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Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle, Is hatching secretly.

Why dost thou think so?

A ghost was seen by some benighted fools, As they report it, near the ancient chapel, Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanished They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts. 'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings, Or worse than weddings, oft'ner follow after. You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No! It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.

Was it a female form those fools beheld?

Yes, by Saint Jago! and it wore, they say, Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know, Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.

We know all this already, worthy Pietro; Naught ill will follow it; be thou content.

If Beatrice hath in the shades of night