_Prince_. I see destruction naming in thine eyes,--thou laughest in scorn.... Laugh on. For I shall not avenge myself, nor count it my duty to shatter the fearful edifice of thy throne. So long as it will uphold thee and thy blood-blinded sword, so long be thou and thy people worthy of one another. Enough! Hans, set forth! [Coelestin _and the other nobles come up the steps._] _Duke_. Behold, ye noble gentlemen! Blood of the cross, what a hero we have here! He halts here: makes a mighty clamor: naught has or ever can delay his march of triumph:--and then on a sudden he makes a short turn, breathes a deep sigh, and like the other poltroons, leaves the field to me. _Hans_ [_aside_]. Control thyself, master, all this can be borne. _Coelestin_. What, stranger, art thou also of princely blood? _Prince_. Whether princely or not, my blood is mine, and I myself must be the judge of what suits it. My host, I thank thee.... I would right gladly have rested here, gladly have sat down at thy hearth as a humble guest-- _Coelestin_. Thou earnest on the day of the tournament; and therefore thou hast come to free the Queen. _Prince_. Thou callest me stranger, and will pardon me that I had heard naught of thy Queen. _Coelestin_. Still thou sawest her when she and her women-- _Prince_. I saw her, yes. _Coelestin_. And yet thou thinkest of departure? Art thou made of stone that thou hast not felt a thrust of pity like a knife, at the mere sight of that pious grace, that spring-like mildness? _Duke_. Who speaks of pity, when I myself protect her with my shield? Pity?--how--wherefore? Have a care! _Coelestin_. Thy threat hath no meaning today. Yet all the same I know that wert thou king, thou wouldst lay my gray head at thy feet. _Duke_. Perhaps. And again perhaps, if this braggart who was sent hither and now crawls away again, did not quite take off that weak old head of thine, he would just have thee hanged, out of pure pity. _Coelestin_. Thou listenest in silence to this unmeasured raving? I ask not now upon what throne thy father sat, I only ask the weakling: Art thou a man? Is this body that glows in prideful youth, only a hardly fed up paunch? Is the angry red painted upon thy brow, and yet canst thou endure and not wipe out the insult thou hast received? _Hans_ [_aside_]. Master, be stronger now than I have strength myself. I have naught to say, not I. Only say to me: "Hans, we will go"--and I will gulp down my rage; and never to the last day of my life shall a look, a word, a motion of an eye-lash, remind thee of what befell today.