“If you so pray, you will pray for my death, Marcelline. Bourbon has told me that if François should ever give him battle, he will conquer or die on the field. If he falls, I shall not survive.”
“You have done wrong in thus attaching yourself to a rebel, Pomperant. If you persist in your treason, I must tear you from my heart, whatever the effort may cost me.”
“Oh! say not so, Marcelline! Better we had never met than you should use such cruel language towards me. Better I should have thought you lost for ever than find you changed.”
“I am not changed, Pomperant. But I will not continue to love a traitor and rebel. Quit the service of the king's enemies. Seek some place of safety, and when I have obtained my brother's pardon, I will return and join you. Will you do this? Will you fly with me now? Come! come! you shall have all my love. But if you stay here, you will behold me no more.”
“You tempt me sorely, Marcelline. But I cannot—must not—yield. I cannot sacrifice my honour even to my love. I am vowed to Bourbon, as I have told you, and shall follow him to the last. Think you I could desert him now?”
“Then you must forget me, for I shall hold you unworthy of my love, and tear you from my heart. Farewell!”
“We have not yet parted,” cried Pomperant. “Fortune has placed you in my hands. You must go with me to Pavia.”
“To Pavia!” she exclaimed. “Never!”
And she turned with the intention of galloping back to the French camp, but Pomperant seized her bridle and detained her.
“You are my prisoner,” he said.