But for your sake. Nay, ’tis not life I care for,
But only Violante.
Violante (entering unseen). Oh, his face
Is bathed in his own blood; he has been wounded.
Don Lope!
Lope. Who is it calls on a name
I thought all tongues had buried in its shame?
Viol. One who yet—pities you.
Lope (turning and seeing her). Am I then dead,
And thou some living spirit come to meet me