m--here--Amaury!
Defer him but a little--till to-morrow.
I cannot see him now.

_Berengere._ This is o'erstrange.

_Yolanda._ Help me to think. Go to him, go, and say
Some woman thing--that I am ill--that I
Am at confession--penance--that--Ah, say
But anything!

_Berengere._ Yolanda!

_Yolanda._ Say.... No use.
Too late.

_Berengere._ His step?

_Yolanda._ Oh, unmistakable;
Along the corridor. Go!

[_The curtains are thrown back._

_Amaury_ (_at the threshold_). My Yolanda!

[_Hastens down and takes her, passive, in his
arms._ BERENGERE _goes._

My, my Yolanda!...

[_Kisses her._

To touch you is as triumph to the blood,
Is as the boon of battle to the strong!

_Yolanda._ Amaury, no; release me and say why
You come: The Saracens--?

_Amaury._ Not of them now!

[_Bends back her head._

But of some tribute incense to this beauty,
Dear as the wind wafts from undying shrines
Of mystery and myrrh!
I'd have the eloquence of quickened moons
Pouring upon the midnight magicly,
To say all I have yearned,
Now, with your head pillowed upon my breast!
Slow sullen speech, come to my soldier lips,
Rough with command, and impotent of softness!
Come to my lips! or fill so full my eyes
That the unutterable shall seem as sweet
To my Yolanda. But ... how, how now? tears?

[_Lifts her face._

_Yolanda._ Amaury----

_Amaury._ What have I done? Too pronely pressed
You to this coat of steel?

_Yolanda._ No, no.

_Amaury._ My words,
Or silence, then?

_Yolanda._ Amaury, no, but sweet,
Sweet as the roses of Damascus crusht,
Your silence is! and sweeter than the dream
Of April nightingale on Troados,
Or gushing by the springs of Chitria,
Your every word of love! Yet--yet--ah, fold me,
Within your arms oblivion and hold me,
Fast to your being press me, and there bless me
With breathed power of your manhood's might.
Amaury!...

_Amaury._ This I cannot understand.

_Yolanda_ (_freeing herself_). Nothing--a folly--groundless
frailty.

_Amaury._ You've been again at some old tale of sorrow,

[_Goe