A Messenger enters, bearing a letter.
Mes. Pardon, my good lord!
But this demands——
Eri. What means thy breathless haste,
And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks
Befit not hours like these.
Mes. The Lord De Couci
Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings
Of life and death.
Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for aught