_Lal._ A deed is to be done— Castiglione lives! _Pol._ And he shall die! (_Exit._) _Lal._ (_after a pause_). And—he—shall—die!——alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian! Thou _art_ not gone—thou art not _gone_, Politian! I _feel_ thou art not gone—yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not—thou _couldst_ not go With those words upon thy lips—oh, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word, To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone— Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go. Villain, thou _art_ not gone—thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee—thus!——He is gone, he is gone— Gone—gone. Where am I?——’tis well—’tis very well! So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure, ’Tis well, ’tis _very_ well—alas! alas! V The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone. _Politian._ This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, And much I fear me, ill—it will not do To die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay thy hand, O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me! Oh, pity me! let me not perish now, In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet—yet a little while: ’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late Demanded but to die!—What sayeth the Count? _Enter Baldazzar._ _Baldazzar._ That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself, He doth decline your cartel. _Pol._ _What_ didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day, Or one more worthy Italy, methinks No mortal eyes have seen!—_what_ said the Count? _Bal._ That he, Castiglione, not being aware Of any feud existing, or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, Cannot accept the challenge. _Pol._ It is most true— All this is very true. When saw you, sir, When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say? _Bal._ No more, my lord, than I have told you: The Count Castiglione will not fight, Having no cause for quarrel. _Pol._ Now this is true— All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, Hold him a villain?—thus much, I pr’ythee, say Unto the Count—it is exceeding just He should have cause for quarrel. _Bal._ My lord!—my friend!——