In the distance, the battlemented castle of Plantagenet the Ruthless. (So says the programme, but I cannot see the battlemented castle, although I strain my eyes to discern it, being interested in it as the family residence of my friend Turk.) Enter two ruffians in leather jerkins and buff gloves. Times are very bad with them. They want gold, they want blood, and--ahr! they want revenge (with a redundancy of _r_'s). They roll their eyes, they gnash their teeth. Yonder is the castle of Plantagenet. There sits the lordly tyrant who grinds his vassals to the dust. Shall he be allowed to go on in his ruthless course unchecked? No! Hark! a thousand echoes reiterate the declaration. (I fancy the echoes.) No no! no! They kneel, and swear revenge in dumb show. Who comes here? As they live, it is the lovely Edith, the heiress to those baronial halls. The Fates are propitious. They'll tear her from the domestic hearth, and bear her senseless form to mountains wild. Exit ruffians elaborately. Enter Edith pensively. She is pretty, and she receives a round of applause from all parts of the house. She bows, and tells the audience that she has just dismounted from her snow-white palfrey outside. This accounts for her coming in without a hat, and with her hair hanging down her back over a white-muslin frock. The sparkling foliage of the trees tempted her to stroll along the mossy sward. She sighs. Who is the stranger she met nine days ago upon this very spot? She did not speak to him, she did not see his face, but the beating of her heart, the clouds athwart the sky, the dew upon the grass, the whisper of the breeze, the beauteous birds that warble delicious notes to scented flowers, all, all whisper to her that she loves him. Ah, yes, she loves him! Could she but see once more his manly form, she'd die content. Cue to the musicians, with whose assistance Edith sings a plaintive song expressive of her wish To quit the sordid world, And with her love be whirled To other lands. On sorrow bent (she sings), I'd die content If he were by my side. Oh, take me, love, To realms above, And let me be thy bride. The ruffians enter at the back of the stage, and roam about with stealthy steps. They draw their knives, and breathe upon them. Expectation is in every eye. The ruffians advance. The high-born maiden continues her song. The ruffians retreat. The high-born concludes her song with a tra-la-la. The ruffians, having just made up their minds at that point, advance again, with a quick sliding movement. Seize her! Oh, spare me, spare me she cries. Spare you, daughter of Plantagenet the Ruthless! spare you! Never! Did thy gory sire spare my white-haired parent when, with his bloody sword, he clove him from head to foot, and laid him writhing in the dust? Spare you! Not if lightnings flashed and thunders rolled, not if all the powers of earth and air interpose their forms protecting, shall you be spared! Revenge! The music is worked up terrifically during the scene.