To death!—Impossible! Has my delay,
Then, murder'd him?—A momentary respite—
Melville.
Lady, I have no power.
Bland.
Melville, my friend,
This lady bears dispatches of high import,
Touching this business:—should they arrive too late——
Honora.
For pity's sake, and heaven's, conduct me to him;
And wait the issue of our conference.
Oh, 't would be murder of the blackest dye,
Sin execrable, not to break thy orders—
Inhuman, thou art not.
Melville.
Lady, thou say'st true;
For rather would I lose my rank in arms,
And stand cashier'd for lack of discipline,
Than, gain 'mongst military men all praise,
Wanting the touch of sweet humanity.
Honora.