Lop. Shall I call him back, your majesty, that the prince may convince himself that his memory of faces is not infallible?
Max. Nay, my trusted two! (Puts an arm about each) Would you might love each other as I love you both. My prince, whose courage is the very heart of my army, and my young hussar, dear for your own sake—dearer still because—she trusted you!
(Blasio, the Emperor’s secretary, comes out of the Cruz)
Blasio. Your majesty, I have finished the letters.
Max. Good. There will be no more to write. (Stumbles over something) What ’s this?
Blasio. A fallen Christ.
Max. You mean a fallen figure of the risen Christ.
Lop. Here is the crown of thorns.
Max. Give it to me. (Holds it meditatively) How well it suits my fortunes!
Salm. Nay—