Besides he was a soldier, and a brave one

Once-though to rash.

Ulr.

And they, my lord, we know

By our experience, never plunder till

They knock the brains out first-which makes them

heirs,

Not thieves.

nothing,

The dead, who feel nought, can lose

Nor e'er be robb'd: their spoils are a bequest

No more.

STRAL. Go to! you are a wag.

But say

I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man,

And let me know his slightest movement towards
Concealment or escape?

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret

Passage leads.

Enter WERNER and GABOR.

GAB. Sir, I have told my tale; if it so please you To give me refuge for a few hours, well

If not-I'll try my fortune elsewhere.

WER.

Can I, so wretched, give to Misery

How

A shelter?-wanting such myself as much
As e'er the hunted deer a covert-

GAB.

The wounded lion his cool cave.

Or

Methinks

You rather look like one would turn at bay,

And rip the hunter's entrails.

WER.

GAB.

Ah?

I care not

If it be so, being much disposed to do

The same myself; but will you shelter me?
I am oppress'd like you-and poor like you-
Disgraced-

WER. (abruptly). Who told you that I was disgraced?

GAB. No one; nor did I say you were so: with Your poverty my likeness ended; but

I said I was so-and would add, with truth,

As undeservedly as you.

GAB. Or any other honest man.

What the devil would you have? You don't believe me Guilty of this base theft?

WER.

No, no-I cannot.

GAB. Why, that's my heart of honour! yon young

gallant

Your miserly intendant and dense noble

All-all suspected me; and why? because

I am the worst-clothed, and least named amongst them,
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts,
My soul might brook to open it more widely

Than theirs; but thus it is-you poor and helpless

Both still more than myself.

WER.

How know you that?

GAB. You're right: I ask for shelter at the hand Which I call helpless; if you now deny it,

I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved The wholesome bitterness of life, know well,

By sympathy, that all the outspread gold

Of the New World, the Spaniard boasts about,
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth,
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance,

Save in such guise (and there I grant its power,
Because I feel it) as may leave no night-mare
Upon his heart o'nights.

WER.

What do you mean?

GAB. Just what I say; I thought my speech was

plain :

You are no thief-nor I-and, as true men,

Should aid each other.

Wer.

It is a damned world, sir.

GAB. So is the nearest of the two next, as

The priests say (and no doubt they should know best) Therefore I'll stick by this-as being loth

VOL. XI.

H

To suffer martyrdom, at least with such
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb.

It is but a night's lodging which I crave;
To-morrow I will try the waters, as

The Dove did, trusting that they have abated.
WER. Abated? Is there hope of that?

GAB. That I know by long practice. Will you not Promise to make mine less?

WER.

Your poverty?

GAB. No-you don't look a leech for that disorder;

I meant my peril only; you've a roof,

And I have none; I merely seek a covert.

WER. Rightly; for how should such a wretch as I Have gold?

GAB.

Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, Although I almost wish you had the baron's.

WER. Dare you insinuate?