FRANCESCA.  So does not my heart.

LANCIOTTO.  Bravo!  Thou art every way a soldier’s wife;
Thou shouldst have been a Caesar’s!  Father, hark! 
I blamed your judgment, only to perceive
The weakness of my own.

  MALATESTA.  What means all this?

LANCIOTTO.  It means that this fair lady—­though I gave
Release to her, and to Ravenna—­placed
The liberal hand, which I restored to her,
Back in my own, of her own free good-will. 
Is it not wonderful?

  MALATESTA.  How so?

  LANCIOTTO.  How so!

  PAOLO.  Alas! ’tis as I feared! [ Aside.

  MALATESTA.  You’re humble?—­How?

LANCIOTTO.  Now shall I cry aloud to all the world,
Make my deformity my pride, and say,
Because she loves me, I may boast of it? [Aside.]
No matter, father, I am happy; you,
As the blessed cause, shall share my happiness. 
Let us be moving.  Revels, dashed with wine,
Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day! 
There’s not a blessing in the cup of life
I have not tasted of within an hour!

FRANCESCA. [Aside.] Thus I begin the practice of deceit,
Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. 
The bankrupt gambler has become the cheat,
And lives by arts that erewhile ruined me. 
Where it will end, Heaven knows; but I—­
I have betrayed the noblest heart of all!

LANCIOTTO.  Draw down thy dusky vapours, sullen night—­
Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the world—­
Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun,
And whisper terror to the universe! 
We need ye not! we’ll blind ye, if ye dare
Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry! 
I have at heart a passion, that would make
All nature blaze with recreated light! [Exeunt.

ACT IV

SCENE I. The Same.  An Apartment in the Castle.  Enter LANCIOTTO.

LANCIOTTO.  It cannot be that I have duped myself,
That my desire has played into the hand
Of my belief; yet such a thing might be. 
We palm more frauds upon our simple selves
Than knavery puts upon us.  Could I trust
The open candour of an angel’s brow,
I must believe Francesca’s.  But the tongue
Should consummate the proof upon the brow,
And give the truth its word.  The fault lies there. 
I’ve tried her.  Press her as I may to it,
She will not utter those three little words—­
“I love thee.”  She will say, “I’ll marry you;—­
I’ll be your duteous wife;—­I’ll cheer your days;—­
I’ll do whate’er I can.”  But at the point
Of present love, she ever shifts the ground,
Winds round the word, laughs, calls me “Infidel!—­
How can I doubt?” So, on and on.  But yet,
For all her dainty ways, she never says,