Berengere. That now ... I cannot plead.
(Sees Yolanda harden. Is impelled.)
And yet I must ... It is that, till I bid
Amaury may not know of this ... not know
This trouble fallen from a night or evil—
Pitiless on us as a meteor's ash.
Renier. Not of it? he? not know?
Berengere. Trust to me.
Renier. How!
And to this wanton's perfidy to bind
Him witless to her—with a charm perhaps—
Or, past releasing, with a philtre? She
Whom now he holds pure as a spirit sped
From immortality, or the fair fields
Of the sun, to be his bride?
Yolanda. Sir, no!... She means
Not I shall wed him! (Winningly.) Only that you spare
To separate us with this horror; that
You trust me to dispel his love, to pall
And chill his passion from me. For I crave
Only one thing—innocence in his sight.
Believe!—believe!
Renier. I will—that you are mad.
Yet madder I, if to this coil my brain
Were blind.
Yolanda. As it will be! with deadlier dark,
If you attend me not!
And may have destiny you cannot know.
But you will heed?
For somewhere in you there is tenderness.
Once when you chafed in fever and I bore
White orange blossoms dewy to your pillow
You touched my hand gently, as might a father.
(Caresses his.)