Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are bigWith sudden woes—speak out.

Soph. Be calm, and hearThe will of God toward my son, thy husband.

Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then—what of that?There are friends will rescue him—there’s gold for ransom—We’ll sell our castles—live in bowers of rushes—O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!

Soph. He is not taken.

Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death!There’s treachery! What paynim dog dare faceHis lance, who naked braved yon lion’s rage,And eyed the cowering monster to his den?Speak! Has he fled? or worse?

Soph. Child, he is dead.

Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is dead to me, and all its smiles!

Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter.

[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]

Oh, stop her—stop my child! She will go mad—Dash herself down—Fly—Fly—She is not madeOf hard, light stuff, like you.

Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreakAt the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes,These saints, who fain would ‘wean themselves from earth,’Still yield to the affections they despiseWhen the game’s earnest—Now—ere they return—Your brother, child, is dead—

Agnes. I know it too well.So young—so brave—so blest!—And she—she loved him—Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffsWith which I crossed her.

Soph. Yes—the Landgrave’s dead—Attend to me—Alas! my son! my son!He was my first-born! But he has a brother—Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy,Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits’ mistress,Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands,To my son’s prejudice—There are barons, child,Who will obey a knight, but not a saint:I must at once to them.

Agnes. Oh, let me stay.

Soph. As you shall please—Your brother’s landgravateIs somewhat to you, surely—and your smilesAre worth gold pieces in a court intrigue.For her, on her own principles, a downfallIs a chastening mercy—and a likely one.

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