Basil. How?— Hast thou not sworn?
Flor. There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits' high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were—
Basil. Thou speakest riddles.
Flor. A colder hand than thine is on my heart, I am another's bride! A month must pass Ere thou can'st claim me. Was not that the bond?
Basil. In these brisk times, a month goes quickly by.
Flor. Within a week I'll wed, but not with thee. Pray, sir, go hence, you do distract my thoughts From my lov'd bridegroom.
Basil. Speak, whom mean'st thou?
Flor. Death.
A thousand deaths, ere wed with thee. Dost hear?
I am faint. Lo! thy cruel, eager gaze
Grows grimly dark and indistinct. Pray Heaven
I shall not see it any more. Farewell,
I pardon thee.
Basil. Not so! May curses blight me, If I do lose thee thus. [Seizes her.]
Flor. Help!