_Lal._ (_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry. For thou hast served me long and ever been Trustworthy and respectful. (_resumes her reading._) _Jac._ (_aside._) I can’t believe She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. _Lal._ What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be? Can I do aught?—is there no further aid Thou needest, Jacinta? _Jac._ (_aside._) Is there no _further_ aid? That’s meant for me. (_aloud._) I’m sure, madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. _Lal._ Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels. _Jac._ Oh, perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all, There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you; And at the best I’m certain, madam, you cannot Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it. (_Exit._) (_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a short pause raises it._) _Lal._ Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! (_taking up the mirror._) Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much a friend In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And Beauty long deceased—remembers me, Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope, Inurnèd and entombed!—now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not! _Thou_ hast no end to gain—no heart to break— Castiglione lied who said he loved—— Thou true—he false!—false!—false! (_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved._) [Illustration] _Monk._ Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! _Lal._ (_arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!—My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray— The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe! _Monk._ Think of thy precious soul!