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Blame her not hastily; she is depress'd: Old Baldwin, whom his master left behind, That faithful servant, died with us this morning.

Alas, poor soul! and he is gone at last! Well, we have brought you thirsty throats enow To drink his fun'ral wassals. Ay, poor Baldwin! A hardy knave thou wert in better days, If I had known of this. Heaven rest his soul! I had not sounded my approach so cheerly.

To tell the truth, that martial sound deceived us. We took you for Tortona's warlike lord, Who, to refresh his passing troops, we hear, Has made a halt:—I thought

Out with thy thought! Why dost thou hesitate?—I will explain it. I've brought you disappointment.

You mistake me.

Nay, pardon me; I linger here too long: But,—ere I go,—how does the infant heir? I must tell Garcio I have seen his boy.

With pleasure I'll conduct thee. 'Tis an urchin