In our Abruzzi croon by winter fires,
Of their husbands in the plains.

_Regent_. Gamba!

_Gamba_. Madonna?

_Regent_. I'd make thee my confessor. Mindest thou,
By Villalago, where from Sanno's lake
The stream, our Tasso, hurls it down the glen?
One noon, with Lucio--ever in those days
With Lucio--on a rock within the spray,
I wove a ferny garland, while the boy
Roamed, but returned in triumph, having trapped
A bee in a bell-flower--held it to my ear,
Laughing, dissembling that he feared to loose
The hairy thief. So laughed we--and were still,
As deep in Vallescura wound a horn,
And up the pathway 'neath the dappling bough
Came riding--flecked with sunshine, man and horse,--
My lord, my lover; and that song, that song
Upon his lips....

_Voice of Watchman_. Sail ho! a sail! a sail!

_[Murmur of populace below. It grows and swells to
a roar as enter hurriedly courtiers, guards, and
others: Cesario; Lucetta with mirror._]

_Lucetta_. My lady! O my lady!--