Pudd. Ah, Runnymede! enough—no more—my doubts are vanished—then are we free indeed!
Beef. I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed!—What says my friend—shall we return by the next packet?
Pudd. Instantly, instantly!
Both. Liberty! Adelaide! revenge!
[Exeunt—Young Pottingen following and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed.
Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey.—A Summer’s Evening; Moonlight.
Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years War.—Shouts and martial music.
The Abbey Gates are opened; the Monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head; the choir is heard chanting vespers.—After which a pause; then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper; soon after, a noise of singing and jollity.
Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm; Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the Female Minstrel.
Fem. Min. Trust me, Gieronimo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak?