Berengere. His step?
Yolanda. Oh, unmistakable;
Along the corridor. There!
(The curtains are thrown back.)
Amaury (at the threshold.) My Yolanda!
(Hastens down and takes her, passive, into his arms. Berengere goes.)
My, my Yolanda!
To touch you is as triumph to the blood,
Is as the boon of battle to the strong!
Yolanda. Amaury, no; release me and say why
You come: The Saracens——?
Amaury. Not of them now!
(Bends back her head.)
But of some tribute incense to this beauty!
Dear as the wind wafts from undying shrines
Of mystery and myrrh!
I'd have the eloquence of quickened moons
Pouring upon the midnight magical,
To say all I have yearned,
Now, with your head pillowed upon my breast!
Slow sullen speech come to my soldier lips,
Rough with command, and impotent of softness?
Come to my lips! or fill so full my eyes
That the unutterable, shall seem as sweet
To my Yolanda. (Lifting her face, with surprise.)
But how now? tears?