[Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT—­MARMADUKE following.]

SCENE changes to a Wood—­a Group of Pilgrims, and IDONEA with them.

FIRST PILGRIM A grove of darker and more lofty shade
                I never saw.

SECOND PILGRIM The music of the birds
                Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.

OLD PILGRIM This news!  It made my heart leap up with joy.

IDONEA I scarcely can believe it.

OLD PILGRIM Myself, I heard
                The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter
                Which purported it was the royal pleasure
                The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed,
                Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood,
                Should be forthwith restored.  The hearing, Lady,
                Filled my dim eyes with tears.—­When I returned
                From Palestine, and brought with me a heart,
                Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort,
                I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast: 
                He had a Guide, a Shepherd’s boy; but grieved
                He was that One so young should pass his youth
                In such sad service; and he parted with him. 
                We joined our tales of wretchedness together,
                And begged our daily bread from door to door. 
                I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady! 
                For once you loved me.

IDONEA You shall back with me
                And see your Friend again.  The good old Man
                Will be rejoiced to greet you.

OLD PILGRIM It seems but yesterday
                That a fierce storm o’ertook us, worn with travel,
                In a deep wood remote from any town. 
                A cave that opened to the road presented
                A friendly shelter, and we entered in.

IDONEA And I was with you?

OLD PILGRIM If indeed ’twas you—­
                But you were then a tottering Little-one—­
                We sate us down.  The sky grew dark and darker: 
                I struck my flint, and built up a small fire
                With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds
                Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 
                Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods;
                Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth
                And we were comforted, and talked of comfort;
                But ’twas an angry night, and o’er our heads
                The thunder rolled in peals that would have made
                A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. 
                O Lady, you have need to love your Father. 
                His