Con. Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (sobbing). You used to like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You have forgiven me? Dear head!
He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music.
Ger. (half waking). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white hand."—I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they will come!—I won't go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will not go mad! I will die like a man.
Con. Arthur! Arthur!
Ger. God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind her!—Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I will tear my heart out and give it you.—It is Psyche herself now, and the rest are gone! Psyche—listen.
Con. It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her: she's not like herself at all.
Ger. Who's that behind you?
Con. Behind me? (looking round). There's nobody behind me.
Ger. I thought there was somebody behind you. William!—What can have become of William?
Con. I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere.