FULVIA: Yet shrink from it!

CHARLES: A son, a friend, a--No, She was not mine!--I will not turn.

FULVIA: It is Your fury that distorts us into guilt.

Although he will not render up his heart, But flings you stony and unfilial speech, Fearing for her----

CHARLES: Leave!

FULVIA: We----

CHARLES: Thrice have I said it!

FULVIA: Yet must I not until your will is wasted.

CHARLES (_angrily_): Ah!

(_FULVIA sighs then goes slowly._)

CHARLES: Cecco!

CECCO: My lord?

CHARLES: The hour?

CECCO (_going to window_): It leans to sunset.

CHARLES: The sky--the sky?

CECCO: A murk moves slowly up.

CHARLES (_wearily_): There should be storm--gloating of wind and grind Of hopeless thunders. Lightnings should laugh out As tongues of fiends. There should be storm.

(_His head sinks on his breast._) (_Suddenly._) Yet!--yet!----

CECCO: My lord?

CHARLES: The glow and glory of her seem Dead in me!

CECCO: Of--the Greek?

CHARLES: And yearning has Grown impotent--as 'twere a moment's folly, A left and quickly quenched desire of youth Kindled in me!--To youth alone love's sudden.

CECCO: Sir, dare I speak?

CHARLES: Speak.

CECCO: When Antonio----

CHARLES: Cease: but a whisper of his name and I Am frenzy--frenzy--though the stillness burns And bursts with it!

(_CECCO steps back. A pause._)

CHARLES: The sun, how hangs it now?

CECCO (_going to window_): Above the b.l.o.o.d.y waving of the sea, Eager to dip.

CHARLES (_staggering up_): Ah, I was in a foam---- Bitten by hounds of fury and despair!

Did you not, Fulvia, pleading for them say They quailed but would not flee and leave me waste?

CECCO: She is not here, my liege.

CHARLES: Antonio!

Ah, boy! thou ever wast to me as wafts Of light, of song, of summer on the hills!

Soft now I feel thy baby arms about me, And all the burgeon of thy youth, ere proud And cruel years grew in me, comes again On wings and stealing winds of memory!

CECCO: O, then, sir----

CHARLES: Yes. Fly, fly! and stay the guard!

He must not--Ah!--down fearful fathoms, down Into the roar!

(_CECCO starts. He stops him._) Yet he has flung me from Immeasurable peaks, and I have sunk Forevermore beneath hope's horizon.

Who falls so close the grave can rise no more.

CECCO: This your despair would wound him more than death.

Forget the girl.

CHARLES: She? Ah, my sullen, wild, And gloomy pulse beat with a rightful scorn Against the hours that sieged it. Stony was Its solitude and fierce, bastioned against All danger of quick blisses--till, with fury For that mute tenderness which women's love Lays on the desolation of the world, She ravished it!--Yet now 'tis still and cold.

CECCO: But 'twas unknowingly.

CHARLES: A woman's smile Never was luring, never, but she knew it, As hawk the cruel rapture of his wings.

CECCO: She though is young, and youth----

CHARLES: Must pay with moan The shriving!--Ah, the sun--the sun--where burns it?

CECCO: Upon a cloud whence it must spring to night.

CHARLES: So low?

CECCO: Sir, yes.

CHARLES: Ah, 'tis? so low?

CECCO: Red now It rushes forth.

CHARLES: A breathing of the world, And then!--Antonio!

CECCO: Again a cloud Withholds.