_Gregory._ Very true, indeed, madam. Death has no modesty in him now-a-days; he stares every body full in the face. I wish we had kept quiet at home, out of his way. Who knows but my master, Lord Gondibert, might have returned to us, unexpectedly; I'm sure he left us unexpectedly enough; for the deuce a bit of any notice did he give us of his going. _Adeline._ Ay, Gregory; was it not unkind? And yet I will not call him so--the times are cruel--not my husband.--His affection had too much thought in it to change. His regular love, corrected by the steady vigour of his mind, knew not the turbulence of boyish raptures; but, like a sober river in its banks, flowed with a sweet and equal current. Oh! it was such a placid stream of tenderness!--How long is it since your master left us, Gregory? _Gregory._ Six months come to-morrow, madam. I caught a violent cold the very same day: it has settled in my eyes, I believe, for they have been troublesome to me ever since. Ah! I shall never forget that morning; when the spies of the House of York, that's got upon the throne, surrounded him for being an old friend to the Lancasters. Egad, he laid about him like a lion!--Out whips his broad-sword; whack he comes me one over the sconce; pat he goes me another on the cheek; and, after putting them all out of breath, about he wheels his horse, and we have never seen nor heard of him since. _Adeline._ And, from that day to this, I have in vain cherished hopes of his return.--Fearful, no doubt, of being surprised, he keeps concealed.--Thus is he torn from me--torn from his children--poor tender blossoms! too weak to be exposed to the rude tempest of the times, and leaves their innocence unsheltered! _Gregory._ Yes, and mine among the rest. But what is it you mean to do, madam? _Adeline._ To seek him in the camp. The Lancasters again are making head, here, in the north. If he have had an opportunity of joining them, 'tis more than probable he is in their army. Thither will we;--and for this purpose have I doff'd my woman's habit; leaving my house to the care of a trusty friend: and, thus accoutred, have led you, Gregory, the faithful follower of my sorrows, a weary journey half over England. _Gregory._ Weary! oh dear, no--not at all--I could turn about again directly, and walk back, brisker by half than I came. _Adeline._ What, man, afraid! Come, come; we run but little risk. Example, too, will animate us. The very air of the camp, Gregory, will brace your courage to the true pitch. _Gregory._ That may be, madam; and yet, for a bracing air, people are apt to die in it, sooner than in any other place.