". . . I cannot scent blood here,
Foul as the morn may be."
But his mood shifts quickly as her own—
". . . There, shut the world out!
How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse
The world and all outside!"
and at last he faces her, literally and figuratively, with a wild appeal to let the truth stand forth between them—
". . . Let us throw off
This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let's out
With all of it."
But no. Her instinct is never to speak of it, while his drives him to "speak again and yet again," for only so, he feels, will words "cease to be more than words." His blood, for instance—
". . . let those two words mean 'His blood';
And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now:
'His blood.' . . ."
She answers with phrases, the things that madden him—she speaks of "the deed," and at once he breaks out again. The deed, and the event, and their passion's fruit—
". . . the devil take such cant!
Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,
I am his cut-throat, you are . . ."