_Charles._ The holy relics Are wrapped afresh in lustrous lengths of rare Brocade, a further gift brought by Haroun's Ambassadors—the Church's treasury Holds them in state. This tattered silk that age Unfits for service still retains great virtue From sacredness long stored. And who is pure Enough to shelter it? I know of none But thee, Fastrada's living image!
_Emma._ A father's Affectionate regard has blinded thee. O take that stuff! 'Twould shrink to powdered dust Did I but handle it.
_Charles._ Nay, nay, my Emma, There is a point where modesty doth lose Its charm and gives affront. That point is reached; So fetch my cloak and fasten its jeweled clasp. Now crown the Emperor, he prays that angels May watch thy bed. [_He kisses Emma. Exit left._]
_Emma._ That silk! how can I keep it? Its folds have touched what once hath touched God's Prophet, His Mother, His very Self. O some one come And take it hence.—Or—or is't possible To make me worthy? e'en though hearts be crushed.
And so the test approaches! May I be strengthened.
[_Emma opens the door on the left. Enter Eginhardt._]
_Eginhardt._ It promises a blustery night. Wait Love, Until I brush these flakes, a sudden swirl Of snow; but here there's warmth and comfort. [_Extending his arms._] My Emma—
_Emma._ Not yours, a Princess speaks, a gulf has widened Since last we met. You recognize that silk? It heals the secret breach I've made within A Father's confidence, it warns that you Must leave me now and instantly. You are The King, my Father's trusted friend.
_Eginhardt._ O Emma! Thy words bite deep—and yet not deep enough To overthrow the airy castles hewn From glowing hope. And see what thing has winged My steps, has brought me here to-night.
_Emma._ A ring! It seems to draw my hand; but no, 'tis for Some humble maid, who'll taste the happiness My rank denies.
_Eginhardt._ Who else can wear this ring That Queen Fastrada prized?
_Emma._ [_Taking the ring._] My Mother's ring! How came it here?
_Eginhardt._ [_Sitting on the couch._] Thou know'st the story?
_Emma._ [_Sitting on a stool near him._] A rumor, Unmeant to reach the King, my Father's ears, And so 'twas crushed. But now the ring I hold Demands the truth. O Eginhardt, tell all, Omitting nought, e'en though the listening hurts.