And only you have ever threatened me.

TOM:  (coming to her, and with strength now) And I will threaten you.  I’m here to hold you from where I know you cannot go.  You’re trying what we can’t do.

CLAIRE:  What else is there worth trying?

TOM:  I love you, and I will keep you—­from fartherness—­from harm.  You are mine, and you will stay with me! (roughly) You hear me?  You will stay with me!

CLAIRE:  (her head on his breast, in ecstasy of rest.  Drowsily) You can keep me?

TOM:  Darling!  I can keep you.  I will keep you—­safe.

CLAIRE:  (troubled by the word, but barely able to raise her head)
Safe?

TOM:  (bringing her to rest again) Trust me, Claire.

CLAIRE:  (not lifting her head, but turning it so she sees Breath of
Life) Now can I trust—­what is? (suddenly pushing him roughly away)
No!  I will beat my life to pieces in the struggle to—­

TOM:  To what, Claire?

CLAIRE:  Not to stop it by seeming to have it. (with fury) I will keep my life low—­low—­that I may never stop myself—­or anyone—­with the thought it’s what I have.  I’d rather be the steam rising from the manure than be a thing called beautiful! (with sight too clear) Now I know who you are.  It is you puts out the breath of life.  Image of beauty—­You fill the place—­should be a gate. (in agony) Oh, that it is you—­fill the place—­should be a gate!  My darling!  That it should be you who—­(her hands moving on him) Let me tell you something.  Never was loving strong as my loving of you!  Do you know that?  Oh, know that!  Know it now! (her arms go around his neck) Hours with you—­I’d give my life to have!  That it should be you—­(he would loosen her hands, for he cannot breathe.  But when she knows she is choking him, that knowledge is fire burning its way into the last passion) It is you.  It is you.

TOM:  (words coming from a throat not free) Claire!  What are you doing? (then she knows what she is doing)

CLAIRE:  (to his resistance) No!  You are too much!  You are not enough. (still wanting not to hurt her, he is slow in getting free.  He keeps stepping backward trying, in growing earnest, to loosen her hands.  But he does not loosen them before she has found the place in his throat that cuts off breath.  As he gasps)

Breath of Life—­my gift—­to you!

(She has pushed him against one of the plants at right as he sways, strength she never had before pushes him over backward, just as they have struggled from sight.  Violent crash of glass is heard.)

TOM:  (faint smothered voice) No.  I’m—­hurt.

CLAIRE:  (in the frenzy and agony of killing) Oh, gift!  Oh, gift! (there is no sound.