prayers for you. [SIR PHILIP _views him with
severe contempt._] Do not mock my misery! Have you a heart?

_Sir Philip._ Yes; of marble. Cold and obdurate to the world--ponderous
and painful to myself--Quit my sight for ever!

_Miss B._ Go, Henry, and save me from my father's curse.

_Henry._ I obey: cruel as the command is, I obey it--I shall often look
at this, [_Touching the medal._] and think on the blissful moment, when
your hand placed it there.

_Sir Philip._ Ah! tear it from his breast. [SERVANT _advances._

_Henry._ Sooner take my life! It is the first honour I have earned, and
it is no mean one; for it assigns me the first rank among the sons of
industry! This is my claim to the sweet rewards of honest labour! This
will give me competence, nay more, enable me to despise your tyranny!

_Sir Philip._ Rash boy, mark! Avoid me, and be secure.--Repeat this
intrusion, and my vengeance shall pursue thee.

_Henry._ I defy its power!--You are in England, sir, where the man, who
bears about him an upright heart, bears a charm too potent for tyranny
to humble. Can your frown wither up my youthful vigour? No!--Can your
malediction disturb the slumbers of a quiet conscience? No! Can your
breath stifle in my heart the adoration it feels for that pitying angel?
Oh, no!

_Sir Philip._ Wretch! you shall be taught the difference between us!

_Henry._ I feel it now! proudly feel it!--You hate the man, that never
wronged you--I could love the man, that injures me--You meanly triumph
o'er a worm--I make a giant tremble.

_Sir Philip._ Take him from my sight! Why am I not obeyed?

_Miss B._ Henry, if you wish my hate should not accompany my father's,
instantly begone.

_Henry._ Oh, pity me! [_Exit._

[MISS BLANDFORD _looks after him_--SIR PHILIP, _exhausted, leans on his
servants._

_Sir Philip._ Supported by my servants! I thought I had a daughter!

_Miss B._ [_Running to him._] O you have, my father! one that loves you
better than her life!

_Sir Philip._ [_To_ SERVANT.] Leave us. [_Exit_ SERVANT. Emma, if you
feel, as I fear you do, love for that youth--mark my words! When the
dove wooes for its mate the ravenous kite; when nature's fixed
antipathies mingle in sweet concord, then, and not till then, hope to be
united.

_Miss B._ O Heaven!

_Sir Philip._ Have you not promised me the disposal of your hand?

_Miss B._ Alas! my father! I didn't then know the di