Michael and His Lost Angel: A Play in Five Acts

by Henry Arthur Jones

FATHER H. He will be soon. Leave him to me.

SIR LYOLF. No. I must know the truth from him.

FATHER H. You’re wrong to torture him.

SIR LYOLF (to MICHAEL). You are at peace now—at least, you are gaining peace, you are forgetting the past?

FATHER H. He will. He shall. Say no more. (To MICHAEL.) Come with me,—I insist!

SIR LYOLF. No. Michael, before you take this last step answer me one question—I have a reason for asking. Tell me this truly. If by any chance someone in England—someone who was dear to you——

MICH. Oh, don’t speak of her— (Turns away, hides his head for a minute, turns round with a sudden outburst.) Yes, speak of her! Speak of her! I haven’t heard her name for so long! Let me hear it again—Audrie! Audrie!

FATHER H. (sternly to SIR LYOLF). Do you hear? Let him alone. Don’t torment him by dragging up the past. He has buried it.

MICH. No! No! No! Why should I deceive you? Why should I deceive myself? All this pretended peace is no peace! There is no peace for me without her, either in this world or the next!