[She recoils to Yolanda, who comes up.
I did; but rue, rue it!...
... Yet—it is just
That you recoil even as now you do
From stain upon your wedded constancy....
And time that is e'er-pitiful must pass
Over it—
Before there is forgiveness. And perhaps
Then I shall win you as I never have.—
Now the request.
Berengere. That now ... I cannot plead.
[Sees Yolanda harden. Is impelled.
And yet I must.... It is that, till I bid,
Amaury may not know of this ... not know
This trouble fallen from a night of evil——
Pitiless on us as a meteor's ash.
Renier. Not of it? he? not know?
Berengere. Trust to me.
Renier. How!
And to this wanton's perfidy to bind
Him witless to her—with a charm perhaps—
Or, past releasing, with a philtre? She
Whom now he holds pure as a spirit sped
From immortality, or the fair fields
Of the sun, to be his bride?
Yolanda. Sir, no!... She means
Not I shall wed him! (Winningly.) Only that you spare
To separate us with this horror; that
You trust me to dispel his love, to pall
And chill his passion from me. For I crave
Only one thing—innocence in his sight.
Believe!—believe!
Renier. I will—that you are mad.
Yet madder I, if to this murk my brain
Were blind.