Rest there, my crown--thou more than leaden ache!

Ah!-- G.o.d! What a mountain drops! I float--I am lifted Like thistledown on nothing. Back, my crown-- Weight me to earth! Nay, nay, thy rim shall bite No more upon this forehead ... Where's my gla.s.s?

O mirror, mirror, hath it bit so deep?

My love is coming, hark! O, say not grey, Sweet mirror! Tell, what time to cure it now?

And he so near, so near!

How shall I meet him?

Why how but as the river leaps to sea, Steel to its magnet, child to mother's arms?

[_She catches up flowers from the baskets left by the courtiers, and decks herself mildly._

Flowers for my hair, flowers at the breast! Sweet flowers, He'll crush you 'gainst his corslet. He has arms Like bands of iron for clasping, has my love.

He'll hurt, he'll hurt ... But oh, sweet flowers, to lie And feel you helpless while he grips and bruises Your weak protesting b.r.e.a.s.t.s! You'll die in bliss, Panting your fragrance out.-- Wh'st! Hush, poor fool!

I have unlearned love's very alphabet.

Men like us coy, demure ... Then I'll coquet And play Madam Disdain--but not to-day.

To-morrow I'll be shrewish, shy, perverse, Exacting, cold--all April in my moods: We'll walk the forest, and I'll slip from him, Hide me like Dryad 'mid the oaks, and mark His hot dark face pursuing; or I'll couch In covert green, and hold my breath to hear His blundering foot go by; then up I'll leap, And run--and he'll run after. O this lightness!

I'll draw him like a fairy, dance and double-- Yet not so fast but he shall overtake At length, and catch me panting. O, I charge you, I charge you, daughters of Jerusalem, Wake not my love beneath the forest bough Where we lie dreaming!

_[Fanfare of trumpets in the distance.]_

Trumpets, hark! and drums!

They have landed! From the quay they march!

Flowers! flowers!

They are near ... I see him!... Carlo! lord and love!

He looks--waves--O 'tis he! O foolish heart!-- I had feared he'd ta'en a wound.

What is't they shout?

Eh? 'Victory!'--yes, yes. He's browner, thinner; And the dear eyes, how gaunt!... Yes 'Victory!'

'Victory!' ... lord, and love!,..

_[The shouts of acclamation are heard now close under the terrace. Spears and banners are seen trooping past. Beside herself, she throws flowers to them, laughing, weeping the while.

Then, running to the Chapel door, she prostrates herself before the image of the Virgin that crowns its archway.]_

O Mary, Mother!

Thou, in whose breast all women's thoughts have moved, All woman's pa.s.sions heaved. Lo! I adore!

Sweet Mother, hold my hands, rejoice with me: My bridegroom cometh!

[_During this invocation the Countess Fulvia has crept in, a stiletto in her hand. She leans over the Regent and stabs her twice in the breast.]_

_Fulvia._ Then with that!--and that!

Go meet him!

_Regent_ (_turns, looks up, and falls on her face_).

Oh! I am slain!

_Fulvia._ And I am worse!

But there's my flower, my red flower, on your breast.-- Go, meet your lord and show it!

[_She pa.s.ses down the steps as Lucetta runs in.]_

_Lucetta._ Madam! Madam!

The Duke is at the gate--Madam!-- Christ! she is murdered! Murder! Murder!

_Regent._ Fie, Lucetta! peace! What word to greet the Duke For his home-coming! Lift me ... Quick, my robe-- My Crown! Call no one. O, but hasten!

_Lucetta_ (_helpless, wringing her hands_). Madam!

_Regent._ I need your strength, and must I steady you?

Lucetta, years ago you disarrayed me Upon my bridal night. I would you'd whisper The rogueries your tongue invented then.

I have few moments, girl ... I'd have them wanton.

Make jest this mantle hides the maid I was.

I'll have no priest, no doctor--Fetch Tonino!

I must present his son-- [_Lucetta runs out._ All's acted quick: Bride-bed, conception, birth--and death! But he Shall sum it in one moment death not takes ...

What noise of trumpets!... Is the wound not covered?

[_She wraps herself carefully in her mantle as the courtiers pour in. The child Tonino runs to her and stands by her side. Lucio, Cesario, all the Court, group themselves round her as the Duke enters. He rushes in eagerly; but she sets her teeth on her anguish, and receives him with a low reverence._

Welcome my lord!

_Duke._ Ottilia!

_Regent._ Good my lord, Welcome! This day is bright restores you to Your loyal Duchy.

Duke (_impatient_). Wife! Ottilia!

_Regent_ (_she lifts a hand to keep him at distance_).

There must be forms, my lord--some forms! Cesario, Render the Duke his sceptre. As bar to socket, When the gate closes on a town secure, So locks this rod back to his manly clutch-- Cry all, 'Long live the Duke!'

_All._ Long live the Duke!

_Duke._ Wife, make an end with forms!

_Lucio_ (_to Cesario_). And so say I!

A man would think my sister had no blood In her body.

_Cesario_ (_watching the Regent_). Peace, man: something there's amiss.

_Regent._ Yet here is he that sceptre shall inherit.

Lucetta, lead his first-born to the Duke.

His first-born!--Nay but look on him how straight Of limb, how set and shoulder-square, tho' slender!

He'll sit a horse, in time, and toss a lance Even with his father.

_Duke._ There's my blessing, boy!

But stand aside. Look in my face, Ottilia-- Hearken me, all! One thing these seven years My life hath lacked, which wanting, all your cannon, Your banners, _vivas_, bells that rock the roofs, Throng'd windows, craning faces--all--all--all Were phantasms, were noise.--

_Lucio_ (_exclaims_). Why look, here's blood!

Here, on the boy's hand!

_Regent._ Ay! a scratch, no worse, Here, when I pinned my robe.

_Duke_ (_continuing_). Nay, friends, this moment My Duchy her dear hand restores to me To me's a dream. More buoyant would I tread Dumb street, deserted square, climb ruin'd wall, Where in a heap beneath a broken flag Lay Adria.-- So that amid the ruins stood my love And stretched her hands so faintly--stretched her hands So faintly. See! She's mine! She lifts them--