Untimely roused, and unrefreshed with sleep, And shaken as still she was with panic fears, The Jewess, ever conscious of herself And proudly the more conscious now before One whom she fain would hold her vassal, sat Like a queen giving audience, well-arrayed, Yet artfully in speaking seemed to plead. "Simon," she said, "be once more my resource." "Not once more, but an hundred hundred times, Liege lady," Simon said, "if mine art serve." "But, Simon, _will_ it serve for no reward?" Drusilla, not without some pathos, said; Yet also not without some scrutiny Of Simon, which that deep dissembler bore Flinching, but scarcely flinching, as he said: "My fortune I account bound up with thine." "Yea, Simon, what through thee I gain," she said, "Reckon that thou no less gainest through me. As has been, is, our pact; art thou content?" "More than content, most thankful," Simon said; "I pray thee of conditions now no more, But speak thy wishes; they shall be commands." "Well, faithful Simon," wheedling now she spoke, "That proud Drusilla thou once knewest in me, Is abject in sheer sense of helplessness. My lord is broken in spirit with lack of hope: I stay him up, as best I may, to show The world some front of kingly boldness yet, But truth is, I am broken with staying him. What can we do at Rome? How mend our case? Friends have we few, and on the fallen thou knowest Enemies swarm like flies on rotting flesh. All is for sale at Rome, but who can buy That goes barehanded thither, as do we? Thou hast the truth; now, Simon, like the rest, Leave us, as rats forsake a dooméd ship!" "Thou pleasest to be facetious, O my queen," Said Simon; "thou barehanded never art, Go where thou wilt, with beauty such as thine, Such beauty, and such wit to use it well." With pregnant ambiguity he spoke, And deeply read the features of her face.