“Why?” said Renzo, approaching her, “do you ask me why I am here? Must I tell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longer Lucy?”
“Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?”
“Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poor unfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who never injured you!”
“But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew—why come, why?”
“Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are we no longer the same! Is all forgotten?”
“O God!” cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; “why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! what have you done! Alas! I hoped——that with time——I should have driven from my memory——”
“A kind hope indeed! and to say so to me!”
“Oh! what have you done! in this place! in the midst of these sorrows! Here, where there is nothing but death, you have dared——”
“We must pray to God for those who die, and trust that they will be happy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live in despair——”
“But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! a vow!”