_Con._ I should love to hear thee. 400 Thou owest me sighs, for mine were thoughts of thee. _Mar._ Because I love not? Hast thou forgot already Life may be tolerable for a woman Without thy joy? _Con._ You treat poor Livio Unkindly, Margaret. _Mar._ Now, if that’s the grief, We have threshed it out before. _Con._ I shall not spare you, Till you are kinder. _Mar._ Yet if I were kinder, And he should build a hope upon that kindness, Until it proved unkinder than unkindness? _Con._ He loves you well. _Mar._ No better than the others; Than Ventimiglia loves, or Chiaramonte, 411 Good Michael Rosso, or the impudent Blasco, Or my new courtier Ferdinand. _Con._ He loves With all his heart. Life is as tedious to him As to the dark and dusty wheel, which jerks Behind the dial-face, until he see you; When for his joy you give him but disdain. _Mar._ Thou didst not tell him thou wouldst speak for him? _Con._ Why not? _Mar._ Now I, Constance, have something fresh: A mystery. _Con._ A mystery? _Mar._ Yes, a mystery. 420 Guess what it is. _Con._ How should I guess? _Mar._ Indeed, Guessing would never wind it. _Con._ Then, prithee, tell me. _Mar._ I died to tell thee ere thou camest, and now I grudge it sadly. Yet, for the fresh mount ’Twill give thy thoughts, I’ll tell. ’Twas yesternight, Just on the stroke of one ... _Con._ ’Tis not a ghost? _Mar._ If after all ’twere but a ghost! _Con._ Come, tell me. _Mar._ Thou wilt not breathe a word? _Con._ No, not a word. _Mar._ Thou know’st the casement of my bedroom looks Across the court. There as I stood last night, 430 Watching the moon awhile, ere I shut out The sleepless splendour from my dreams, I heard A heavy step pass down the gallery. ’Tis Manuel, I thought, who goes to lie In the little chamber at the back,—for Philip Had his;—but, for some strangeness in the step Pricked my attention, and to content my thought, I lent my ear to the sound, until it reached The door at the end: there, standing by the window I saw him plain: ’twas he, but in his arms 440 A woman, fainting as I thought, or dead. Her arms hung loose, and o’er his shoulder thrown Her head fell back. _Con._ A woman! art thou sure?