_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