this mood in her?
the reason?
Something is vile. Lady Yolanda weeps
In secret; all for what? By God! the Paphian?
Or she of Venice? (_sees_ SMARDA). Now slave! Scythian!
Why do you linger?

_Smarda._ I am bidden--(_snarls_) by
My mistress.

_Hassan._ Spa! Thy mistress hath, I think,
Something of hell in her and has unpacked
A portion in this castle. Is it so?

_Smarda._ My lady is of Venice.

_Hassan._ Strike her, God.
Her smirk admits it.

_Smarda._ Touch me not!

_Hassan._ I'll wring
Your tongue out sudden, if it now has lies.
What of your lady and lord Renier?

_Smarda._ Off!

RENIER _enters behind, with_ MORO.

_Hassan._ Your lady and lord Renier, I say!
What do they purpose?

_Smarda._ Fool-born! look around.

_Hassan._ Not till----

_Smarda._ Lord Renier, help.

_Hassan._ What do you say?

[_Turns, and stares amazed._

A fool I am ...

_Renier._ Where is my wife?

_Hassan._ Why, she ...
This slave stung me to pry.

_Renier._ Where is my wife?

_Hassan._ A moment since she left--the women with her.
She asked for your return.

_Renier._ And wherefore did?

_Hassan._ You jeer me.

_Renier._ Answer.

_Hassan._ Have you not been gone?

_Renier._ Not--overfar. Where is Yolanda?--Well?
No matter; find my chamber till I come.
Of my arrival, too, no word to any.

[HASSAN _goes, confused._

You, Moro, have deferred me; now, I move.
Whether it is suspicion eats in me,
Mistrust and fret and doubt--of whom I say not,
Or whether desire, and unsubduable,
To see Amaury sceptred--I care not.

[_To_ SMARDA.

Slave, to your lady who awaits me, say
I'm here and now have chosen.

_Moro._ Do not!

_Renier._ Chosen.

[SMARDA _goes._

None can be great who will not hush his heart
To hold a sceptre, and Amaury must.
He is Lusignan and his lineage
Will drown in him Yolanda's loveliness.

_Mor