Mar. Do you not wonder at this visit, sir?
Gui. No, madam, I at last have gained the point
Of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing.
Mar. Believe me, Guise, 'twere gallantly resolved,
If you could carry it on the inside too.
Why came that sigh uncalled? For love of me,
Partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory,
Which now again dilates itself in smiles,
As if you scorned that I should know your purpose.
Gui. I change, 'tis true, because I love you still;
Love you, O heaven, even in my own despite;
I tell you all, even at that very moment,
I know you straight betray me to the king.
Mar. O Guise, I never did; but, sir, I come
To tell you, I must never see you more.
Gui. The king's at Blois, and you have reason for it;
Therefore, what am I to expect from pity,—
From yours, I mean,—when you behold me slain?
Mar. First answer me, and then I'll speak my heart.
Have you, O Guise, since your last solemn oath,
Stood firm to what you swore? Be plain, my lord,
Or run it o'er a while, because again
I tell you, I must never see you more.
Gui. Never!—She's set on by the king to sift me.
113 Why, by that never then, all I have sworn
Is true, as that the king designs to end me.
Mar. Keep your obedience,—by the saints, you live.
Gui. Then mark; 'tis judged by heads grown white in council,
This very day he means to cut me off.