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They puffed me up with praises of my son— His grace, his skill in arms, his horsemanship— Count Falkenstein to him was but a clown— And so, in Orra's eyes to give him honour, Full surely did I think—I'll hang them all! I'll starve them in a dungeon shut from light: I'll heap my boards no more with dainty fare To feed false flatterers.

Urst.That indeed were wise: But art thou sure, when men shall speak the truth, That thou wilt feed them for it? I but hinted In gentle words to thee, that Glottenbal Was praised with partial or affected zeal, And thou receiv'dst it angrily.

Hugh. Aye, true indeed: but thou did'st speak of him As one bereft of all capacity. Now tho', God wot! I look on his defects With no blind love, and even in my ire Will sometimes call him fool; yet, ne'ertheless, He still has parts and talents, tho' obscured By some untoward failings.—Heaven be praised! He wants not strength at least and well turn'd limbs, Had they but taught him how to use them. Knaves! They have neglected him.

Advance, young Sir: art thou afraid of me?