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Been wedded to the noblest of the realm,
Sar. Hush! innocent flatterer!
Nay! to my poor fancy
Sar. So doth the ignorant distance still delude us! Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee, In its mere self a cold, drear, colourless void, Seen from below and in the large, becomes The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods ! Well! but this broil that scared you from the dance ? And was not Laska there: he, your betrothed ? Gyl. Yes, madam! he was there. So was the
maypole, For we danced round it. ti
Ah, Glycine! why, Why did you then betroth yourself?
own dear lady wished it! 'twas you asked me ! Sar. Yes, at my lord's request, but never wished, My poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched. Thou knowest not yet the duties of a wife.
Gly. Oh, yes! It is a wife's chief duty, madam, * To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him,
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska
Not with fear, I think,
[Exit Glycine into the cot
tage, Sarolta continues her speech looking after
her. Something above thy rank there hangs about thee, And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion, Yea, e'en in thy simplicity, Glycine, A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel More as a mother than a mistress to thee! Thou art a soldier's orphan! that—the courage, Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove
thee! Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood, Or there's no faith in instinct!
[angry voices and clamour within.
Re-enter Glycine. Gly. Oh, madam! there's a party of your serAnd my lord's steward, Laska, at their head, [vants, Have come to search for old Bathory's son, Bethlen, that brave young man! 'twas he, my lady That took our parts, and beat off the intruders, And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king. Pray don't believe them, madam! This way! this
way! Lady Sarolta's here
[calling without Sar.
Be calm, Glycine. Enter Laska and Servants with Old Bathory. Las. (to Bathory.) We have no concern with
you! What needs your presence ? 0. Bat. What! Do you think I'll suffer my brave
To be slandered by a set of coward-ruffians,
(Laska and servants bow to Lady Sarolta. Sar.
Laska! What may this mean?
Sar. Be brief! We know his titles !
had your spokesman !
I know not:
Thou art his father?
And if I swerve from truth-
Yes! good old man!
Hush, Glycine !
[then to Bathory.
Speak! we hear you! 0. Bat. My tale is brief. During our festive dance, Your servants, the accusers of my son, Offered gross insults, in unmanly sort, To our village maidens. He, (could he do less ?) Rose in defence of outraged modesty, And so persuasive did his cudgel prove, (Your bectoring sparks, so over brave to women Are always cowards) that they soon took flight, And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters, Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words Which their own threats provoked. Sar.
Old man! you talk Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect To the livery of our house? 0. Bat.
Even such respect As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf That hath begun to worry the poor lambs!
Las. Old insolent ruffian !
Pardon ! pardon, madam!
What! Glycine ? go, retire !
Be it then that these men faulted. Yet yourself,
(then speaks to the servants. Hence! leave my presence! and you, Laska! mark
Yes, now 'tis coming. Sar. Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards, That they have sought to piece out their revenge