De Val. How! is she unhappy then? her sorrows be her passport here; admit her instantly: where should the afflicted heart prefer a prayer, if kindred wretchedness deny its sympathy?
Gaspard introduces Monica.
Mon. So! you are seen at last, my lord! men say your heart is good; grant Heaven! I find it so; but ah! perhaps it is too late. Yes, yes; I fear it: the dove is in the vulture’s grip already.
De Val. Woman! what strange distraction’s this? Give me a knowledge of your griefs with method.
Mon. I will, I will, but anguish stifles me; O! my lord, my lord, this is your castle, and here she fled for shelter, yet cruel hearts refused her prayer. I have been told by your people that the baron’s pavilion on the river-bank is made her prison; she will be murdered there: oh! my lord, gracious lord, save her, save her!
She throws herself passionately at his feet.
De Val. Rise; attempt composure, your words are riddles to me.
Gasp. My lord! ’tis of the poor lunatic she speaks; she whom the baron has confined: this woman claims her as her charge.
De Val.I saw the person not, but heard in brief her story from the baron; rest, good woman, rest; my kinsman is her friend.
Mon. No, no, he is a monster thirsting for her blood: here, here, I have read his character.