(Arranged for this piece.)
Marco, Stella. Raphael, Festus.
Raph. I have endured the sarcasms of Monsieur de Veaudore, the disavowal of your love, the reproaches and anger of my only friend, who insulted me in my last adieu: for your sake, I have become a coward, a crawling, abject wretch, without heart, without mind, without shame. (Throws himself into chair, L., and covers his face with his hands. A pause. Marco pulls the bouquet to pieces. Raphael raises his head, looks at her, and endeavors to speak with firmness.) What did that man say to you? I have a right to ask.
Marco. (Smiling in derision.) Right!
Raph. Yes, Marco, the right of a man, who, knowing he is to die, would learn the time and manner of his death. He told you he loved you?
Marco. (Carelessly.) Perhaps he did: what then?
Raph. (Violently.) You accepted his love?
Marco. I will not answer you.
Raph. But you must, you shall!
Marco. (Disdainfully.) Shall!