The sweetness and grace of Celia made so strong an impression on Oliver that he soon fell deeply in love with her, and as she was equally attracted by him, and as he was now quite converted from his former evil nature, it was agreed they should be married without delay. Orlando did all he could to help forward the wedding, though the sight of his brother’s good fortune made him realise only more clearly his own unavailing love for Rosalind. “They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial,” he said. “But, oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!” “Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?” asked the real Rosalind. “I can live no longer by thinking,” said Orlando. “I will weary you, then, no more with idle talking,” said Rosalind. “Know now that I speak to some purpose. Believe, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, deeply skilled in his art. If you love Rosalind as heartily as you appear to do, then, when your brother marries Aliena, you shall marry Rosalind. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven, and it is not impossible to me, if it does not seem inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.” “Do you speak in sober earnest?” demanded Orlando, scarcely able to credit what he heard. “I do, on my life--which I value tenderly, though I _am_ a magician. Therefore put on your best array, invite your friends: for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind if you will.” The promise, which appeared so amazing to Orlando, was, of course, easily kept, and the following day, when the Duke and all the wedding guests assembled to witness Oliver’s wedding, Rosalind and Celia appeared without their disguise, and in their real attire. The banished Duke found a daughter, and Orlando found his Rosalind. In the midst of the wedding festivities arrived the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys, bearing the tidings that Duke Frederick had been converted by a religious man, and meant to leave the world and all its pomp. He bequeathed his crown to his banished brother, and restored all their lands to the lords who had been exiled with him. In the general chorus of pleasure there was only one discordant note. Jaques the cynic--“melancholy Jaques”--refused to join in the harmless mirth. He announced his intention of following Duke Frederick into retirement. He bade the others all follow their different forms of enjoyment,--as for himself, “I am for other than for dancing measures,” he declared. “Stay, Jaques--stay,” begged the Duke. “Not to see any pastime,” was the grim response. “If you want anything, I will stay to hear it at your abandoned cave.”