Countess. His!
His father! his! But yours, niece, what of yours?
Thekla. Why I begin to think you fear his father,
So anxiously you hide it from the man!
His father, his, I mean.
Countess (looks at her). Niece, you are false. [25]
Thekla. Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!
Countess. You hold your game for won already. Do not
Triumph too soon!—
Thekla. Nay now, be friends with me.
Countess. It is not yet so far gone.
Thekla. I believe you.
Countess. Did you suppose your father had laid out 30
His most important life in toils of war,
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happy pair of you? At length 35
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man
That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.
Thekla. That which he did not plant for me might yet 40
Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
Out of his fearful and enormous being,
Will but prepare the joys of life for me—