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Elb. (with much assum'd stateliness.) I hope, my Lord, I do, meantime, that dignity remember, Which doth beseem the daughter of a king!

King. Fie! clear thy cloudy brow! it is my will Thou honour graciously his modest worth. (Elb. bows, but smiles disdainfully.) By a well feigned flight, he was the first Who broke the stubborn foe, opening the road To victory. Here, with some public mark Of royal favour, by thy hand received, I will to honour him; for, since the battle, A gloomy melancholy o'er him broods, E'en far exceeding what a father's death Should cast upon a youthful victor's triumph. Ah! here he comes! look on that joyless face!

''Elb. (aside to Dwina, looking scornfully to Edward as he approaches.)'' Look with what slow and piteous gait he comes! Like younger brother of a petty Thane, Timing his footsteps to his father's dirge.

''Dwina. (aside.)'' Nay, to my fancy it seems wond'rous graceful.

''Elb. (contemptuously.)'' A youth, indeed, who might with humble grace Beneath thy window tell his piteous tale.

King. Approach, my son: so will I call thee now.