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Here, many a time we wander'd, arm in arm; We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent, I love to haunt it still.(Basil starts.)

Bas. His fav'rite path—a friend—here arm in arm— Then there is such an one! I dream'd not of it.

''Vict. (pretending not to see him.)'' That little lane, with woodbine all o'ergrown, He lov'd so well!—it is a fragrant path, Is it not, count?

Bas.It is a gloomy one!

Vict. I have, my lord, been, wont to think it cheerful.

Bas. I thought your highness meant to leave this spot.

Vict. I do, and by this lane we'll take our way; For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace, And listen'd to the wood-lark's ev'ning song;

Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go? Accursed be the ground on which he's trod!

Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown, That he would curse my brother to my face?

Bas. Your brother! gracious god! is it your brother? That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke, Is he indeed your brother?