Cha. We need no supplication from a friend:
Thine own desire to pluck her from such fate
Is not more strong than ours. But what devise?
Lou. In truth, your grace, I know not what to urge.
Ber. Thou wilt not leave her! Make not one attempt!
Lou. Pardon, my liege, the vehemence of grief:
Terror will oft, unconscious of offence,
Start forth before respect.
Ber. Oh! forgive me.
Cha. Shame on the heart that needs excuse for words
Drawn forth by sudden anguish. Banish fear.
If aught within our power can rescue her,
No matter what the cost, she shall be freed!
Ourself will write to Bedford.
Lou. But in vain.
Cha. That shall be proved. The offer we will make,
E'en policy like his may scorn the slighting.
Retire;—rely upon thy monarch's word:—
Doth this not comfort thee?
Ber. Alas! the hope
Such promise brings burns bright, but quickly dies!
Cha. And is our honour doubted?