Yolanda. It should not.
Renier (with a sudden gleam).
To-morrow then, unless Amaury runs
Fitting revenge through Camarin of Paphos,
Your lover, you shall clasp him openly
Before all of Lusigman.
Yolanda. No; no, no!
The thought of it is soil!... Rather ... his death!
Renier. What, what?
Berengere. My lord, she knows not what she says.
The unaccustomed wind of these ill hours
Has torn tranquillity from her and reason.
Yolanda (realising). Yes, as she says—tranquillity and reason.
(Strains to smile.)
These hours of ill!
Renier. I'll send her Camarin.