Conrad. God save illustrious Otho!
Otho. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all grey hairs;
It is the best physician for the spleen;
The courtliest
inviter to a feast;
The subtlest excuser of small faults;
And a nice judge in the age and smack of wine.
Enter from the Castle, Auranthe, followed by Pages holding up her robes, and a train of Women. She
kneels.
Or my good soldiers, or their ladies’ eyes,
That, after such a merry battle fought,
I can, all safe in body and in soul,
Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune’s too.
My ring! now, on my life, it doth rejoice
These lips to feel ’t on this soft ivory!
Keep it, my brightest daughter; it may prove
The little prologue to a line of kings.
I strove against thee and my hot-blood son,
Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind;
But now my sight is clear; forgive me, lady.
Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to your frown,
And now your favour makes me but more humble;
In
wintry winds the simple snow is safe,
But fadeth at the greeting of the sun:
Unto thine anger I might well
have spoken,
Taking on me a woman’s privilege,
But this so sudden kindness makes me dumb.
Otho. What need of this? Enough, if you will be
A potent tutoress to my wayward boy,
And teach him,
what it seems his nurse could not,
To say, for once, I thank you. Sigifred!
Albert. He has not yet returned, my gracious liege.
Otho. What then! No tidings of my friendly Arab?
Conrad. None, mighty Otho.
[To one of his Knights, who goes out.
Send forth instantly.
To scour the plains and search the cottages.
Cry a reward to him who shall first bring
News of that vanishèd Arabian,—
A full-heaped helmet of the purest gold.
Otho. More thanks, good Conrad; for, except my son’s,
There is no face I rather would behold
Than that
same quick-eyed pagan’s. By the saints,
This coming night of banquets must not light
Her dazzling torches; nor
the music breathe
Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace
And indoor melodies; nor the ruddy
wine
Ebb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not,
In my first cup, that Arab!
Albert. Mighty monarch,
I wonder not this stranger’s victor-deeds
So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the
fight
It was my chance to meet his olive brow,
Triumphant in the enemy’s shattered rhomb;
And, to say
truth, in any Christian arm
I never saw such prowess.
Otho. Did you ever?
O, ’tis a noble boy!—tut!—what do I say?
I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes,
When
in the glorious scuffle they met mine,
Seemed to say, “Sleep, old man, in safety sleep;
I am the victory!”
Conrad. Pity he’s not here.
Otho. And my son too, pity he is not here.
Lady Auranthe, I would not make you blush,
But can you give
a guess where Ludolph is?
Know you not of him?
Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret—
Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, dost know of him?
Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortunate,
Both for his sake and mine, and to make glad
A father’s ears
with tidings of his son.
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