Doctor.—I wish to give you good advice about the princess's health.
George.—How is she?
Doctor.—Better. I allowed her to leave bed because she and Drahomir asked me to.
George.—Drahomir?
Doctor.—Yes. He wishes to talk with her. They will be here in a quarter of an hour.
George.—Jozwowicz, I am choking with wrath and pain. Drahomir avoids me.
Doctor.—But you do not suspect him.
George.—I swear to you that I have defended myself from suspicions as a man dying on the steppe defends himself from the crows—that I have bitten my hands with pain and despair—that I still defend myself. But I cannot any more. I cannot. The evidence pounds on my brain. He avoids me. He tells me that I have become an idiot—that I have become a madman, because—
Doctor.—Keep your temper. Even if he were in love with the princess, nobody rules his own heart.
George.—Enough! You were right when you coupled his name with hers. At that moment I repulsed the thought, but it was there just the same (he strikes his breast). The fruit is ripened. Oh, what a ridiculous and dreadful part I am playing here—