Agatha

Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both.

Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden.

Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage.

Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment.

Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run.

I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain.

But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn— I was born to be fondled and kiss'd.

Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice.

Orion: And a sweet face, too— Be candid for once, and give her her due.

Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song?

Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one.

Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion.