Dona Clara cometh not this ring? 
             She’s far too pale for rosy-cheeked love,
             Were not the color which her face doth lack
             Replaced by e’er renewing blush of shame. 
             But many other rings I see you have—­
             How many sweethearts have you?  Come, confess!

GARCERAN.  Suppose I ask the question now of you?

RACHEL.  I’ve never loved.  But I could love, if e’er
             In any breast that madness I should find
             Which could enthrall me, were my own heart touched. 
             Till then I follow custom’s empty show,
             Traditional in love’s idolatry,
             As in the fanes of stranger-creeds one kneels.

KING (who meanwhile has been pacing up and down, now stands in the foreground at the left and speaks in an aside to a servant).

Bring me my arms, and full accoutrements,
And wait for me beside the garden-house. 
I will to camp where they have need of me.

[Exit servant.]

RACHEL.  I beg you, see your King!  He thinks he loves;
             Yet when I speak to you and press your hand,
             He worries not.  With good economy,
             He fills his garish day with business,
             And posts his ledger, satisfied, at ev’n. 
             Out on you!  You are all alike—­you, too. 
             O were my sister here!  She’s wise—­than I
             Far cleverer!  Yet, too, when in her breast
             The spark of will and resolution falls,
             She flashes out in flames, like unto mine. 
             Were she a man, she’d be a hero.  Ye
             Before her courage and her gaze should flinch. 
             Now let me sleep until she comes, for I
             Myself am but the dreaming of a night.

[She lays her head on her arm and her arm on her pillows.]

GARCERAN (steps to the KING who stands watching the reclining
RACHEL).

Most noble Sire—­

KING (still gazing).  Well?

GARCERAN.  May I now go back
             Once more unto the army and the camp?

KING (as above).

The army left the camp?  Pray tell me why.

GARCERAN.  You hear me not—­myself, I wish to go.

KING.  And there you’ll talk, with innuendo, prate—­

GARCERAN.  Of what?

KING.  Of me, of that which here took place.

GARCERAN.  For that I’d need to understand it more.

KING.  I see!  Believest thou in sorcery?

GARCERAN.  Since recently I almost do, my lord!

KING.  And why is it but recently, I pray?

GARCERAN.  Respect, I thought the wonted mate of love;
             But love together with contempt, my lord—­