenly? My existence un­known—Away from my fancy, dreadful idea!

The breaking of my chain permits me to wander at large through the wide precincts of my prison. Haply the late storm, whose pealing thunders were heard e'en in this abyss, may have rent some friendly chasm: Haply some nook yet unexplored—Ah! no, no, no! My hopes are vain, my search will be fruitless. Despair in these dungeons reigns despotic; she mocks my complaints, rejects my prayers, and, when I sue for freedom, bids me seek it in my grave. Death! Oh, death! how welcome wilt thou be to me!

How's this? A door?

It was barred on the outside.

That we'll forgive, as it wasn't bolted on the in. But I don't recollect—Surely I've not—

What's the matter?

By my faith, daughter, I suspect that I've missed my way.

Heaven forbid!

Nay, if 'tis so, I sha'n't be the first man who of two ways has preferred the wrong.

[Page 63]

Provoking! And did I not tell you to choose the right-hand passage?

Truly, did you; and that was the very thing which made me choose the left. Whenever I'm in doubt myself, I generally ask a woman's advice. When she's of one way of thinking, I've always found that reason's on the other. In this instance, perhaps, I have been mis­taken; but wait here for one moment, and the fact shall be ascertained. But, perhaps, you fear being alone in the dark?

I fear nothing except Osmond.

Nay, I've no more inclination to fall into his clutches again, than yourself. What would be the conse­quence? You would be married—I should be hung! Now daughter, you may think that I've a bad taste; but, as I'm a Christian, I'd rather be married fifty years, than hung for one little half hour.

How thick and infecti [...] is the air of this cavern! Yet perhaps for sixteen years has my poor father breathed none purer. Hark! Steps are quick advancing! The Fri­ar comes, but why in such confusion?

Help! Help! It follows me!

What alarms you? Speak!

His ghost, his ghost!—Let me go, let me go, let me go!

Father, father! Stay for Heaven's sake!—He's gone, I cannot find the door!—Hark! 'Twas the clank of chains!—A light too! It comes yet nearer!—Save me, ye powers!—What dreadful form! 'Tis here! I faint with terror!—

He is gone!—Emaciated and stiff from long dis­use, scarce can I draw my limbs along; and I strive in vain to overtake the fugitive.

[Page 64]

Still it is there, that fear­ful vision.

Why did Kenric enter my prison? Haply, when he heard not my groans at the dungeon door, he thought that my woes were relieved by death. Oh! when will that thought be ver­ified?

How sunk his eye?—How wildly hangs his mat­ted hair on his pale and furrowed brow!—Oh! those are the furrows of anguish, not of age.

I have oft wiped away tears, but never caused them to flow; oft have I lightened the prisoner's chains, but nev­er increased their burthen: Yet I am doomed to chains and tears!

Each sound of his hollow plaintive voice strikes to my heart. Dared I accost him—Yet perhaps a maniac—No matter; he suffers, and the accents of pity will flow sweetly in his ears!

Thou art dead, and at rest, my wife! Safe in you skies, no thought of me molests thy quiet. Yet sure I wrong thee! At the hour of death thy spirit shall stand before me, shall close mine eyes gently, and murmur, "Die, Reginald, and be at peace!"

Hark! Heard I not—Pardon, good stran­ger—

'Tis she! She comes for me! Is the hour at hand, fair vision? Spirit of Evelina, lead on, I follow thee!

He faints! perhaps expires!—Still, still! See, he revives!

'Tis gone! Once more the sport of my bewildered brain—

Powers of bliss! Look, where it moves again!—Oh! say, what art thou? If Evelina, speak! oh, speak!

Ha! Named he not Evelina? That look!—This dungeon too!—The emotions which his voice—It is, it must be!—Father! Oh, Father! Father!—

[Page 65]

Said you? Meant you?—My daughter—my in­fant, whom I left—Oh! yes, it must be true! My heart, which springs towards you, acknowledges my child!—

And is it thus I find you? Burthened with chains—no warmth, no air, no comfort!

Think of it no more, my dearest! But say, how gained you entrance? Has Osmond—

Oh! that name recalls my terrors!—Alas! you see in me a fugitive from his violence! Guided by a friend­ly Monk, whom your approach has frightened from me, I was endeavouring escape: We missed our way, and chance guided us to this dungeon. But this is not a time for expla­nation. Answer me! Know you the subterraneous passages belonging to this Castle?

Whose entrance is without the walls? I do.

Then we may yet be saved! Father, we must fly this moment. Percy, the pride of our English youth, waits for me at the Conway's side. Come then—oh, come! Stay not one moment longer.—

Look! look, my child! The beams of distant torches flash through the gloom!

Ha!—Yet, perhaps, ashamed of his desertion, 'tis but the Monk, who returns to seek me.

Grant, Heaven, that it may prove so!

Hassan, guard you the door.—Follow me, friends.—

Osmond's voice? Undone! Undone! Oh! my father! he comes to seek you, perhaps to—Oh! 'tis a word too dreadful for a daughter's lips!

If he seeks none but me, I am happy: But should your steps have been traced, my child—Hark! they come! The gloom of yonder cavern may awhile conceal you: Fly to it: Hide yourself: Stir not, I charge you.

What, leave you? Oh! no, no!

Dearest, I entreat, I conjure you, fly! Fear not for me!—Hark! they are at the door! Speed to the cavern! Speak not, move not; if possible, breathe not!

[Page 66]

Father! Oh! Father!

Farewel! perhaps forever!—

—Now then to hear my doom!

The door unbarred?—Softly, my fears were false!—Lo! where stretched on the ground, straw his couch, a stone his pillow, he tastes that repose which flies from my bed of down!—Wake, Reginald, and arise!

You here, Osmond? What brings you to this scene of sorrow? Alas! hope flies while I gaze upon your frowning eye! Have I read its language aright, Osmond?

A right, if you have read my hatred. Reginald, I bring you death!—What other present could you expect from me? Have you not been ever a thorn in my path, a speck in my sight? Was not "Submit to your elder broth­er," the galling lesson for ever sounded in my ears? And when I praised some favourite spot of these domains, some high-browed hill, or blooming valley, was not my father's answer still, "That will be your elder brother's?" Yes, the first thought which struck my brain was, "I am a younger son!" The first passion which tortured my heart was, hate to him who made me one!

Have I deserved that hate? You often injured me, but as often I forgave. You were ever my foe, but I never forgot you were my brother.

Hypocrite!

Was I one when my weapon struck the fierce Scot to the ground, whose sword already glit [...]red above your head? Was I one, when, as embarassed by your ar­mour, you sank beneath the Severn's waves, I sprang into the flood, I seized, I saved you? Twice have I preserved your life! Oh, let it not be for my own destruction! See, my brother, the once proud Reginald lies at your feet, for his pride has been humbled by suffering! Hear him adjure you by her ashes, within whose bosom we both [Page 67]have lain, not to stain your hands with the blood of your brother!

He melts me, in my own despite!

The fountains of my eyes have been long dried up: I have no tears that can soften, no eloquence that can persuade; but Heaven has lightnings that can blast! Then spare me, Osmond! Kenric has told me that my daughter lives! Restore me to her arms; permit us in obscurity to pass our days together! Then shall my last sigh implore up­on your head Heaven's forgiveness and Evelina's.

It shall be so.—Rise, Reginald, and hear me! You mentioned even now your daughter: Know, she is in my power; know also, that I love her!

How?

She rejects my offers. Your authority can oblige her to accept them. Swear to use it, and this instant will I lead you to her arms.

Osmond, she is your niece!

I have influence at Rome—That obstacle will be none to me.—What is your answer? You hesitate! Say, will you give the demanded oath?

I cannot dissemble—Osmond, I never will.

How?—Reflect that your life—

Would be valueless, if purchased by my daughter's tears; would be loathsome, if embittered by my daughter's misery. Osmond, I will not take the oath.

'Tis enough!—

You know your duty! Drag him to yonder cavern! Let me not see him die!

Brother, for pity's sake! for your soul's happiness!

Obey me, slaves!—Away!

Hold off! Hurt him not! He is my father!

Angela here?

Daughter, what means—

You shall live, Father! I will sacrifice all to preserve you! Here is my hand, Osmond! 'Tis your's; but spare my father!

[Page 68]

Lovely Angela!

How, rash girl? What would you do?

Reginald, reflect—

Your uncle! Your mother's murderer!—Remem­ber—

Your life is in danger; I must forget all else. Os­mond, release my father, and solemnly I swear—

Hold, girl, and first hear me!

God of Nature, to Thee I call! If e'er on Osmond's bosom a child of mine rests; if e'er she calls him husband who pierced her hapless mother's heart, that moment shall a wound, by my own hand inflicted—

Hold! oh hold!—end not your oath!

I burn with rage!

Swear never to be Osmond's!

I swear!—

Be repaid by this embrace!

Be it your last!—Tear them asunder!

Away! away! I will not leave him!

Part them, I say!—Ha! What noise?

My Lord, all is lost!—Percy has surprised the Castle, and speeds this way!

Consusion! Then I must be sudden. Aid me, Hassan!

Friends so near? Villains! at least you shall buy my life dearly!

Down with him! Wrest the sword from him!

Hark! They come!—Dastardly villains!—Nay, then my own hand must—

Horror!—What form is this?

Die!

Father, thou art mine again!

Hold, my brave friends!—See where lies the object of our search!

Percy!—Dear Percy!

—Dearest Angela!

My friend, my guardian angel! Come, Percy, come, embrace my father!—Father, embrace the protector of your child!

Do I then behold Earl Reginald?

—The same, brave Percy! Wel­come to my heart! Live ever next it.

Oh moment, that o'erpays my suffering!—And yet—Percy, that wretched man—He perished by my hand!

Hark, he fighs!—There is life still in him!

Life?—Then save him, save him! Bear him to his chamber! Look to his wound! Heal it, if possible! At least gain him time to repent his crimes and errors!—

Though ill-deserved by his guilt, your generous pity still is amiable. But say, fair Angela, what have I to hope? Is my love approved by your noble father? Will he—

Percy, this is no time to talk of love. Let me hasten to my expriring brother, and soften with forgiveness the pangs of death!

And can you forget your sufferings?

Ah! youth, has he had none? Oh! in his stately chambers, far greater must have been his pangs than mine in this gloomy dungeon; for what gave me comfort was his [Page 70]terror, what gave me hope was his despair. I knew that I was guiltless; knew that, though I suffered in this world my lot would be happy in that to come!