Har. The harm not so great as I make it out to be! What! my heart's blood, scoundrel!
Val. Your blood, Sir, has not fallen into bad hands. My rank is high enough not to disgrace it, and there is nothing in all this for which reparation cannot be made.
Har. It is, indeed, my intention that you should restore what you have taken from me.
Val. Your honour, Sir, shall be fully satisfied.
Har. Honour is not the question in all this. But tell me what made you commit such a deed?
Val. Alas! do you ask it?
Har. Yes, I should rather think that I do.
Val. A god, Sir, who carries with him his excuses for all he makes people do: Love.
Har. Love?
Val. Yes.