(Ignacio is silent)
Come, sir! The truth of her!
Ig. The truth? Go ask
The angels. They ’ve tongues for such sweet purpose.
Trev. What!
Ignacio turned squire o’ the empire?
Ig. No.
But I can read a holy woman’s face,
Though she by some strange counterfeit of truth
Would put an empress’ foot upon our necks.
Ig. Like nothing but herself.
She is not gentle, for gentleness is but
Rude servant to that quality in her;
Gracious she ’s not, for grace herself doth serve
A poor handmaiden to her excellence;
Nor beautiful, for Beauty asks her name
To wear but that and know her own no more.
(In the silence that follows a rider rushes up and dismounts)
Messenger. Where is the general, Trevino?
Trev. Here.