_Ros._ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite tremble--I fear me you are ill. _Bert._ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better. _Ros._ Then you are out of spirits. _Bert._ You mistake--I am all happiness--ha! ha!--all joy! _Ros._ What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to us?--'tis a blest hearing, truly--after all the hardships and dangers he has passed to see him once again in safety-- _Bert._ (_involuntarily_) Ah! would to heaven we might! _Ros._ Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night--will he not be in safety then? _Bert._ Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease. _Ros._ Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?--surely you are weeping. _Bert._ No, 'tis a momentary pain that--but 'twill leave me soon. At night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial--joyous!--we'll dance together, wench--ay, and sing--then--ha! ha! ha!--then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. [_Exit._ _Ros._ What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm'd fit of melancholy; but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before. [_Geraldine_ speaks without. _Ger._ Rosabelle. _Ros._ Here, my lady, in the hall. Enter _Geraldine_. _Ger._ Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed--you have dressed me vilely--here! remove these knots--I hate their fashion. _Ros._ Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday. _Ger._ Then 'tis the colour of my robe offends me--these ornaments are a false match to it--either all the mirrors in the house have warped since yesterday, or never did I look so ill before. _Ros._ Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better. _Ger._ Out! fool; you have no judgment. _Ros._ Well, fool or not, there's one upon the road who holds faith with me, or I'm a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to dazzle a soldier's eye. _Ger._ Ah! no, Rosabelle--you would deceive your mistress. Florian returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of the polished court--and now he will despise the wild untutored Geraldine. _Ros._ Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me. What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and reared upon her uncle's charity? _Ger._ Hush!--the mystery of my Florian's birth is his misfortune, but cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command, but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl, the brave man's laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor peasant's cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.