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SIMON enters — again a feeble, broken, old man.

SIMON (appealingly). Saida!

SAIDA. Presume no more, thou vile old man!

DEVIL (leading him across to the left). Old gentleman, take a friend's counsel — change thy garb and get thee to thy loom again without more ado.

SIMON. Lady!

DEVIL. Hence, or the cry of witchcraft shall be raised against thee! Hence, vagabond! hence, imposter! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

SIMON staggers away, on the left. Trumpets sound without, and there is the noise
of tramping feet and of the clatter of armour.

SAIDA. He comes! my lord comes!

DEVIL (glancing over the balustrade). Aye, truly.

SAIDA. So do I reap my triumph in the hour of his triumph! so does my victory crown his victory! so shall my new- found beauty be as the gay flower that the war-weary soldier plucks and wears in his helm!

DEVIL. Aye, and this fellow shall stoop to pluck it too! Stoop! cringe! crawl!

SAIDA. Sir Count, I do thank thee for thy service — ah, prithee, stand aside!

PHILIP and GUNTRAN enter, from the left — PHILIP leaning upon GUNTRAN and, with his disengaged hand, feeling his way helplessly. His casque is off and a bandage is over
his eyes. His Knights, and the Standard-bearer carrying a torn standard, follow
slowly. All are still in armour, which is now dinted and rusty.

SAIDA. Philip!

PHILIP. Who speaks?

SAIDA. 'Tis I! Saida!

PHILIP. Saida?

SAIDA. Strip the cloth from thine eyes! look at me!

PHILIP. I cannot. I am blind.

SAIDA (with a cry of horror). Oh — !

GUNTRAN. Nay, madam, 'tis time for rejoicing. By St. Bavon, but my lord Philip was the first to break the rebel ranks at Liege! As for his eyes, that for the accursed sulphur and pitch that hath seared them! Why, as thou knowest, a man's eyes are oft his worst enemy. Therefore we cry naught but Victory — Philip of Mirlemont and Victory!

KNIGHTS. Philip of Mirlemont! Victory! Victory!

DEVIL (behind SAIDA, in her ear). Alack, madam! we reckoned not for this.

SAIDA (to PHILIP, beseechingly). Philip — my love! I tell thee my skin is soft and fair.

PHILIP. I cannot see thee.

SAIDA. My eyes sparkle, my lips are red, my hair drops round me like a cloak.

PHILIP. I cannot see thee.

SAIDA. Then am I no more beautiful to thee than the withered crones that whine for alms beside the fountain?

PHILIP. No more — for I cannot see thee.

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