LARRY. Aye, 'twas because of your old sick mother. And how does the good lady? [_KATE weeps._] Ah! well, Heaven rest her soul.--Cheerly, cheerly.

To be sure, I can't give _you_ a mother; but I tell you what I'll do, I'll give your children one; and that's the same thing, you know. So, kiss me, Kate. Cheerly.

KATE. One day, as I sat desolate in my cottage, a carriage broke down near it, from which a young lady was thrown with great violence. My humble cabin received her, and I attended her till she was able to resume her journey.

LARRY. My kind Kate!

KATE. The sweet young lady promised me her protection, and pressed me to go with her. So, having no mother--nor Larry to take care of----

LARRY. You let the pigs and praties take care of themselves.

KATE. I placed an honest, poor neighbour in my cottage, and followed the fortunes of my mistress--and--O Larry, such an angel!

LARRY. But where is she?

KATE. Here, in Virginia.

LARRY. Here?

KATE. Aye, but that's a secret.

LARRY. Oh! is it so? that's the reason then you won't tell it me.

_GERALDINE, as a page, and WALTER appear behind._

KATE. That's she.

LARRY. Where?

KATE. There.

LARRY. Bother! I see no one but a silken cloaked spark, and our Wat; devil a petticoat!

KATE. That spark is my mistress.

LARRY. Be asy. Are you sure you ar'n't his mistress?

KATE. Tut, now you've got the twin potatoes in your head.

LARRY. Twins they must be, if any, for faith I hav'n't had a _single_ potato in my head this many a long day. But come, my Kate, tell me how you and your mistress happened to jump into--

KATE. Step aside then.

LARRY. Have with you, my dapper page. [_They retire._

_GERALDINE and WALTER advance._

GERALDINE. You know this Percy, then?

WALTER. Know him! Oh, yes!

He makes this wild wood, here, a past'ral grove.

He is a love-lorn shepherd; an Orlando, Carving love-rhymes and ciphers on the trees, And warbling dying ditties of a lady He calls false Geraldine.

GERALDINE. O my dear Percy!

How has one sad mistake marr'd both our joys! [_Aside._

WALTER. Yet though a shepherd, he can wield a sword As easy as a crook.

GERALDINE. Oh! he is brave.

WALTER. As Julius Caesar, sir, or Hercules; Or any other hero that you will, Except our captain.

GERALDINE. Is your captain, then, Without his peer?

WALTER. Aye, marry is he, sir, Sans equal in this world. I've follow'd him Half o'er the globe, and seen him do such deeds!

His shield is blazon'd with three Turkish heads.

GERALDINE. Well, sir.

WALTER. And I, boy, saw him win the arms; Oh, 'twas the bravest act!

GERALDINE. Prithee, recount it.

WALTER. It was at Regal, close beleaguer'd then By the duke Sigismund of Transylvania, Our captain's general. One day, from the gate There issued a gigantic mussulman, And threw his gauntlet down upon the ground, Daring our christian knights to single combat.

It was our captain, sir, pick'd up the glove, And scarce the trump had sounded to the onset, When the Turk Turbisha had lost his head.

His brother, fierce Grualdo, enter'd next, But left the lists sans life or turban too.

Last came black Bonamolgro, and he paid The same dear forfeit for the same attempt.

And now my master, like a gallant knight, His sabre studied o'er with ruby gems, p.r.i.c.k'd on his prancing courser round the field, In vain inviting fresh a.s.sailants; while The beauteous dames of Regal, who, in throngs Lean'd o'er the rampart to behold the tourney, Threw show'rs of scarfs and favours from the wall, And wav'd their hands, and bid swift Mercuries Post from their eyes with messages of love; While manly modesty and graceful duty Wav'd on his snowy plume, and, as he rode, Bow'd down his casque unto the saddle bow.

GERALDINE. It was a deed of valour, and you've dress'd it In well-beseeming terms. And yet, methinks, I wonder at the ladies' strange delight; And think the spectacle might better suit An audience of warriors than of women.

I'm sure I should have shudder'd--that is, sir, If I were woman.

WALTER. Cry your mercy, page; Were you a woman, you would love the brave.

You're yet but boy; you'll know the truth of this, When father Time writes man upon your chin.

GERALDINE. No doubt I shall, sir, when I get a beard.

WALTER. My master, boy, has made it crystal clear: Be but a Mars, and you shall have your Venus.

_Song._--WALTER.

Captain Smith is a man of might, In Venus' soft wars or in Mars' b.l.o.o.d.y fight: For of widow, or wife, or of damsel bright, A bold blade, you know, is all the dandy.

One day his sword he drew, And a score of Turks he slew; When done his toil, He s.n.a.t.c.h'd the spoil, And, as a part, The gentle heart Of the lovely lady Tragabizandy.

Captain Smith trod the Tartar land; While before him, in terror, fled the turban'd band, With his good broad-sword, that he whirl'd in his hand, To a three-tail'd bashaw he gave a pat-a.

The bashaw, in alarm, Turn'd tails, and fled his arm.

But face to face, With lovely grace, In all her charms, Rush'd to his arms The beautiful lady Calamata.