“No, child. I would have you hear all I say. It concerns you.— Can you endure that his Grace, if he will, shall tell me what hath passed between you?”
“Madam, there is not a word hath been said, but I would gladly have you know it. Could my thoughts be laid bare, these also should be yours.”
“I rejoice,” says the Duke, very grave, “that your Grace has had the goodness to put this question. You shall hear all.”
He placed Diana in a chair before the Duchess and stood behind her.
“Madam, you shall know that I have repeated to this lady the words I spoke in the infamous room where she was trapped and a prisoner. I have told her that my heart is wholly hers, that she is so unspeakably dear to me (as knowing her worth and honour) that were I a free man this day, she should be my Duchess as surely as I stand before your Grace.”
“You have done well,” says the Duchess, holding her head as though it wore a crown.
“But, Madam, since that is not my happy fate, I have said that, should that glad day ever come, she and she only—be it today or many years hence—shall be my wife. To this I pledge my honour, and I call your Grace to witness.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile, Madam, we part. It can’t be otherwise. I hold my love as high as your Grace’s self. Shall I exile her from the company of good women?— I will not have her at the playhouse for the men and women that are about her there. Shall I drive her back into that society again and have the door shut upon her that your Grace’s goodness opened to one most fit for it? No. We must part, but through your hands—my friend’s—I will guard her future life.”
“And you, child?” The Duchess turns to Diana. With a tremble in her voice but steadfastly, she answered.