Fabian. 
     Yes,—­you may—­see her—­see her—­this you may—­

     SEV. 
     Thy speech is halting—­odious thy delay! 
     She loves no more?  I grope!  O give me light!

     Fabian. 
     O see her not, for painful were the sight! 
     In Rome each matron’s kind!  In Rome all maids are fair! 
     Let lips meet other lips—­seek for caresses there! 
     No stately Claudia will refuse—­no Julia proud disdain;
     A hero captures every heart, from Antioch to Spain!

     SEV. 
     To wed a queen—­an empress—­were only loss and shame;
     One heart for me—­Pauline’s!  One boast—­that dearest name! 
     Her love was virgin gold!  O ne’er shall baser metal ring
     From mine, who live her name to bless! her peerless praise to sing! 
     O, words are naught, till that I see her face,
     Then doubly naught till I my love embrace. 
     In every war my hope was placed in death,
     Her name upon my lips at every breath: 
     My rank, my fame, now hers and hers alone,
     What is not hers, hers only—­I disown!

     Fabian. 
     Once more, oh see her not, ’twere for thy peace!

     SEV. 
     Thy meaning, knave, or let this babble cease! 
     Say, was she cold?  My love!  My only life!

     Fabian. 
     No—­but—­my lord——­

     SEV. 
     Say on!

     Fabian. 
     Another’s wife!

     SEV. 
     (Reels.)
     Help!—­No, I will not blench—­ah, say you lie! 
     If this be true!—­ye gods—­can I be I?

     Fabian. 
     No, thou art changed.  Where is thy courage fled?

     SEV. 
     I know not, Fabian.  Lost!  Gone!  Vanished!  Dead! 
     I thought my strength was oak—­’tis but a reed! 
     Pauline is wed, then am I lost indeed! 
     Hope hid beyond the cloud, yet still fond hope was there: 
     But now all hope is dead, lives only black despair! 
     Pauline another’s wife?

     Fabian. 
     Yes, Polyeucte is her lord. 
     He came, he saw, he conquered thine adored.

     SEV. 
     Her choice is not unworthy—­his a name
     Illustrious, from a line of kings he came
     Cold comfort for a wound no cure can heal! 
     My cause is lost,—­foredoomed without appeal! 
     Malignant Jove, to drag me back to-day! 
     Relentless Fate, to quench hope’s dawning ray! 
     Take back your gifts!  One boon alone I crave,
     That only boon to none denied—­the grave. 
     Yet would I see her, breathe one last good-bye,
     Would hear once more that voice before I die! 
     My latest breath would still my homage pay,
     That memory mine, when lost to realms of day.

     Fabian. 
     Yet think, my lord—­