Arth. [To FLORENCE.] Is she thus often!
Flor. Ay, too often thus
Of late she suffers. [Runs to her.]
Dear Elizabeth!
There, Walton, go!
Arth. And may I hope?—
Flor. Is this a time?
Do you not see she is ill?—
You will return,
Ere long—go, call a servant!
[He looks at her, she waves her hand impatiently, he goes out. Exit ARTHUR, L.]
Eliz. [Points to the window.] Is it gone?— He was quite young. Think you my father sat In judgment on him?
Flor. Know you not he is Now with the army?
Eliz. True! true!
[Passes her hand over her brow.] It is o'er. Where is your cousin gone?
Flor. Who?