[TABLEAU. _DAN’L--the child on the ground before him_--soldiers _grouped around._ ACT II. SCENE.--_The interior of a picturesque old forge. The forge is open at the back, and DRUCE’S cottage is seen through opening. There is a path off. DAN’L DRUCE, a hearty-looking old man of sixty-four, is discovered hammering lustily at a piece of red-hot iron on his anvil._ _Dan._ (_laying down his hammer_). Whew! That job’s done! Eh, but I’m that breathed, surelie. Why, Dan’l Druce, if thou’rt worked out like this at twelve o’ noon, it’s time ye thought of getting a partner into the old forge. But somehow the forge fire seems to strike hotter than o’ yore; and the iron of to-day takes more hammerin’ than the iron o’ thirty year ago. Mebbe I’m growin’ old. Well, a body can’t hope to live sixty-four year, and leave off a young un arter all. ’Twouldn’t be fair on the boys--no, nor the gals neither--eh, Dorothy? _Enter DOROTHY running._ _Dor._ Oh, father, thou shouldst see the Green, by Raby’s End. The village is brave with banners and garlands. I have helped to deck it, father. And Master Maynard, the constable, is mounted on an ale cask to receive Sir Jasper Combe, who should pass on his way to Combe-Raven in half an hour; and the band of music hath arrived from Norwich, and _they’re_ all on ale casks too; and they are to play stirring music while the constable readeth an address to his worship! _Dan._ It is a merciful provision, Dorothy, lest the address be heard. So Sir Jasper will be here in half an hour, eh? _Dor._ Yes, and I long to see him. I have heard that he is a grave gentleman of goodly presence, and beyond measure kindly. He is a righteous landlord, too, so folk say, and giveth largely to the poor. _Dan._ He is needed in these parts, for the poor were sorely used by the late squire. I shall be right glad to welcome him, but (_wearily_) I’ll not go to Raby’s End to do it. (_Sits on stool._) _Dor._ Art thou wearied, father? _Dan._ Growin’ old, lass, growin’ old. It’s one o’ those blessings that allers comes to him that waits long enough. But I don’t grumble, Dorothy. If old age will leave me strength enough to pull at a pipe and empty a tankard--two things thou canst not do for me, Dorothy--why, that’s all I ask. My lass can do the rest. _Dor._ As I have been to thee so will I be to the end. _Dan._ There’s no saying, Dorothy. Thou’rt comely, lass, and mebbe, ere long, some smart young lad will whip thee from my arms, and carry thee away to t’other side o’ the sunrise. There’s mor’n one within a mile o’ this who’d give his right arm to do it now. _Dor._ Nay, thou art unkind. Did I not tend thee when thou wast hale and strong, and shall I desert thee now that thou hast most need of me?