THERESA. Farewell, my Lord. THE DUKE. Go, little Brooklet, Go on your innocent course. THERESA. Why "Little Brooklet"? THE DUKE. Because the slumbering depths within your eyes, The murmur of your voice, so oft refreshed me. THERESA. You've nothing more to say? THE DUKE. No, nothing more. THERESA. Good-bye, my Lord. [_She goes._] THE DUKE. Destroyed! PROKESCH. Ah! I perceive! THE DUKE. She loves me--and perhaps--but I must deal In history and not romances! Come! To work, my friend! We will resume our tactics. PROKESCH. I'll plan an action: you shall criticise it. THE DUKE. First give me yonder box upon the couch, The wooden box with all my wooden soldiers. I'll work the problem much more easily Upon our little military chess-board. PROKESCH. [_After giving the box to the_ DUKE.] You have to prove my plan is hazardous. THE DUKE. [_Putting his hand on the box._] These are the soldiers of Napoleon's son! PROKESCH. Prince! THE DUKE. I'm surrounded with such loving care, They even paint my soldiers--take them out-- They even paint my wooden soldiers Austrian! Well! hand me one. We will deploy our left. [_He takes the soldier_ PROKESCH _hands him, and starts on seeing it._] PROKESCH. What is't? THE DUKE. One of my father's Grenadiers! [PROKESCH _hands him another._] A Cuirassier! [_He takes others out of the box._] Light Infantry! A scout! They're all become good Frenchmen! Someone's painted Each of these little wooden combatants! [_He takes them all out._] They're French! French! French! PROKESCH. What miracle is this? THE DUKE. I tell you, someone's carved and painted them! PROKESCH. Who? THE DUKE. And the artist was a soldier! PROKESCH. Why? THE DUKE.