Yolanda (freeing herself). Nothing—a folly—groundless frailty.
Amaury. You've been again at some old tale of sorrow,
[Goes to the lectern.
Pining along the pages of a book—
This, telling of that Italy madonna
Whose days were sad—I have forgotten how.
Is it not so?
Yolanda. No, no. The tears of women
Come as the air and sighing of the night,
We know not whence or why.
Amaury. Often, perhaps.
I am not skilled to tell. But never these!
They are of trouble known.
Yolanda. Yet now forget them.
Amaury. It will not leave my heart that somehow—how
I cannot fathom—Camarin——
Yolanda (lightly, to stop him). No farther!
Amaury. That Camarin of Paphos is their cause.—
Tell me——