MARQUIS.
Not more than I have often had from thee.
The rest we'll talk of yonder. Now farewell.
[Going.
CARLOS (struggling with himself, then calls him back).
Give me my letters back; there's one amongst them
The queen addressed to me at Alcala,
When I was sick to death. Still next my heart
I carry it; to take this letter from me
Goes to my very soul. But leave me that,
And take the rest.
[He takes it out, and returns the portfolio.
MARQUIS.
I yield unwillingly—
For 'twas that letter which I most required.
CARLOS.
Farewell!
[He goes away slowly, stops a moment at the door, turns
back again, and brings him the letter.
You have it there.
[His hand trembles, tears start from his eyes, he falls on
the neck of the MARQUIS, and presses his face to his bosom.
Oh, not my father,
Could do so much, Roderigo! Not my father!