w._

_Cesario_. Watchman, what news?

_A Voice_. Sir, on the sea no sail!

_One of the Crowd_. But through the town below a horseman spurs--
I think, Count Lucio! Yes--Count Lucio!
He nears, draws rein, dismounts!

_Cesario_. Sure, he brings news.

_Gamba_. I think he brings word the Duke is sick;
his loyal folk have drunk so much of his
health.

[_A murmur has been growing in the town below. It
breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing
up to the terrace._

_Enter Lucio._

_Lucio._ News! Where's the Regent? Eh? is Mass not said?
Cesario, news! I rode across the dunes;
A pilot--Nestore--you know the man--
Came panting. Sixteen sail beyond the point!
That's not a galley lost!

_Crowd._ Long live the Duke!

_Lucio._ Hark to the tocsin! I have carried fire--
Wildfire! Why, where's my sister? I've a mind--

[_He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but
pauses at the sound of chanting within, and
comes back to Cesario._

Man, are you mute? I say the town's aflame
Below! But here, up here, you stand and stare
Like prisoners loosed to daylight. Rub your eyes,
Believe!

_Cesario (musing)._ It has been long.

_Lucio._ As tapestry
Pricked out by women's needles; point-device
As saints in fitted haloes. Yet they stab,
Those needles. Oh, the devil take their tongues!

_Cesario._ Why, what's the matter?

_Lucio._ P'st! another lie
Against the Countess Fulvia; and the train
Laid to my sister's ear. Cesario,
My sister is a saint--and yet she married:
Therefore should understand ... Would saints, like cobblers,
Stick but to business in this naughty world!
Ah, well! the Duke comes home.

_Cesario._ And what of that?

_Lucio._ Release!

_Cesario._ Release?

_Lucio (mocking a chant within the Chapel)._ From priests and petticoats
Deliver us, Good Lord!

_Gamba (strikes a chord on viol). AMEN!_

_Cesario._ Count Lucio,
These seven years agone, when the Duke sailed,
You were a child--a pretty, forward boy;
And I a young lieutenant of the Guard,
Burning to serve abroad. But that day, rather,
I clenched my nails over an inward wound:
For that a something manlier than my years--
Look, bearing, what-not--by the Duke not miss'd,
Condemned me to promotion: I must bide
At home, command the Guard! 'Tis an old hurt,
But scalded on my memory.... Well, they sailed!
And from the terrace here, sick with self-pity,
W