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Boy. [Smiling.] Oh! I am greatly afraid of her to be sure!

[He bites his lip, as in defiance of her.

Dushm. [Aside, amazed.] The child exhibits the rudiments of heroick valour, and looks like fire which blazes from the addition of dry fuel.

First Atten. My beloved child, set at liberty this young prince of wild beasts; and I will give thee a prettier plaything.

Boy. Give it first.—Where is it?

[Stretching out his hand.

Dushm. [Aside, gazing on the child's palm.] What! the very palm of his hand bears the marks of empire; and whilst he thus eagerly extends it shoves its lines of exquisite network, and glows like a lotos expanded at early dawn, when the ruddy splendour of its petals hides all other tints in obscurity.

Second Atten. Mere words, my Suvrità, will not pacify him.—Go, I pray, to my cottage, where thou wilt find a plaything made for the hermit's child, Sancara: it is a peacock of earthenware painted with rich colours.

First Atten. I will bring it speedily.

[She goes ontout [sic].

Boy. In the meantime I will play with the young lion.

Second Atten. [Looking at him with a smile.] Let him go, I entreat thee.

Dushm. [Aside.] I feel the tenderest affection for this unmanageable child.—[Sighing.]—How sweet must be the delight of virtuous fathers,