Lal.
(astonished).  What didst thou say, Jacinta? 
                  Have I done aught
                  To grieve thee or to vex thee?—­I am sorry. 
                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
                  Trustworthy and respectful.
              (resumes her reading.)

Jac. (aside.) I can’t believe
                  She has any more jewels—­no—­no—­she gave me all.

Lal.  What didst thou say, Jacinta?  Now I bethink me
                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
                  How fares good Ugo?—­and when is it to be? 
                  Can I do aught?—­is there no further aid
                  Thou needest, Jacinta?

Jac. (aside.) Is there no further aid! 
                  That’s meant for me.  I’m sure, madam, you need not
                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

Lal.  Jewels!  Jacinta,—­now indeed, Jacinta,
                  I thought not of the jewels.

Jac.  Oh, perhaps not! 
                  But then I might have sworn it.  After all,
                  There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
                  For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never
                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
                  And at the best I’m certain, madam, you cannot
                  Have use for jewels now.  But I might have sworn it.

(Exit)

(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—­after a short pause raises it.)

Lal.  Poor Lalage!—­and is it come to this? 
                  Thy servant maid!—­but courage!—­’tis but a viper
                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
                  (taking up the mirror)
                  Ha! here at least’s a friend—­too much a friend
                  In earlier days—­a friend will not deceive thee. 
                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
                  A tale—­a pretty tale—­and heed thou not
                  Though it be rife with woe.  It answers me. 
                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
                  And beauty long deceased—­remembers me,
                  Of Joy departed—­Hope, the Seraph Hope,
                  Inurned and entombed!—­now, in a tone
                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
                  For ruined maid.  Fair mirror and true!—­thou liest not!
                  Thou hast no end to gain—­no heart to break—­
                  Castiglione lied who said he loved——­
                  Thou true—­he false!—­false!—­false!