Upon his arm is a shawl one of the women below (he is very dearly beloved in the village) had forced upon him an hour ago. He is bringing it back now to return it to her before starting, but, a thought striking him, he unfolds it, and crosses it over Portia's bosom.
"One of the women down there lent it to me," he says, coldly still, but kindly. "Return it to her when you can."
With a little passionate gesture she flings it from her, letting it lie on the ground at her feet.
"It is too late—the coldness of death is upon me," she says, vehemently. Then in an altered tone, calmed by despair, she whispers, slowly, "Fabian, if you will die—forgive me first?"
"If there is anything to forgive, I have done so long ago. But there is nothing."
"Is there nothing in the thought that I love you, either? Has not this knowledge power to drag you back from the grave?"
"'Too late for the balm when the heart is broke,'"
quotes he, sadly.
"And yet you loved me once," she says, quickly.