White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top o’ the mountain.
Count.
And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.
Elisabetta.
How can your lordship say so? There, my lord!
[Lays cloth.
O my dear son, be not unkind to me.
And one word more.
[Going—returns.
Count (touching guitar).