But all this is
child's play to the friar's last outbreak.
Wal. Ah! the sermon which you all forgot, when the Marchioness of
Misnia came suddenly? I heard that war had been proclaimed on that
score; but what terms of peace were concluded?
Isen. Terms of peace! Do you call it peace to be delivered over to
his nuns' tender mercies, myself and Guta, as well as our lady,--as
if we had been bond-slaves and blackamoors?
Wal. You need not have submitted.
Isen. What! could I bear to see my poor child wandering up and
down, wringing her hands like a mad woman--I who have lived for no
one else this sixteen years? Guta talked sentiment--called it a
glorious cross, and so forth.--I took it as it came.
Wal. And got no quarter, I'll warrant.
Isen. Don't talk of it--my poor back tingles at the thought.
Wal. The sweet Saints think every woman of the world no better than
she should be; and without meaning to be envious, owe you all a
grudge for past flirtations. As I am a knight, now it's over, I
like you all the better for it.
Isen. What?
Wal. When I see a woman who will stand by her word, and two who
will stand by their mistress.
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