_Governor._ Is there mystery in the case?

_Roger._ Mystery! aye, and miracle, too!
You know him, Governor--a man whose nerves
Are gossamers, too fine to sift the music
Of the blasts that blow about our burly world,
And only fit for harps whereon Zephyrus
In Elysium might breathe.--And yet this man--
Oh! you'd not believe it if I told you.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Servant._ Your worship is asked for at the door.

_Governor._ Say I am coming. We'll speak again of this. [_Exit Servant._
I must be gone. We servants of the State
Are slaves to show, and serve the people best
When most we trick them. The pageant of the day
Goes much against my better judgment, but
The crowd will have it so, and so farewell.

_Roger._ One moment, if you please. If he revives
He'll pick the thread of life up where he dropt it;
He may desire to preach, as he hath promised you,
And, if he doth, 'twere better not to thwart him.

_Governor._ Very well. I'll speak to Wilson.

_Roger._ I'm sorry I cannot go with you. Farewell.

_Exit Governor. Dimsdell moves. Roger goes to his side and examines
him._

The pulse hath quickened. He moves his lips.

_Dimsdell mumbles indistinctly._

I cannot catch it.--

_Dimsdell._ Think of it no more, my love.--
Our troubles now are ended, Hester;
The gentle current of our mingled lives,
Long parted by the barren, rocky isle
Of hard necessity, flows reunited on.

_Roger._ Indeed!

_Dimsdell._ How sweet it is, in the afternoon of life,
To walk thus, hand in hand, Hester. And as
The golden sun of love falls gently down
Into the purple glory of the West,
We'll follow it.

_Roger._ A lengthy jump--from sinning youth
Plump into the middle of an honored age!
Yet thus the mind, in trance or dream, achieves
Without an effort what it wills. Again?

_Dimsdell._ Sir, take my daughter and my blessing, too;
Cherish her as the apple of thine eye;
Still shield her from the buffets of the world;
Let thy tenderness breathe gentle love
Like an Italian air sung at twilight,
When the melody without tunes that within
Until the soul arising on the wings
Of music soars into Heaven.

_Roger._ Is there nothing in heredity? Or will
The orange-blossom take its fragrance from
The Heaven above; its origin forgot?

_Dimsdell._ Hester, although the snow upon thy head
Be white as that on yonder distant mount,
Thine eyes are blue a