Simon.  I hope as much, father.

Sir Walter.  Tell him I send it with my parting prayer,
              And you must fall upon his neck and weep,
              And teach him pray, and love your brother John,
              For you two now are left in the wide world
              The sole survivors of the Woodvil name. 
              Bless you, my sons—­ [Dies.]

Simon. My father’s soul is fled. 
              And now, my trusty servant, my sword,
              One labour yet, my sword, then sleep for ever. 
              Drink up the poor dregs left of Woodvil’s name
              And fill the measure of our house’s crimes. 
              How nature sickens,
              To view her customary bands so snapt
              When Love’s sweet fires go out in blood of kin,
              And natural regards have left the earth.

Scene changes to another part of the forest.

Margaret (alone).
              They are gone to bear the body to the town,
              It was an error merely and no crime.

And so to the end of her long speech as printed [page 189].

At this point in the MS. comes in “the hodge-podge of German puerilities” (see the letter to Manning, February 15, 1802), the sacrifice of which so discontented Manning, who evidently considered the “supplementary scene” (closing the fourth act, [pages 189 to 191]), as Lamb called it, a poor substitute.

Scene changes to Woodvil Hall.

John reading a letter by scraps—­A Servant attending.

“An event beyond the possible reach of foresight.  ’Tis thought the deep disgrace of supposed treachery in you o’ercame him.  His heart brake.  You will acquit yourself of worse crimes than indiscretion.  My remorse must end with life.

“Your quondam companion and penitent for the wrong he has done ye.

“GRAY.

“Postscript.—­The old man being unhappily removed, the young man’s advancement henceforth will find no impediment.”

John. Impediment indeed there now is none: 
        For all has happened that my soul presag’d. 
        What hinders, but I enter in forthwith
        And take possession of my crowned state? 
        For thy advancement, Woodvil, is no less;
        To be a King, a King. 
        I hear the shoutings of the under-world,
        I hear the unlawful accents of their mirth,
        The fiends do shout and clap their hands for joy,
        That Woodvil is proclaim’d the Prince of Hell. 
        They place a burning crown upon my head,
        I hear it hissing now, [Puts his hand to his forehead.]
        And feel the snakes about my mortal brain.
          [Sinks in a swoon, is caught in the arms of a servant.]

Scene.  A Courtyard before Woodvil Hall.