Pepito. Look here, if your rule holds good for everybody, the worst of us is an angel or a saint.
Ernest. You are right. What does it matter? What is the weight or value of such calumny? The worst of it is that thought is degraded by mean contact with a mean idea. From force of dwelling upon a crime, the conscience becomes familiar with it. It shows itself terrible and repellent—but it shows itself—at night, in dark solitude! Yes—[aside] but what! why are they listening to me so strangely, almost in suspense? [Aloud] I am myself; my name is an honourable one. If I killed Nebreda solely because of a lie, what would I not do to myself if guilt threatened to give the truth to calumny?
Pepito. [Aside to Mercedes.] He denied it! Why, it is as clear as daylight.
Mercedes. [Aside to Pepito.] He's wandering.
Pepito. 'Tis only his confession he's making.
Mercedes. [Aloud.] That will do, Ernest. Go, now.
Ernest. Impossible, madam. I should go mad if I had to spend to-night away from this sick-room—out of my mind.
Mercedes. But if Severo came and found you?
Ernest. What do I care? He is a loyal gentleman. Better still, let him come. We fly from fear, and only the guilty are afraid. Nothing will make me run away, or acknowledge fear.
Pepito. [Listening.] Somebody is coming.