ow idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's!
Mildred,--

_Mildred._ You call me kindlier by my name
Than even yesterday: what is in that?

_Tresham._ It weighs so much upon my mind that I
This morning took an office not my own!
I might ... of course, I must be glad or grieved,
Content or not, at every little thing
That touches you. I may with a wrung heart
Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more:
Will you forgive me?

_Mildred._ Thorold? do you mock?
Or no ... and yet you bid me ... say that word!

_Tresham._ Forgive me, Mildred!--are you silent, Sweet?

_Mildred_ [_starting up_]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night?
Are you, too, silent?

[_Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is
empty._

Ah, this speaks for you!
You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed!
What is it I must pardon? This and all?
Well, I do pardon you--I think I do.
Thorold, how very wretched you must be!

_Tresham._ He bade me tell you....

_Mildred._ What I do forbid
Your utterance of! So much that you may tell
And will not--how you murdered him ... but, no!
You'll tell me that he loved me, never more
Than bleeding out his life there: must I say
"Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you.

_Tresham._ You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes:
Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doom
I wait in doubt, despondency and fear.

_Mildred._ Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True!
You loose my soul of all its cares at once.
Death makes me sure of him for ever! You
Tell me his last words? He shall tell me them,
And take my answer--not in words, but reading
Himself the heart I had to read him late,
Which death....

_Tresham._ Death? You are dying too? Well said
Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die:
But she was sure of it.

_Mildred._ Tell Guendolen
I loved her, and tell Austin....

_Tresham._ Him you loved:
And me?

_Mildred._ Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done
To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope
And love of me--whom you loved too, and yet
Suffered to sit here waiting his approach
While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly
You let him speak his poor boy's speech
--Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath
And respite me!--you let him try to give
The story of our love a