Mary. Why, are you sick of the same complaint?
Isabel. [Sinking down on the grass at Mary’s feet.] So bruised and wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have been a hundred miles or more.
Lubin. Framilode? ’Tis there you come from?
Isabel. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do you know the place, master?
Lubin. [In deep gloom.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too.
Mary. [Leaning forward and clasping her hands.] Him as is there to-day, or him who was?
Lubin. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year ago.
[Isabel covers her face and is shaken by sobs. Lubin leans his elbow on his knee, shading his eyes with his hand.
Mary. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given us for that.
Isabel. [Looking up.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. ’Tis like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.