Gwin. His grave!
Lucy. Oh! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul; he has no grave; they stole him from me—they robbed the widow of her last bitter consolation.
Gwin. Perhaps it was the deed of friends.
Lucy. Friends!—But to your errand, Sir, what would you say? speak it quickly, lest my reason desert me, and you talk to madness:—I was told you brought me comfort, I smiled at the word; it seems my unbelief was right.
Gwin. I do bring you comfort—News of your husband.
Lucy. Ah! perhaps, yes, I see it—you can tell me where they laid his cold remains—can lead me to his grave, where I may find a refuge too.—You weep, nay then I know your mission is one of kindness—of charily to the widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died a felon’s death on yonder hill.
Gwin. I would speak of Ambrose—but, start not—he died not at the hour men think.
Lucy. Died not?
Gwin. As you loved your husband living, and weep him dead, I charge you conjure up all the firmness springing from woman’s love, nor let one sound or breath escape you to publish the sad history I’m about to tell.
Lucy. I’m fixed as stone—should my husband rise before me, my heart might burst, but not a cry should escape me.