I plot to save myself, most helps my friend. [Exit.
Re-enter Tristram with a paper.
T. I have found a prize: just exactly what I wanted: one of my master’s love-letters, or a piece of one,—that’s the third to-day,—lying on the walk. It was not there when I went to order the horses, else I must have trod on it; but when I came back, it lay in the middle of the path, as if dropped from the skies. Reveal what it may, it goes to the Countess to-morrow; and it should stand me in something handsome. Unsealed, unfolded even, for any to read: and no name. Poetry like my master’s. There’s no harm in my reading, even though I should not understand.
(Reads.)—‘Master of mine!'—Ha! ’tis the lady.
‘Master of mine, remember for pity,
What sobs of fluting lips, wan with dismay,’
Poor thing!
‘And malison of death, my soulless clay,
Panteth in thine unspeak’ble purgat’ry.’
Unspeak’ble!—that is unspeakable; and purgatree!—why the big O hath fallen out. I never loved this purgatory, and quarrel not at any shortening of it.—‘Enchained long whilom.’—Mysteries and crimes! chained is she? Where can he have chained her? and how, if she be chained, can she have cast this on the path? unless she threw it from the window....