"Dearest Richard! I feel so afraid of him."
"He loves me, and will love you, Lucy."
"But I am so poor and humble, Richard."
"No one I have ever seen is like you, Lucy."
"You think so, because you"—
"What?"
"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."