(She waits repressed—as he struggles.)
Kind; I will do it.
Vittia. Will?
Amaury. Grateful, intent
For the issue's utterance. And this wear you,
This token of our race,
(Takes off his ring.)
For a proof to her of any tie soever.
(He puts it on Vittia's finger.)
But now—for the sails make home along the sea—
Now of my mother.
Vittia. More, my lord?