_T._ I have found a prize: just exactly what I wanted: one of my master’s love-letters, or a piece of one,— that’s the third to-day,—lying on the walk. It was not there when I went to order the horses, else I must have trod on it; but when I came back, it lay in the middle of the path, as if dropped from the skies. Reveal what it may, it goes to the Countess to-morrow; and it should stand me in something handsome. Unsealed, unfolded even, for any to read: and no name. Poetry like my master’s. There’s no harm in my reading, even though I should not understand. (_Reads._)—‘_Master of mine!_’—Ha! ’tis the lady. ‘_Master of mine, remember for pity, What sobs of fluting lips, wan with dismay_,’ Poor thing! ‘_And malison of death, my soulless clay, Panteth in thine unspeak’ble purgat’ry_.’ 800 _Unspeak’ble!_—that is unspeakable; and _purgatree!_ —why the big O hath fallen out. I never loved this purgatory, and quarrel not at any shortening of it.— ‘_Enchained long whilom._’—Mysteries and crimes! chained is she? Where can he have chained her? and how, if she be chained, can she have cast this on the path? unless she threw it from the window.... ‘_Enchained long whilom, was I fain to flee._’ Just so! But is she fled or no? I wish she wrote clearer sense. (_Re-enter St. Nicholas behind._) ‘_Enchained long whilom was I fain to flee; But thou, with wildered phantom disarray, Nightly disguised in the blue garb of day, Besetdst the sleep-gates of my melanch’ly._’ 815 Hem! _N._ (_coming forward_). Tristram, where found you that? it was not intended for your reading. _T._ So I guess, sir; but if letters be purposely thrown open on the ground, they may be read by those for whom they were not intended. _N._ Give it to me. ’Tis mine. _T._ I see no sign of that, sir, unless you will say that everything which the ladies let fall belongs to you. _N._ No impertinence, man: give it me at once. _T._ Nay; I have my duty. This belongs to my master. I shall guard it for him. _N._ I tell you ’tis mine. _T._ So you said of Lady Laura’s glove. _N._ That has nothing to do with it. Give me the paper. _T._ Not till ’tis proved to be yours, sir: which can never be. _N._ I tell you, Tristram, that I wrote it myself. _T._ We shall soon see that, sir. This is writ by a lady; who is prisoned or chained somewhere in the court. And she says;—well, what she says I cannot tell; but my master thinks she has run away, and has bade me order the horses to be after her. _N._ What ridiculous stuff you make of it, Tristram. ’Tis addressed to Love: you do not understand.