TORELLI.
My lord! It is Bertuccio! In—quick!
BERTUCCIO.
My own!
FIORDELISA (turning suddenly, and flinging herself into his arms with a cry of joy).
My father!
BERTUCCIO (embracing her tenderly).
Closer, closer yet!
Let me feel those soft arms about my neck,
This dear cheek on my heart! No, do not stir,
It does me so much good! I am so happy,—
These minutes are worth years!
FIORDELISA.
My own dear father!
BERTUCCIO.
Let me look at thee, darling. Why, thou growest
More and more beautiful! Thou'rt happy here?
Hast all that thou desirest,—thy lute, thy flowers?
She loves her poor old father? Blessings on thee,
I know thou dost, but tell me so.
FIORDELISA.
I love you—
I love you very much! I am so happy
When you are with me. Why do you come so late,
And go so soon? Why not stay always here?
