Not knowing how you wrought on fate's behalf. Most loving and most noble father, thanks: My heart is aching with deep thankfulness. Never had daughter such a holy time Of preparation: any other life Would not have made me meet for him. Graham. Girl! girl! Be quiet, now!--Brown, tell us what to do! Brown. Keep cool, as I am. Smith, I know your power: You are the kind of man that healthy girls Yield to at once, you know. Graham. What's this? What's this? You've lost your head, I think. Magdalen. O father, look! See with my eyes. He's worth a million Browns.-- [To Brown.] Sir, pardon me. You are a worthy man, And much above the common stamp, I know. Father, this man--I do not know his name-- Is all the world to me. Graham. You little fool! [He hands Magdalen over to Brown and the servants. Now, sir, I'll pay you down a thousand pounds To keep this quiet.... Oh, the murdered man! Ay; he's been murdered: here's the murderer: That's the way out of it! Ha, ha! my buck, We'll have you clapped in jail. Brown. That wouldn't do. I'll add another thousand. Keep our names ... Smith. Magdalen! Magdalen. Yours, only yours. Graham. Be quiet! What's to be done? See you here, ravisher-- But stop a bit: we're all assuming. Brown, Perhaps there is some satisfactory-- Some explanation, plausible at least. Sir, have you anything to say? Smith. Much. First: You are my enemy, and I am yours. Rancorous debates, and wars, and martyrdoms Give tolerance the most forlorn of hopes; But with the impartial moon for ensign, here I dare assay to make my foe my friend. Even one who overlooked the world with me, And saw it, as I see it, a flying shuttle, Weaving a useless web of mystery That shrouds itself--even he, whose piteous blood Stains this green mountain-brow the soft clouds kiss, And sweet wild winds freshen continually, Had not discerned the reason of our deed: How much less you, who never think at all! But you must listen: you must try to think. And see how simple is our presence here: The way to town is five miles by the road, And two across the hill; so this I chose, Being shorter, and because my friend had said He would await my coming. She and I Are on our way to London. Graham. You are mad: You've made her mad. Good-night. [He is about to lead Magdalen away but Smith holds him. Smith. Not so: We are not mad, but you--the world is mad. You and the world would make her such a thing As poets still cry out on. Mine she is, Mine by the love that, as we had been gods Meeting in golden Tempe, dawned and shone Full-beamed at once. What is more sane than love? The universe is chaos without love.... Graham. Hold off! Smith. Be still!--Women are made by men: The nations fade that hold their women slaves: