There—you sit!
Mil. Say it, Thorold—do not look
The curse! deliver all you come to say!
What must become of me? Oh, speak that thought
Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale!
Tresh. My thought?
Mil. All of it!
Tresh. How we waded—years ago—
After those water-lilies, till the plash,
I know not how, surprised us; and you dared