Isidore. You jest, my lord?

Ordonio. And till his death is proved she will not wed me. 25

Isidore. You sport with me, my lord?

Ordonio. Come, come! this foolery
Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it!

Isidore. I can bear this, and any thing more grievous
From you, my lord—but how can I serve you here?

Ordonio. Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture 30
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics—

Isidore. I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

Ordonio. In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true: [35]
[[836]] Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense!
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye:
And such do love the marvellous too well 40
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of—
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck 45
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

Isidore. Will that be a sure sign?

Ordonio. Beyond suspicion.
Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
(By some base spell he had bewitched her senses)
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth, 50
As made this heart pour gall into my veins.
And as she coyly bound it round his neck
She made him promise silence; and now holds
The secret of the existence of this portrait
Known only to her lover and herself. 55
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.