Then says Prospero:

'Hast thou, spirit, Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?

_Ariel._ To every article.

I boarded the King's ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement; sometimes I'd divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not....

_Prospero._ My brave spirit!

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason?

_Ariel._ Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and played Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the King's son Ferdinand----'"

"The prince, sweetheart!--the prince that is to be brought ash.o.r.e."

"Doubtless, Judith,

'The King's son Ferdinand, With hair up-staring--then like reeds, not hair-- Was the first man that leaped: cried, "h.e.l.l is empty, And all the devils are here."

_Prospero._ Why, that's my spirit!

But was not this nigh sh.o.r.e?

_Ariel._ Close by, my master.

_Prospero._ But are they, Ariel, safe?

_Ariel._ Not a hair perished, On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before; and, as thou badst me, The King's son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.'"

"And hath he not done well, that clever imp!" Judith cried. "Nay, but my father shall reward him--that he shall--'twas bravely done and well. And now to bring him to the maiden that hath never seen a sweetheart--that comes next, good Prue? I marvel now what she will say?"

"'Tis not yet, Judith," her friend said, and she continued the reading, while Judith sat and regarded the dusky shadows beyond the flame of the candle as if wonder-land were shining there. Then they arrived at Ariel's song, "Come unto these yellow sands," and all the hushed air around seemed filled with music; but it was distant, somehow, so that it did not interfere with Prudence's gentle voice.

"Then says Prospero to her:

'The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

_Miranda._ What is't? a spirit?

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.

_Prospero._ No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wreck; and but he's something stained With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, And strays about to find them.

_Miranda._ I might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so n.o.ble.'"

"And what says he? What thinks he of her?" Judith said, eagerly.

"Nay, first the father says--to himself, as it were

'It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee Within two days, for this.'

And then the Prince says:

'Most sure, the G.o.ddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer May know, if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give, How I may bear me here; my prime request, Which I do last p.r.o.nounce, is, O you wonder!

If you be maid or no?

_Miranda._ No wonder, sir, But certainly a maid.

_Ferdinand._ My language! heavens!

I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where 'tis spoken.'"

"But would he take her away?" said Judith, quickly (but to herself, as it were). "Nay, never so! They must remain on the island--the two happy lovers--with Ariel to wait on them: surely my father will so make it?"

Then, as it appeared, came trouble to check the too swift antic.i.p.ations of the Prince, though Judith guessed that the father of Miranda was but feigning in his wrath; and when Prudence finally came to the end of such sheets as had been brought her, and looked up, Judith's eyes were full of confidence and pride--not only because she was sure that the story would end happily, but also because she would have her chosen gossip say something about what she had read.

"Well?" said she.

"'Tis a marvel," Prudence said, with a kind of sigh, "that shapes of the air can so take hold of us."

Judith smiled; there was something in her manner that Prudence did not understand.

"And Master Jonson, good Prue--that they call Ben Jonson--what of him?"

"I know not what you mean, Judith."

"Sure you know they make so much of him at the court, and of his long speeches about Greece and Rome and the like; and when one comes into the country with news of what is going forward, by my life you'd think that Master Jonson were the only writer in the land! What say you, good Prue: could worthy Master Jonson invent you a scene like that?"

"In truth I know not, Judith; I never read aught of his writing."

Judith took over the sheets and carefully rolled them up.

"Why," said she, "'twas my father brought him forward, and had his first play taken in at the theatre!"

"But your father and he are great friends, Judith, as I am told; why should you speak against him?"

"I speak against him?" said Judith, as she rose, and there was an air of calm indifference on her face. "In truth, I have naught to say against the good man. 'Tis well that the court ladies are pleased with Demogorgons and such idle stuff, and 'tis pa.s.sing well that he knows the trade. Now give ye good-night and sweet dreams, sweet mouse; and good thanks, too, for the reading."

But at the door below--Prudence having followed her with the candle--she turned, and said, in a whisper:

"Now tell me true, good cousin: think you my father hath ever done better than this magic island, and the sweet Miranda, and the rest?"

"You know I am no judge of such matters, Judith," her friend answered.

"But, dear heart, were you not bewitched by it? Were you not taken away thither? Saw you not those strange things before your very eyes?"

"In good sooth, then, Judith," said the other, with a smile, "for the time being I knew not that I was in Stratford town, nor in our own country of England either."

Judith laughed lightly and quickly, and with a kind of pride too. And when she got home to her own room, and once more regarded the roll of sheets, before bestowing them away in a secret place, there was a fine bravery of triumph in her eyes. "Ben Jonson!" she said, but no longer with any anger, rather with a sovereign contempt. And then she locked up the treasure in her small cupboard of boxes, and went down-stairs again to seek out her mother, her heart now quite recovered from its envy, and beating warm and equally in its disposition toward all mankind, and her mind full of a perfect and complacent confidence. "Ben Jonson!" she said.