If he loves not her, More fool is he than warrior even, though war Have wakened laughter in his eyes, and left His golden hair fresh gilded, when his hand Had won the crown that clasps a boy’s brows close With first-born sign of battle.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

No such fool May live in such a warrior; if he love not Some loveliness not hers. No face as bright Crowned with so fair a Mayflower crown of praise Lacked ever yet love, if its eyes were set With all their soul to loveward.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Ay?

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

I know not A man so fair of face. I like him well. And well he hath served and loves thee.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Ay? The boy Seems winsome then with women.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Hildegard Hath hearkened when he spake of love—it may be, Lightly.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

To her shall no man lightly speak. Thy maiden and our natural kin is she. Wilt thou speak with him—lightly?

ROSAMUND.

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