m thy fierce tiger gripe--There is a way
Unto the weak, and though a giant grasp,
He shall but seize with eager cruel hand
The white reflection other fluttering robe,
Leaving her pure and undefil'd to Heaven--
Angels have whisper'd it to me--

_Basil._ Forsworn?--

_Flor._ Nay! traitor to thy God and king! My hand
I've pledg'd thee ere a short month have elaps'd,
And thou shalt claim it then, if then thou wilt.

_Basil._ What mean'st thou, maiden? There is a strange light
In the sweet lustre of thy thrilling eye,
There is a bright spot on thy velvet cheek;
Thy throat of arched fall is now thrown back,
As one had check'd a white Arabian steed;
Thy nostril wide dilates, Sibylline, grand;
Thy moist and crimson lip tempts wildly--come!
For thou art beautiful, and thy light step
Shall on the hills be glorious, when thou'rt given
A help-mate unto Israel--

_Flor._ Never!

_Basil._ How?--
Hast thou not sworn?

_Flor._ There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits' high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were--

_Basil._ Thou speakest riddles.

_Flor._ A colder hand than thine is on my heart,
I am another's bride! A month must pass
Ere thou can'st claim me. Was not that the bond?

_Basil._ In these brisk times, a month goes quickly by.

_Flor._ Within a week I'll wed, but not with thee.
Pray, sir, go hence, you do distract my thoughts
From my lov'd bridegroom.

_Basil._ Speak, whom mean'st thou?

_Flor._ Death.
A thousand deaths, ere wed with thee. Dost hear?
I am faint. Lo! thy cruel, eager gaze
Grows grimly dark and indistinct. Pray Heaven
I shall not see it any more. Farewell,
I pardon thee.

_Basil._ Not so! May curses blight me,
If I do lose thee thus. [_Seizes her._]

_Flor._ Help!

_Basil._ Wilt thou budge
Thus from thy promise?--Nay then--

_Flor._ Help! O help!

_Enter ARTHUR, Soldiers, WILLIAM, HOST, &c., U.E.R.
After them WYCKOFF, who stands at a little distance.
Loud cries of "Pardon, a free pardon from the Protector."_

_Basil._ What does this mean? Look to your prisoner: seize him.

_An Officer._ [_Seizing Basil._] In the Protector's name, we do!

_Basil._ Away!
Let go!

_An Officer._ [_Points to Arthur._] 'Twere best a