PAOLO. [Calls.] Francesca!

FRANCESCA.  Hence,
Thou wanton-hearted minion! hence, I say!—­
And never look me in the face again!—­
Hence, thou insulting slave!

  RITTA. [Clinging to her.] O lady, lady—­

  FRANCESCA.  Begone! [Throws her off.

RITTA.  I have no friends—­no one to love—­
O, spare me!

  FRANCESCA.  Hence!

RITTA.  Was it for this I loved—­
Cared for you more than my own happiness—­
Ever at heart your slave—­without a wish
For greater recompense than your stray smiles?

  PAOLO. [Calls.] Francesca!

  FRANCESCA.  Hurry!

RITTA.  I am gone.  Alas! 
God bless you, lady!  God take care of you,
When I am far away!  Alas, alas! [Exit weeping.

FRANCESCA.  Poor girl!—­but were she all the world to me,
And held my future in her tender grasp,
I’d cast her off, without a second thought,
To savage death, for dear Paolo’s sake! 
Paolo, hither!  Now he comes to me;
I feel his presence, though I see him not,
Stealing upon me like the fervid glow
Of morning sunshine.  Now he comes too near—­
He touches me—­O heaven!

PAOLO.  Our poem waits. 
I have been reading while you talked with Ritta. 
How did you get her off?

FRANCESCA.  By some device. 
She will not come again.

PAOLO.  I hate the girl: 
She seems to stand between me and the light. 
And now for the romance.  Where left we off?

FRANCESCA.  Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed
Along the forest, in the youth of May. 
You marked the figure of the birds that sang
Their melancholy farewell to the sun—­
Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified—­
Like gentle mourners o’er a great man’s grave. 
Was it not there?  No, no; ’twas where they sat
Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish
That neither uttered.

PAOLO. [Turning over the book.] Here it is. [Reads.]
“So sat
Guenevra and Sir Lancelot”—­’Twere well
To follow them in that. [They sit upon a bank.

FRANCESCA.  I listen:  read. 
Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire.

PAOLO.  My dagger frets me; let me take it off. [Rises.]
In thoughts of love, we’ll lay our weapons by.
[Lays aside his dagger, and sits again.]
Draw closer:  I am weak in voice to-day. [Reads]
“So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot,
Under the blaze of the descending sun,
But all his cloudy splendours were forgot. 
Each bore a thought, the only secret one,
Which each had hidden from the other’s heart,