Ay: thy noble handmaid, Hildegard. I know not if she love me. ROSAMUND. Thou shalt know. But this thou knowest: I may not give thee her. ALMACHILDES. I would not take her from the Lord God’s hand If hers were given against her will to mine. ROSAMUND. A man said that: a manfuller than men Who grip the loveless hands of prisoners. Well It must be with the bride whose happier hand Lies fond and fast in thine. Our Hildegard, Being free and noble as Albovine and we, Born one with us in race and blood, and thence Our equal in our sole nobility, Must well be won by noble works, and love Whose light is one with honour’s. ALMACHILDES. Queen, may I Perchance not win it? I know not. ROSAMUND. Nay, nor I. Soon may we know; they are entering toward the feast. [_The curtain drawn discovers a banquet_, _with guests assembled_: _among them_ NARSETES _and_ HILDEGARD. _Re-enter_ ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Thine hand: I hold the whitest in the world. Sit thou, boy, there, beside sweet Hildegard. [_They sit_. Bring me the cup. Queen, thou shalt pledge with me A health to all this kingdom and its weal Even from the bowl that here to hold in hand Assures me lord of Lombardy and thine By right and might of battle and of God— The skull that was thy father’s: so shalt thou Drink to me with thy father. ROSAMUND. Sire, my lord, The life my sire, who gave thee up his life, Gave me, and fostered till thou hadst given him death, Is all now thine. Thy will be done. I drink To thee, who art all this kingdom and its weal, All health and honour that of right should be, With all good things I wish thee. [_Drinks_. ALBOVINE. Wish me well, And God must give me what thou wilt. Good friends, My warriors and my brethren, hath not he Given me to wife the best one born of man And loveliest, and most loving? Silent, sirs? Wherefore? ROSAMUND. Thou shouldst not ask it. Bid the cup Go blithely round. ALBOVINE. By Christ and Thor, it shall. What ails the boy there? Almachildes! ALMACHILDES. King, Nought ails me. ALBOVINE. Nor thy maiden? ALMACHILDES. King, nor her. ALBOVINE. Fall then to feasting. Bear the cup away. Some savour of the dust of death comes from it. Sweet, be not wroth nor sad.