SCENE—­The door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; IDONEA and the Host among them

HOST Lady, you’ll find your Father at the Convent
              As I have told you:  He left us yesterday
              With two Companions; one of them, as seemed,
              His most familiar Friend. 
     (Going.) There was a letter
              Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy
              Has been forgotten.

IDONEA (to Host)
              Farewell!

HOST
                                  Gentle pilgrims,
              St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.]

[SCENE—­A desolate Moor]

[OSWALD (alone)]

OSWALD Carry him to the Camp!  Yes, to the Camp. 
              Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then,
              That half a word should blow it to the winds! 
              This last device must end my work.—­Methinks
              It were a pleasant pastime to construct
              A scale and table of belief—­as thus—­
              Two columns, one for passion, one for proof;
              Each rises as the other falls:  and first,
              Passion a unit and against us—­proof—­
              Nay, we must travel in another path,
              Or we’re stuck fast for ever;—­passion, then,
              Shall be a unit for us; proof—­no, passion! 
              We’ll not insult thy majesty by time,
              Person, and place—­the where, the when, the how,
              And all particulars that dull brains require
              To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact,
              They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. 
              A whipping to the Moralists who preach
              That misery is a sacred thing:  for me,
              I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man,
              Nor any half so sure.  This Stripling’s mind
              Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface;
              And, in the storm and anguish of the heart,
              He talks of a transition in his Soul,
              And dreams that he is happy.  We dissect
              The senseless body, and why not the mind?—­
              These are strange sights—­the mind of man, upturned,
              Is in all natures a strange spectacle;
              In some a hideous one—­hem! shall I stop? 
              No.—­Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then
              They have no substance.  Pass but a few minutes,
              And something shall be done which Memory
              May touch, whene’er her Vassals are at work.

[Enter MARMADUKE, from behind]

OSWALD (turning to meet him)
              But listen, for my peace—­

MARMADUKE
                                         Why, I believe you.