If it is she!...
But you, my friends, must know how strange this is,
And how—!... I have no words!...
Wait me, I pray you, yonder, in that chamber.
(They go, left, Sancia shrugging. Then Orso brings Laura, whom Petrarca is helpless to greet, and who falters—yet nobly determining, comes down.)
Laura. Messer Petrarca, ... I have been impelled
To come ... and as the purest should, boldly,
With lifted veil, to say ...
Petrarca. Lady![26]
Laura. To say—
(Of gratitude I cannot give another ...
For life to a woman is but resignation,
And that at last is shame) ...
Petrarca. At last ... shame——
Laura. To say—Love is to us as light to the lilies
That lean by Mont Ventoux.
The love of one pure man for one pure woman.
Petrarca (dazed). Lady!...
Laura. Yes, and—I've been unkind to you.
Ungentle ever.
(Shakes her head.)