Bland.
Little I bring to cheer thee, André.
André.
I understand. 'T is well. 'T will soon be past.
Yet, 't was not much I ask'd. A soldier's death.
A trifling change of form.
Bland.
Of that I spoke not.
By vehemence of passion hurried on,
I pleaded for thy precious life alone;
The which denied, my indignation barr'd
All further parley. But strong solicitation
Now is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favour.
André.
What is 't o'clock?
Bland.
'T is past the stroke of nine.