Sarolta. Ha! is it so?
O strange and hidden power of sympathy, 280
That of—like fates, though all unknown to each,
Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's
Drawing by dim disquiet!

Glycine. Old Bathory—

Sarolta. Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tears.
Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethlen 285
Seems a most noble and deserving youth.

Glycine. My lady does not mock me?

Sarolta. Where is Laska?
Has he not told thee?

Glycine. Nothing. In his fear—
Anger, I mean—stole off—I am so fluttered—
Left me abruptly—

Sarolta. His shame excuses him! 290
He is somewhat hardly tasked; and in discharging
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself.
Bathory and the youth henceforward live
Safe in my lord's protection.

Glycine. The saints bless you!
[[911]] Shame on my graceless heart! How dared I fear, [295]
Lady Sarolta could be cruel?

Sarolta. Come,
Be yourself, girl!

Glycine. O, 'tis so full here!
And now it can not harm him if I tell you,
That the old man's son—