Yvette
Wilt thou begone!
Lalain
Ay, through this door, Yvette!
‘Tis easy, as thou seest. And ah, to-night—
The storm o’er past and shining bright the moon
And the cold nuns all telling o’er their beads,
How simple ‘twere—O priceless liberty!
Thou wouldst not be the only one, I trow,
Who may not walk beside the silver Loire!