PUDD. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England. BEEF. England! my native land! when shall I revisit thee? [_During this time_ PUDDINGFIELD _deals, and begins to arrange his hand._ BEEF. [_Continues._] Phoo, hang All-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, my Puddingfield! thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine— [_Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young_ POTTINGEN, _awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards_ BEEFINGTON _and_ PUDDINGFIELD. _The former begins to recover._ Y. POT. What is the matter, comrades,[277] you seem agitated. Have you lost or won? BEEF. Lost! I have lost my country. Y. POT. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her. BEEF. O, England! Y. POT. O, Matilda! BEEF. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country. Y. POT. Oppressed by the tyranny of an Abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a Count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity; her lover is fled no one knows whither, and I, her brother, am torn from my parental roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel. My search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! what am I to do? In yonder Abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends, there lies Rogero—there Matilda’s heart. SCENE II. _Enter_ WAITER. WAITER. Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you. BEEF. [_Goes to the door and returns with a letter, which he opens. On perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously._] Ah, my friend, what joy! [_Turning to_ PUDDINGFIELD. PUDD. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it. BEEF. See here. [_Produces a printed paper._ PUDD. What? [_With impatience._ BEEF. [_In a significant tone._] A newspaper! PUDD. Ah, what sayst thou?—A newspaper! BEEF. Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [_shows it partially_], from England. PUDD. [_With extreme earnestness._] Its name? BEEF. The _Daily Advertiser_. PUDD. Oh, ecstasy! BEEF. [_With a dignified severity._] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man. PUDD. [_After a pause, with suppressed emotion._] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?