Duchess. How, Thekla? Humoursome?
What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
In vain?
Countess. Here is the lute.
Thekla. My God! how can I— 60
[The orchestra plays. During the ritornello Thekla expresses in her gestures and countenance the struggle of her feelings: and at the moment that she should begin to sing, contracts herself together, as one shuddering, throws the instrument down, and retires abruptly.
Duchess. My child! O she is ill—
Wallenstein. What ails the maiden?
Say, is she often so?
Countess. Since then herself
Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer
Conceal it.
Wallenstein. What?
Countess. She loves him!
Wallenstein. Loves him! Whom?