Where are we now, Matilda?
Mat. Just before your tent.
Fear not, they must be friends, and they approach.
Em. My Arthur! speak, my love; are you returned
To bless your Emmeline?
Osw. [To Guil.] I know that face:
'Tis the ungrateful fair, who, scorning mine,
Accepts my rival's love.—Heaven, thou art bounteous,
Thou owest me nothing now.
Mat. Fear grows upon me.—