Amaury. Not one.
Yolanda. Then, mother——
[Goes to bier.
Amaury. That name again?
Yolanda. While I have breath.
[Fixedly.
Yes, though you hold me purgeless of that sin
Only the pale archangels may endure
Trembling to muse on!
Or though yon image of the Magdalen.
Whose alabaster broke amid her tears
And her torn hair, forbade me with a voice.
And you, whose heart is shaken
As in a tomb a taper's flame, would know
I speak with love.
Camarin. Unswerving love.
Amaury. Then, by
Christ, and the world that craves His blood, I think
She, if she would, or you, could point to me,
Or you, Vittia Pisani,
The reason of this sudden piteous death
Hard on the haunted flight before my father,
Whose lips refuse.
Camarin. She knows no shred of it.