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A DRAMATIC ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS-BY M. G. LEWIS.

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ACT I. SCENE I. A Grove. Enter FATHER PHILIP and MOTLEY through a gate. F. Phil. Never tell me. I repeat it, you are a fellow of a very scandalous course of life. But 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! fie! fie! Mot. 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 Danstan 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.

P. Phil. Nonsense! nonsense! Mt. Put yourself in my place. Suppose that a sweet, smiling rogue, just sixteen, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, pouting lips, &c.

F. Phil. Oh fie! fie! fie! To hear such licentious discourse brings the tears into my eyes! Mot. I believe you, Father; for I see the water is running over at your mouth; which puts me in mind, my good Father, that there are some little points which might be altered in yon still better than in myself: such as intemperance, gluttonyF. Phil. Gluttony! Oh! abominable falsehood! Mot. 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? And, for incontinence, you must allow yourself, that you are unequalled. F. Phil. I-I!

Mot. 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?

F. Phil. Perfectly necessary: I was whispering in her ear wholesome advice, and she took it as kindly as I gave it.

Mot. So you was, faith! Father; you gave it with your lips, and she took it with her's. Well done, Father Philip!

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

Mot. Nay, Father, be not angry: fools, you know, are privileged persons.

F. Phil. 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.

Mot. Really! Then you have one good quality at least, and I cannot but admire such a total want of self-love! (Bell rings.) But, hark! there goes the dinner-bell. 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.

F. Phil. 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 marvelously. Verily, the saint has given me rather too plentiful an increase, and my legs are scarce able to support the weight of his bounties. [Exit. Mot. 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. (Going.) Enter PERCY.

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

Mot. Gilbert? Oh Lord! that's I!-Who calls?
Per. Have you forgotten me?

Mot. Truly, sir, that would be no easy matter;
I never forgot in my life what I never knew.
Per. Have ten years altered me so much, that
you cannot-

Mot. Eh!-can it be? Pardon me, my dear Lord Percy. 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.

Per. 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 existsMot. It does, with ardour unabated; for I'm not so unjust as to attribute to you my expulsion from Alnwick-castle. But now, sir, may I ask, what brings you to Wales?

Per. A woman whom I adore.

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

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

Mot. Great points in her favour, I must confess. And which of these excellent qualities won your heart?

Per. 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 a 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. Mot. From which I am to understand, that you mean to marry this rustic?

Per. Could I mean otherwise, I should blush for myself.

Mot. Yet surely the baseness of her originPer. 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.

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

Per. Alas! he has long slept in the grave. Mot. Then he's quiet at last! Well, heaven grant him that peace above, which he suffered nobody to enjoy below. But what obstacle now prevents your marriage?

Per. You shall hear.-Fearful lest my rauk 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 Edwythelow.born and the poor. Judge, then, 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. Mot. That was unlucky.

Per. However, in spite of his precautions, I have traced the stranger's course, and find him to be Kenric, a dependant upon Earl Osmond. Mot. Surely 'tis not lady Angela, who Per. The very same. Speak, my good fellow: do you know her?

Mot. 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?

Per. To demand her of the Earl in marriage.

Mot. Oh! that will never do: for, in the first place, you'll not be able to get a sight at 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 the Earl, he's the very antidote to mirth. None dare approach him, except Kenric and his four blacks; all others are ordered to avoid him; and whenever he quits his room, ding! dong! goes a great bell, and away run the servants like so many scared rabbits.

Per. Strange!-and what reasons can he have forMot. 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 banditti, as it was said: unluckily, the only servant who escaped the slaughter deposed, that he recognised 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. Per. Good heavens!

Mot. 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. Per. Yet Angela is admitted. But no doubt affection for her father

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

Per. How!

Mot. 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. Per. The very request, which

Mot. 'Tis no easy matter, I promise you; but I'll do my best. In the meanwhile, wait for me in yonder fishing-hut: its owner's name is Edric; tell him that I sent you, and he will give you a retreat. Per. Farewell, then; and remember, that whatever reward

me.

Mot. Dear master, to mention a reward insults You have already shewn 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. [Exit.

Per. 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 bear the blame. Instead of looking with scorn on those whom a smile would attract, and a favour bind for ever, 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. [Exit.

SCENE II.-The Castle Hall. Enter SAIB and HASSAN. Saib. Now, Hassan; what success? Has. 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.

Saib. Saw you no one?

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

Saib. 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.

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

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

Has. If Percy gain her, everything. 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 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. Saib. Think you the lady perceives that our master loves her?

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

Saib. But as she still believes Percy to be a low-born swain, when Osmond lays his coronet at her feet, will she reject his rank and splendour?

Has. 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? O, 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 blessed my bed of leaves; for there, by my side, lay Samba sleeping. Saib. This from you, Hassan? Did love ever find a place in your flinty bosom?

Has. 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 everything to me, to whom I was everything! 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 for ever-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; I will keep it!

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

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Has. To remember them unmans me. Farewell! must to Kenric. Hold! Look, where he comes from Osmond's chamber.

Saib. And seemingly in wrath.

Has. His conferences with the Earl of late have had no other end. The period of his favour is arrived. Saib. Not of his favour merely, Hassan. Has. How! Mean you that

Saib. Silence! He's here! you shall know

more anon.

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Ken. 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. But I will submit no longer to this painful dependance. To-morrow, for the last time, will I summon him to perform his promise: if he refuse, I will bid him farewell for ever; and, by my absence, free him from a restraint equally irksome to myself and him.

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

Ken. Too late! And wherefore?

Saib. You will soon receive the reward of your services.

Ken. Ha! Know you what the reward will be?
Saib. I guess,-but may not tell.
Ken. Is it a secret?

Saib. Can you keep one?
Ken. Faithfully.

Saib. As faithfully can I. Come, Hassan. [Exeunt. Ken. 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. [Exit.

Enter FATHER PHILIP, followed by ALICE. F. Phil. Nonsense! You silly woman; what you say is not possible.

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

F. Phil. Perhaps the Fool was singing to the servants.

Alice. The Fool, indeed! Oh! fie! fie! How dare you call my lady's ghost a fool?

F.Phil. Your lady's ghost! You silly old woman! Alice. Yes, Father, yes; I repeat it, I heard the guitar, 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 (Singing.) "Lullaby! Lullaby! hush thee, my dear!

Thy father is coming, and soon will be here!" F. Phil. 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 catgut?

Alice. 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 say, that last night I heard the ghost of my murdered lady

F. Phil. Playing upon the spirit of a cracked guitar! 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

Alice. (Screaming.) Oh! Lord bless us ! F. Phil. What?-Eh!-Oh! dear! Alice. Look! look!-A figure in white!—It comes from the haunted room!

F. Phil. (Dropping on his knees.) 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! (Rising.) Lack-a-day! I am glad of it with all my heart! Alice. Truly so am I.-But what say you now, Father, to the fear of spectres?

F. Phil. Why, the next time 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.

[Exit.

Alice. 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. Enter ANGELA.

Ang. I am weary of wandering from room to room; in vain do I change the scene, discontent is everywhere. There was a time, when music could delight my ear, and nature could charm my eyewhen 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! (Åside.) Alice. Lady!

Ang. Perhaps at this moment he thinks upon me. 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. (Aside.) Alice. Lady! lady Angela! She mind's me no more than a post.

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

Alice. Only ask how your ladyship rested?
Ang. Ill; very ill.

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

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

Alice. Marry! I'm not surprised that you rested ill in the cedar-room. Those noises so near youAng. What noises? I heard none.

Alice. How?-When the clock struck one, heard you no music?

Ang. Music!-None.-Not that I-Stay; now I remember, that while I sat alone in my chamber this morning

Alice. Well, lady, well!

Ang. Methought I heard some one singing; it seemed as if the words ran thus :-(Singing) "Lullaby Lullaby! hush thee, my dear!"

Alice. (Screaming.) The very words!—It was the ghost, lady! it was the ghost!

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

Alice. Me, lady! Lord! when did you hear this singing?

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

Alice. 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?

Alice. 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.

Ang. Strange! And did Earl Osmond then become owner of this castle? Alice, was he ever suspected of

Alice. 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. But I hope you are not alarmed by what I mentioned of the cedar-room?

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

Alice. My very sentiments, I protest. But heaven forgive me; while I stand gossiping here, I warrant all goes wrong in the kitchen. Your pardon, lady; I must away, I must away. [Exit.

Ang. (Musing.) Osmond was his brother's heir. His strange demeanour !-Yes, in that gloomy brow is written a volume of villainy.— 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 pleasuresthe tranquillity of my soul! [Exit.

ACT II. SCENE I. The Armoury. Suits of armour are arranged on both sides upon pedestals, with the names of their possessors written under each.

Enter MOTLEY, peeping. The coast is clear. Hist! hist! You may enter. Enter PERCY.

Per. Loiter not here. Quick! my good fellow! Conduct me to Angela.

Mot. Softly, softly. A little caution is needful; and I promise you just now I'm not upon roses. Per. If such are your fears, why not lead me at once to Angela?

Mot. Be contented, and leave all to me: ne: I will contrive matters so, that Osmond shall have you before his eyes, and be no jot the wiser. But you must make up your mind to play a statue for an hour or two.

Per. How!

Ang. None. But why that question? Mot. Nay, 'tis absolutely necessary. The late Alice. Because, lady-But perhaps you may be Earl's servants are fully persuaded that his ghost frightened? 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 dressed in complete armour; and that which you are to wear at present was formerly his. Now hear my plan. The Earl prepares to hold a conference with lady Angela; here, placed upon the 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 and even should you be observed, you will pass for Earl Reginald's spectre.

Ang. No, no!-Proceed, I entreat you. Alice. 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. Ang. And what was her fate?

Alice. 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.

Ang. Dreadful! Were not their corses found?

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

Mot. 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 haunts the west 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, regu

larly at midnight, walking about without his head. Above all, they say, that the spirit of the late Countess sits nightly in her oratory, and sings her baby to sleep. Quick! quick! ere the servants quit the hall, where they are now at dinner. (Takes down a suit of armour.) Here's the helmet -the gauntlets the shield. So now, take the truncheon in your hand, and there we have you armed cap-a-pee. Bell sounds thrice.-Hark! 'tis the Earl; quick, to your post. (Percy ascends the pedestal.) Farewell-I must get out of his way; but as soon as he quits this chamber, I'll rejom you. [Exit. (The folding doors are thrown open; Saib, Hassan, Muley, and Alaric enter, preceding Earl Osmond, who walks with his arms folded, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Saib advances to a sofa, into which, after making a few turns through the room, Osmond throws himself. He motions to his attendants, and they withdraw. He appears lost in thought; then suddenly rises, and again traverses the room with disordered steps.)

Osm. I will not sacrifice my happiness to her's! 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!-Mine she is; mine she shall be, though Reginald's bleeding ghost fit before me, and thunder in my ear-" Hold! Hold!"-Peace, stormy heart! She comes! Enter ANGELA.

Osm. (In a softened voice.) Come hither, Angela. Wherefore so sad? That downcast eye, that listless air, neither suit your age or fortunes. 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. Ang. Oh my good lord! esteem me not ungrateful. I acknowledge your bounties; but they have not made me happy. I still linger, in thought, Dear those scenes where I passed the blessed period of infancy; I still thirst for those simple pleasures which habit has made so dear; the birds which my own hands reared; and the flowers which my own hands planted; the banks on which I rested when fatigued; all have acquired rights to my memory and my love.

Osm. Absurd!

Ang. While I saw you, Cheviot-hills, I was happy; oh! how happy! 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.

Osm. Romantic enthusiast! These thoughts did well for the village maid, but disgrace the daughter of Sir Malcolm Mowbray. Hear me, Angela. An English baron loves you; a nobleman, than whom our island boasts few more potent. 'Tis to him that your hand is destined; 'tis on him that your heart must be bestowed.

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

Osm. Edwy's? A peasant's?

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

Osm. By heaven! you seem to think that poverty is a virtue.

Ang. Sir, I think 'tis a misfortune, not a crime. Edwy has my plighted faith. He received it on the last evening which I passed in Northumberland. It was then, that, for the first time, I gave him my hand, and I 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.

Osm. Girl! girl! you drive me to distraction! Ang. You alarm me, my lord! Permit me to retire. (Going, Osmond detains her violently by the arm.) Osm. Stay! (Ina softer tone.) Angela, I love you. Ang. (Starting.) My lord!

Osm. (Passionately.) Love you to madness. 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

Ang. Force! Oh! no! You dare not be so base. Osm. Reflect on your situation, Angela; you are in my power. Remember it, and be wise." Ang. 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 save me, respect me, treat me not cruelly; for-I am in your power! Will you accept

Osm. I will hear no more. my offer?

Ang. Osmond, I conjure you-
Osm. Answer my question.
Ang. Mercy! Mercy!

Osm. Will you be mine?-Speak! Speak! Ang. (After a moment's pause, rises, and pronounces with firmness.) Never! so help me heaven! Osm. (Seizing her.) Your fate then is decided. (Angela shrieks.)

Per. (In a hollow voice.) Hold!

Osm. (Starts, but still grasps Angela's arm.) Ha! what was that?

Ang. (Struggling to escape.) Hark! hark! Heard you not a voice?

Osm. (Gazing upon Percy.) It came from hence! From Reginald! Was it not a delusion? Did indeed his spirit-(Relapsing into his former passion.) Well, be it so! Though his ghost should rush between us, thus would I clasp her!-horror! What sight is this? At the moment that he again seizes Angela, Percy extends his truncheon with a menacing gesture, and descends from the pedestal. Osmond releases Angela, who immediately rushes from the chamber; while Percy advances a few steps, and remains gazing on the Earl stedfastly.) I know that shield! that helmet! Speak to me, dreadful vision!-Tax me with my crimes !---Tell me that you come-Stay! Speak! Following Percy, who, when he reaches the door, through which Angela escaped, turns, and signs to him with his hand. Osmond starts back in terror. He forbids my following-He leaves me !-The door closes! a sudden burst of passion, and drawing his sword.) Hell, and fiends! I'll follow him, though lightnings blast me! He rushes distractedly from the chamber.) SCENE II.-The Castle Hall. Enter ALICE.

In

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

Mot. What can Earl Percy have done with himself? How now, dame Alice; you look angry.

Alice. By my troth, fool, I have 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.

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

Alice. 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

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