Firmly and honestly my wish is right. Plans are for gods and rich men: I am poor. Isabella. In spirit? So you may be blamelessly; But are you, sir? Bruce. I hardly know. Just now I tried to cheer a whining fellow here, But stood myself in greater need of hope. Isabella. I know--I understand. You need to think Of other things, my dear. I've heard of men, Great men, exhausted even to lunacy By just those labours that were beating smooth A thoroughfare for ever to success, Repair themselves with youth's prerogative That stops time and the world deposes, all In favour of a dream; or spend a while With children or the simplest souls they knew. Come, you must be amused. But, tell me, sir, Am I to stay? Bruce. Yes, dearest pilgrim, yes. Isabella. Oh, I am happy! We will live like birds. Bruce. And in the winter? Isabella. Winter? What is it? This is the summer. Bruce. Winter is---- Isabella. Hush!--hark! What birds so late fly screaming overhead? Bruce. Stout capercailzies, hurrying to their hills, Sated with fir-tops. Isabella. Ah! But, dearest lord, Are you quite well? I haven't asked you yet. Bruce. I am very well. And you? Isabella. See--look at me: You used to know by gazing in my eyes. Bruce. My wife, my lover, you are well indeed. Isabella. The fire is nearly out. Come to the cave, And there we will devise amusements, dear. [They go out. SCENE III.--Another part of the Wood of Drome. The Earl of Buchan alone. Buchan. God help me and all jealous fools, I pray! The plagues of Hades leagued in one raw scourge Might minister diversion to my soul, Assailing through my flesh. No thought at all Of starry space or void eternity; Nor love, nor hate, nor vengeance, nor remorse-- My cousin's murder!--I've forgotten it!-- No sound of horns crackling with riotous breath The crisp, rathe air; no hounds; no beckoning tunes With notes of fiery down; nor singing girls Whose voices brood and bound; nor chanting larks, Nor hymning nightingales can touch my soul. Nothing but torture unendurable Wrought in the flesh has power on jealousy. Slay him with agonies? A passing swoon! I'll kill my wife! Her blood is Lethe if oblivion be Save in more high-strung anguish of my own. Enter Fife. Fife. What is it? You have news. Buchan. They are together-- The outlaw and your sister. They're at hand-- Three miles away--no more. A trusty spy Told me just now. Fife. Is there a band? Buchan. Some score. Fife. Then we will take them. Buchan. Yes. Fife. About it straight. [Goes. Buchan. I'll follow--Ho! Enter Spy.