Mauria. So, so, my Cupid? None of the Saracens?
Of the squadron huddling yesterday for haven
At Keryneia?
Olympio. Who has told you?
Mauria. Who?
A hundred galleys westing up the wind,
Scenting the shore, but timorous as hounds.
A gale—and twenty down!
Maga. The rest are flown?
Olympio. Ask Zeus, or ask, to-morrow, lord Amaury,
Or, if he comes, to-night. To lady Yolanda
I'm sent and not to tattle silly here.
(He starts off, but is arrested by laughter within. It is Civa who enters, holding up a parchment.)
O! Only Civa. (Starts again with Halil.)
Civa. How, Olympio!
Stay you, and hear!—May never virgin love him!
Gone as a thistle! (Turns.)
Mauria. Pouf!