SCENE I.

Well ſaid, and well ſung, my merry hearts. But where's Leonard? Where's the valiant Stripling?—Does he not draw a good bow, Will? What think'ſt thou, Clym, isn't he a child of valour?

By my faith, he's no Flincher.

It muſt be a hard crown that the Youngſter can't crack.

How furiouſly the raſcal laid about him in the battle.

By the Lord, he has an arm like the claws of a Lion.

Ay, boy, and he has a Lion's heart too. Did you ſee in the fight how he brought down that terma⯑gant Dane, that man of might, that Alric—he that ſeemed determined to kill every body himſelf? How he died, grinding the duſt, and curſing his heathen Gods, to be ſo baffled by a Boy.

Yes, and, as if Leonard car'd little for ſuch a victory, he left another to take the ſpoil.

Ay, prithee, Will, who was that Knight that was ſo nimble at running away with the ſlain Alric's arms? I had not ſeen him before in the battle.

Seen him!—No no—he'll take care nobody ſhall ſee him in any danger;—catch him there if you can—'Twas Earl Egbert.

Oh! what the fooliſh Braggart, that we have played pranks with him and his purſe ſo often?

Ay; he.—I ſaw his beaver up—I could not miſtake his unleavened face.

But hark ye me, boys, tell me, you that can, what was the cauſe of this fray? for tho' I have been fighting, I hardly know what about.

About?—About a pair of blue eyes, two roſy cheeks, ſome certain [...] of ivory teeth, with [3] various items and & ceteras, all ſummed up in the word Woman.

Explain, explain.

Why thus—Anlaff, the Dane, meets, upon a certain day, with Edwitha, the daughter of Earl Wal⯑ter and is amazed at her beauty—Well, Sir, finding▪ himſelf attacked by a terrible diſeaſe, called ſighing, with dangerous ſymptoms, he demands me this ſame Lady fair in marriage, that he may be able to eat his beef as heretofore. Earl Walter, however, did not chuſe his daughter ſhould be the Dane's doctor in this caſe.

And Anlaff, inſtead of gaining a wiſe, has loſt his brother Alric.

Ay, and ſome few more—we left ſome on their backs, that wont't be in a hurry to get up.

Well, well, they may call us Outlaws if they pleaſe, but I ſay we are brave fellows; and if not the moſt honourable, we are at leaſt as merry as our neighbours.

But let me tell you, my Hearts, Harold may thank US for the victory: That Anlaff, and his Red⯑heads, and eſpecially that Alric, with his two-handed ſword, beſtirred themſelves ſo ſtoutly, that by the Lord, Lads, Harold's men were little better than Run-aways, when we came to the field.

Well then—our aſſiſtance gained the battle—what now ſhall be our reward?

Hanging on the next tree, if Earl Walter could catch us.

Why truly, my boys, there are dangerous complaints gone abroad againſt us; your fat Monks, and your lean Uſurers, have taken exception at us For⯑reſters, and called us Free-booters—for which reaſon the King's pardon would be a good thing.

But how are we to get it?

Why, I have a project.

Ay—What is it?

I will go to the caſtle, diſguiſed like a Friar—There I ſhall learn what they ſay about the battle; and whether they will be ready to thank us for the ſervice we did them.

But hark ye me, Adam; ſuppoſe you ſhould be diſcovered, and there ſhould be any foul play?

There is no danger; I have a friend there in a corner—Beſides I know how to a [...] my part; I will ſing them jovial ſongs, tell them merry tales, and for⯑give them all their ſins, and I warrant I ſhall be a fa⯑vourite in the family.

Nay, I don't fear thee, for thou art thorough⯑ly inſtructed in the art and myſtery of eating, drinking, and wenching, and that is the trade of a Friar.

However, I intend to go armed, and ſling my bugle horn acroſs my ſhoulder: do you watch round the ſkirts of the foreſt, and in caſe of any ac⯑cident, I will wind the ſignal of good or ill ſucceſs.—But let Leonard know the ſcheme as ſoon as you ſee him—he has a true heart, and will never forſake a good cauſe.

Why to be ſure he'll fight—but he has one bad fault.

Ay!—What is that?

Too ſcrupulous—"too conſcientious"—he would not let me rob the old miſerly Abbot of Whitby the other day—we almoſt quarrelled about it.

Oh! he has not been long among us, you know:—he'll mend.

Well, ſucceſs to your ſcheme.

Ay—ay—ſucceſs to Friar Adam.

SCENE II. Changes to a beautiful valley, with the proſpect of a ſuperb caſtle, in the Gothic ſtile.

Truly, Adela, I would be chearful, but me⯑mory will not let me.—I know as well as thou doſt, that ſorrow will not cure a wound; but knowing myſelf the cauſe of this unhappy broil, the chearful ſpirits which health and active youth beſtow, are all diſperſed by Fear and froward Apprehenſion. I am like a reſpited Criminal, that every moment dreads a confirmation of his ſentence.

Pſhaw, Edwitha, I declare you don't deſerve your happineſs. There are hundreds of Ladies in little England, that would give their brighteſt eye thus to have the gauntlet thrown, and ſee themſelves the hap⯑py ſubject of contention, when young and valiant Knights mount neighing Steeds, and ride in bright and burniſhed armour to the field!—To hear the winding of the Bugle-horn, the clattering of the Horſes' hoofs, and the prophetic buz of victory among the Warriors! Oh! were I the beauteous Dame that could inſpire ſuch glorious ſtrife, I ſhould think of nothing but roſes and lilies, Venus and the [7] Graces—talk of nothing but Helen and Hector, Greeks and Trojans—read nothing but ballads of beauteous Ladies and valorous Knights, and ſing 'em in my ſleep—ſhould—Lord, I ſhould be ſo tranſport⯑ed I don't know what I ſhould do.

This, good couſin, is ſaid to divert me—but I know your heart, Adela—you do not envy, you pity me—Oh! Harold! Oh my brother! would I were aſ⯑ſured of thy ſafety!

Ye rocks and caves, with deep reſounding voice,

Did you hear, Adela?

Yes, yes; I heard.

Once more.

This is enchantment, Adela? 'Tis ſure ſome kind Spirit ſent to comfort me.

I can't tell how kind he may be, but I have diſcovered the Spirit. Come, come from your hiding place, Mr.—, and let us know what and who you are.

SCENE III.

Was it you, young Swain, that with ſuch re⯑ſpondent ſweetneſs echoed me?

Ha! That's as much as to ſay, yes.

Such delightful melody in a poor Peaſant is ſurely wonderful.

Oh! ho!—That's as much as to ſay—No.

Come, come, young man, don't be over modeſt—If heaven has given you good gifts, hold up your head and own it.

But tell me truly—Do you know any thing of my brother's fate?—Is he—is he ſafe?

He is.

Then I am happy.

There!—there now!—Didn't I tell you ſo?

And is he victorious? Is Anlaff vanquiſhed?

He is.

There! there!—Didn't I tell you that too? Didn't I bid you dance, and ſing, and—Here, young man—here is ſomething for your good news.

Thank you, Lady, I am over-paid already.

Gad-a-mercy! Aye. indeed! How ſo?

By being a welcome meſſenger to ſuch fair and gentle Ladies.

Tell me, young Swain, where you learnt theſe happy tidings. I [...] it from report you ſpeak, or were you at the battle?

I was at the battle.

Were you? Oh! for heaven's ſake give us a deſcription of it.

How ſhall a ſimple Peaſant, Lady, ſpeak of ſuch high deeds? Beſides, I ſaw but little of the combat.

Perhaps you joined the Combatants and fought.

Upon my word, Mr. Young man, you are a very extraordinary kind of a perſon—What is your name?

Leonard.

And—how many Danes might you kill your⯑ſelf?

To ſpeak of my own exploits were to undo with my tongue what I had atchieved with my arm. I and my companions came not to the field till it was late; the battle was hot, and then I fought among the reſt.

Companions! And did you go to fight for Harold and Edwitha?

For Harold and Edwitha.

"What ſhall I ſay?" How ſhall I thank you? But come, come young Swain, to the caſtle; and my father, Earl Walter, ſhall beſtow rewards, equal I hope to your deſerts.

The rewards I ſought are already beſtowed—Harold is victorious, and Edwitha condeſcends to ap⯑prove.

A ſigh, too! Obſerve his eyes, Edwitha.—If you give him any further encouragement he'll make love to you.—Well, really he is a very like⯑ly fellow. What a pity it is he is a Peaſant, Ed⯑witha!

It is, indeed, Adela.

It is, indeed, Adela.

So ſo; ſigh for ſigh.—Why, Don Cupid ſeems diſpoſed to make a pretty piece of work here.

Come, Edwitha, it is time to be gone, I ſee.—Will you walk?—Fare you well, young man, fare you well.—Edwitha is very much obliged to you—She ſeems in⯑clined [10] to like the colour of your hair too—but that the Fates and Deſtinies forbid.

And ſo you—you muſt return home again, and com⯑fort pretty Nancy or pretty Peggy, or—ſome other neat little linſey-woolſey laſs—and you'll ſing, and play, and tell 'em a pretty tale—I warrant they'll liſten.—And, do you hear, don't—don't you be ſilly, and dream either of Paradiſe or Purgatory; but eat your curds and cream, and honour your fa⯑ther and mother after your old faſhion.—You un⯑derſtand me—Content is better than a down-bed, and the ſtars will be obeyed.—There is many a precious ſtone trod under foot.—Every Hero can't be Alexander—but theſe things can't be helped.—So, farewell to you.—Come, come, Edwitha.

Take this ring, young Swain; wear it in re⯑membrance of Edwitha.—Come, Adela.—Heaven protect you, Sir, and make you victorious in battle, and fortunate in love.

Thanks, gentle Lady, ſweet Lady; from my heart, dear Lady, I thank you—And while one drop of blood ſhall cheriſh this poor boſom, will wear, with thankfulneſs, your favour—and ſo farewell.

SCENE IV.

Well, really there is ſomething very uncom⯑mon about this young man—A ruſtic dignity—a con⯑ſcious kind of humble ſuperiority—a firm ſtep—a ſteady eye—a bold front—Yes, the Warrior's charac⯑ter is abſolutely ſtampt upon his forehead.

And that is ſurely magnanimity.

So have I been told, girl.

Oh, Leonard! Wherefore ſhould ſuch a mind be called ignoble!—Ungenerous and unjuſt!

But how now, Edwitha! Why ſurely, girl, you have more wit, more pride, than poſitively to love this Peaſant! I can ſee the fellow has a handſome leg as well as you—can read the modeſt pre-eminence of his eye as quick—can conſtrue all his latent virtues as truly—What of that?—I cannot purchaſe eve⯑ry trinket I ſee; and there are many that, if I had them, I could not wear, becauſe—they are unfaſhionable.

More is the pity that modeſty, courage, and virtue ſhould be out of faſhion.

Very true; but this has been a pitiable ſubject ever ſince Adam wore a beard.—Conſider, Edwitha, the reſpect due to yourſelf, your father, and your—

"Why, that's my brave girl!"—And yet, me⯑thinks, there is ſomething exceedingly remantic in this ſudden way of falling in love at firſt ſight.

Nay, Adela, if it even were love, it is not at firſt ſight.

No, indeed!—Aha! What, you are old ac⯑quaintances then!

We never ſpoke till now; but lately he hath often croſſed my way, run before me to "open gates," chace the browzing ox, and remove the ſtraggling bramble from my path, ſeeking to be noticed, yet avoiding to be thanked. Once, too, he hung a gar⯑land on a ſtile over which I was to paſs.

Audacity!—"An enterprizing Gentleman, truly!"—But you did not touch his garland?

No—I turned ſuddenly back to the caſtle.

You did right—Come, come, think of theſe things but as a dream; remember the victory of your brother, and ſmile at trifles.

SCENE V. changes to the inſide of the Caſtle.

Though a Friar, wenches, this is my maxim—ſummer or winter, ſpring or fall, I am always merry.

Why then, maſter Friar, you and I compleat the proverb, Be merry and wiſe: for you are merry, and I am wiſe.—And let me tell you, I am not the only wiſe Fool in the world.

May be ſo—But pray you, now expel ſome of your wiſdom upon me, and tell me how Earl Walter bears this dangerous abſence of his ſon.

Oh, Sir, with that gravity of deportment as ſhould ſeem to ſay—I defy Fate—if Misfortune come, I am no flincher—And then, Sir, he ſtrokes his beard, and endeavours to put a good face on the matter.—But I know him—he has it here—ſick of the father—Sir, between ourſelves—he has been—as melancholy!—as a Fiddle with one ſtring—as reſtleſs as a Cat in a cage—and as ſolemn as a blind Baboon on Good Friday.

But is he naturally thus grave and ſerious?

Oh, no, the old gentleman is a—very good ſort of an old gentleman—when he is pleaſed—a ſociable converſable comprehenſible kind of an old lord enough—likes to have his own way—as moſt of your great lords do, I obſerve.

Ay, and little lords too.

Why, yes, yes—I myſelf, ſimple as I ſtand here, ſhould like exceedingly to caſt this Fool's ſkin, and deck myſelf in the garment of Authority. To ſee underlings tremble, if I ſhould ſtamp; and look pale, if I had the tooth-ach—As to [...]a [...]l Walter, Sir, if young Harold ſhould return ſafe and ſound, in health and honour, you ſhall ſee him a—a very different man—Lively and alert as an Owl at midnight—Happy as a Lawyer in Term time, or a Phyſician in November.

But what if he were vanquiſhed? How then?

Then—Why then, Sir, the old gentleman would ſit you down as mute and as motionleſs as a bell [15] without a clapper—as ſilent—as a bagpipe without wind, and as ſedately diſmal as a death's head upon a tomb-ſtone.

You abound in compariſons, Maſter Motley.

Yes—they are part of my ſtock in trade, and I love to keep a good aſſortment.—Can you tell why the world is like a Fair?

No—

No!—Your finger to your lip then—liſten and learn.—The world is like a Fair, becauſe—baſta—I'll turn my ſimile into a ſong.

SCENE VII.

Oh welcome, welcome my Harold, wel⯑come noble Earl Egbert! How ſhall I ſpeak my joy? To ſee you thus return in ſafety and in honour, is the ſupreme of happineſs.

And to be thus received at our return, is the beſt, the moſtglorious reward—None but a ſoldier can imagine the ſtrong throbbings of the ſoldier's heart, when thoſe his arm has fought for, fly to his embraces, and pour the grateful balm of a thouſand welcomes in his wounds.

Oh my brother! my joys overcome me—they are exceſſive as my fears have been.—From this mo⯑ment may the ſword ſleep in honour; or if fate will again call thee to the horrors of inexorable war, may'ſt thou find another, and a worthier ſubject!

A worthier, my Edwitha? the world contains not a worthier!

No—The world contains not a worthier; and that I will prove againſt Dane or Devil.

Will you, my lord?

I—I—He that denies it, lies and dies—he muſt digeſt ſteel.

"To be ſure—to be ſure"—I ſhall never look on that ſword and ſhield again, but I ſhall remem⯑ber the grim viſage of that terrible Alric.

What is Alric ſlain?

The vile Pagan is dead.

And fell by your hand, Earl Egbert?

By mine—This right arm did the deed.

Here's a cowardly lying ſlave.

This good ſword—was the lancet [...]at let him blood—this gave vent to his foul humours—this cut his pack thread.

Ha!—See how a man may be miſtaken—I ſhould ſooner have expected to have heard of the [...] being run thro' with a knitting needle, or [...] [...]own with the butt-end of a thread-paper.

Sirrah—you know your privilege.

Yes, we Fools have a licence.

But how went the battle, Harold? was it a hard fought field?

It was my Lord; and heaven only knows what would have been the fortune of the day had not ſome freſh and unknown friends arrived juſt as the hand of the ſoldier, weary with ſlaughter, began al⯑moſt to tire, and his heart to droop before the unre⯑mitting fury of the numerous Dane.

Thanks for that brave Harold.

Unknown friends, ſay you?

Yes my Lord—they appeared to be Peaſants, but they foug [...] like Heroes.

Do you hear this, Adela?

You do I perceive, Edwitha.

Yes—yes—the—the Boors played their part. But what of that? It all availed nothing till that Alric was demoliſhed.

Can't—no—nor ſuch another Dwarf [...] help thee—But I laid him low—I gave him a ſleeping powder.

Alas—I am ſorry to find this bad world ſo given to falſhood.

Falſe! What's falſe? thou general collec⯑tor of crimes and Peter-pence—Thou ear of Iniquity—"Thou common ſewer of ſin," what's falſe? Did I not kill Alric? Did I not vanquiſh the Dane?

Who dare doubt it, my Lord! It were a meanneſs beyond contempt for one of your dignity to ſpeak an untruth; and it would ſtill be more vile, more deſpicable to aſſume a valour which you durſt not maintain.

What doſt thou mean, Friar?

Your pardon, my Lord, "without offence to Earl Egbert," I intended to tell your Lordſhip that a Peaſant, whom I ſhrived this very morning, did enumerate, among other ſins that hung upon his ſoul, the death of Alric the Dane, whom he ſaid he had ſlain in battle.

A Peaſant?

What was this Peaſant's name?

Leonard.

My Lord, it was this Peaſant of whom I ſpoke to you before, who firſt informed Adela and me of my brother's victory!—He was one of thoſe to whom, it ſeems, the victory was greatly owing.

A Peaſant! 'Tis ſome miſtake. Earl Eg⯑bert, receive my beſt, my warmeſt thanks.—I under⯑ſtand the ſervice you have done my houſe, and will remember it to my utmoſt power.

Nay, but it ſeems—the Friar has been Confeſſor to the man in the moon, and I did not kill Alric—Let it paſs—The fire of Etna will have vent—Melted pitch may boil over—Henceforth, I will tra⯑vel into the land of the Cyclops, and exterminate Giants.—Dwarf.

My Honourable Lord.

Speak—Valour muſt be tongue-tied—re⯑late,—and ſtrike Detraction dumb—utter, and ſeal up the mouth of Envy—Whoſe ſword and ſhield are thoſe?

Your's my Honourable Lord.

Whoſe were they, Imp? whoſe were they, Wren?

Alric, the Dane's.

And by what means do they appertain to me? which way do I inherit?

You took them perforce from Alric.

You inherit illegally, if you take a man's pro⯑perty perforce—Your maſter has robb'd the Dane, Dwarf, and you are an accomplice. He is a great man, and may eſcape, but you are pigmy villain, and muſt be hanged, Dwarf.

'Tis a pleaſant conceit Fool—Ha!—ha!—It doth abate my bile—I feel my conflux of choler evaporate.

Come Harold—come Earl Egbert; within we will queſtion you further on the fortune of the field—it is our duty to give the brave an opportunity of relating their Exploits.

SCENE I.

THE active ſpirit of your brother, Edwitha, can⯑not loiter in indolence. Harold and his com⯑panions are going for ſome few days to hunt on Che⯑viot hills. War and the chace are his delight.

Earl Egbert, I hear, remains at home, my Lord.

He does; detained by reſpect—by love for thee.

Love, my Lord!

Ay, love, Edwitha.

I am ſorry for it.

How, girl! ſorry.

It is impoſſible I ever ſhould return his love.

Edwitha!—

"Peace"—thou haſt almoſt angered me—What! a father, who, with ſuch anxious love and tenderneſs, for unremitting years, had cheriſhed thee in his boſom, ſo ſlightly thought of, and ſo lightly anſwered!

The reaſons for this union are many and weighty; Earl Egbert is powerful in friends and vaſ⯑ſals; my enemies are numerous and revengeful; my obligations too are great, and gratitude demands—

Do not, dear Sir, think I ſpeak with a diſobe⯑dient ſpirit,

Heaven forbid—No, let me ſuffer any miſ⯑fortune, any torment, rather than a dear father's diſ⯑pleaſure—Only let me intreat you farther to examine the real character of Earl Egbert; to give me time, and not precipitate me in the moſt important action of my life.

Well, my child, ſo far thy wiſhes ſhall be granted, but remember the reaſons I have urged, har⯑bour no diſguſt againſt Earl Egbert; or if thou haſt, eraſe every unjuſt prejudice from thy thoughts, by henceforth conſidering him as thy intended huſband, which will teach thee to hold him in due eſteem.

My huſband! Earl Egbert! Let me not think, leſt I ſhould find reaſon to be convinced diſobedience here were virtue—Oh Leonard!—Alas!—it cannot—muſt not be.

SCENE II.

Verily, Dwarf, thou art but a pitiful Pigmy.

How ſo, Fool?

Firſt, in that thou art a Dwarf, and cannot hang thy hat upon a peg without borrowing aſſiſtance from a wooden ſtool.

That is a bleſſing, Fool; the exerciſe is good for my health, and▪will make me long-lived.

Next, becauſe thou art a holder of bridles; one that waits cap in hand while my Lord takes leave of my Lady—during which thou art obliged to ſtand bare-headed to a horſe!

Theſe are proofs of my humility and good manners, Fool.

Nay then thou wilt pick praiſe out of the ſe⯑ven deadly ſins; but come, diſcloſe—tell me wherefore you, and your honourable Lord, did not go with young Harold this morning to hunt on Cheviot Hills?

Becauſe one of us ſtays at home to make love to Edwitha.

And, like young hounds, you only hunt in couples. Verily, Dwarf, you are but an empty Pair.

Why look thee, Fool, I am ſomewhat of a Philoſopher, and am reſolved not to let thy railing make me think the worſe of my own good parts. A man who is not a yard high can ſee the ſun as diſtinctly as a Giant—A good Lacquey is better than a bad Lord—I am contented with my lot—Were all the world of my mind, there would be no Madmen, ſew Fools, and the Hangman would ſtarve for want of employment.

Ha! Very wiſe, and full of moſt ſublime ſen⯑timent—Now I'll ſing you the ſecond part—It is as new and as true as your's, and as full of logic—Open your eyes and liſten.

SCENE III. Changes to the ſkirts of the Foreſt, a dark umbrageous▪ foliage, in the back ground.

Prithee, Edwitha, do not look and ſpeak with ſuch a diſmal gravity of countenance. Mercy on me! Thou wilt be fit company for nobody ſhortly but Sextons and Pariſh-Clerks. Before I would mope in this manner, I would live on the eaſt ſide of a yew tree, ſleep in a cemetry, and wrap myſelf in a ſhroud.

What would'ſt thou have of me, girl? When contending paſſions diſturb the mind, and occupy the heart, the tongue in vain endeavours to trifle, and the lips to ſmile.

Pſhaw! Tell me not of drooping lilies and cy⯑preſs ſhades—Laughter and light heels are certain an⯑tidotes to ſorrow.

Thou art a mad girl, Adela.

A merry girl, you mean—Mad I ſhall never be, unleſs I were to fancy myſelf a fiddle, and go mad becauſe I could get nobody to dancy to me.

What could'ſt thou be merry, if, like me, thou wert going to be married to a Fool!

Ay by my conſcience could I.—Married to a Fool! Marry amen, and with all my heart, and the ſooner the better—Your Fool is the only manageable beaſt among a herd of huſbands. When you are angry you may vent your ſpleen in metaphor, talk treaſon in ſimile, and abuſe him by irony and alle⯑gory, and he ſhall kiſs you for being ſo kind—The greater my huſband's folly, the more apparent would my wit be.—I could mould him, lik a piece of un⯑baked dough, into any form.—A Fool, like a Watchman, walks always in the dark, and his wife is the lanthern by whoſe light he finds his way. Lord, girl, I could give thee my apron full of reaſons, and a handful over, why a woman ſhould marry a Fool.

I thought men of wit and underſtanding were always thy favourites.

As gallants, but not as huſbands. Give 'em a little love, and a little hope before marriage, and they will ſee good ſenſe in every ſentence, wit in every antic, and Cupids hanging in cluſters at every ringlet; but the honey moon over, and all the little Loves drop as dead as ſuffocated Bees—vaniſh like Ghoſts when a candle enters. After this, my Lord becomes ſo full of wiſdom and obſervation, that one muſt ſet Diſ⯑cretion with a pair of ſcales at the door of one's mouth, to weigh Words, and detect Levities, or elſe [29] expect to have 'em entered in a memorandum-book, and read every Sunday after ſermon.

And what would'ſt thou do, hadſt thou one of theſe circumſpect, learned, fault-finding huſbands?

Do?—Why I would make mince-meat of Ariſtotle, put Epictetus in a pie, and ſerve up Seneca in a ſack-poſſet, that he might be choaked with his own wiſdom.

Here comes one will never die of too much wiſdom.

SCENE IV.

Ladies, the bleſſings of ſun-ſhine be upon you.

What are theſe, Sir, beſide ripe fruit and thun⯑der-ſhowers?

What are thoſe?—Why they are—umph—they are—what are they, Fool?

The Fool can't tell.

Do you walk for contemplation, Sir, or health?

Umph!—Marry, to ſay the truth, neither—Not but that I am ſomewhat addicted to contemplati⯑on.—But then I am apt to think about ſo many things, that at laſt I can't tell what I am thinking about.

That's ſtrange.

At other times I am ſo full of meditation!—that I fall faſt aſleep!—To ſay the truth, ladies, I came, ſeeing you approach ſo near the ſkirts of the foreſt, to give you protection back to the caſtle.

We are obliged to your courage, Sir, but there is no danger.

Pardon me, bright Conſtellation, I have heard to the contrary.

Yes truly, and ſo have I.

Have you?—Have you heard that theſe woods are dangerous?

Exceedingly.

This foreſt is at preſent the ſhelter of a daring band of outlaws.

Come, ladies—come, let us return.

No, I ſhall walk a little farther; there is no⯑thing to fear in the day-time.

No! Let us walk a little farther then.

Indeed, Edwitha, you are miſtaken.—If Earl Egbert were not with us, I would not proceed a hun⯑dred paces farther for a king's ranſom.

Nay, we are all ſafe enough, Adela, for hea⯑ven protects the Fool and the Innocent, and the Vali⯑ant protect themſelves.

Mercy!—What cry is that?

Heaven defend us!

Where?—which way?

There, there—run, run.

O Lord!—which way ſhall I run?—what will become of me?—

Oh mercy!

He's coming, he's coming—draw your ſword, my lord.—

I'm a deadman!—

Oh my lady! my lady! oh my poor lady! ſhe'll be devoured!—

Ha! well ſaid, well ſaid, my brave fellow! well ſaid, my ſturdy raſcal—have a care—now—now—there—there— [32] again—there was a home-ſtroke—well ſaid, my boy—aha, Mr. Wolf—Huzzah! huzzah! he's dead! he's gone! it's all over with him! he's defunct! there he lies! huzzah!

Fool!

My Lord.

He lies very ſtill.

Yes—he's out of breath.—But come, come—will your valiant lordſhip pleaſe to have a nearer peep at the ſavage monſter?

Are you ſure he's dead?—quite dead?

Nay, if ever he taſte mutton more, call me Sheep.

Why then—But Fool—you ſhall go firſt, and ſee if he breathes ſtill; for though he ſeem dead, he grins horribly.

I'll ſell you his teeth for ſix-pence a dozen.

A bargain, Fool.—But don't be raſh—don't be too ventureſome—take care—go ſoftly—

SCENE V.

How are you, gentle Lady?

Saſe, Sir; thanks to "your generous, to" your noble valour.—Are you wounded, Sir?

Not at all, Lady,

Do you know where is my couſin Adela?—Is ſhe out of danger?

Entirely.—I ſaw her enter a cottage a little to the left.

You are born, Sir, to be my Deſender.

Would I were.

"Heaven reward your magnanimity."—I was too much your debtor, Sir, before.—

Say not ſo, dear Lady;—you are not, 'tis I am the debtor! To be permitted to converſe with you! To touch your beauteous hand! To hear you acknow⯑ledge you are obliged to me!—To me!—A poor and humble Peaſant! How might I hope ſuch abundant happineſs? Oh that I had been born a Prince, that I might have been ſome way worthy of you!

You ſpeak, Sir, with paſſion.

Pardon me, gentle Lady—I had almoſt forgot myſelf.—

I rate your virtues highly, Sir.

Tell me, Lady, what would he deſerve, who, ſunk like me, in indigence and obſcurity, ſhould dare, by loving you, to make himſelf your Equal?

"If, Sir, he had your virtues," he would de⯑ſerve more than I durſt grant.

Generous Lady! But when I ſuffer a word, a wiſh to eſcape, offenſive to that purity I adore in you, may you and heaven deteſt me!

I find, Sir, you are truly noble. Tell me, then, how does it become the daughter of an anci⯑ent houſe, proud of its alliances, and jealous of its honours, to behave?

Equal to its dignities and expectations, and conſiſtent with her own worth: and he who, under the maſk of love, tempts Innocence to betray her duty, and wound her honour, is unworthy the leaſt regard of Beauty or of Virtue.

SCENE VI.

Mercy on me, Edwitha, what a terrible affair this had like to have proved.—We jeſted about wolves with that Fool to ſome purpoſe.—So, young man—what, are you here again?

Yes, Adela, and to him we owe our preſent ſafety; he killed the horrid ſavage.

He!—Well, I declare if ever I write a ro⯑mance, I'll call my hero Leonard.—But come, come▪ let us get away from this frightful foreſt—I ſhall [34] dream of wolves for this twelvemonth.—Young man, will you ſee us ſafe out of theſe territories of teeth and claws?

Oh fortunate day! Unhop'd for happineſs▪ Angelic Edwitha! And have I!—have I reſcued thee from death!—But who can tell what farther danger may yet occur?—I 'll follow, and while my raviſhed eyes can trace the celeſtial Viſion, will ſtill be ready to defend her from harm.

SCENE VII. Changes to the Caſtle.

I wiſh, Maſter Friar, you would not keep teizing me, and following me up and down, in and out, backward and forward, into every room of the houſe, a this'n.—I tell you, I don't want to have any thing to ſay to you—I don't like you.

Nay, but hear ye me, Alice, I 'll confeſs you your ſins, Alice, and enjoin you the ſweeteſt penance, Alice.

You!—ſweet!—An old fuſty Friar.—There is nothing ſweet about you.

Oh, yes, Alice, I have a ſweet breath, as you ſhall taſte, Alice.

If you touch me again I—I 'll raiſe the houſe about your ears—an ugly, old monſter.—I declare thère is no living for theſe wicked old Friars.

What then—all Friars are—hey, Alice—

All Friars are—

—Yes—all Fri⯑ars arè—"hey, Alice." And ſo, if you offer to lay a finger on me again—"look you—here are my nails."

But hear you me, Mrs. Alice—you are not ſo furiouſly virtuous when you meet Adam Bell at the dark cave in the foreſt, Mrs. Alice.

Hey!

Do you remember, the laſt time you ſaw him, which is now three weeks ſince, and two days, how lovingly you claſped him round the neck, and call⯑ed him your dear Adam, and your ſweet Adam; and how you perſuaded him to ſwear he would marry you at Eaſter—Hey, Alice!

Lord a' mercy!—why ſartinly you deal with Old Nick.

I can conjure a little, Mrs. Alice.—If I pleaſed I could ſhow you Adam Bell ſtanding here in this very ſpot in leſs than half a minute.

What—then you—you really—love Adam Bell—Hey, Alice?

Aye, do I, from the very bottom of my heart—My mother has found it out, and—

I know what you are going to ſay—You are going to inform me how ſhe ſcolds you, and tells you Adam is an outlaw, and will come to be hang'd.

As I hope to be ſaved and ſo ſhe does.—More⯑over, ſhe ſays as how he does not care for me; and that he's only leading me into a fool's Paradiſe, and when he has got me there, there he'll leave me.

And then, inſtead of Paradiſe, you'll awake in Purgatory—Hey, Mrs. Alice.

So ſhe ſays.—However, I have a good heart on't.—She does not know my Adam.

Well, but now—hark ye me, Mrs. Alice—you perceive I know your pranks, and ſo—you—you

Keep your hands to yourſelf—what do you know?—I am ſure if you were the devil himſelf in the ſhape of a friar, which, for aught I can tell, you may be, you know no harm of me, except that I love Adam Bell.

And that is harm enough, Alice.—He is a wicked fellow, and, as your mother ſays, may come to be hanged; though I have the chriſtian charity to hope he will not.—But you muſt not be coy to me, Alice—conſider, I can tell tales, Alice.

Well then, you may tell.—To be ſure you may get me turn'd away from my place, may hap, and I ſhould be very ſorry for that—But I would ſooner loſe fifty places, than be falſe-hearted to Adam Bell.

Ha, ha—well—ha, well—ha, well—ha—I—I find you—you are a true-heart⯑ed laſs, Alice, and I partly commend you, Alice.—But hark ye me, Alice—If ever you play Adam a trick with any body elſe, Alice, I'll—I'll be revenged on you for this—I'll ſurely tell him the inſtant I know it.

You'll ſtay till you know before you tell, won't you?

Yes, yes, Alice, yes—

When then I defy both you and your grand⯑father, old Nick.

Well, Alice, ſince it is ſo, ſay your prayers night and morning, and continue to love Adam Bell.—" [...] a great friendſhip for him."—He is a very worthy clever fellow.

Yes, ſo he is; a much cleverer than ever ſtood on the ſhanks of a friar.

SCENE VIII.

Well ſaid, my bonny laſs;—and when I forſake thee, or uſe thee unkindly, may I never taſte the bleſſings which love and a true-hearted woman can beſtow.

SCENE IX.

What a horrible monſter it is, Fool!—What tuſks!

And what do you intend to do with it, now you have been valiant enough to cut off the head of a dead Wolf?

Preſerve it as a trophy to tell poſterity,

How courageouſly you ran away.

Fool,—doſt ſee▪ this purſe of gold?

Yes—but tactus—feeling is the beſt of the five ſenſes.

I—did not run away from the wolf, Fool.

Oh, oh!

—Yes—yes, you did.

I tell you, Fool, I did not—nay more—I kill'd the wolf with my own right arm.—Did—I not?

No.

Yes I did—and you ſaw me—you were a ſpectator of the terrible combat.

No—no—no.

No!

No.

Well, well—then I did not—

Hey!—egad—now I recollect—I—I believe you did, but the proof lies in the purſe, and the purſe lies in your pocket.

—There—take it—and ſhew your wiſdom, Fool, by praiſing my valor.

Valor! [examining the contents of the purſe] three, ſix, nine, twelve,—by the ſting in the dra⯑gon's tail St. George was a coward to you—eigh⯑teen, twenty, one, two, three—a Welſhman on St. David's▪day was never half ſo full of wrath.

Hark ye, Fool—this is no jeſting matter—It is not convenient that Earl Walter ſhould know the [41] truth—Beſides—I ſay, Fool, I am valorous—ſet that down in your creed—believe and report it, and gold ſhall jingle in your purſe.

"No matter;"—follow my directions, and your fortune is made▪ Fool.

Ha—ſo ſhall the proverb, That Fools have for⯑tune, be verified.—Well—ſo be it.

SCENE X.

My Lord—I—have—here brought—a tri⯑fling gift for your Lordſhip.

For me, my Lord?

Um—a—kind of—preſent nothing—tho' not long ſince—a terrible reality.—But thus do cir⯑cumſtances change the properties of things; and thus was the ſword a circumſtance that changed theſe fangs to the mere images of Anger and Deſtruction.

Ay, my Lord—but whoſe ſword?

Mine—

Your's!

Mine—a—matter—of—ſmall moment—yet—ſomething.—The labours of Hercules were not all equally dangerous.—Let theſe poor doings be conſtrued in their plain ſenſe, and Courage ſhall ſleep contented.

Let me underſtand you, Earl Egbert.—Was it you who fought with the Wolf?

I.

And killed him?

And killed him.—"The deed is recent and notorious."—Women, boys, and cowards did ſpecu⯑late.—The Fool likewiſe beheld; let him impart,—"To the act of Valour let him give the garb of Truth."

Is it poſſible?

Am I doubted?—Why then, let Virtue be extinct from this vile world, and only let Fear and Falſhood flouriſh.

Saw you! you yourſelf vanquiſh the wolf!

Forgive me, noble Egbert.—The account I had heard from Adela was very different.—

Let the Fool ſpeak; he ſaw the combat.

Yes, yes, the Fool ſaw it—the Fool was wiſe and ran away.

Ay—The Fool ran away.—For▪ my own part—I—I retreated a few paces, 'tis true, but it was only to draw my ſword.

And put himſelf in a poſture of offence—and defence.—Had you beheld how he look'd—

—you would have died with laughing.

With laughing!

How!

Ay—to ſee what a ſilly figure he cut—

Silly figure! who? what?

Why—

the wolf without his head to be ſure.

But pray was there not a Peaſant, who—

Oh, yes—yes—There was a ſturdy Hind who gave him the firſt blow.

And to ſay the truth, a deviliſh hard knock it was—I thought Mr. Wolf had been dead and gone—quite deceaſed, till Earl Egbert ſhewed me to the con⯑trary.—But he was only ſtunned.—

This accounts for the miſtake.

He got up again—more enraged than ever—upon which, the valiant Earl ſeeing him make towards Edwitha, drew his ſword, ſet himſelf in his path, and with a ſingle ſtroke—humph—hold—I forget—was it one or two ſtrokes?

Two—two ſtrokes.

Oh—ah—and with two ſingle ſtrokes cut off his head.

Leave your fooling, ſirrah—Earl Egbert, I know not how to thank you.—Twice has my daugh⯑ter owed her ſafety to your arm.—But ſhe ſhall ac⯑knowledge, ſhe ſhall reward your ſervices.

Why that is ſufficient, Earl Walter.—Good deeds and valiant, I find, are liable to miſ⯑conſtructions.—Envy is the ſhadow of Merit—Let it paſs.—

SCENE XI.

My Lord, Anlaff, the Dane, with a ſtrong band, is approaching faſt to aſſault the caſtle, inform⯑ed, as Rumour ſays, of the abſence of young Harold and your friends.

Anlaff! The devil he is.

Anlaff! Oh my prophetic ſpirit!—How far are they hence?

Some three hours march, as 'tis ſaid, my lord.

Fly, friend, take the ſwifteſt horſe, and uſe thy utmoſt diligence to Cheviot Hills, to inform my ſon—Relate our danger, bid him make what ſpeed he may, and we; in the mean time, will do all that deſpe⯑rate men can do to repel the enemy.

—Oh Earl Egbert, we now ſhall have occaſion for all our courage.

SCENE XII.

My Father!

Oh my child, I tremble for thee.

SCENE XIII.

Dying properly—a very happy ſubject for contemplation truly.

Take comfort, rely on the care of heaven, my Edwitha.

On that alone I depend for ſupport and pre⯑ſervation.

SCENE I.

THIS generous alacrity, this grateful courage, in⯑fuſes freſh vigour into my old arm, and almoſt makes me young again—almoſt teaches me to hope impoſſibilities.—Alas it is in vain! The revengeful Dane will ſoon arrive, and ſatiate himſelf with ſlaugh⯑ter.

What here ſtill, holy Friar? Why doſt thou not fly this place of death?

No, my Lord, I mean to ſtay with you.

To ſtay with me?

Ay, my Lord; to fight with you, to die with you, ſhould it be neceſſary, but I have better hopes.

Whence? How, good Friar?

My Lord, you heard the teſtimony your ſon gave to the valour of certain Peaſants, by whoſe aſſiſt⯑ance the late battle was turned againſt the Dane.

Ay, I heard it with ſurpriſe.

Thoſe Peaſants might again do you good ſervice, if—

If what? Who are they? what are they? where are they?

They are men who have greater cauſe to live in fear than expectation from the houſe of Earl Walter.

Fear! you ſpeak in riddles—explain your⯑ſelf.

They are the Outlaws whom you have ſo often threatened to purſue to death and ignominy, but who wiſh to obtain your ſavour, and by your means the pardon of offended Majeſty.

And do they intend to reform?

They are ſtedfaſt in that purpoſe.

But who ſhall tell them of my diſtreſs?

I will my Lord, and quickly.

Will you, Friar?

I will, my good Lord, tho' no Friar.

How?

But one of the chief of thoſe bold Outlaws—Adam Bell—

Adam Bell! And where—where are your aſſociates?

Waiting within the ſound of this

This ſhall preſently collect a ſet of brave fellows, who at leaſt will do ſomething toward protecting the caſtle from the Dane till the arrival of your ſon.

Miraculous! unhoped relief!—Come then—draw your companions hither—believe me you will not find me forgetful of a ſervice like this.

My Lord, We neither doubt your honour nor your generoſity: uſe us but according to the no⯑bleneſs of your own nature, and our zeal in your de⯑fence, and we ſhall be ſully ſatisfied.

SCENE II.

Dear Adam, I never was ſo rejoiced to ſee thee in all my life.—Are your friends all ſafe within the caſtle?

All—and all are yet too few—The Dane is arrived fluſh of men, and boiling with revenge for the loſs of his brother.

Well, I don't fear 'em now Adam—you ſhall be our Hector to fight the Trojans.

The Trojans, Alice! What doſt thou know about the Trojans?

Know!—why a great deal—My grandfather uſed to tell me endleſs ſtories about the Trojan Greeks.

Oh yes—It was all his delight—and ſo of a night he would ſit and reharſe ſuch things—About the rape of Troy, and the deſtruction of the Greeks, and the burning of Fair Helen—and about Neſtor, that had ſeventy ſons—and how fifty men crept into a horſe's belly.

Well, well, Alice, we'll fight like Greeks and Trojans true I warrant.

Yes, I have a good heart on't now, Adam—There be you and your companions, and Earl Egbert, and—

Earl Egbert, Alice! Earl Egbert is a Brag⯑gart, a Coward—

A Coward!

Ay, Alice—A falſe lying Coward—that would run from his own ſhadow, if on lifting his arm it appeared in a threatening poſture.

Mercy! Why he talks as if he could live upon Lion's hearts, and broil them himſelf.

Yes he has talked too much—he will repent his talking ere long. But come Alice, this is no time for talking with me—I muſt give thee a kiſs for com⯑fort, and then to the battle.

Heaven be with thee, Adam—I love thee, and in ſpite of all my mother can ſay againſt thee, ever ſhall love thee.

SCENE III. Continues.

Prithee, Fool, good Fool, afford me conſo⯑lation—give me comfort, moſt ſage Fool.

I can't—cannot—unleſs I could give you wings—There is no eſcaping—bolts and bars forbid—ſtone walls are not to be moved with fine ſpeeches—Rhe⯑toric is loſt—eloquence thrown away upon 'em—a key is your only Counſellor in this caſe.

Is it not very ſtrange, Fool, that I ſhould be as valiant as Alexander at ſome moments, and at others have no propenſity to moleſt even a mouſe? No man in England is at this inſtant leſs inclined to miſ⯑chief, murder, and bloodſhed, than I am.

Then you have no inclination to die like a Hero, that you may live for ever?

Not the leaſt in the world as I hope for mercy—my thoughts are all turned to tranquillity—Peace—peace and quietneſs is my wiſh—and, when one conſiders, that—that now is really a moſt virtuous diſpoſition—Why ſhould I cut any man's throat? Or why ſhould any man cut mine?

How will Anlaff underſtand that logic▪ when he finds that you are the perſon who kill'd his brother Alric?

I didn't, Fool, I didn't.

No.

No—Thank heaven I have not that ſin to anſwer for—I kill'd nobody—"Nay more"—I never kill'd a man in my life.

Never kill'd a man in your life!

No.

Zounds, what a ſhame that is!

And I ſhall think it exceedingly hard if any body kills me. Oh Lord! What is that!

Yes, yes, it is the Danes—What ſhall I do? I tremble all over—ſhale like a cobweb in a high wind—my imagination is haunted by ten thouſand furious figures of bloody-minded Danes▪ I ſhall certainly be murder⯑ed [51] if I don't keep out of the way,

Hark!

They are entered!

Aye, aye, they are at it—I'll hide myſelf in this corner till their firſt fury is abated

Oh that I could go to ſleep!

SCENE IV.

Where can this vaunting coward▪ this ignomi⯑nious Earl have hid himſelf?—Hark you, ſirrah, do you know any thing of! all Egbert?

I know Earl Egbert, Sir!

Do you know any thing of him, ſirrah?

Yes, Sir, many things—

I perceive by your countenance and equivoca⯑tion you know where he is, and if you won't tell me peaceably, I will take you by the heels, and ſhake the ſecret out of you, ſirrah.

Sir—if you were to ſhake my ſoul out of me, I would not ſay a word.—Nay—kill me if you pleaſe—ſeparate me like an opened oyſter, but I won't ſpeak.

Be gone, ſirrah.

SCENE V.

Thou ſhameleſs Lord! thou diſgrace to honour—But I have no Time to waſte with a Thing ſo bale and inſignificant.—Riſe—liſten and obey.

I will, good Sir, I will—what would you pleaſe to have me do?

Anlaff, the Dane, has ſent a Herald with a challenge.

Oh Lord! a challenge! To whom, pray'

To the man who vanquiſhed his brother Al [...] the conditions [...], Anlaff will give hoſtag [...]s that i [...] he [52] be conquered, the Danes immediately ſhall quit the caſtle; but if he conquer, the life of his enemy ſhall remain in his power, and Edwitha be given for his Bride.

Lord Sir! what's all this to me? You know I never killed Alric his brother, and you or he are very welcome to the lady.

Hear me, wretch!

I do, Sir.

Go to Earl Walter—and with your yeſterday's confidence profeſs yourſelf the Vanquiſher of Alric, and the Foe of Anlaff—Then ſend your own armour hither by your Dwarf, together with the ſword and ſhield you ſo valiantly took from the dead Alric; and after that, go hide—hang yourſelf—only be ſure to keep out of ſight.

That, Sir, at leaſt you may depend upon.

Away then—You are ſafe, therefore ſwell, and look important.—Dare not to fail—obſerve me—on your life dare not to fail.

I will endeavour, Sir, to obey.

SCENE VI.

This Reptile almoſt makes me forget, reſpect, and aſſume a chacter I deteſt.

What are you determined, Leonard, to fight the Dane?

I am.

But wherefore do you take the diſguiſe of that cowardly Earl?

Why aſk you that?—you know it is a conditi⯑on in the challenge of the haughty Anlaff, that he will not debaſe himſelf to fight any whoſe birth and origin are obſcure or mean.—"Beſides—I—but 'tis no matter.

"Aye!"—But I have a cauſe would nerve an Infant!—Edwitha! Love! and Edwitha!

Love and Edwitha! you rave, Leonard—And yet impoſſible as it is that love like this ſhould be ſucceſsful, I almoſt rejoice at it.

Aye, 'tis a noble paſſion, that adds ſtrength and dignity to courage, gives magnanimity to the lover's enthuſiaſm, and makes the young Hero more than mor⯑tal.—But we talk too long—Have you informed and cautioned our companions?

I have—their hearts and prayers are with you.

Away then, good Adam, watch the behaviour of that fooliſh Earl, and confirm him, if you ſhould perceive him faultering.—Hole—take this Letter, and find ſome private way of conveying is to Edwitha, be⯑fore we enter the liſts.

Well, Leonard— [...]e firm—be reſolute—be—yourſelf—Farewell.—

Farewell!—I go, determined, to a glorious Victory!—or a glorious Fa [...]!

SCENE VII.

Welcome, my friends, every thing conſpires to procure our pardon. We have only to ſight brave⯑ly, and ply our bows as formerly, and we ſhall become ſons of grace and favor.

Why look you, Adam, you know me—I am no Flincher—I conquer, or—or there's an end of me—that's all

And a dead man, Clym, don't value an angry King.

Right, lad.—He that fights and wins, may ſup in peace.

And he that fights and dies, don't want any ſupper.

We ſhall have warm work.

It's not the firſt time I have been in danger.

He that never was in danger, never knew the ſweets of ſafety.

Well, my lads, ſince reformation's the word, why I 'll reform; we have ſpent many a merry day together, but if they pardon an treat us like men, why ſo—if not—

If not, Will, I am an outlaw again.

And I▪ by this right hand.

And I—But ſear it not—they are noble, and we are brave.

SCENE VIII. Changes to the Court-yard of the Caſtle.

You have heard, brave Egbert, the chal⯑lenge of the imperious Anlaff, and the threat of inſtant ſaccage, if refuſed. You ſee the almoſt impoſſibility of our making a ſtand againſt his multitudes, and you know the perſonal proweſs of the Dane. Put there⯑fore all conſideration of the particular ſafety of me or mine aſide.—Conſult your own feelings, and let them alone direct you.

Heavens! How I tremble.—He ſurely will not dare to accept the challenge.—

Will he drink boiling Lead doſt think? or ſtand a tiptoe on a church Steeple?

You know your leſſon; ſpeak confidently.

My Lord—hem—I—Are you ſure the youth dare fight this Anlaſt?

Yes—And I am ſure the youth dare cut your throat if you don't leave your quaking▪ and ſpeak in your other voice.—Come Sir,—mouth a little.—Ut⯑ter your big breath.

Alric is dead.—Swelling renown ſits perched upon my Creſt.—Anlaff would pluck it thence and tranſplant it to his own.—Anlaff—is mighty in ſtrength—in bone—in ligament and ſinew awful!—I am—but as other men.

I had forgot—I will, I will

—I ſay My Lord.—Or I meant to ſay,—Theſe circumſtances weighed might induce, a—a cautious man to turn recreant, and decline the deſperate conteſt—but no—

Away Herald, and hurl defiance forth.—Tell the mighty Anlaff, that Egbert the Va⯑liant, who ſlew Alric the Cruel, will meet him in⯑ſtantly.

Why then the die is caſt,—and I am the de⯑voted victim.

SCENE IX.

Patience! Is it poſſible! It cannot be that he dare meet Anlaff! "the Daemon of temerity poſſeſſes him"—My Lord you will be ſhamed, diſgraced for ever—my couſin ruined—

You are miſtaken, Niece.

No, Uncle—'Tis you are miſtaken—That braggart, that bubble will burſt, and leave an ever⯑laſting ſtain upon your houſe, your happineſs, and honour.

I confeſs I have my doubts: I did not like his behaviour, and deſperate as our condition is, I even hoped he would refuſe, but I could not honour⯑ably controul his choice.

SCENE X.

My Lord, your ſon young Harold, and all his Knights, are haſtening to your relief.

My brother! Is he arrived?

Half an hour will bring him to the liſts.

Happy tidings! Delay the fatal trial my Lord, and ſave my Edwitha!

Oh! that I had the power—But—it muſt not be—my honour is pledged—the combat muſt pro⯑ceed—Would he had arrived but one ſhort hour ſooner!

SCENE XI.

Why this is madneſs!—My poor Edwitha!—ſurely men have conſpired thy deſtruction!—This Coward! this Thing! this Egbert!—But it cannot be!—What, a fellow that faints if he cuts his thumb—that [...]i [...]s trembling at an old woman's tale of a ghoſt—that dare not ſleep in the dark—and that would run away from a coat and a hat hung upon a broom-ſtick to ſcare crows! He fight An⯑laff! he!—Why didſt not ſee how he ſhook!

I apprehend the worſt, and go with a mind calmly fortified, and a patient reſignation to my fate

What is this, Adela? An arrow and a letter?

‘Gentle Saint, Let your holy wiſhes and fervent prayers be offered to the giver of victories, for—Leonard the Peaſant!’—

‘Who is ſoon to be engaged in all the hazard oſ mortal ſtrife, for the moſt virtuous, worthy, and accompliſhed lady of the World.’

Oh, Adela! But now I was acquieſcent in the worſt of fortunes; had forbad my heart to flut⯑ter, reaſoned irregularity from my beating pulſe, and ſoothed my troubled paſſions into apathy—And now—in an inſtant, with increaſing violence, they are all returned, and overwhelm me with a ruſhing tide of fears.

Fears! Hopes! Extacies! Unexpected Rap⯑tures!—Why girl, thou art as one ſuddenly caſt from a precipice, whom a protecting Angel hath caught falling, and winged to Heaven.

SCENE XII. Changes to the Hall.

The combat is going to begin, and we ſhall have hopes and fears, and aching hearts, and ſtreaming eyes, and ahs! and ohs! and hurra's! in plenty—It's a great happineſs I am a Fool, otherwiſe theſe things would make me melancholy—But ſinging and joking is a merry trade, and I ſhould be a Fool, indeed, to forego the beſt perquiſite of my place—No—let them them fight that will—I'll look on.

SCENE XIII. and laſt.

Mighty Anlaff, let me demand on the part [62] of your antagoniſt, what is your cauſe of quarrel, and the motive of your preſent challenge?

Revenge for a dear brother, baſely ſlain, and reparation for a rude denial to an honourable propoſi⯑tion.—Briefly, I ſeek to win Edwitha, whom I vehe⯑mently love, and puniſh Earl Egbert, whom I as dead⯑ly hate.

I demand to know the challenger's ſource of enmity to Earl Egbert.

Inſolent Lord, I have ſaid—thy proclaimed death of Alric.

Then is thy enmity miſplaced—For not Earl Egbert,

but I, Leoline, the Bri⯑ton, ſlew thy brother.

Leoline!

Prince of the Britons!

In defence of that moſt chaſte and beauteous Lady, I ſlew him; and again, in her defence, here do I ſtand in thy defiance, proud Dane; nay further do proclaim my Love for her with a tongue as loud as thine, but with a heart, I hope, leſs arrogant.—Now, if thou haſt a ſoul worthy of ſuch moſt matchleſs Ex⯑cellence, let it rouſe up every latent faculty, and fill thee with the divine furor of courageous Love.—Behold—look upon that lovely, that ineſtimable Prize, and be thou equal to a contention ſo exalted—Come—

There, Sir, are your arms.—Agreeably to your own condition, your life is in my power—but I do not thirſt for blood.—To repel lawleſs force, and redreſs the Injured, is the extent of my ambition.

Aſtoniſhment, noble youth, and joy almoſt deny my tongue the utterance of my full heart's gra⯑tude—ſpeak—ſpeak—Edwitha.

I cannot, Sir.

Beauteous Edwitha, why I have appeared in a ſhape and character ſo ambiguous ſhall be the queſti⯑on, I hope, of many a happy hour.—It was indeed to gain your true affection—not as a Prince, who could confer, but as a Suppliant who beſought your favour,—and ſuch let me ever continue.

Why am I ſilent?—Oh my heart!

I could not come, my Lord, proud of my birth, and heralding, my titles, to claim a jewel ſo ineſtima⯑ble, ſo much above the price of Kings, or Kingdoms.—No, Edwitha, though I love you to diſtraction, could I not firſt have won your heart, I never would have aſked your hand.—My fixed paſſion, would have deſcended with me to the grave, but never ſhould have troubled your repoſe.

Do not, generous youth, thus over-rate what you ſo kindly think valuable, left hereafter you ſhould find me far—far leſs deſerving, and I ſhould loſe your Love.

My honour'd Lord, and Father, as I hope.

Willingly, my Lord—you have given me life and honour.

Adam, and my brave Aſſociates, now no longer Outlaws, you ſhall be my Soldiers, and become true men as well as valiant.

Thanks noble Prince.

Sir, we will ever love and ſerve you faithful⯑ly—Alice, Thou art a true-hearted Laſs, and ſhalt liſten at night to the tale of thy bonny Adam Bell.

Then I ſhall be the happieſt Laſs in England.