No--one kiss from you will give me more strength than all the wine in France. [_She kisses him_. DIANE. Heaven knows you need more than human strength. PAUL. Aye, Titan strength, to stem the tide of madness that overflows the mind of France! Ah, Diane! if it were not for your dear love, I fear my mind would falter at the task before me. DIANE. Oh, Paul! Why undertake this task?--Why not fly to peace in other lands? PAUL. Fly!--Desert France in the hour of her agony?--In the awful travail which gives birth to a new and nobler era for mankind?--No, no! I love you more than life, but my Country--ah, that is mother, sister, wife, and child! DIANE But Paul-- PAUL. Hush, sweetheart, you must not make the struggle harder! The infant age is threatened with miscarriage!--The torch of Liberty, which should light mankind to progress, if left in madmen's hands, kindles that blaze of Anarchy whose only end is ashes. DIANE. [_Suddenly starting_.] Hush! Listen! What is that? PAUL. [_After listening_.] Nothing, foolish child. [_He is about to embrace her_. DIANE. [_Turning sadly away_.] Nay, we are too rash! We forget the dangers that environ us. PAUL. Would we could forget the weak concealment that makes cowards of us both!--Oh, that something would happen to make us end this living lie! DIANE. [_Solemnly_.] Perhaps that something has happened, Paul. We have been warned that we're no longer safe beneath this roof. PAUL. [_Amazed_.] Warned!--By whom? DIANE. What matter by whom?--Enough that we've been told the Civil Guard may search the house this very day. PAUL. [_With sudden resolution_.] I am glad of it. Thank fate that something forces us to tell your father you are mine. DIANE. Nay, Paul--I cannot, dare not tell him that! PAUL. Then leave the task to me. DIANE. 'Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride that's rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the heart that holds it. PAUL. [_Bitterly_.] Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a king!--If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven's hand, then he is only fit for scorn himself. DIANE. Oh, Paul! Be charitable! PAUL. Charitable! To what?--Your father's pride in the race from which he springs--the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on honest labour--crowned infamy with honour--made gods of profligates and dogs of workingmen--ruining their wives--insulting their mothers--debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness in their veins?--Ah, Diane! when I face your father, 'tis not your husband who should blush for his race. DIANE.