Cha. Sweet, friendship too
Has bonds. Not all are love's.
Her. He's ill,—your friend?
Cha. As plague-bit life,—no worse.
Her. You'll wait upon
My father? Bid him but good-night?
Cha. No, Hernda.
Her. You shun him, Chartrien. I have watched you keep
A curious distance,—ay, as though your heart
Removed itself while your unwarmèd eyes
Made invoice of its treasure. Once you rushed
Unto his counsel as security
Hived in his word, and you, denied, were lost.
Are those hours gone? If you have grown too large
For his shrunk wisdom, bind you to his need.
Age unsuspected crowns him, and you take
Your young arm out of his.
Cha. He wants no staff.
Her. You'll go no more to Goldusan?
Cha. I must.
Her. And soon?