Bas. Oh, a traitor's death! 'Tis none so envious—but as I'm his brother, I thought to save our name from this foul blot.
Flor. Oh, agony!
Bas. 'Tis true his life Is nothing, and 'tis forfeit—but his name Dishonour'd, tainted—
Flor. Hold, hold! Let me think. Have mercy! No? [Aside.] Then let me die for him, For thus I could not live. [Aloud.] I will be yours, But not yet—
Bas. O, I'll give a month. I am A courteous wooer—then, perchance your love May date, ere we are married—'Tis well so—
[Attempts to take her by the hand.]
Flor. I pray you, leave me now—
Bas. You swear then—
Flor. Yes!
Bas. By all that's holy?