LADY GIOVANNA. Happily, however, I see you quite recover'd of your wound. COUNT. No, no, not quite, Madonna, not yet, not yet. _Re-enter_ FILIPPO. FILIPPO. My lord, a word with you. COUNT. Pray, pardon me! [LADY GIOVANNA _crosses, and passes behind chair and takes down wreath; then goes to chair by table_. COUNT (_to_ FILIPPO). What is it, Filippo? FILIPPO. Spoons, your lordship. COUNT. Spoons! FILIPPO. Yes, my lord, for wasn't my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship. COUNT. Have we not half a score of silver spoons? FILIPPO. Half o' one, my lord! COUNT. How half of one? FILIPPO. I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. COUNT. And the other nine? FILIPPO. Sold! but shall I not mount with your lordship's leave to her ladyship's castle, in your lordship's and her ladyship's name, and confer with her ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some of her ladyship's own appurtenances? COUNT. Why--no, man. Only see your cloth be clean. [_Exit_ FILIPPO. LADY GIOVANNA. Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode In Florence ten years back. What's here? a scroll Pinned to the wreath. My lord, you have said so much Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough To take it down, if but to guess what flowers Had made it; and I find a written scroll That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read? COUNT. Ay, if you will. LADY GIOVANNA. It should be if you can. (_Reads_.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand So wild and staggering? COUNT. This was penn'd, Madonna, Close to the grating on a winter morn In the perpetual twilight of a prison, When he that made it, having his right hand Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left. LADY GIOVANNA. O heavens! the very letters seem to shake With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well, Tell me the words--or better--for I see There goes a musical score along with them, Repeat them to their music. COUNT. You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music. LADY GIOVANNA. That is musically said. [COUNT _takes guitar_. LADY GIOVANNA _sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song_. COUNT (_sings, playing guitar_). 'Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.' _Enter_ ELISABETTA _with cloth_. ELISABETTA. A word with you, my lord!