There are friends will rescue him--there's gold for ransom--
We'll sell our castles--live in bowers of rushes--
O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!

Soph. He is not taken.

Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death!
There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face
His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage,
And eyed the cowering monster to his den?
Speak! Has he fled? or worse?

Soph. Child, he is dead.

Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is dead to me,
and all its smiles!

Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter.

[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]

Oh, stop her--stop my child! She will go mad--
Dash herself down--Fly--Fly--She is not made
Of hard, light stuff, like you.

Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak
At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes,
These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,'
Still yield to the affections they despise
When the game's earnest--Now--ere they return--