Lubin. [Gazing at her fixedly.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but ’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me.
Mary. [Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house.] See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There’s medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir.
Lubin. There’s not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that could cure the sickness I have within me.
Mary. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master.
Lubin. So ’tis. ’Tis love.
Mary. Love?
Lubin. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another.
[Isabel has been slowly approaching, she wears a cotton handkerchief over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm. Her movements are languid and sad.
Mary. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love.
Isabel. [Coming forward and speaking earnestly.] O tell me of them quickly, mistress.