Bianca, fetch my sword. Thrust back that stool and table. We must have An open circle for our match at arms, And good Bianca here shall hold the torch Lest what is but a jest grow serious. BIANCA [_To Guido_]. Oh! kill him, kill him! SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca. [_They begin to fight_.] SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you? [_He is wounded by_ GUIDO.] A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes. Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing. Your husband bleeds, ’tis nothing. Take a cloth, Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight. More softly, my good wife. And be not sad, I pray you be not sad. No; take it off. What matter if I bleed? [_Tears bandage off_.] Again! again! [SIMONE _disarms_ GUIDO] My gentle Lord, you see that I was right My sword is better tempered, finer steel, But let us match our daggers. BIANCA [_to_ GUIDO] Kill him! kill him! SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca. [BIANCA _puts out torch_.] Now, my good Lord, Now to the death of one, or both of us, Or all three it may be. [_They fight_.] There and there. Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip? [SIMONE _overpowers Guido and throws him down over table_.] GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat. I am my father’s only son; the State Has but one heir, and that false enemy France Waits for the ending of my father’s line To fall upon our city. SIMONE. Hush! your father When he is childless will be happier. As for the State, I think our state of Florence Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm. Your life would soil its lilies. GUIDO. Take off your hands Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say! SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice That nothing will avail you, and your life Narrowed into a single point of shame Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully. GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die! SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins To God, whom thou shalt see this very night And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins To Him who is most just, being pitiless, Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . . GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca, Thou knowest I am innocent of harm. SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips? Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die! And the dumb river shall receive your corse And wash it all unheeded to the sea. GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night! SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other.