_T._ I picked that up in the garden: St. Nicholas found me with it, and said ’twas his. I stood by it firmly ’twas the lady’s piece, 1350 And written to my master. He called me a thief; And if your ladyship.... _D._ Stay, Tristram, stay. This paper is nothing: take it, and right yourself, As best you are able, with St. Nicholas.... Tell me now all that happened on the journey I sent you last night with your master. _T._ Your ladyship Sent him? _D._ Of course. I sent you both to Milan. When did you arrive there? _T._ At Milan! Is’t possible Your ladyship should think I have been to Milan? _D._ Not been to Milan? _T._ Me! _D._ You accompanied 1360 Your master? _T._ I did. _D._ (_holding R.'s letter_). And he has been to Milan. _T._ It’s true, your ladyship, I understand Nothing my master says, and very little Of what you say to him: and if you say He 'as been to Milan, I’ll not meddle with it. But if you say that I have been to Milan, I am very much deceived. I do not like That any man should think such things of me; That I can go and not go, and be here And there at once. _D._ Stay, Tristram; tell me plainly 1370 All that your master has done since yesterday. _T._ Well, first I found him with another letter, All sighs and groans: then suddenly he bade me Order the horses, and prepare myself To drive with him to the devil at six o’clock. At six we started on the Milan road And came by dark to Asti; there we changed Both horses and postilions and drove on: And after three hours’jolting, when I guessed We should be nearing Milan, the coach stopped In a ferny glade, and we got out; and then 1381 I saw we were at Belflor, and the trees Were in your ladyship’s park. _D._ Ah! Then what did he? _T._ Came in and locked the gate of the park behind us, And sent me on to his room, and bade me wait Till he should come. _D._ What hour was that? _T._ Eleven. _D._ (_aside_). The hour, no doubt, when he should meet his mistress— When came he in? _T._ By midnight. _D._ He locked the gate.... The lady is in the palace. _T._ So he pretends. _D._ He let slip nothing on the journey? _T._ He lit 1390 A pocket-lamp, and sat, mute as a fish, Counting the minutes on his watch; and then, As if it served as well to tell the time, He fetched the jewelled portrait from his breast, And gazed on that. _D._ A portrait? _T._ Certainly. _D._ Carries he a portrait, say you? _T._ Certainly. _D._ You know not who ’tis of?