_Beef._ Here it is, just above the advertisements. _Pudd._ [_reads._] "The great demand for Packwood's razor straps."---- _Beef._ 'Pshaw! what, ever blundering--you drive me from my patience--see here, at the head of the column. _Pudd._ [_reads._] "A hireling print, devoted to the Court, Has dared to question our veracity Respecting the events of yesterday; But by to-day's accounts, our information Appears to have been perfectly correct. The charter of our liberties received The royal signature at five o'clock, When messengers were instantly dispatch'd To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties, After partaking of a cold collation, Return'd to Windsor."--I am satisfied. _Beef._ Yet here again--there are some further particulars [_turns to another part of the paper_], "Extract of a letter from Egham--My dear friend, we are all here in high spirits--the interesting event which took place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town"---- _Pudd._ Hah! Runnymede, enough--no more--my doubts are vanished--then are we free indeed! _Beef._ I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed! What says my friend--shall we return by the next packet? _Pudd._ Instantly, instantly! _Both._ Liberty! Adelaide!--Revenge! [_Exeunt. Young_ POTTINGEN _following_, _and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed_. _Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey. A summer's evening_--_moonlight. Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage, confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years' War. Shouts, and martial music. The Abbey gates are opened. The monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head. The choir is heard chanting vespers. After which a pause. Then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper. Soon after, a noise of singing and jollity._ _Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm. Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the female minstrel._ _Fem. Min._ Trust me, Gieronymo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak? _Trou._ 'Pshaw, women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing thee a song, and the subject of it shall be thy question--"What have I got under my cloak?" It is a riddle, Margaret--I learnt it of an almanac-maker at Gotha--if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me--and, d'ye mark! twirl thy thingumbob while I sing. _Fem. Min._ 'Tis a pretty tune, and hums dolefully. [_Plays on the balalaika_.[210] _Troubadour sings._