[_She catches up flowers from the baskets left by the courtiers, and decks herself mildly._ Flowers for my hair, flowers at the breast! Sweet flowers, He'll crush you 'gainst his corslet. He has arms Like bands of iron for clasping, has my love. He'll hurt, he'll hurt ... But oh, sweet flowers, to lie And feel you helpless while he grips and bruises Your weak protesting breasts! You'll die in bliss, Panting your fragrance out.-- Wh'st! Hush, poor fool! I have unlearned love's very alphabet. Men like us coy, demure ... Then I'll coquet And play Madam Disdain--but not to-day. To-morrow I'll be shrewish, shy, perverse, Exacting, cold--all April in my moods: We'll walk the forest, and I'll slip from him, Hide me like Dryad 'mid the oaks, and mark His hot dark face pursuing; or I'll couch In covert green, and hold my breath to hear His blundering foot go by; then up I'll leap, And run--and he'll run after. O this lightness! I'll draw him like a fairy, dance and double-- Yet not so fast but he shall overtake At length, and catch me panting. O, I charge you, I charge you, daughters of Jerusalem, Wake not my love beneath the forest bough Where we lie dreaming! _[Fanfare of trumpets in the distance.]_ Trumpets, hark! and drums! They have landed! From the quay they march! Flowers! flowers! They are near ... I see him!... Carlo! lord and love! He looks--waves--O 'tis he! O foolish heart!-- I had feared he'd ta'en a wound. What is't they shout? Eh? 'Victory!'--yes, yes. He's browner, thinner; And the dear eyes, how gaunt!... Yes 'Victory!' 'Victory!' ... lord, and love!,.. _[The shouts of acclamation are heard now close under the terrace. Spears and banners are seen trooping past. Beside herself, she throws flowers to them, laughing, weeping the while. Then, running to the Chapel door, she prostrates herself before the image of the Virgin that crowns its archway.]_ O Mary, Mother! Thou, in whose breast all women's thoughts have moved, All woman's passions heaved. Lo! I adore! Sweet Mother, hold my hands, rejoice with me: My bridegroom cometh! [_During this invocation the Countess Fulvia has crept in, a stiletto in her hand. She leans over the Regent and stabs her twice in the breast.]_ _Fulvia._ Then with that!--and that! Go meet him! _Regent_ (_turns, looks up, and falls on her face_). Oh! I am slain! _Fulvia._ And I am worse! But there's my flower, my red flower, on your breast.-- Go, meet your lord and show it! [_She passes down the steps as Lucetta runs in.]_ _Lucetta._ Madam! Madam! The Duke is at the gate--Madam!-- Christ! she is murdered! Murder! Murder!