_Cesario._ Way there! Give room! The Regent comes from Ma.s.s.

Guards, b.u.t.t them on the toes--way there! give room!

p.r.i.c.k me that laggard's leg-importunate fools!

_Guards._ Room for the Regent! Room!

[_The sacring bell rings within the Chapel._

_Cesario._ Hark there, the bell!

[_A pause. Men of the crowd take off their caps._

Could ye not leave, this day of all the year, Your silly suits, pet.i.tions, quarrels, pleas?

Could ye not leave, this once in seven years, Our Lady to come holy-quiet from Ma.s.s.

Lean on the wall, and loose her cage-bird heart, To lift and breast and dance upon the breeze.

Draws home her lord the Duke?

_Crowd._ Long live the Duke!

_Cesario._ The devil, then! Why darken his approach?

_Gamba (from the bench where he has been mending his viol)._ Because, Captain, 'tis a property knaves and fools have in common--to stand in their own light, as 'tis of soldiers to talk bad logic. That knave, now--he with the red nose and the black eye--the Duke's colours, loyal man!--you clap an iron on his leg, and ask him why he is not down in the city, hanging them out of window!

Go to: you are a soldier!

_Cesario._ And you a Fool, and on your own showing stand in your own light.

_Gamba._ Nay, neither in my own light, nor as a Fool. So should myself stand between the sun and my shadow; whereas I am not myself--these seven years have I been but the shadow of a Fool. Yet one must tune up for the Duke.

_(Strikes his viol and sings.)_

"Bird of the South, my Rondinello----"

Flat-Flat!

_Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof)._ Ho there! What news?

_A Voice._ Captain, no sail!

_Cesario._ Where sits The wind?

_Voice._ Nor' west, and north a point!

_Cesario._ Perchance They have down'd sail and creep around the flats.

_Gamba (tuning his viol)._ Flats, flats! the straight horizon, and the life These seven years laid by rule! The curst ca.n.a.l Drawn level through the drawn-out level sand And thistle-tufts that stink as soon as pluck'd!

Give me the hot crag and the dancing heat, Give me the Abruzzi, and the cushioned thyme-- Brooks at my feet, high glittering snows above.

What were thy music, viol, without a ridge?

[_Noise of commotion in the city below._

_Cesario_. Watchman, what news?

_A Voice_. Sir, on the sea no sail!

_One of the Crowd_. But through the town below a horseman spurs-- I think, Count Lucio! Yes--Count Lucio!

He nears, draws rein, dismounts!

_Cesario_. Sure, he brings news.

_Gamba_. I think he brings word the Duke is sick; his loyal folk have drunk so much of his health.

[_A murmur has been growing in the town below. It breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing up to the terrace._

_Enter Lucio._

_Lucio._ News! Where's the Regent? Eh? is Ma.s.s not said?

Cesario, news! I rode across the dunes; A pilot--Nestore--you know the man-- Came panting. Sixteen sail beyond the point!

That's not a galley lost!

_Crowd._ Long live the Duke!

_Lucio._ Hark to the tocsin! I have carried fire-- Wildfire! Why, where's my sister? I've a mind--

[_He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but pauses at the sound of chanting within, and comes back to Cesario._

Man, are you mute? I say the town's aflame Below! But here, up here, you stand and stare Like prisoners loosed to daylight. Rub your eyes, Believe!

_Cesario (musing)._ It has been long.

_Lucio._ As tapestry p.r.i.c.ked out by women's needles; point-device As saints in fitted haloes. Yet they stab, Those needles. Oh, the devil take their tongues!

_Cesario._ Why, what's the matter?

_Lucio._ P'st! another lie Against the Countess Fulvia; and the train Laid to my sister's ear. Cesario, My sister is a saint--and yet she married: Therefore should understand ... Would saints, like cobblers, Stick but to business in this naughty world!

Ah, well! the Duke comes home.

_Cesario._ And what of that?

_Lucio._ Release!