Isabel. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder.
Lubin. Rose-Anna—She with whom I was to have gone to church.
Mary. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose.
Isabel. O ’twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the riverside, him and me.
Lubin. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday afternoon.
[A pause during which Lubin and Isabel seem lost in their own sad memories. Mary gets up softly and goes within the cottage.
Isabel. And when I heared as ’twas to-morrow they were to wed, though ’twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for one look upon his face again.
Lubin. ’Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so cruel false into mine.
Isabel. If I was to plead upon my knees to him ’twould do no good—poor wench of a serving maid like me.
Lubin. [Looking down at himself.] She’d spurn me from the door were I to stand there knocking—in the coat I have upon me now. No—let her go her way and wed her fancy man.