Amaury. This only;
(Smarda glides in.)
To-morrow ... Scythian!
Vittia. Who! My lord?...
(Sees the slave's look, which stirs him.)
Smarda!
Why are you here?... Those papers—but your lips!
(Takes the papers.)
Not these alone have brought you thus; then what?
(Follows Smarda's eye.)
Of lord Amaury?