“It was not he--my lord--it was not he,” cried Lucrezia. “Ah! duchess--duchess--how shouldst _thou_ know?” “He! he was elsewhere when it was done. ’Twas some of his companions dared----” “No--no--that is not true.” “Thou hearest, duchess. Now tell me, captain, and sincerely--art thou not he who dared to do this act.” “I’m not much used to hesitate, therefore I say _I_ am the man.” Slowly he turned to the miserable duchess. “Thou dost mark his words” (how lowly the duke spoke!) “Thou dost mark his words, and I gave thee my sacred promise.” “Alfonzo, Alfonzo, I would speak with thee alone.” “Oh! surely. A moment, captain, but a moment. Well! duchess mine, we are alone. What wouldst thou ask?” “The life of this poor youth.” “Do I hear rightly? And but now such anger as thou didst show!” “I pity him. ’Twas but a passing anger. I acted but in jest; he is too young to think of consequences. Again, to what good his death? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.” “No, no, dear lady mine, my word is pledged. I never break my word.” “Nay, dear duke, but _I_ insist. And why, thou seemest to ask? ’Twere ungenerous to refuse thy consort a poor favor such as this. What is the youth to me? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.” “No, no. What! pardon him who hath insulted _thee_! No, thou didst ask his death. And if _I_ could pardon him,--nor could I--for thy dear sake I would not.” “Let us both pardon, and be clement, duke, for clemency is glorious in us all, and most of all in kings.” “No king am I, but a poor duke. I cannot spare him, duchess.” “Why shouldst thou be so angry with this same Gennaro?” “Dost thou not know?” “I?” “Dost thou not LOVE him? Ah! thou dost start, Lucrezia. Even now I read in that face of thine thy crime.” “Don Alfonzo!” “Nay, do not speak--” “If I swear?” “It were useless. What! shall I _never_ be revenged on thee? If I may not strike thee openly, shall I let pass this hope of wounding thee?” “Pardon, Don Alfonzo.” “Pardon!” “For pity’s sake.” “What, canst _thou_ speak of pity--thou, Lucrezia?” “Don Alfonzo, dear husband.” On her knees to him, clinging to him, her eyes dilated, her lips dry and white. But he stands immovable. Looks down on her unyieldingly. Why, her very humiliation enrages him. For does not this poor unknown wretch, this Venetian, beat down her pride as he, duke and powerful, hath never, never beaten it down yet! “Thou dost not answer. BEWARE!” Once more she is the terrible duchess, and if the duke wear opal, let it warn him. “I know thee, duchess. I have known thee long, Lucrezia. But forget not I am duke, and in Ferrara. Thou art in my power. Ah! well, I’m not unreasonable. I grant thee somewhat. Thou shalt choose the manner of his death. Or poison, or sword. Pray now choose!” “I--I cannot.” “Let him then be--stabbed.” “No, no.” “Stabbed--stabbed.” “No, not blood, not blood.”