MARCOMIR.
But we must keep our troth.
CARLOMAN.
We must escape
From anything that is become a bond,
No matter who has forged the chain,—ourselves,
An enemy, a friend: and this escape,
This readjustment is the penitence,
The sole that I will practise.
[looking more narrowly at Marcomir] But your eyes
Are witheringly remorseful. One would say
That you had been some sunshines in the dark,
You, and not I. Open your heart to me.
MARCOMIR.
I hate you.
CARLOMAN.
Hate me, why? For heresy?
MARCOMIR.
No, for your blindness: think what you have done,
Think of ... at least, think of your only child
Mewed within convent walls.