THE KING. Speak. What is it?
THE MAID. Two couriers from the King of Basque have arrived on foam- flecked horses, and ask to see you instantly.
THE KING. Let them wait. I have other affairs in hand. Send them here on the stroke of noon. (To the Gypsy) Your explanation may be the correct one. But my own opinion is that she is mad. Whatever it is, I shall soon have the truth.
THE GYPSY. May the fortune of kings attend you!
The King goes out. The Gypsy and the maid seat themselves idly on the edge of the dais.
THE MAID. Poor woman! No doubt she went mad with love of the King, until she imagined herself to be his bride. I can understand that! Poor woman!
THE GYPSY. I am almost sorry for him.
THE MAID. Sorry for him? You mean, for her!
THE GYPSY. The Princess of Basque needs none to be sorry for her. She can take care of herself—as she proved on the eye of the soldier who locked her up.
THE MAID. Then you believe it? That she is the Princess of Basque?