"That I am still too young to be anything else than your lover, Scozzone. We will speak of it again later."
"And I am no longer foolish enough, monsieur, to be content with so vague a promise as that, and to wait for you forever."
"Do as you please, little one, and if you are in so great a hurry, go ahead."
"But what prejudice have you against marriage, after all? Why need it make any change in your life? You will have made a poor girl, who loves you, happy, that's all."
"What change will it make in my life, Scozzone?" said Benvenuto gravely. "You see yonder candle, whose pale flame but feebly lights this great room where we are: I place an extinguisher over it, and now it is quite dark. Marriage would do the same to my life. Light the candle again, Scozzone: I detest the darkness."
"I understand," cried Scozzone volubly, bursting into tears, "you bear too illustrious a name to give to a poor girl, a nobody, who has given you her heart and her life, all that she had to give, and is ready to suffer everything for you, who lives only in your life, who loves only you—"
"I know it, Scozzone, and I assure you that I am as grateful as possible."
"Who has gladly done her best to enliven your solitude, who, knowing your jealous disposition, never looks at the cavalcades of handsome archers and sergeants, who has always closed her ears to the soft words which she has not failed to hear, nevertheless, even here."
"Even here?" rejoined Benvenuto.
"Yes, here, even here, do you understand?"