Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father.
Lama.
Nay, I know it well.
But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?
Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene
Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life
Seems blighted by this curse of love—for one
Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus
She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,