You, by the holy mass! I scorn your proffers;
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood! Oh shame! shame! shame!
(The Queen remains clasping her hands to her
temples, while De Bourbon walks hastily
up and down; after a long pause the
Queen speaks.)
(The Queen summons her Confessor.)
Enter GONZALES.
Sir, we have business with this holy father;