How, Thekla! Humorsome!
What! shall thy father have express'd a wish
In vain?
COUNTESS.
Here is the lute.
THEKLA.
My God! how can I—
[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?