_Gondi._ Away all night! What then? Am not I their leader? Do they begin to doubt me? Am not I, as it were, wedded to the party?

_Rob._ Very true, n.o.ble captain: and we have treated you as a wife would a kind husband:--but when a husband is out all night--why--

_Gondi._ Well, sir;--what then?

_Rob._ Marry, then, the wife is apt to grumble a little; that's all.

_Gondi._ Go to;--I had reason. What's the news?

_Rob._ The news is, we have taken some stragglers, in the forest.

_Gondi._ Are they of note?

_Rob._ 'Faith, we have some of all qualities;--gentle and simple mixed:--we had no time to stand upon the picking:--they're all penn'd up in the back cavern;--and you must e'en take 'em like a score of sheep--fat and lean together. But, there is a beardless youth, follow'd by a cowardly serving man, who presses hard to see you.

_Gondi._ What would he?

_Rob._ 'Faith, sir, he would be a n.o.ble fellow. I take it he has a great soul, too large for the laws;--he has questioned me plentifully concerning you.

_Gondi._ Concerning me?

_Rob._ Yes; he inquired if you were married; how long you had been with us; your age; your stature; nay, he was particular enough to ask what sort of a nose stood on your face.

_Gondi._ Wherefore these questions?

_Rob._ Troth, I think he would like well to serve in our band; for he seems to have a marvellous nice notion of honour. He took up your dagger, of curious workmanship, that lies on your table, in the cave, and did so study the dudgeon on't!--Marry, the boy knows how to handle a weapon, I'll warrant him.

_Gondi._ Where have you bestowed him?

_Rob._ Why, he was so importunate, that I have brought him, and his man, hither along.--The man, I feared, might babble: so, I've entrusted him to your friend Barton, here; and he, finding he has been a butler, has locked him in the cellarage.

_Gondi._ Conduct the youth hither.

[_Exit ROBBER._

Then why should I repine? since there are others, Who, in the early spring, and May of life, Behold the promised blossoms of their hope Nipt in the very bud. Here comes the youth;-- And bears a goodly outside;--yet 'tis a slender bark, That Providence ne'er framed for tossing much In a rough sea of troubles.

_Enter ROBBER with ADELINE._

_Rob._ Here, youth; this is our captain. Cheer up now, and speak boldly. You need not fear.--A raw youth, captain, but a mettled one, I'll warrant him.--A word with you. [_Takes GONDIBERT apart._

_Adeline._ It is, it is my lord!--Oh Heaven! my heart!--to find him thus, too!--Yet, to find him any how is transport.

_Rob._ I shall look to it.--You would be private now, I take it.--Now, youth, plead, cleverly, to get admitted among us, and your fortune's made. Be but a short time with us, and it will go hard, indeed, if all your cares, in this world, are not shortly at an end. [_Exit._

_Gondi._ Now to your business, youth.

_Adeline._ 'Tis brief.--I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen pressure of mishap.--I once had friends: they have left me. One whom I thought a special one--a n.o.ble gentleman--who pledged himself, by all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed youth--even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved as with a woman's tenderness,--even he has, now, deserted me.

_Gondi._ Then he acted basely.

_Adeline._ I hope not so, sir.

_Gondi._ Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give just cause to a steady friend to leave thee.

_Adeline._ Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from the pressure of the time,--some trying chance--but, I am wandering.

This is my suit to you.--If you should find me fit to be entrusted with the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you.

_Gondi._ Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies, Even of ourselves?--which keep the lawless mind For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep, To frightful slumbers;--where imagination Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense, Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;-- And mixes, in the chaos of the brain, Terrors, half real, half unnatural;-- Till nature, struggling under the oppression, Rouses the sleeping wretch,--who starts, and wipes The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples; And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter, But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!

_Adeline._ Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.

Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think The cruel edge of keen necessity Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart.

_Gondi._ What is it, youth?

_Adeline._ That, which from my youth,-- For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,-- Might, haply, not be thought;--yet so it is;-- Know, then, that I am married.

_Gondi._ Married, didst say?

And dost thou love----

_Adeline._ Oh! witness for me, Heaven!

The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom.

_Gondi._ Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst As easily attempt to walk unmov'd, With all the liquid fires which aetna vomits Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness.

Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn From the dear object of its wedded love!

And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection, That very object, whom the time's necessity Mads you to part with, witless of the cause, Arraigns your conduct.

_Adeline._ And have you felt this! [_With emotion._

_Gondi._ I tell thee wretched youth--fie! thou unman'st me.-- Pr'ythee, return, young man!--I have a feeling,-- A fellow feeling for thee;--if thou hop'st For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee, Turn thy steps homeward;--link not with our band.

_Adeline._ Wherefore should I return? return to witness The bitter load of misery, which circ.u.mstance Has brought upon my house? My infant children--

_Gondi._ And hast thou children then?

Whose innocence has oft beguil'd thy hours; Who have look'd smiling up into thy face, Till the sweet tear of rapturous content Has trickled down thy cheek?--Thou trying for tune!

Mark out the frozen breast of apathy, And tho' 'twere triple cased in adamant, Throw but this poisonous shaft of malice at it, 'Twill pierce it thro'and thro'.

_Adeline._ An if I thought 'twere so?--

_Gondi._ Hear me, young man:-- Thou wring'st a secret from me, which, till now, Was borne in silence here; while, vulture-like, It preys upon my vitals.--I am married:-- I have a wife--and one whom kindly nature Form'd in her lavish mood:--Oh! her gentle love Beam'd through her eyes, whene'er she turn'd them on me, With such a mild and virtuous innocence, That it might charm stern murder!--and yet I Have wounded, villain like, her peace. Even I,-- In whom her very soul was wrapt-- Turn'd coward with the time, have basely left her.

But I am punish'd for't:--day, night,--asleep, Awake,--still, or in action,--bleeding fancy Pictures my wife, sitting in patient anguish; Pale; mild in sufferance; mingling meek forgiveness With bitter agony;--blessing him who wrongs her;-- While my poor children, my deserted little ones, Hang on her knees, and watch the silent drops Steal down her grief-worn face!--Yea, dost thou weep?

Shape thy course homeward then; for pangs like mine, Would so convulse thee, youth, that, like an engine, 'Twould wrench thy tender nature from its frame, And pluck life with it.

_Adeline._ Oh! my dear, loved lord!

Here cease those pangs;--here, in the ecstacy of joy, Behold your Adeline, now rushing to the arms Of a beloved husband. [_Running into his Arms._

_Gondi._ Merciful Heaven!

My Adeline! And hast thou!--Oh, my heart!

This sudden conflict!--thus let me clasp thee to it; Ne'er to part more, till pangs of death shall shake us.