ACT III

SCENE I.—A View of the River Conway, with a Fisherman’s Hut.—Sun-set.

Enter Allan and Edric.
ALLAN.  Still they come not!—Dear, dear, still they come not!—Ah! these tumults are too much for my old body to bear.
EDRIC. Then you should have kept your old body at home. ‘Tis a fine thing truly for a man of your age to be galloping about the country after a girl, who, by your own account, is neither your chick nor child!
ALLAN. Ah!  She was more to me!  She was my all, Edric, my all!—How could I  bear my home when it no longer was the home of Angela?  How could I rest in my cottage at night when her sweet lips had not kissed me—-and murmured, 'Father, sleep well!’—She is so good! so gentle!—I was sick once, sick almost to death!  Angela was then my nurse and comforter: She watched me when I slept, and cheered me when I woke: She rejoiced when I grew better; and when I grew worse, no medicine gave me ease like the tears of pity which fell on my burning cheeks from the eyes of my darling!
EDRIC. Tears of pity indeed!  A little rhubarb would have done you more good by half.—But our people stay a long time: Perhaps Motley has been discovered and seized; if so, he will lose his life, the Earl his freedom, Angela her lover, and, [43] what's worst of all, I shall lose my boat!  I wish I hadn't lent it, for I doubt that Motley's scheme has failed.
ALLAN.  I hope not—Oh! I hope not!—Should Percy remain a captive, Angela will be left unprotected in your wicked Lord's power—Oh! that will break my poor old wife's heart for certain!
EDRIC. And if it should break it, a mighty misfortune truly!—Zounds, Master Allan, any wife is at best a bad thing: a poor one makes matters get worse; but when she's old, Lord!  'tis the very devil!
ALLAN.  Hark!  Hark! Do you hear?—‘Tis the sound of oars!—They are our friends!—Oh!  Heaven be thanked! the Earl is with them.
A boat appears with Percy, Motley, and soldiers disguised as fishermen.  They land.
PERCY. (Springing on shore.)—Once more then I breathe the air of liberty!—Worthy Gilbert, what words can suffice to thank you?
MOTLEY.  None—therefore do not waste your breath in the attempt.  You are safe, thanks to St. Peter and the Blanket! and your Lady's deliverance now demands all your thoughts.—Ha! who is that with Edric?
PERCY.  Allan, by all my hopes!—Welcome, welcome, good old man!—Say, came my vassals with you?
ALLAN. Three hundred chosen men are within the sound of your bugle. They scarce gave me time to signify your orders ere they sat in their saddles; and as I would needs come with them, Heaven forgive them for it! they put me on an hard-trotting horse!—Marry, he shook me rarely!  he has almost broken my old bones:—But that matters little; my heart would have been broken had [44] I staid behind.—But now, My Lord, tell me of Angela.  Is she well?  Did you speak to her? and speaks she sometimes of me?
PERCY.  She is well, my old friend, and I have spoken to her—though but for a moment.  Scarce had I time to confess to her my rank, when Kenric, whose suspicious eye had penetrated my disguise, forced me from her presence. But be comforted, good Allan!  Should other means fail, I will this very night attack the Castle, and compel Osmond to resign his prey.
ALLAN. Heaven grant that you may succeed!—Let me but once see Angela your bride! Let me but once hear her say the sweet words, 'Allan, I am happy!' then I and my old wife will seek our graves, lay us down, and die with pleasure!
MOTL.  Die with pleasure, you silly old man! you shall do nothing so ridiculous: You shall live a great many years; and, instead of lying down in your grave, we'll tuck you up warm with your old wife in the best down-bed of Alnwic Castle.—But now let us talk of our affairs, which, if I mistake not, are in the high road to success.
PERCY. How? Has any intelligence reached you of your ally, the Friar?
MOTL. You have guessed it.  As it passed beneath his window, the pious porpus contrived to drop this letter into the boat.  Its contents must needs be of consequence; for I assure you it comes from one of the greatest men in England. Pray examine it, my Lord!  I never can read when the wind's easterly.
PERCY. I believe, Gilbert, were it northerly you would be no jot the wiser: I remember that many a sound stick did our preceptor break upon your back in vain; and before you had learn/ed [45] to spell, your schooling had cost my father a forest.
MOTL. (While Percy reads.) Nay, if learning could have been beaten into me, by this time I should be a prodigious scholar!—To do him justice, Father Benjamin had a most instructive jirk with his arm, and frequently used arguments so forcible when pointing out my faults, that many a time and oft has he brought tears into my eyes: Then I generally felt so penitent, and so low, that I was obliged to steal his brandy-bottle in order to recover my spirits.—Well, Sir, what says the letter?
PERCY. Listen.—'I have recognised you in spite of your disguise, and seize the opportunity to advise your exerting yourself solely to obtain Earl Percy's liberty. Heed not Angela: I have sure and easy means for procuring her escape; and before the clock strikes two, you may expect me with her at the fisherman's hut. Farewell, and rely upon Father Philip.'—Now, Gilbert, what say you? May the monk's fidelity be trusted?
MOTL. His fidelity may undoubtedly; but whether his success will equal his good intentions is a point which time alone can decide. Should it not—
PERCY. Then with my faithful vassals will I storm the Castle to-morrow.
ALLAN. What, storm the Castle!—Oh! no, no! My darling never saw a bird die but she wept; then how will she bear to look on when men perish?
PERCY. Be assured, old man, that nothing save invincible necessity shall induce me to bathe my hands in the blood of my fellow-creatures.— But where are my followers.
ALLAN. Fearing lest their numbers should excite suspicion, I left them concealed in yonder wood.
[46]
PERCY. Guide me to them. Edric, for this night I must request the shelter of your hut.
EDRIC. Willingly, my Lord! But my cottage is so humble, your treatment so wretched—
PERCY. Silence, my good fellow! The hut, where good-will resides, is to me more welcome than a palace, and no food can be so sweet as that which is seasoned with smiles—You give me your best; a monarch could give no more, and it happens not often that men ever give so much. Now farewell for an hour—Allan, lead on!         (Exeunt Percy, Allan, &C.)
Manent Motley and Edric.
MOTL. And in the meanwhile, friend Edric, I'll lend you an hand in preparing supper.
EDRIC. Truly the task won't give you much trouble, for times have gone hard with me of late. Our present Lord sees no company, gives no entertainments, and thus I sell no fish. Things went better while Earl Reginald lived!
MOTL.  What! you remember him!
EDRIC.  Never shall I forget him, or his sweet Lady!  Why, I verily believe, they possessed all the cardinal virtues!—So pious, so generous, so mild! so kind to the poor, and so fond of fish!
MOTL.  Fond of fish!—One of the cardinal virtues, of which I never heard before!
EDRIC.  But these thoughts make me sad.  Come, Master Motley; your Lord's supper still swims in the river:—if you'll help to catch it, why do so, and thank you heartily.  Can you fish?
MOTL.  Can I! Who in this world cannot?—I'll assure you, friend Edric, there is no profession more universal than yours; we all spread our nets [47] to catch something or other—and alas! when obtained, it seldom proves worth the trouble of taking. The Coquette fishes for hearts which are worthless; the Courtier, for titles which are absurd;[4] and the Poet, for compliments which are empty.—Oh! happy are they in this world of disappointments, who throw out no nets save fishing ones.                              (Exeunt)
 

SCENE II.—The Castle-Hall.

Enter Kenric.

KENR.  Yonder he stalks, and seems buried in himself!—Now then to attack him while my late service is still fresh upon his memory.  Should he reject my petition positively, he shall have good cause to repent his ingratitude.  Percy is in the neighbourhood; and that secret, known only to myself, will surely—But, silence!—Look where he comes!
Enter Osmond.
OSM.  It shall not be!  Away with these foreboding terrors, which weigh down my heart!—Does not all smile upon my fortunes?  My rival wears my chains; he cannot wrest her from me, and with to-morrow's dawn Angela shall be mine.  Bound then high, my heart!  Pleasure, sweet guest, so long a stranger, Oh! to my bosom welcome [48] once more!—I will forget the past, I will enjoy the present, and make those raptures again mine, which—Ah! no, no, no!—Conscience, that serpent, winds her folds round the cup of my bliss, and, ere my lips can reach it, her venom is mingled with the draught.
KENR.  How profound the gloom which obscures his brow!— How fixed, how hopeless glares his dark eye-ball!—Oh! dreadful is the villain's look, when he ponders on committed crimes!
OSM. Evening approaches fast—(Drawing near and opening the window.) A1ready the air breathes cooler, and the beams of the setting sun sparkle on the waters of Conway.  How fair, how tranquil all without!  How dark, how comfortless all within!—Hark! the sound of music!—The peasants are returning from labour: they move with gay and careless steps, carolling as they go some rustic ditty; and will pass the night in rest, for they have passed the day in innocence!
 

CHORUS (Without.)
Pleased the toils of day to leave,
Home we haste with foot-steps light:
Oh! how gay the cotter’s eve!
Oh! how calm the cotter's night!

OSM. (Closing the window with violence.)—Curses upon them—I will look, I will listen no more!  I sicken at the sight of happiness, which I never more must enjoy; I hate the possessors of hearts untainted—hate, for I envy!—Oh! fly from my eyes, bright Day!  Speed thy pace, Darkness! thou art my love!  Haste to unfold thy sable mantle, and robe the world in the colour of my soul!
KENR.  Now then to accost him—Yet I tremble!
OSM.  Anguish! endless, hopeless anguish!—Day or night, no moment of rest—When I sleep, dreams [49] of strange horror still fright me from my couch!  When I wake, I find in every object some cause for distrust—read the dread charge in every eye, ‘Thou art a murderer!’—and tremble lest the agents of my guilt should work its punishment.—And see where he walks, the chief object of my fears!—He shall not be so long!—His anxiety to leave me, his later mysterious threats—No, no!  I will not live in fear.—Soft!—he advances!
KENR.  So melancholy, my Lord?
OSM. Aye, Kenric, and must be so, till Angela is mine.  Know that even now she extorted from me a promise, that till to-morrow I would leave her unmolested.
KENR.  But till to-morrow?
OSM.  But till to-morrow?—Oh! in that little space a lover's eye views myriads of dangers!—Yet think not, good Kenric, that your late services are undervalued by me, or that I have forgotten those for which I have been long your debtor.  When, bewildered by hatred of Reginald, and grief for Evelina's loss, my dagger was placed on the throat of their infant, your hand arrested the blow—Judge then how grateful I must feel when I behold in Angela her mother's living counterpart—behold her such as when, shielding with her body her fallen husband, Evelina received that dagger in her breast which I aimed at the heart of Reginald!—Worthy Kenric, how can I repay your services!
KENR.  These you may easily.—But what, Earl Osmond, what can repay me for the sacrifice of my innocence?—I was virtuous till you bade me be guilty—my hands were pure till you taught me to stain them with blood—you painted in strong colours the shame of servitude—you promised freedom, riches, independence—you vanquished the [50] resistance of my better Angel, and never since have I known one moment of rest!
OSM.  Good Kenric—
KFNR.  All here reminds me of my guilt—every object recalls to me Reginald and his murdered Lady!—Let me then claim that independence so long promised, and seek for peace in some other climate, since memory forbids me to taste it in this.
OSM.  Kenric, ere named, your wish was granted.  In a far distant country a retreat is already prepared for you: there may you hush those clamours of conscience, which must reach me, I fear, e'en in the arms of Angela.Yet do not leave me till she is my bride—Stay yet a week in Conway Castle; and then, though 'twill cost me many a pang, Kenric, you shall bid it a long adieu.—Are you contented?
KENR. (Affected.) My Lord!—Gratitude—Amazement—And I doubted—I suspected—Oh! my good Lord, how have I wronged your kindness!
OSM.  No more—I must not hear you!—(Aside.)—Shame! shame! that ever my soul should stoop to dissembling with my slave!—Kenric, farewell!—Till Angela is mine, keep a strict eye on Percy; and then—
Saib enters, and advances with apprehension.
OSM. How now?—Why this confusion?—Why do you tremble?—Speak!
SAIB.  My Lord!—the prisoner—
OSM. The prisoner?—Go on! go on!
SAIB. (Kneeling.) Pardon, my Lord, pardon!  Our prisoner has escaped!
OSM. Villain!—(Wild with rage he draws his dagger, and rushes upon Saib—Kenric holds his arm.)
[51]
KENR.  Hold! hold!—What would you do?
OSM. (Struggling.) Unhand me, or by Heaven—
KENR.  Away! away!—Fly fellow, fly and save yourself          (Exit Saib.)
KENR. (Releasing Osmond.) Consider, my Lord—haply 'twas not by his keeper's fault that—
OSM. (Furiously.) What is't to me by whose?—Is not my rival fled?—Soon will Northumberland's guards encircle my walls, and force from me—Yet that by Heaven they shall not!  No!  Rather then resign her, my own hand shall give this Castle a prey to flames: then plunging with Angela into the blazing gulph, I'll leave these ruins to tell posterity how desperate was my love, and how dreadful my revenge!—(Going, he stops, and turns to Kenric.)—And you, who dared to rush between me and my resentment—you who could so well succeed in saving others—now look to yourself                                                                (Exit)
KENR. Ha! that look—that threat—Yet he seemed so kind, so grateful!—He smiled too!—Oh! there is ever danger when a villain smiles.
(Saib enters softly, looking round him with caution.)
SAIB. (In a low voice.) Hist!—Kenric!
KENR.  How now?—What brings—
SAIB.  Silence, and hear me!—You have saved my life, nor will I be ungrateful—Look at this phial!
KENR.  Ha! did the Earl—
SAIB.  Even so: a few drops of this liquor should to-night have flavoured your wine—you would never have drank again!  Mark me then—When I offer you a goblet at supper, drop it as by accident. For this night I give you life: use it to quit the Castle; for no longer than till to-morrow dare I [52] disobey our Lord's commands.  Farewell, and fly from Conway—You bear with you my thanks!                                                          (Exit)
KENR.  Can it be possible?  Is not all this a dream?—Villain! villain!—Yes, yes, I must away!—But tremble, traitor!—A bolt, of which you little think, hangs over, and shall crush you!—The keys are still in my possession—Angela shall be the partner of my flight.—My prisoner too—Yet hold!  May not resentment—may not Reginald's sixteen years captivity—Oh! no!  Angela shall be my advocate; and, grateful for her own, for her parent's life preserved, she can, she will obtain my pardon—Yet, should she fail, at least I shall drag down Osmond in my fall, and sweeten death's bitter cup with vengeance!                                   (Exit)

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

F. PHIL. (Closing the pannel.) Thus far I have proceeded without danger, though not without difficulty.  Yon narrow passage is by no means calculated for persons of my habit of body.  By my Holidame, I begin to suspect that the fool is in the right!  I certainly am growing corpulent.—And now, how shall I employ myself—Sinner that I am, why did I forget the bottle of sack?—The time will pass tediously till Angela comes.—And, to complete the business, yonder is the haunted Oratory.  What if the ghost should pop out on me? [53] Blessed St. Bridget, there would be a tête-à-tête!—Yet this is a foolish fear:—‘Tis yet scarce eight o'clock, and your ghosts always keep late hours; yet I don't like the idea of our being such near neighbours.  If Alice says true, the apparition just now lives next door to me; but the Lord forbid that we should ever be visiting acquaintance!—Would I had something to drive her out my head! A good book now, or a bottle of sack, St. Augustine, or a cold venison pasty, would be worth its weight in gold: but in the chambers of these young girls one finds nothing good either to read, drink, or eat.  Now my last patroness, the Baroness O'Drench—Ah! to hear the catalogue of her crimes was quite a pleasure, for she always confessed them over a sir-loin of beef, and, instead of telling a bead, swallowed a bumper!—Oh! she was a worthy soul!—But hark!—Angela comes.
OSM. (Without.) What, Alice!—Alice, I say!
F. PHIL.  By St. David, tis the Earl! I'll away as fast as I can!—(Trying to open the door.)—I can't find the spring!—Lord forgive me my sins!—Where can I hide myself—Ha! the bed!—‘Tis the very thing.—(Throws himself into the bed, and conceals himself under the clothes.)—Heaven grant that it mayn't break down with me; for, Oh! what a fall would be there, my countrymen!—They come!—(The door is unlocked.)
(Enter Osmond, Angela, and Alice.)
OSM. (Entering.) You have heard my will, Lady.  Till your hand is mine, you quit not this chamber.
ANG. If then it must be so, welcome my eternal prison!—Yet eternal it shall not be!—My hero, my guardian-angel is at liberty!  Soon shall his horn [54] make these hateful towers tremble, and your fetters be exchanged for the arms of Percy!
OSM. Beware, beware, Angela!—Dare not before me—
ANG. Before you! before the world!—Is my attachment a disgrace?  No! ‘tis my pride; for its object is deserving.  Long ere I knew him, Percy's fame was dear to me.  While I still believed him the peasant Edwy; often, in his hearing, have I dwelt upon Northumberland's praise, and chid him that he spoke of our Lord so coldly!  Ah! little did I think that the man then seated beside me was he whom I envied for his power of doing good, whom I loved for exerting that power so largely!—Judge then, Earl Osmond, on my arrival here how strongly I must have felt the contrast!—What peasant names you his benefactor?  What beggar has been comforted by your bounty? what sick man preserved by your care?—Your breast is unmoved by woe, your ear is deaf to complaint, your doors are barred against the poor and wretched.  Not so are the gates of Alnwic Castle; they are open as their owner's heart.
ALICE. My hair stands on end to hear her!
OSM.  Insulting girl!—This to my face?
ANG. Nay, never bend your brows!—Shall I tremble, because you frown?  Shall my eye sink, because anger flashes from yours?—No! that would ill become the bride of Northumberland.
OSM.  Amazement!—Can this be the gentle, timid Angela?
ANG. Wonder you that the worm should turn when you trample it so cruelly!—Oh! wonder no more: Ere he was torn from me, I clasped Percy to my breast, and my heart caught a spark of that fire which flames in his unceasingly!
[55]
ALICE. Caught fire, Lady!—Bless me, I hope you didn't burn yourself?
OSM.  Silence, old crone!—I have heard you calmly, Angela; now then hear me.  Twelve hours shall be allowed you to reflect upon your situation: till that period is elapsed, this chamber shall be your prison, and Alice, on whose fidelity I can depend, your sole attendant.  This term expired, should you still reject my hand, force shall obtain for me what love denies.  Speak not: I will hear nothing!—I swear that to-morrow sees you mine, or undone! and, Skies, rain curses on me if I keep not my oath!—Mark that, proud girl!  mark it, and tremble!             (Exit)
F. PHIL.  Heaven be praised, he's gone!
ANG.  Tremble, did he say?—Alas! how quickly is my boasted courage vanished!—Yet I will not despair: there is a Power in heaven, there is a Percy on earth; on them will I rely to save me.
ALICE.  The first may, Lady; but as to the second, he'll be of no use, depend on't.  Now, might I advise, you'd accept my Lord's offer: What matters it whether the man's name be Osmond or Percy? An Earl's an Earl after all; and though one may be something richer than t'other—
ANG. Oh! silence, Alice!—nor aid my tyrant's designs: rather instruct me how to counteract them.  You have influence in the Castle; assist me to escape, and be assured that Percy's gratitude and generosity—
ALICE.  I help you to escape!  Not for the best gown in your Ladyship's wardrobe!  I tremble at the very idea of my Lord's rage; and, besides, had I the will, I've not the power.  Kenric keeps the keys; we could not possibly quit the Castle [56] without his knowledge; and if the Earl threatens to use force with you—Oh Gemini! what would he use with me, Lady?
ANG.  Threatens, Alice!—I despise his threats!  Ere it pillows Osmond's head will I plunge this poniard in my bosom.
ALICE.  Holy fathers!—A dagger!
ANG.  Even now, as I wandered through the Armoury, my eye was attracted by its glittering handle.—Look, Alice! it bears Osmond's name; and the point—
ALICE.  Is rusty with blood!—Take it away, Lady!—Take it away!—I never see blood without fainting!
ANG. (Putting up the dagger.) This weapon may render me good service.—But, ah! what service has it rendered Osmond!—Haply ‘twas this very poniard which drank his brother's blood—or which pierced the fair breast of Evelina!—Said you not, Alice, that this was her portrait?
ALICE.  I did, Lady; and the likeness was counted excellent.
ANG.  How fair!—How heavenly!—What sweetness, yet what dignity, in her blue, speaking eyes!
ALICE.  No wonder that you admire her, Lady; she was as like you as one pea to another.  But this morning you know I promised to show you her Oratory, and here I've brought the key.—Shall I unlock the door?
ANG. Do so, good Alice!—Haply for a moment it may abstract my thoughts from my own sorrows.
F. PHIL. (While Alice unlocks the door.) Will the old woman never be gone?—I dare not discover myself in her presence.
[57]
ALICE. (Having opened the folding doors, an Oratory is seen, richly ornamented with carving and painted glass: Angela and Alice enter it.) This room has not been opened since my Lady's death, and every thing remains as she left it. Look, here is her veil—her prayer-book too, in which she was reading on the very night before she quitted the Castle, never to return!
F. PHIL. I'm out of all patience.
ALICE. And that guitar!—How often have I heard her play upon that guitar!  She would sit in yonder window for hours, and still she played airs so sad, so sweet—To be sure, she had the finest voice that ever—(During this speech Angela, who at first looks round with curiosity, throws the veil carelessly over her face, and, taking the guitar from the table, strikes a few wild and melancholy notes. Alice, whose back is towards her, turns hastily round, screams, and rushes from the Oratory.  Angela casts the veil and guitar upon the table, and follows her.)
ANG. What alarms you?
ALICE. Is it you, Lady?  Let me die, if I didn't take you for the ghost!—Your air, your look, your attitude, all were so like the deceased Countess, that—Well, well!  I'll not enter that room again in an hurry!  I protest, my hand trembles so, that I can hardly turn the key!
ANG. How contagious is terror!  This silly woman's apprehensions have spread to my bosom, and scarce can I look round without alarm.  The stillness too of evening—The wavering and mysterious light which streams through these painted windows—-And, hark!  ‘Twas the shriek of the screech-owl, which nests in the tower above!
ALICE. (Having locked the folding doors.) Ah!  'twas a sad day for me, when I heard of the dear [58] Lady's loss!  Look at that bed, Lady:—That very bed was hers.
F.  PHIL. Was it so?  Oh! ho!
ALICE. How often have I seen her sleeping in that bed—and, oh! How like an angel she looked when sleeping! I remember, that just after Earl Reginald—Oh!  Lord! didn't somebody shake the curtain?
ANG. Absurd!  It was the wind.
AI.ICE. I declare it made me tremble!  Well, as I was saying, I remember, just after Earl Reginald had set out for the Scottish wars, going into her room one morning, and hearing her sob most bitterly.—So advancing to the bed-side, as it might be thus—'My Lady!' says I, with a low curtsey, 'Isn't your Ladyship well!’—So, with that, she raised her head slowly above the quilt, and, giving me a mournful look—(Here, unseen by Angela, who is contemplating Reginald’s portrait, Father Philip lifts up his head, and gives a deep groan.)
ALICE. Jesu Maria! the devil! the devil! the devil![5]
ANG. (Turning round.) How now? (Father Philip rising from the bed—-it breaks under him, and he rolls at Angela's feet.)—Good heavens! a man concealed!—(Attempting to pass him, he detains her by her robe.)
F. PHIL.  Stay, daughter, stay!  If you run, I can never overtake you!
ANG. Amazement! Father Philip!
F. PHIL. The very same, and at present the [59] best friend that you have in the world.  Daughter, I came to save you.
ANG. To save me?  Speak! Proceed!
F. PHIL.  Observe this picture; it conceals a spring, whose secret is unknown to all in the Castle except myself.  Upon touching it, the pannel slides back, and a winding passage opens into the marble hall.  Thence we must proceed to the vaulted vestibule; a door is there concealed, similar to this; and, after threading the mazes of a subterranean labyrinth, we shall find ourselves in safety on the outside of the Castle-walls.
ANG. Oh! worthy, worthy Father! quick let us hasten! Let us not not lose one moment!
F. PHIL.  Hold! hold!  Not so fast.  You forget, that between the hall and vestibule we must traverse many chambers much frequented at this early hour.  Wait till the Castle's inhabitants are asleep. Expect me, without fail, at one; keep up your spirits, and doubt not of success.  Now then I must away, lest the Earl should perceive my absence.
ANG.  Stay yet one moment.  Tell me, does Percy—
F. PHIL.  I have apprised him, that this night will restore you to liberty, and he expects you at the fisherman's cottage.  Now, then, farewell, fair daughter!
ANG.  Good Friar, till one, farewell!
(Exit F. Philip through the sliding pannel, closing it after him.)
ANG. This is thy doing, God of Justice!  Receive my thanks.—Yes, Percy, we shall meet once more—shall meet never again to separate! Those dreams shall be realized—those smiling golden dreams which floated before us in Allan's happy [60] cottage.  Hand in hand shall we wander together through life—partners in pleasure—partners in woe—and when the night of our existence arrives, one spot shall receive our bodies—one stone shall cover our grave.—Allan too, and the worthy Maud!—my parents—my more than parents!—to smooth the pillow of their age—to gild their last hours with sun-shine! That thought is heaven.  So glorious are my prospects, that they dazzle me to look on, and scarce can I believe them really to exist.—Oh! gracious God! should my brain be bewildered by fancy—should I be now the sport of some deceitful dream, seal up my eyes for ever, never let me wake again!—I must not expect the Friar before one.—Till that hour arrives, will I kneel at the feet of younder Saint, there tell my beads, and pray for morning!

END OF THE THIRD ACT
 

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