Let me go hence, I say! I have a father
Who'll make you terribly aby this wrong,
Lord as you are!
MANFREDI.
Your father! By the Mass!
She makes me laugh! Your father, girl! Bertuccio!
FIORDELISA.
That I should learn my father's name from him!
Yes, Duke, my father!
MANFREDI.
Why, he is my slave,—
A thing that crouches to me like my hound,
To beg for food or deprecate the lash,—
My butt,—my whipping-block,—my fool in motley!
FIORDELISA.
It is not true! This is a lie, like all
That you have said. Let me go forth, I say!
MANFREDI.
You 're in my palace. Here are none but those
To whom my will is law; your calls for help
Will only bring more force,—if I could stoop
To use force with a lady—
FIORDELISA.
Then you have
Some manhood in you. Look, sir, at us two.
You are a duke, you say,—your power but bounded
By your own will. I am a poor weak girl,
E'en weaker than I knew, if what you say
Touching my father be the truth. What honour
Is to be won on me? Yet, won it may be,
