Raph. Marco, shall I tell you why for a moment you have love on your lips and in your eyes? ’Tis because you have learned that in recalling me you could break another heart: the feeling which guided you was not the happiness of Raphael, but the despair of Marie. (Marco starts.) Now, adieu. But first give me your wreath.
Marco. My wreath?
Raph. (Approaching.) I would have it.
Marco. (Recoiling alarmed.) Are you mad?
Raph. (Wildly.) Take it off, take it off! White roses are the symbols of purity; they make you hideous: they are only for the brows of innocence and truth. (Tears the crown from her head, and dashes it on the ground.)
END OF PART I.
PART II.
Scene.—Same as before. Enter Festus, C.
Festus. It is astonishing how much a little borrowed plumage becomes a bashful man. The ice once broken by the inspiring thoughts and words of the love-sick “Raphael,” I feel now almost equal to the composition and delivery of an energetic and passionate appeal that shall carry the heart of the lady by storm; but then, having once been refused, I dread a second attempt. “A burnt child fears the fire;” and a singed lover trembles before the blazing eyes of the object of his adoration. I have yet a short time before the expiration of my hour of trial, and the character of “Sir Thomas Clifford” from which to borrow courage. (Enter Stella, C.)
Stella. Well, mysterious “Festus,” what new fancy is agitating your fertile brain?