Basil. Hear you there? He lives!
Flor. [Falls on her knees.] O Heaven! I thank thy gracious mercy.
Basil. Now! Remember thou art pledged to be my bride.
Flor. Have I then sav'd his life, to torture him With base destruction of the thing he loves?
Basil. Give me thine hand.
Flor. No! no! There is a portal
By which the trembling victim may escape
From thy fierce tiger gripe—There is a way
Unto the weak, and though a giant grasp,
He shall but seize with eager cruel hand
The white reflection other fluttering robe,
Leaving her pure and undefil'd to Heaven—
Angels have whisper'd it to me—
Basil. Forsworn?—
Flor. Nay! traitor to thy God and king! My hand I've pledg'd thee ere a short month have elaps'd, And thou shalt claim it then, if then thou wilt.
Basil. What mean'st thou, maiden? There is a strange light
In the sweet lustre of thy thrilling eye,
There is a bright spot on thy velvet cheek;
Thy throat of arched fall is now thrown back,
As one had check'd a white Arabian steed;
Thy nostril wide dilates, Sibylline, grand;
Thy moist and crimson lip tempts wildly—come!
For thou art beautiful, and thy light step
Shall on the hills be glorious, when thou'rt given
A help-mate unto Israel—
Flor. Never!