By Christ and Thor, it shall. What ails the boy there? Almachildes!

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

King, Nought ails me.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Nor thy maiden?

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

King, nor her.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Fall then to feasting. Bear the cup away. Some savour of the dust of death comes from it. Sweet, be not wroth nor sad.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

I am blithe and fain, Sire; and I loved thee never more than now.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Nor ever I thee. Now I find thee mine, And now no daughter of mine enemy’s.

ROSAMUND.

 Prev. P 11/59 next