Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/396

Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness,
Like senseless clod that doth no pressure feel
From wearing foot of daily passenger;
Like steeped rock o'er which the breaking waves
Bellow and foam unheard? O would I could!

Enter Manuel, who springs forward to his master, but is checked upon perceiving De Monfort draw back and look sternly at him.

Man. My lord, my master! O my dearest master!
(De Monfort still looks at him without speaking.)
Nay, do not thus regard me; good my lord!
Speak to me: am I not your faithful Manuel?

De Mon. (In a hasty broken voice.) Art thou alone?

Man. No, sir, the lady Jane is on her way;
She is not far behind.

De Mon. (Tossing his arm over his head in an agony.) This is too much! All I can bear but this!
It must not be.—Run and prevent her coming.
Say, he who is detain'd a pris'ner here
Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing.
I am a man, of holy claims bereft;
Out from the pale of social kindred cast;
Nameless and horrible.—
Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone
Into a desolate, and distant land,