Baron. Suggest nothing—'tis all settled—the prince has said it. I've said it; and tomorrow the priest, shall say it. Lead on—away—and yet, bless me, how rude I am. I have introduced your highness only to Ulrica. That, entering the chateau, is her aunt, the countess Roland. (Countess curtsies to the prince, and exit). That next to her is Agnes, the poor orphan Agnes.
Ravens. The poor! My liege, though rank nor fortune smil'd upon her birth, she is so rich in more substantial charms, that you, her sovereign, might be proud to boast a daughter of such peerless worth.
Prince (starting, and gazing on Agnes with great emotion.) That form, those eyes! that mark'd, majestic, ne'er to be forgotten mien! (Agnes curtsies, and exit.) Merciful powers! Whence came she, Ravensburg? Fly, swift recall her! yet hold! for if it prove——Impossible, it cannot be!—and the dread vision past, we are ourselves, and hail the festive scene.
[Music. Exeunt into the chateau; the baron and Oliver remaining to usher the party in. The baron is following; Oliver stops him.
Oliver. One word, only one word from your faithful old Oliver, who can't help reminding you, that he became your servant this day thirty years.
Baron. I know you can't. You are always reminding me; and if you go on presuming upon long service, and making honesty so very troublesome—give me a civil downright rascal! And so follow, and assist in preparing for the glorious union of the Rolands and the Ravensburgs—of two families who boast pedigrees.
Oliver. Granted: but I've seen what you might, have seen. Your son don't love Ulrica: he loves my poor dear Agnes!
Baron. Granted. Thanks to the countess, I've seen it ever since he came from the wars; and if Agnes had seen it, she had never seen my house again; but as she chose to be discreet, she shall now see an union that will blazon our family hall with Norman, Saxon, Spanish, Danish—in short, with heraldry never yet seen or heard of.
Oliver. Stop—one word. (Baron breaks from him, and exit.) So this is love of pedigree: this is because he reckons by titles, not by character. And if a certain lady, whose name I won't mention, were not countess Roland, he'd see she was no more than a deep, decoying, match-making——Plague on't! I hope she won't next hook him into the noose; for if she had a husband every morning, my life on't, she'd be a widow before night. Oh lord! poor Agnes, poor young master, and poor old Oliver. (Remains in a thoughtful posture.)
Enter Christopher through the gates.