CRIES
Robin! Robin! Robin!
FITZWALTER
Robin, so be it! Myself I am right glad
To call him at this bright betrothal feast
My son.
[Lays a hand on Robin's shoulder.]
Yet, though I would not cast a cloud
Across our happy gathering, you'll forgive
An old man and a father if he sees
All your glad faces thro' a summer mist
Of sadness.
ROBIN
Sadness? Yes, I understand.
FITZWALTER