“Gentleman, wear this for me, one out of suit with fortune, who could give more but that her hand lacks means.”
Orlando would fain have expressed his thanks, but some strange feeling held him speechless. He had overcome the mighty Charles, but he could not master this stronger champion. He was still musing over what had passed, when one of the lords-in-waiting, Le Beau, came to him, and counselled him in friendship to leave the place at once. Duke Frederick had taken a prejudice against him, and was likely to resent everything he did.
“I thank you,” said Orlando. “Pray tell me one thing—which of those two ladies was daughter of the Duke who was here at the wrestling?”
Le Beau answered that it was the smaller of the two ladies. The other was the daughter of the banished Duke, detained by her usurping uncle to keep his own daughter company.
“But I can tell you,” continued Le Beau, “that lately this Duke Frederick has taken a violent displeasure against his gentle niece, for no other reason than that the people love her for her virtues, and pity her for her good father’s sake. I am quite sure his malice against the lady will suddenly break forth.”
Then Le Beau took a courteous farewell, and Orlando went his way, lost in a dream, and murmuring “Heavenly Rosalind!”
For her part, Rosalind had been equally attracted by the gallant young wrestler, and when Celia began to rally her about her pensive looks, she was quite ready to admit the truth.
“In good earnest,” said Celia, “is it possible that you should suddenly take so strong a liking for old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?”
“The Duke, my father, loved his father dearly,” urged Rosalind in self-excuse.
“Does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly?” laughed Celia. “By this sort of reasoning I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly. And yet I do not hate Orlando.”