OSWALD (aside)
              He is growing pitiful.

MARMADUKE (listening)
              What an odd moaning that is!—­

OSWALD.  Mighty odd
              The wind should pipe a little, while we stand
              Cooling our heels in this way!—­I’ll begin
              And count the stars.

MARMADUKE (still listening)
                                  That dog of his, you are sure,
              Could not come after us—­he must have perished;
              The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. 
              You said you did not like his looks—­that he
              Would trouble us; if he were here again,
              I swear the sight of him would quail me more
              Than twenty armies.

OSWALD How?

MARMADUKE The old blind Man,
              When you had told him the mischance, was troubled
              Even to the shedding of some natural tears
              Into the torrent over which he hung,
              Listening in vain.

OSWALD He has a tender heart!

[OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE How now, what mean you?

OSWALD Truly, I was going
              To waken our stray Baron.  Were there not
              A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues,
              We should deserve to wear a cap and bells,
              Three good round years, for playing the fool here
              In such a night as this.

MARMADUKE Stop, stop.

OSWALD Perhaps,
              You’d better like we should descend together,
              And lie down by his side—­what say you to it? 
              Three of us—­we should keep each other warm: 
              I’ll answer for it that our four-legged friend
              Shall not disturb us; further I’ll not engage;
              Come, come, for manhood’s sake!

MARMADUKE These drowsy shiverings,
              This mortal stupor which is creeping over me,
              What do they mean? were this my single body
              Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: 
              Why do I tremble now?—­Is not the depth
              Of this Man’s crimes beyond the reach of thought? 
              And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment,
              Something I strike upon which turns my mind
              Back on herself, I think, again—­my breast
              Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: 
              I look at him and tremble like a child.

OSWALD Is it possible?