Fam. I love you, love you, Señor!
Cha. You would persuade me.
Fam. Sir, the wine you found
Behind your prison door,—and good, clean bread,—
I put them there!
Cha. 'Twas you, Famette? I thought
That Coquriez did it,—feared I'd die before
The master came.
Fam. Not his brute heart! And then
That night, of fever——
Cha. Yes! What then?
Fam. I lay
Outside your jail, my head against the wall,
That I might hear if once you groaned, or know
If sleep had come.
Cha. Can such love be for me?
Fam. You must—you must believe me!
Cha. God, your eyes!
[She lowers her head]
... 'Tis madness, bred of these sun-poisoned days,
And nights without a hope.... Look up, Famette.
I do believe you.