MARMADUKE I know it.

WILFRED And that he hates you!—­Pardon me, perhaps
              That word was hasty.

MARMADUKE Fy! no more of it.

WILFRED Dear Master! gratitude’s a heavy burden
              To a proud Soul.—­Nobody loves this Oswald—­
              Yourself, you do not love him.

MARMADUKE I do more,
              I honour him.  Strong feelings to his heart
              Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
              More of man’s thoughts and ways than his experience
              Has given him power to teach:  and then for courage
              And enterprise—­what perils hath he shunned? 
              What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? 
              Answer these questions, from our common knowledge,
              And be at rest.

WILFRED Oh, Sir!

MARMADUKE Peace, my good Wilfred;
              Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
              I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.

WILFRED May He whose eye is over all protect you!

[Exit.]

[Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand)]

OSWALD This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.

MARMADUKE (looking at them)
              The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: 
              Which is your favorite, Oswald?

OSWALD That which, while it is
              Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal—­
     [Looking forward.]
              Not yet in sight!—­We’ll saunter here awhile;
              They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.

MARMADUKE (a letter in his hand)
              It is no common thing when one like you
              Performs these delicate services, and therefore
              I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald;
              ’Tis a strange letter this!—­You saw her write it?

OSWALD And saw the tears with which she blotted it.

MARMADUKE And nothing less would satisfy him?

OSWALD No less;
              For that another in his Child’s affection
              Should hold a place, as if ’twere robbery,
              He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. 
              Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
              Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
              Which you’ve collected for the noblest ends,
              Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
              To guard the Innocent—­he calls us “Outlaws”;
              And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
              This garb was taken up that indolence
              Might want no cover, and rapacity
              Be better fed.