Vig. If you would wed Lord Bertrand,——
Ard. O, you think....
Bion. Your hope has shown its wing. Best bid it fly.
Vig. Speak without fear. This changes all.
Ard. You mean
You'll not delay us? You will let us go?
Vig. And speed you too! High stroke, this anxious hour
To journey in his care!
Bion. Yet shielded by
Our father's dignity.
Ard. How you mistake!
He does not woo me!
Vig. Now the modest foot!
But we have seen the other. Trust us, sister.
Bion. Mistake? I now recall his looks, his sighs,
As from a love immured,—his songs, too warm
For piety's cool breath,—and more that tends
To happy proof.