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SCENE II-Outside of Milford Castle.

Sir Ber. Is the boy safe?

Le Sage. All manag'd to a charm: they have got him away without suspicion of us, and I have just written to remove him again from St. Nicholas, where he will be quite out of their recovery.

in a moment. We must not be found here; I shall be ruin'd; we have no way out but that by which they come.

Spruce. Never fear, put me in anywhere, only make haste.

that black armour; don't breathe for your life; Lucy. Well, well; here! you can creep behind they'll only pass on, and we can slip back when they are gone through. (Spruce places himself be

Sir Ber. That's wel!; then soon the lovely Clara shall be the fair mistress of these extensive pos-hind the armour.) sessions. While Sir Edmund lived, I dared not

oblige her, but now she knows not of our arrival,

does she?

Le Sage. Not a syllable: she occupies part of the old convent where I have lodged the boy, but knows not of your arrival, nor of Edmund's death.

Sir Ber. Thus far, then, we glide on smoothly. Enter RECORD.

Rec. The way for your reverend steps is round these ramparts to the great gate. I have all the keys, and will give an account of every thing as we go on. Will you be pleased to follow, most respectful? [Exit. Sir Ber. We'll follow. Your man is trusty, or, Le Sage, our plans will but involve us deeper. Le Sage. Both secret and determined. You may now take possession with confidence and cheerful


Sir Ber. No, Le Sage; who takes what he knows to be another's right, must have confidence, indeed; but a merry heart will not be among his possessions.

Le Sage. Mere vapours! a glass or two of the old convent wine will alter your opinion.


In the low winding vale that s refresh'd by the stream,
Where the convent of Nicholas stood:

The vineyard invites the sun's ripening beam,
And believe me, the produce is good.

How the monks, in their day,

Must have swigg'd it away,

O, they let not a cluster escape;
Till, their cheeks, I suppose,
In an afternoon's doze,

Were as purple and plump as the grape.

The mould ring walls are conceal'd by the fruit,
And the liquor you'll say is divine,

Tho' the clay of the fathers still clings to the root,
Our cups overflow with the wine.

How the monks in their day, &c.


SCENE III.-The armoury in the Castle.
Enter LUCY and SPRUCE.

Lucy. This is the best of our curiosities, sir; we have been all round the castle now, and I hope you like our situation.

Spruce. Vastly, vastly, dear.

Lucy. I hope you don't believe I had any hand in locking you up; it was all Mr. Record's own doing, I can assure you sir.

Spruce. Not at all, my love, not at all; I shall settle the old boy in a twinkling, when I am a little to rights.

Lucy. And you won't forget me: I should be sorry to lose my place now such fine people are coming.

Spruce. Lose your place! you shall not, by this, and this. Depend upon it I'll settle you too. Kissing her.)

Lucy. Thank you, sir! Lord, this will be something like living.-(A door shuts within with a hollow sound.) Mercy on me! they are all coming in with Record's key, and will be up the winding staircase

has trembled behind this suit of armour. Spruce. Perhaps I am not the first coward that

his best armour; I see he has left the key and beLucy. I'll get into this case where Record keeps lieves it locked.-(Goes in to the case.)

Enter SIR BERTRAND, LE SAGE, and RECORD. Rec. You see, right noble, I've done my duty; every thing is in the completest orderSir Ber. I'm satisfied, and shall reward you accordingly.

Le Sage. For what are these piles of arms preserved?

Rec. To arm your tenants and followers, most victorious! in cases of civil commotions; they and my father followed him, when a younker, in were of great import to Sir Edmund's grandsire; that helmet and coat of mail, in his troublesome days.

Sir Ber. He was at Palestine, in the holy wars; was he not?

Rec. He was, right reverend: and I can shew you the armour which he prized upon those occasions-(Approaching the case where Lucy is concealed.) It often preserved his life in great perils. He never went to the holy wars without it, and slept with it every night in his tent.-I myself have now the care of it, and indeed I value it as much as the old warrior did: but I only regard it now as a curiosity, and am obliged to be very tender with it. (Opens the case and discovers Lucy.)

Le Sage. Heav'ns! a woman!

Sir Ber. An excellent companion for the holy wars!

Rec. I'm dumb, most terrific! Did I not order you to stay in the chapel till my return? and how the devil got you in here? speak! (An arm from the black armour falls.) What's that? why here's witchcraft, in very truth.

Le Sage. That ar mour moves, Sir Bertrand. Sir Ber. Which? Which? Le Sage,-what's the meaning of all this? do you know?

Le Sage. I'll have it down if the devil's there. (Drawing his sword. Lucy screams.)

Spruce. (Coming out.) "Tis only I sir; I hope no offence: but this young woman was shewing me all her-no, your curiosities, sir, and hearing you approach, we fear'd you might be angry, so we concealed ourselves till you were gone by.

Lucy. Indeed, that's all; as he was just come to his new place, I thought I would shew him the nature of it

Rec. Go down, hussy: wait below till I come, most impudent! I shall pay you off directiy.

[Exit Lucy

Sir Ber. Don't be so hasty. As to you, sir, I shall desire Record to put you to some employmentRec. I will, most dignified! Come with me. So, putting a little flesh upon my bones did not seem to be all your intention here, eh?

[Exeunt Record and Spruce. Sir Ber. Now, Le Sage, we are satisfied there is no copy left of the original will destroyed, we may with greater security proceed. Send the boy beyond sea, and there let him be despatched.

SCENE V.-Inside of the Convent. Enter CLARA and BOY.

Le Sage. 'Tis done: by this ho's safe. Lose not sight of Record, he may still be useful; should he prove otherwise, or turn refractory, we must provide for him. [Exeunt. SCENE IV-A retired part of a Forest. The remains of a Convent on the side.


I have lost him now for ever, that's plain. I have wander'd up and down through every track of the forest, and all to no purpose. Poor boy! how he'll grieve after me! his little heart will break-mine is gone to pieces already-quite waterlogg'd. And Nell, too-well, I must not repine-The same Providence that threw him into my arms from shipwreck, may again think fit to save him. I'm quite faint and parch'd, I'll taste this running stream; here's a cup chain'd to the stone for wearied strangers. (As he stoops to drink, the boy sings from within.)

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Flint. This purse is to have its fellow, when I take back evidence of the boy being safe on board. The smuggling boat is ready, but the way to it bad; O! there's the old convent! Now for my letter; if the boy's troublesome, this shall muzzle him. (Michael, overhearing, comes forward.) Mich. What are you going to do with that letter? Flint. What am I going to do? that's a pretty question: who the devil are you?

Mich. I am not used to turn assassin, believe me: but you must be plain, or two minutes will close your mouth for ever. The boy you are going for is in that house.

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Flint. Hull off my coat?

Mich. No words-but do it this moment. Flint. Well, well, there. (Putting off his coat.) you are not going to take anything else from me?

Mich. No: keep your money, and if you can, enjoy it. Your coat I only borrow: it shall be yours again. [Exit Flint.] (Taking up the coat.) 'Tis lawful in some cases to hoist false colours; and d-if I must play the hypocrite, 'tis better to wear the villain's outside, so I am right and tight within, than to clothe a heart rotten at the core with the robes of honesty. [Exit.

Boy. Indeed I could be happy with you as with anybody: but that I love my poor father and mother so dearly. What are they going to do with me? I am sure I never injured them.

Clara. You are sent here to be under my protection, and I will endeavour to make you comfortable. Alas! I fear by Le Sage directing this, some foul pray; if so, and I lose Sir Edmund's protection, my ruin will be complete.

Boy. My father Michael always told me to fear nothing but doing a bad action. I have kept the lesson close, and I wish he could see me now, that I am not afraid. Poor dear Michael.

Enter JANNETTE and MICHAEL, disguised. Clara. What ruffian are you, to break in upon our solitude without notice and due respect?

Jan. Madam, he has found his way through the grotto from the forest: he has frightened me almost out of my wits; he says he has a lettter for


Boy. Don't be alarmed, he shall not hurt you; 0, I'm almost afraid to look at him.

Mich. Tis he; his little soul breaks out. (Aside.) Do not terrify yourself, fair lady; I am no ruffian, though I believe I look very like one. (Aside.) That letter will tell you my business, (Gives a letter, and drops a paper.)

Clara. Signed La Sage, as I foreboded. But what can all this mean? 'Tis to no purpose my inquiry; I am myself unprotected, and can afford no help to others. This is the child. My dear boy, it afflicts me to part with you, but you must go.

Boy. What, must I go with him? O, Michael, what would I give to see you once more!

Mich. I cannot hold out much longer. (Aside.) I must crowd sail, or shall lose my weather-gauge : fair lady, your servant

Boy. Where are we going? If you mean to kill me, let me tell my beads first. Mich. Kill you. O, no! I did not think I looked so diabolical as that neither.

[Exeunt Michael and Boy. Clara. (Looking after him.) Farewell, farewell! I cannot think why I take such an interest in that boy. Ah me! what's here? (taking up the paper, reads) "The child with whom this trunk is found. has lawful claim to the whole estate of Milford Castle, at the death of Sir Edmund." Amazement! this must be my brother!-and Le Sage, by employing this wretch, must have found the papers. Gracious heaven! then my dear father is lost forever, and his child within the hands of that miscreant agent. I'll to the castle instantly, although my life should pay the forfeit of my rashness. Just heaven will not look on without regard, nor suffer innocence to fall. [Exit.

SCENE VI.-An Apartment in the Castle. Enter RECORD and NELL. Nell. We know you are our friend, Mr. Record, and trust the whole to you! Michael, I'm sure, depends upon your honour.

Rec. That he may with safety, most adorable!I won't utter a syllable about the papers till the proper moment: when will Michael be here?

Nell. O! I can't tell; he is gone in search of the poor boy; and heaven only knows whether he will find him or not: perhaps they have kill'd him, and Michael lost his life in defending him.

Rec. Don't despond, most affectionate: he will come back to you; and now let me, while we are quite alone, just taste the nectar of those lips, most (Attempting to kiss her.)

Enter LUCY, who discovers him. Nell. For shame! Mr. Record, what are you about?

Lucy. Mr. Record?

Rc. What brought you here, most curious, eh? Lucy. I beg pardon, sir; but a lady desires to see you directly. (Asid to Record.) I see Michael's wife makes all his friends welcome. [Exit. Re. Take care of the papers, Mrs. Nelly, and follow me. [Exeunt.

Rec. I am too weak-most potent!

Mich. Because they know I have higher orders than yours to remain here

Le Sage. Whose are they?

Mich. The Baron's of Milford Castle.

Sir Ber. And who is that now?

Mich. I'll shew you in the veering of a point; Eh! what! (Searching his pockets.) Dthe paper's gone! the rudder carried away just coming into harbour

Clara. What do you mean? Are you then his friend? what paper have you lost? Is it this?

SCENE VII.-The inside of the Chapel. SIR BERTRAND and LE SAGE meet CLARA and (Giving him the paper.)


Clara. Sir Bertrand here! then I'm undone. Sir Ber. Now, lovely Clara; I can make you most happy; at last, you see me lord of this fair castle, and you shall be its mistress. [think. Rec. (Aside.) This is very familiar at first sight, I Clara. No, Sir Bertrand, that can never be; I come to claim a right on behalf of injured innocence. Le Sage must give the answer. Where is the child, you hypocrite? Where is the ruffian, to whom you committed him?

Le Sage. Haughty madam, this is not a time to interrogate my proceedings; your home from henceforth is here. That boy!-what of that boy?-why do you inquire?

Rec. Be cool, most vehement, be cool!

Clara That boy! The wretch you sent to murder him, I suppose, was not quite collected in his business, or he would not have left this behind him. Know you that hand? (Shewing the paper.) What, you pause?

Le Sage. This is some mystery, beyond my cunning to develope.

Clara. It is my honoured father's hand, and that child my brother. Restore him to me, or his blood shall be upon your heads, and sweep his oppressors from the earth.

Sir Ber. By this he is properly bestowed: this raving is useless; 'twere better you prepare to share the splendour of this scene.

Clara. No, never. I'll to the world proclaim such villany, though I beg my daily crust from door to door. (Going.)

Sir Ber. Not so Dasty, Clara; you must not, shall not leave me. (Struggling with her.)

Clara. For pity's sake, assist me, heaven! (Breaks from him and meets Michael entering.)

Mich. What, more injuries! Human nature can't endure them.

Clara. That ruffian here! then all is lost. Sir Ber. What insolence is this? how came you here? who are you?

Clara. Who are you? Matchless hypocrisy! You know him not, nor his busineas?

Mich. Who am I? Look on this weather-beaten brow, and tell me whether you can read aught there that could deserve injustice at your hands? Look still, and say do you discover fear to resent it?

Sir Ber. What injuries are you speaking of? Mich. What injuries? Do you know a villain of the name of Le Sage, and does he know another o the name of Flint?

Le Sage. (Drawing.) Who has given your tongue this license?

Mich. Put up your steel; I've seen too many of them in my time to tremble at yours; a good cudgel is all the weapon an honest cause wants, and more than a bad one will encounter.

Sir Ber. Leave the castle this instant. Record and Spruce, why vou turn the fellow out?

Mich. This! eh! this! yes, yes, it is, sure enough! Now I'll produce the commander of this station. (Goes out and returns with Boy and Ne'l.)

Clara. (Runs and embraces him.) It is he again! Mich. Yes, that it is, I'll swear to him as I would to my own right hand.

Sir Ber. This is all forgery.

Rec. I'm afraid not, most unfortunate! for Mrs. Nelly and I have been looking over some papers in a trunk

Le Sage. What papers?

Mich, Those which his father delivered to me on his death-bed.

Sir Ber. Now you are detected. Where was that, villain; for his father was cast away at sea?

Mich. In these arms-on the bleak sea-shore, when I saved him and his little one from shipwreck; and had not heaven directed me to intercept that letter, he had still been at your mercy.

Le Sage. Curse on your officious zeal; we will think upon some plan to punish these usurpers. [Exeunt Sir B. and Le Sage.

Rec. O, here are the tenants of the estate assembled to assert the right of our new baron against injury and oppression.

Enter Villagers.

Mich. Now, Nell, it is enough for us to reflect that we have done our duty, and bore up so steadily against wind and tide to port, that we shall always find anchorage sure, and shelter from the



The castle walls resounding,
As loud huzzas unite,
Proclaim each heart abounding

With transport and delight.

Boy. Though changed our lot to brighter scenes,
Though fair the prospects rise,
My mind to former pleasure leans,
Unconscious of disguise.


To honour's sway

This happy day

Its proudest laurels owing:

Then be it blest,

By ev'ry breast,

With gratitude o'erflowing.

Chorus. The castle walls resounding, &c., &c. Nell.

In smoothest waters safe at last, We now forget the tempest past; For sunshine greets the happy shore, Ca e never will afflict us more. Record. Most renown'd, I give you joy! Clara, Mirth shall ev'ry hour employ. Chorus. The castle walls resounding, As loud huzzas unite, Proclaim each heart abounding With transport and delight.





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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 Dunstan had heard the lecture upon chastity which I read last night to the dairy-maid in the dark; he'd have been quite edifled. But yet what does talking signify? The eloquerce 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.










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

F. Phil. Oh, fle, fie, fle! 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 you 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 you heads together so F. Phil. Perfectly necessary: I was whispering



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 holesome advice, and she took it as that she; whada new lustre to the coronet of ve dignity to ille cottage maid, must needs ada

Mot. So you was, faith! Father; you gave it with your lips. and she took it with her's. Well done, Father Philip! [a licence. F. Phil. Son, son, you give your tongue too great Mot. Nay, Father, are privileged persons, not angry: fools, you know, F. Phil. I know they are very useless ones; and, in short, master Motiky, to be plan 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 app 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 boun[Exit. Mot. He looks like an overgrown turtle, waddling upon its hind fins. Yet, at bottom, 'tis a good fellow enough: Warni-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. (ing.)


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 exists

Mot. 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;

the Percies.

Mot. From which I am to understand, that you mean to marry this rustic? [myself. Per. Could I mean otherwise, I should blush for Mot. Yet surely the baseness of her origin— Per. Can to me be no objection: In giving her my hand, I raise her to my station, not debase myof to her's; or 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 mariage?

Per. You shall hear :-Fearfui 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 lowborn 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 contided her to his care, had claimed 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 strangers course, and find him to be Kenric, a derendant upon Earl Osmond.

Mot. Surely is 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 ints like so for-scared rabbits.

Per. Strange! and what reasons can he have Mot. 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 rest Per. Good heavens! [morning

Mot. Since that time, no sound of joy has been heard in Conway-castle. Osmond instantly became

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