There, there she stood;

O royal hands!

Lucio. Why, soothly, she's my sister!

Cesario. 'But the court Is dull? No masques, few banquetings—and prayers Be long, and youth for pastime leaps the gate?' Yet if the money husbanded on feasts Have fed our soldiery against the Turk, Year after year, and still the State not starved; Was't not well done? And if, responsible To God, and lonely, she has leaned on God Too heavily for our patience, was't not wise?— And well, though weary?

Lucio. I tell you, she's my sister!

Cesario. Well, an you will, bridle on that. Lord Lucio, You named the Countess Fulvia. To my sorrow, Two hours ago I called on her and laid her Under arrest.

Lucio. The devil! For what?

Cesario. For that A lady, whose lord keeps summer in the hills To nurse a gouty foot, should penalize His dutiful return by shutting doors And hanging out a ladder made of rope, Or prove its safety by rehearsing it Upon a heavier man.

Lucio. I'll go to her. Oh, this is infamous!

Cesario. Nay, be advised: No hardship irks the lady, save to sit At home and feed her sparrows; nor no worse Annoy than from her balcony to spy (Should the eye rove) a Switzer of the Guard At post between her raspberry-canes, to watch And fright the thrushes from forbidden fruit.

Lucio. Infamous! infamous!

Cesario. Enough, my lord: The Regent!

[Doors of the Chapel open. The organ sounds, with voices of choir chanting the recessional. The Court enters from Mass, attending the Regent Ottilia and her son Tonino. She wears a crown and heavy dalmatic. Her brother Lucio, controlling himself with an effort, kisses her hand and conducts her to the marble bench, which serves for her Chair of State. She bows, receiving the homage of the crowd; but, after seating herself, appears for a few moments unconscious of her surroundings. Then, as her rosary slips from her fingers and falls heavily at her feet, she speaks.

Regent. So slips the chain linking this world with Heaven, And drops me back to earth: so slips the chain That hangs my spirit to the Redeemer's cross Above pollution in the pure swept air Whereunder frets this hive: so slips the chain— (She starts up)—God! the dear sound! Was that his 

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