What, all?

THE DUKE.

"Your youth--" The Canoness.

Destroyed!

[_The door opens gently and_ THERESA _comes in._]

THERESA.

Forgive me.

THE DUKE.

Little Brooklet. You?

THERESA.

Why do you always call me that?

THE DUKE.

'Tis sweet, 'Tis pure. It fits you.

THERESA.

Prince, I go to Parma To-morrow with your mother.

THE DUKE.

I am sorry.

THERESA.

Parma--

THE DUKE.

The land of violets.

THERESA.

Ah, yes!

THE DUKE.

And if my mother knows not what they stand for Tell her.

THERESA.

Farewell, my Lord.

THE DUKE.

Go, little Brooklet, Go on your innocent course.

THERESA.

Why "Little Brooklet"?

THE DUKE.

Because the slumbering depths within your eyes, The murmur of your voice, so oft refreshed me.

THERESA.

You've nothing more to say?

THE DUKE.

No, nothing more.

THERESA.

Good-bye, my Lord.

[_She goes._]

THE DUKE.

Destroyed!

PROKESCH.

Ah! I perceive!

THE DUKE.

She loves me--and perhaps--but I must deal In history and not romances! Come!

To work, my friend! We will resume our tactics.

PROKESCH.

I'll plan an action: you shall criticise it.

THE DUKE.

First give me yonder box upon the couch, The wooden box with all my wooden soldiers.

I'll work the problem much more easily Upon our little military chess-board.