BERTUCCIO.
Horns.
MALATESTA.
Rascal!
BERTUCCIO.
I hope your lordship had good rest,
And that my lady, too, slept undisturbed?
MALATESTA.
What mean you, sirrah?
BERTUCCIO.
Nay, strain not so hard
To keep it down; you are among friends here.
A grievous loss, no doubt; but at your age
You could scarce look to keep her to yourself.
Others have lost wives, too,—poor knaves who thought
To stick in their thrum-caps jewels that caught
The eyes of nobles; needs were they must yield
Daughters or wives—
MALATESTA.
Art mad, or drunk, or both?
My errand's to thy mistress, not to thee.
Where is she?
FRANCESCA (coming down stage).
Here, my lord! [They talk apart.
BERTUCCIO.
He bears it bravely,
But wounds will bleed under an iron corselet:
And how his must be bleeding! For he loved her—
The whole Court vouches it—as old men love,
Husbanding their spent fires into a heat,
The fiercer that it has short time to burn.
