CASHEL. Now, by Heaven, Some fate is pushing thee upon thy doom. Canst thou not hear thy sands as they run out? They thunder like an avalanche. Old man: Two things I hate, my duty and my mother. Why dost thou urge them both upon me now? Presume not on thine age and on thy nastiness. Vanish, and promptly. MELLISH. Can I leave thee here Thus thinly clad, exposed to vernal dews? Come back with me, my son, unto our lodge. CASHEL. Within this breast a fire is newly lit Whose glow shall sun the dew away, whose radiance Shall make the orb of night hang in the heavens Unnoticed, like a glow-worm at high noon. MELLISH. Ah me, ah me, where wilt thou spend the night? CASHEL. Wiltstoken's windows wandering beneath, Wiltstoken's holy bell hearkening, Wiltstoken's lady loving breathlessly. MELLISH. The lady of the castle! Thou art mad. CASHEL. 'Tis thou art mad to trifle in my path. Thwart me no more. Begone. MELLISH. My boy, my son, I'd give my heart's blood for thy happiness. Thwart thee, my son! Ah, no. I'll go with thee. I'll brave the dews. I'll sacrifice my sleep. I am old--no matter: ne'er shall it be said Mellish deserted thee. CASHEL. You resolute gods That will not spare this man, upon your knees Take the disparity twixt his age and mine. Now from the ring to the high judgment seat I step at your behest. Bear you me witness This is not Victory, but Execution. [_He solemnly projects his fist with colossal force against the waistcoat of_ MELLISH _who doubles up like a folded towel, and lies without sense or motion_. And now the night is beautiful again. [_The castle clock strikes the hour in the distance._ Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! It strikes in poetry. 'Tis ten o'clock. Lydia: to thee! [_He steals off towards the castle._ MELLISH _stirs and groans_. ACT II SCENE I _London. A room in Lydia's house_ _Enter_ LYDIA _and_ LUCIAN LYDIA. Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house. Of late you have been chary of your visits. LUCIAN. I have been greatly occupied of late. The minister to whom I act as scribe In Downing Street was born in Birmingham, And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman, Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave, Must reunite, though all the time my heart Yearns for my gentle coz's company. LYDIA. Lucian: there is some other reason. Think! Since England was a nation every mood Her scribes have prepositionally split; But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth. LUCIAN. There is a man I like not haunts this house. LYDIA. Thou speak'st of Cashel Byron?