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MARIAN (taking her hands affectionately).

Sweet Alice! why so moved?

ALICE.

'T is my infirmity: I am a fool,

And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

MARIAN (embracing her).

Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed

That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

ALICE.

Thy brother?

MARIAN.

No; thine own,—thy brother Claude.

Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.

MALCOLM.

Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains!

Which, as your brother tells me, you admire,
In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

ALICE.

He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,