Isen. Nay, 'tis a friend: he brought my princess hither, Walter of Varila; I feared him once-- He used to mock our state, and say, good wine Should want no bush, and that the cage was gay, But that the bird must sing before he praised it. Yet he's a kind heart, while his bitter tongue Awes these court popinjays at times to manners. He will smile sadly too, when he meets my maiden; And once he said, he was your liegeman sworn, Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his charge Trusted the babe she saw no more.--God help us! Eliz. How did my mother die, nurse? Isen. She died, my child. Eliz. But how? Why turn away? Too long I've guessed at some dread mystery I may not hear: and in my restless dreams, Night after night, sweeps by a frantic rout Of grinning fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands, Which clutch at one to whom my spirit yearns As to a mother. There's some fearful tie Between me and that spirit-world, which God Brands with his terrors on my troubled mind. Speak! tell me, nurse! is she in heaven or hell? Isen. God knows, my child: there are masses for her soul Each day in every Zingar minster sung. Eliz. But was she holy?--Died she in the Lord? Isen [weeps]. O God! my child! And if I told thee all, How couldst thou mend it? Eliz. Mend it? O my Saviour! I'd die a saint! Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great minsters, Chantries, and hospitals for her; wipe out By mighty deeds our race's guilt and shame-- But thus, poor witless orphan! [Weeps.] [Count Walter enters.] Wal. Ah! my princess! accept your liegeman's knee; Down, down, rheumatic flesh! Eliz. Ah! Count Walter! you are too tall to kneel to little girls. Wal. What? shall two hundredweight of hypocrisy bow down to his four-inch wooden saint, and the same weight of honesty not worship his four-foot live one? And I have a jest for you, shall make my small queen merry and wise. Isen. You shall jest long before she's merry. Wal. Ah! dowers and dowagers again! The money--root of all evil. What comes here? [A Page enters.] A long-winged grasshopper, all gold, green, and gauze? How these young pea-chicks must needs ape the grown peacock's frippery! Prithee, now, how many such butterflies as you suck here together on the thistle-head of royalty? Page. Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir--apostles of the blind archer, Love--owning no divinity but almighty beauty--no faith, no hope, no charity, but those which are kindled at her eyes. Wal. Saints! what's all this? Page. Ah, Sir! none but countrymen swear by the saints nowadays: no oaths but allegorical ones, Sir, at the high table; as thus,--'By the sleeve of beauty, Madam;' or again, 'By Love his martyrdoms, Sir Count;' or to a potentate, 'As Jove's imperial mercy shall hear my vows, High Mightiness.' Wal. Where did the evil one set you on finding all this heathenry?