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feeling and tender. When I read it to her she wept. Were her tears feigned? I can't believe it. Assassins will weep at a high-wrought scene of tragedy, and cut the author's throat when it is over.—Even so: it suited her purposes better to laugh at my verses, than acknowledge their genuine effect; and so, forgetting every kindness she owed meO, the detestable worldling! I'll—hush, hush, hush! they are coming.

Re-enter, followed by , who walks shrinkingly behind, peeping past his shoulder to the Baron, who slightly inclines his body, putting his hand with great solemnity three times to his forehead.

Dart. (aside to Vald. after a pause.) Faith, Valdemere, I dare scarcely speak to him; 'tis well you are with me; will you speak to him?

Vald. No, 'tis your own affair; stand to it yourself.

Dart. (aloud.) Learned and gifted mortal, we come to thee—

Vald. (aside, jogging his arm.) Don't say we; 'tis your own affair entirely.

Dart. Well, I should say, gifted sage, not we, but I come to thee, to know what fortune is abiding me in this up-and-down world. I am a lover and a soldier, and liable, as both, to great vicissitudes.

Bar. Thou say'st truly, my Son; and who is