What, don't you know Skirina? (_takes off the beard_.) I'm so frightened! Disguised I've passed your guards, in these clothes tightened. I've got so much to tell. Your poor old tutor Is put in chains! Yes, nothing less would suit her. He's anxious for your life--he begs you'll sign Your name to show you're safe; just write one line To pacify him; or he'll all declare; The Princess Turandot's in such a flare. I tremble for my husband,--he's demented, Until you've kindly to his wish consented. I've brought a tablet--just your name indite To ease his mind. KAL. (_takes the tablet_.) To please him, I will write. (_Suddenly recollects himself, and looks at her searchingly._) Skirina, would'st thou traitress turn? Thy guest I've been. SKIR. (_aside_.) I promised I would do my best. But such reproaches down I cannot gulp, Not if my mistress beat me to a pulp. So Miss Adelma may play off her tricks Herself, (_to_ KALAF.) Please don't your eyes thus on me fix. (_whimpering_.) I should have thought some slight consideration You would have felt for my sad situation. If you suspect me. KAL. Nay, I'm sure you acted All out of kindness. SKIR. (_aside_.) I shall go distracted. (_to_ KALAF.) My husband waits your news. My leave I'll take; (_aside_.) Adelma's sharp; but he's as wide awake. (_Exit_.) KAL. Brighella warned me well. (_Enter_ TRUFFALDIN, _covered by a long black mantle_.) Another visit! Nocturnal ghosts abound. Well, friend, what is it? TRUF. Your Excellency, news excellent I bring-- You'll hear a wonderfully wondrous thing. KAL. Speak on, good vision; I am all attention. TRUF. T'explain in plainest words is my intention. The keeper of the Hareem stands before you! But that's not here nor there; so I'll not bore you With all my titles. The Princess Turandot Right thro' the heart by Cupid's dart is shot! I would not flatt'ringly your Highness flatter With mincing terms, nor will I mince the matter. My mistress is distracted to--distraction By your attractive personal--attraction. If truth I speak not, may the high Fo-hi Grind all my bones to make his next meat-pie! KAL. So far, so good; what hast thou more to say? TRUF. Be not impatient, Royal Highness, pray. My mistress is a tiger-cat--(permit The term; tho' coarse, 'tis graphically fit.) She gnashes her white teeth with frantic ire, And raves against you, "Robbers, murder, fire!" If truth I speak not, may the high Fo-hi Make mince-meat of me for his sacred pie. KAL. No need of oaths. But hast thou not, good keeper, Some better news to tell a waken'd sleeper? Truf.