Monseigneur. If only they had not killed me, by teaching me so much. So many lessons; so little play! Promise me, Beppo, thou wilt always do thy best.
Beppo (lightly). I promise.
Monseigneur (fiercely). Nay, not like that! Swear it! Or, by the Blood, I will come to thee at nightfall in thy bed—ride on thy throat—choke thee!
Beppo (terrified). Philippe! I swear!
Monseigneur. Good Beppo! Kiss me!
Beppo (tearfully). Willingly! Beloved Philippe! (And while the boys affectionately embrace, to hide his emotion, the good Bishop leaves them and disappears through the hangings out into the corridor. Then Beppo kneels lovingly at his brother’s feet.) And now it is my turn.
Monseigneur. To teach me?
Beppo. To cure thee, as I said I would.
Monseigneur. And how?
Beppo. Out there, in the sunshine. It has cured the thrushes, and why not thee?