Enter Monica, supporting herself on a crutch, and carrying a basket of flax.
Mon. Praise to the virgin! my old limbs have reached their resting place at last: what a tempest! my new cardinal is quite drenched. Well, I’ve kept the flax dry, however, that’s some comfort, (strikes against the door.) Ho, there, within—open quickly.
The door opens, and a female wildly dressed, appears; she catches Monica’s hand with affection, and kisses it.
Mon. Ah, my poor Silence! thou hast watched and fretted for me preciously, I’ll warrant: but the road from Brisac is long, and this rough night half crippled me.
The female feels her damp garments, and seems with quick tenderness to invite her into the house.
Well, well, never fright thyself, if I shiver now, a cup of warm Rhenish will soon make me glow again: ’faith I am weary though; wilt lend an arm to an old woman?
The female embraces and supports her.
Ah, there’s my kind Silence.
Exeunt into the cottage.
Enter Florian running and out of breath, from the left hand.