Helena.
No, no; but tell me——
Julian.
Yes, you have been ill! You must be ill now;—your fever-flushed temples, the blue rings round your eyes——
Helena.
Oh, ’tis nothing, my beloved! Do not look at me, Julian! ’Tis only anxiety and wakeful nights on your account; ardent prayers to the Blessed One on the cross——
Julian.
Spare yourself, my treasure; it is more than doubtful whether such zeal is of any avail.
Helena.
Fie; you speak impiously.—But tell me of your own affairs, Julian! I implore you, hide nothing from me.