Rather I'll bring you this:--Authority Sent me of Venice To make Amaury lordly over Cyprus, Or to abase him even of Famagouste; Which I will do--
Unless I have the pledge that you will wed, Though not to be his wife and free to leave him, This Paphian, And with him from Lusignan hence will pass.
_Yolanda._ Here! In league with you! in this!
_Vittia._ Most loyally; And ready skilfully to disavow, With every force, your innocence--if you Attempt betrayal!-- Enter, my lord of Paphos--I have spoken.
But she has pledged no further--though the life Of Berengere Lusignan fall for it, And though Amaury.... But you may avail.
[_Moves off._ YOLANDA _stands silently between them._ CAMARIN _looks at her, falters, then turns on_ VITTIA.
_Camarin._ As an anchorite covets, Venetian, Immortal calm, I crave and covet this! Yet ... I will not entreat it of her more.
_Camarin._ Fate may fall. I swore in dread, but will not!
_Yolanda._ Lady of Venice, yes; for very shame!
Bitterly tho' it be, he must, for shame! For though he would waste the air of the world to keep The breath still in the veins Of her his love so wronged, He cannot ask me more than breast can bear-- Knowing I have already borne for her Infection worse than fetid marshes send From Mesaoria-- Have lost the sky of love that I had arched And all the stars of it. See, he is dumb!-- He cannot.
_Camarin_ (_coldly_). No; but to your heart I leave her And to your pity.
Am I not needy, fain of it, and can Endurance ever dure! What have I left ... Of joy to ripple in me or of light To sway me to forgetting--I to whom Dawn was enchanted incense once, and day, The least of earth, an ides of heaven bliss. What to me left! to me! Who shepherded each happy flock of waves Running with silvery foaming there to shore, Who numbered the little leaves with laughing names Out of my love, And quickened the winds with quicker winds of hope, That now are spent ... as summer waters, Leaving my breast a torrent's barren bed. Pity and pity! ever pity! No.
A nun to pity I will be no more. But you, cruel Venetian.... Ah, ah, Mother of God! is there no gentleness In thee to move her and dissolve away This jeopardy congealing over us?
_Yolanda._ Ah, for sceptre and for might Then to compel you.