ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Surely, no. I bade thee speak: I did not bid thee sing: Thou canst not speak and sing not.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Albovine, I had at heart a simple thing to crave And thought not on thy flatteries—as I think not Now. Knowest thou not my handmaid Hildegard Free-born, a noble maiden?

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

And a fair As ever shone like sundawn on the snows.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

I had at heart to plead for her with thee.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Plead? hast thou found her noble maidenhood Ignobly turned unmaidenlike? I may not Lightly believe it.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Believe it not at all. Wouldst thou think shame of me—lightly? She loves As might a maid whose kin were northern gods The fairest-faced of warriors Lombard born, Thine Almachildes.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

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