and falls heavily
at her feet, she speaks._

_Regent._ So slips the chain linking this world with Heaven,
And drops me back to earth: so slips the chain
That hangs my spirit to the Redeemer's cross
Above pollution in the pure swept air
Whereunder frets this hive: so slips the chain--
_(She starts up)_--God! the dear sound! Was that his anchor dropped?
Speak to the watchman, one! Call to the watch!
What news?

_Cesario._ Aloft! What news?

_Voice above._ No sail as yet!

_Regent._ Ah, pardon, sirs! My ears are strung to-day,
And play false airs invented by the wind.
Methought a hawse-pipe rattled ...

_Gamba (chants to his viol). Shepherds, see--
Lo! What a mariner love hath made me!_

_Regent._ What chants the Fool?

_Gamba._ Madonna, 'tis a trifle
Made by a silly poet on wives that stand
All night at windows listening the surf--
_Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no!_

_Lucio._ Peace, lively! Madam, there is news--brave news!
I'm from the watch-house. There the pilots tell
Of sixteen sail to the southward! Sixteen sail,
And nearing fast!

_Regent._ Praise God! dear Lucio!

[_She has seated herself again. She takes Lucio's
hand and speaks, petting it._

What? Glowing with my happiness? That's like you.
But for yourself the hour, too, holds release.

_Lucio (between sullenness and shame, with a glance at
Cesario)._ "Release?"

_Regent._ You will forgive? I have great need
To be forgiven: sadly I have been slack
In guardianship, and by so much betrayed
My promise to our mother's passing soul.
Myself in cares immersed, I left the child
Among his toys--and turn to find him man--
But yet so much a boy that boyhood can
_(Wistfully)_ Laugh in his honest eyes? Forgive me, Lucio!
Tell me, whate'er have slackened, there has slipped
No knot of love. To-morrow we'll make sport,
Be playmates and invent new games, and old--
Wreath flowers for crowns--

[_He drags his hand away. She gazes at him
wistfully, and turns to the Captain of the
Guard._

Cesario,
What are the suits?

_Cesario._ They are but three to-day,
Madonna. First, a scoundrel here in irons
For having struck the Guard.

_Regent (eying the culprit)._ His name, I think,
Is Donatello Crocco. Hey? You improve,
Good man. The last time 'twas your wife you basted.
At this rate, in another year or two
You'll bang the Turk. Do you confess the assault?

_Prisoner._ I do.