DORA (_to_ DOBSON). Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death! Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, A hundred times more worth a woman's love, Than this, this--but I waste no words upon him: His wickedness is like my wretchedness-- Beyond all language. (_To_ HAROLD.) You--you see her there! Only fifteen when first you came on her, And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds, So lovely in the promise of her May, So winsome in her grace and gaiety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home-- DOBSON (_agitated_). Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeär to see her. [_Exit_. DORA. A child, and all as trustful as a child! Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart That only beat for you; and he, the father, Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us, Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind. HAROLD (_covering his face_). Enough! DORA. It seem'd so; only there was left A second daughter, and to her you came Veiling one sin to act another. HAROLD. No! You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish'd, if you-- [_Pauses_. DORA. If I-- HAROLD. Could love me, could be brought to love me As I loved you-- DORA. What then? HAROLD. I wish'd, I hoped To make, to make-- DORA. _What_ did you hope to make? HAROLD. 'Twere best to make an end of my lost life. O Dora, Dora! DORA. _What_ did you hope to make? HAROLD. Make, make! I cannot find the word--forgive it-- Amends. DORA. For what? to whom? HAROLD. To him, to you! [_Falling at her feet_. DORA. To _him_! to _me_! No, not with all your wealth, Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest storm That ever made earth tremble--he, nor I-- The shelter of _your_ roof--not for one moment-- Nothing from _you_! Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague, Smitten with fever in the open field, Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death-- Nothing from you! But she there--her last word Forgave--and I forgive you. If you ever Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser Than even I can well believe you. Go! [_He lies at her feet. Curtain falls_. End of Project Gutenberg's Becket and other plays, by Alfred Lord Tennyson