[_Exit_.

BECKET.
Do. These be those baron-brutes
That havock'd all the land in Stephen's day.
Rosamund de Clifford.

_Re-enter_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT.

ROSAMUND.
Here am I.

BECKET.
Why here?
We gave thee to the charge of John of Salisbury.
To pass thee to thy secret bower to-morrow.
Wast thou not told to keep thyself from sight?

ROSAMUND.
Poor bird of passage! so I was; but, father,
They say that you are wise in winged things,
And know the ways of Nature. Bar the bird
From following the fled summer--a chink--he's out,
Gone! And there stole into the city a breath
Full of the meadows, and it minded me
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the walks
Where I could move at pleasure, and I thought
Lo! I must out or die.

BECKET.