The high-born countess Roland!

_Chris._ (_eagerly._) What! you havn't heard--the heiress dare not even
hint--Oh ho! (_looking at Ulrica, who beckons him to go._) But I won't
stay, else I could tell you, that if you and your son had purses as long
as the dead pedigree of the Ravensburgs, they wouldn't be half long
enough for the live pedigree of the _high-born_ countess Roland! and as
her relations will shortly be yours, I'll send express for some few
dozens from Franconia who'll now have two strings to their bow; for if
cousin Winifred Winbuttle don't keep open house for them, ecod! cousin
baron Ravensburg must. And so, yours my lord, yours madam: and
there--(_whispering Oliver_)--there's a Roland for your Oliver, my
little twaddling old butler. [_Exit._

_Bar._ Send express for a few dozens! Without there! Stop that
scoundrel! Ulrica, what is all this? Speak, I insist on an explanation.

_Ul._ So do I, Sir--I insist upon an explanation, and I will have one,
if I follow that impudent fellow to the world's end.

_Bar._ Stay where you are. In, in, if you please.

_Ul._ (_trying to pass him._) Out, out, if you please. (_mimicking
Christopher._)

_Bar._ Oliver, be you her guard, whilst I pursue this false, this
infamous----

_Ul._ (_getting between him and the door._) Stay.

SONG--_Ulrica._

I.

Sure woman's to be pitied
Whenever she's committed,
For being fond and gay;
And those who cry out "shame!"
Are very much to blame--
That's all I say.

II.

I never could discover
Why list'ning to a lover
Throughout the live-long day,
Should be miscall'd offence.
It is not common sense--
That's all I say.

III.

But though the old and haughty
Pretend 'tis very naughty,
They think a different way;
For this, I know, is true,
They do as others do--
That's all I say.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A vaulted cavern belonging to the_ free knights--_nearly in
the centre a large brazen door, in the archway a practicable parapet,
and occasional apertures in the broken fragments of the rock._

_Enter_ Everard, _hastily through the doorway._

_Ever._ This, this the far-fam'd court so long extolled for fair
investigation? Poor Agnes Lindorf! unheard thou art condemned,
prejudged, thy judges will decree thee guilty, and this, thy trial, is
no more than the mere mockery