No fixt abode the traitor knows—
On sportive wings he flies;
Awhile he dallies with the rose,
Then smiles in lovers' eyes.
Chris. He does—in mine; and now I'll tell you—'Tis all out, and I've within me the true, real Roland blood. It seems, the strange old count had privately made aunt his wife; but his estate descending with his title, she thought she might support her rank, by getting for her niece a famous husband—and she has got one, hasn't she, Ulrica?
Ul. She has—but, seriously, think not that I staid from idle motives. Poor Agnes has found shelter in Corbey abbey; but the prince and the avenging knights, march in full force to batter down its walls.
Chris. Indeed!
Ul. Now—now I heard it from the noble Ravensburg, who seeks his father, to hear the whole of Agnes's hapless story. And my aunt's influence no more prevailing, perhaps the baron will relent—at least, I hope so.
Chris. So do I—and we won't stir.
Ul. No, not while one glimmering hope remains of Agnes's safety and her foes' defeat.
Chris. No, that we won't—but go, and plead in her behalf. [Kissing Ulrica's hand.
Ul. That I will; and doubt not, Christopher—Heaven still will guard the unprotected orphan!
[Exit.