I owe your daughter all the breath I breathe.

She found me at the gasp of death; she brought me

Of her sweet pity hither, healed my wound,

And more; for when black clouds were on my mind

She let the morning shine full into it;

I felt her like the sky, the morning dew.

If—if there be some fondness, some young spring

Of fondness in her heart, Time soon amends

Such wounds. She is a child. If this be gone

More deep than tenderness and pity’s tears

I have means to cure it. Let me speak with her.

Torre

Torre

He shall not, father.

Sir Bernard

Sir Bernard

This to me! Now leave us,

Or ask a pardon that is ill deserved.

Elaine enters

Elaine

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