RICHARD.
[Continuing.] You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.
ROBERT.
[Eagerly.] A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself.
RICHARD.
And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?
ROBERT.
That will never be. Never.
RICHARD.
And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?
ROBERT.
[Gravely.] It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.
RICHARD.
[Contemptuously.] I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more.
ROBERT.
[Shakes his head.] You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is.
RICHARD.
[Lays his hand on his arm.] Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave... [He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak.]
ROBERT.
[Softly.] Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?