Count. Du Nois.
Du N. Ha! who calls?
Count. Behold this scroll: here read what you would know.
Haste! haste! from Warwick I have stol'n unseen,
And trait'rous been to him whom most I love,
In love's own cause.
Du N. And thou, for this disloyalty,
Shall be absolved—this pure and holy act
Shall win approval e'en from Heaven itself,
And plead for thee when other deeds may fail thee.
Count. Blame not my Warwick for his stern resolve:—
Firm as he is, he has a tender heart.
Had not his face been buried in his arm,
To hide the tears he shed, I had not thus
Escaped him unperceived.
Du N. Yet is there hope.
Ah! say, couldst thou be plucked from this dread fate.
Joan. Delude me not with erring thought of bliss,
Nor yet deceive thyself—ere morrow's dawn
The dews will bathe the spot where earthly suff'ring
Hath found an end. No hand, though brave as thine,
Can pluck me from it.
Du N. Never has it failed me,
Nor shall it fail me now—nay, doubt me not;
I swore to lay thee in a grave that's free—
Rouen is cursed by the usurper's foot,
And here thou shalt not die, so hear me Heaven!—
But not another moment may I linger.
When next we meet—'twill be in bliss.
[Exit.
Joan. When next
We meet 'twill be, I trust, in bliss, but bliss
That waits in heaven.