OSWALD You are most lucky;
              I have been waiting in the wood hard by
              For a companion—­here he comes; our journey
        [Enter MARMADUKE]
              Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.

HERBERT Alas!  I creep so slowly.

OSWALD Never fear;
              We’ll not complain of that.

HERBERT My limbs are stiff
              And need repose.  Could you but wait an hour?

OSWALD Most willingly!—­Come, let me lead you in,
              And, while you take your rest, think not of us;
              We’ll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.

[Conducts HERBERT into the house.  Exit MARMADUKE.]

[Enter Villagers]

OSWALD (to himself, coming out of the Hostel)
              I have prepared a most apt Instrument—­
              The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere
              About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
              By mingling natural matter of her own
              With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
              To win belief, such as my plot requires.

[Exit OSWALD.]

[Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them]

HOST (to them)
              Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself
              Aloft upon the elm-tree.  Pretty Maids,
              Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,
              Are here, to send the sun into the west
              More speedily than you belike would wish.

SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—­

[MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering]

MARMADUKE I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: 
              When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
              It struck upon my heart I know not how.

OSWALD To-day will clear up all.—­You marked a Cottage,
              That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
              By the brook-side:  it is the abode of One,
              A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
              Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! 
              What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. 
              Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone,
              Nor moves her hands to any needful work: 
              She eats her food which every day the peasants
              Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived
              Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
              But every night at the first stroke of twelve
              She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard
              Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
              She paces out the hour ’twixt twelve and one—­
              She paces round and round an Infant’s grave,
              And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn
              A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep—­
              Ah! [1] what is here?