"Love me," comes the blushing whisper, and the duet gives place to dumb variations, performed equally in concert.
It is resumed.
"You are fond of the knights, Lucy. Austin is as brave as any of them.—My own bride! Oh, how I adore you! When you are gone, I could fall upon the grass you tread upon, and kiss it. My breast feels empty of my heart—Lucy! if we lived in those days, I should have been a knight, and have won honour and glory for you. Oh! one can do nothing now. My lady-love! My lady-love!—A tear?—Lucy?"
"Dearest! Ah, Richard! I am not a lady."
"Who dares say that? Not a lady—the angel I love!"
"Think, Richard, who I am."
"My beautiful! I think that God made you, and has given you to me."
Her eyes fill with tears, and, as she lifts them heavenward to thank her God, the light of heaven strikes on them, and she is so radiant in her pure beauty that the limbs of the young man tremble.
"Lucy! O heavenly spirit! Lucy!"
Tenderly her lips part—"I do not weep for sorrow."