THE BRIDE: A DRAMA.
295
(He hates her formal prosing)—that I trow,
Will cure him of such princely modes of sending
His gifts to me.—But ye are wondrous grave.
What ails thee, brother? Speak, good Montebesa;
I fear he is not well.
MONTEBESA.
ARTINA (taking his hand affectionately).
SAMARKOON (turning away his face).
But mind it not, Artina.
ARTINA.
And I have learnt this morning cheering news,—
Good news for thee and all sick folk beside.
MONTEBESA.
ARTINA.
Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady,
When at the point of death, is just arrived.
Where he hath been these two long year and more