Mary. Yes.
Alice. What pass'd between you?
Mary. A plight of faith: A vow to live or die,
Each for the other.
Alice. Lost, lost girl.
Mary. Why, ay,
It may be so; if so, 'tis Heaven's will.
You have my secret Alice.
Enter from the House, Ravensworth and Walford, l. h.
Alice. Peace; our fathers.
(They retire into house, l. h.)
Rav. No, Walford, no: I have no charity
For what you term the weakness of our nature.
The soul should rise above it. It was this
That made the fathers of this land prevail,
When man and the elements opposed, and win
Their heritage from the heathen.
Walf. True; the times
Impos'd a virtue, almost superhuman.
But surely, the necessity is pass'd
For trampling on our nature.
Rave. We have grown
Luke-warm in zeal, degenerate in spirit;—
I would root out with an unsparing hand
The weeds that choke the soil;—pride and rank luxury
Spring up around us;—alien sectaries,
Spite of the whip and axe, infest our limits;
Bold infidelity, dark sorcery—
Walf. Nay,
Nay, Ravensworth—
Rave. I tell thee Walford, yea:
The powers of darkness are at work among us.
Not distant we have seen the fagot blaze,
And soon the stake may ask its victim here.
Walf. What victim point you at?
