[He claps his hands. The Armenian slave comes up the stairs. SHALNASSAR whispers with him, without heeding the other.] DEBTOR. Not fifty florins have I in the world. You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered crone To carry water, that is all. And she How long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms, Feels misery like mine: for I have known The sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept, Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning. But hush! she loves me still, and so my failure Is bright and golden. O, she is my wife! SHALNASS. I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burn So long as you are standing round. Go with him. Here are the keys. Debtor (overcoming his fear). A word, good Shalnassar! I had not wished to beg you for reprieve. SHALNASS. What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion? DEBTOR. No, really. SHALNASS. But? DEBTOR. But for another loan. SHALNASS (furious). What do You want? DEBTOR. Not what I want, but must. Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her! My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beating And leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her. (With growing agitation.) All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbs Are for the cult of tenderness created, Not for the savage claws of desperation. She cannot go a-begging, with such hair. Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fate Is trying to outwit me--but I scorn it-- If thou couldst see her, old man-- SHALNASS. I _will_ see her! Tell her the man of years, upon whose gold Her husband young so much depends--now mark: The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard-- Desired to see her. Tell her men of years Are childish, why should this one not be so? But still a call is little. Tell her this: It is almost a grave that she would visit, A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?