the duke di Tocca humbling himself
Must pay into our vaults two hundred ducats--"

CHARLES: It shall be three.

SECRETARY: "And send a hundred men
Armed 'gainst the foes that threaten Italy."

CHARLES: See to it, yes, Antonio, ere a dawn.

SECRETARY: "He must also yield up the princess Fulvia
Who's fled her father's house and rightful marriage."

FULVIA (_to JULIAN_): You told me not of this--no word, my lord!

CARDINAL: My silence as my speech is not my own.

CHARLES: We'll more of it--a measure more.
Read on.

SECRETARY: "And for the better amity and weal
Of Italy and Christ's most Holy Church,
He is enjoined to wed with Beatrice
Of Florence. If his wilful boldness grants
Obedience, his sins shall melt to rest
Under the calm of full forgiveness. He----"

CHARLES: A mild, a courteous, O a modest Pope!
I must tear from my happiness a friend
Who fled a father's searing cruelty,
And cast her back in the flames! And I must bind
My crippled years that fare toward the grave
In the cold clasp of an unloving hand!
No! No!
Then, sir, and Cardinal, 'tis not enough!
I pray you swift again to Rome and plead
Most suppliantly that I for penance may
Swear my true son is shame-begot, or lend
My kin to drink clean of its fouling damp
Some pestilent prison! And 'tis impious too
That any still should trust my love. Beseech
His Holiness' command for death upon them!

CARDINAL: This is your answer?

CHARLES (_rises_): A mite! a mite of it!
The rest is I will wed where I will wed
Though every hill of earth raise up its pope
To bellow at me thunderous damnation!
I will--I will-- (_Falls back convulsed._)

FULVIA (_hastening to him_): Charles, ah! Wine for him, wine! (_It
is brought._)

ANTONIO: Lord Cardinal, spare yourself more and go.
You shall learn if a change may loose this strain.

(_The CARDINAL goes with his suite amid timid reverence._)

CHARLES (_struggling_): I will--this frenzy--off my throat--!
I-- (_Recovering._) Ah,
Thou, Fulvia? 'Twas as a fiend swung on me.
And shame! fear oozes out upon my brow,
And I----. (_Rises and calms himself._) Forgive, friends, this
so sudden wrench
Upon your pleasure. One too quick made saint,
Stands feebly: but at once wilt I atone.
Where is Diogenes--where is he? His
Tangled fantastic wisdom shall divert us.