To dream of holiness!--He hath not stirred.--
'Twas well I did not speak to Bellingham,
For we have not been noted. Good, so far.
All eyes are busy with their own affairs;
I'll wake him now and foil discovery.

_Takes vial from pocket medicine case._

Our native drugs are balanced well; one plant
Sucks in the beams the sleepy moon sends down,
Another drinks the waking draught of dawn.
That made him sleep, but this--Ah!
A mouldy mummied corse that in the tomb
A thousand years had lain, would wake once more,
If but three drops of this should touch its lips.
I'll give you, sir, but two.

_Drops liquid into glass and fills with wine._

There, swallow it.

_Administering to Dimsdell._

Now, let me see--he must not know how long
He slept,--and by the sun it is not long--
I have't; I'll make him think he merely lost
Himself while I was talking.

_Dimsdell stirs. Roger pours a glass of wine and takes position he
occupied when Dimsdell fell asleep. Speaks as in continuation of
former speech._

Mellow wine
Is Nature's golden bounty unto man.
And it hath well been said: Dame Nature is
A gentle mother if we follow her;
But if she drives our steps no fury wields
A fiercer lash; yet all her punishments
Are kindly meant; our puny faculties
Would nest forever fledgeling in our minds,
Did not her wise austerity compel
Their flight.

_Dimsdell wakes with a start and recovers himself as one who would
not seem rude._

Or, put the same in other words:
That man is noble who doth fear no fate
Which may afflict humanity; but, like
A gallant soldier, meets the charge half way,
And takes his wounds a-jesting.
Now ev'ry one of us, whom Nature whips,
Must take it meekly; for she means our good;
And learn to go along with her.

_Dimsdell._ I fear
I dozed and lost the thread of argument.
I pray you, pardon me.

_Roger._ I did not note it.
But, be it so, come sun yourself; drive out
The fog and vapor that becloud your mind,
And let the warmth of nature take their place.
Nature retrieves our losses, or charges them
Against us; all things do rest, even the plants
Do slumber as they grow.

_Dimsdell._ How greedily
The flow'rs drink up the wine our golden sun
Pours down o