Palicio.

I love the city: it holds the stir. To-night I shall be there, and to do something Worthy of thee.

Mar. Whate’er thou dost, Giovanni, I could not love thee more.

Pal. Beneath yon roofs There’s many a heart that quicker beats and leaps To hear my name.

Mar. Thinkest thou still of them? They love thee not.

Pal. Not?

Mar. Nay; the thousandth part Of my love dealt among them were enough To make each man a hero. Now they are brave Only to cheer thee on: and I that love thee, And love but thee, shall lose thee.

Pal. Have better faith, All will be well.

Mar. Pray heaven it be.

Pal. O, Margaret, Speak not so sadly: I would have thee brave To cheer me on as they. Last night I dreamed That thou hadst turned against me.

Mar. What, Giovanni?

Pal. Thou didst deride me.

Mar. I deride thy dream.

Pal. I thought I failed, and lost thy love.

Mar. O, faithless, That could not lose my love. If thou succeed Or fail, ’tis one. But tell me, giv’st thou heed To visions? Are they not a fickle fabric, Distorted fancies of the spirit, intruding By night in memory’s darkened cell? Or holdst thou They come from heaven?

Pal. Ay. Talk not of them now. Let me not think of it.—

Mar. See here the flowers I have plucked. Know’st thou, Giovanni, why they grow?

Pal. How meanest thou?

Mar. Why in one place one flower Will grow, and not another.

Pal. Canst thou tell?

Mar. The spirits of good men, allowed to wander After their death about the mortal sites Where once they dwelt, there where they love to rest Shed virtue on the soil, as doth a ray Of sunlight: but the immortal qualities By which their races differ, as they once Differed in blood alive, with various power Favour the various vegetable germs With kindred specialty. This herb, I think, Grows where the Greek hath been. Its beauty shows A subtle and full knowledge, and betrays A genius of contrivance. Seest thou how The fading emerald and azure blent On the white petals are immeshed about With delicate sprigs of green? ’Tis therefore called Love-in-a-mist.

Pal. Who is this thistle here?

Mar. O, he, with plumèd crest, springing all armed In steely lustre, and erect as Mars, That is the Roman.

Pal. Find the Saracen.

Mar. This hot gladiolus, with waving swords And crying colour.

Pal. And this marigold?

Mar. That is the Norman: nay, his furious blood Blazes the secret. ’Tis said where’er he roamed This flower is common; but ’tis in those climes Where he wrought best it wears the strongest hue, And so with us ’tis bravest.

Pal. And that’s thy countryman! Dost thou know Greek?

Mar. My father ever spoke it; And Manuel made me study in it, because Their learning was the best.

Pal. And yet their books Were little thought of till great Frederick’s time,— The infidel.

Mar. Was he an infidel?

Pal. He loved their heathen books and mocked the Pope: And brought into his court a Scottish wizard, Who trafficked with the devil.—See, Margaret; Their courts are all alike. Here is the letter Fat Blasco writes me. He betrays his master For those few coins thou gav’st me in thy bag.

[Mar. takes letter.

Gold goeth in at any gate but heaven’s. Ay, ’tis his writing, tho’ it be not signed. It tells how Hugo would escape by ship, And how to intercept him.

Enter hastily a Brigand.