er era for mankind?--No, no! I love
you more than life, but my Country--ah, that is mother, sister, wife,
and child!

DIANE

But Paul--

PAUL.

Hush, sweetheart, you must not make the struggle harder! The infant
age is threatened with miscarriage!--The torch of Liberty, which
should light mankind to progress, if left in madmen's hands, kindles
that blaze of Anarchy whose only end is ashes.

DIANE.

[_Suddenly starting_.]

Hush! Listen! What is that?

PAUL.

[_After listening_.]

Nothing, foolish child.

[_He is about to embrace her_.

DIANE.

[_Turning sadly away_.]

Nay, we are too rash! We forget the dangers that environ us.

PAUL.

Would we could forget the weak concealment that makes cowards of us
both!--Oh, that something would happen to make us end this living lie!

DIANE.

[_Solemnly_.]

Perhaps that something has happened, Paul. We have been warned that
we're no longer safe beneath this roof.

PAUL.

[_Amazed_.]

Warned!--By whom?

DIANE.

What matter by whom?--Enough that we've been told the Civil Guard may
search the house this very day.

PAUL.

[_With sudden resolution_.]

I am glad of it. Thank fate that something forces us to tell your
father you are mine.

DIANE.

Nay, Paul--I cannot, dare not tell him that!

PAUL.

Then leave the task to me.

DIANE.

'Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride
that's rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the
heart that holds it.

PAUL.

[_Bitterly_.]

Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud
to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a
king!--If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven's hand, then he
is only fit for scorn himself.

DIANE.

Oh, Paul! Be charitable!

PAUL.

Charitable! To what?--Your father's pride in the race from which
he springs--the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on
honest labour--crowned infamy with honour--made gods of profligates
and dogs of workingmen--ruining their wives--insulting their
mothers--debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness
in their veins?--Ah, Diane! when I face your father, 'tis not your
husband who should blush for his race.

DIANE.

My father's race is mine.--I forgot its glories, and atoned its wrongs
in marrying you!--But I love, revere, my father still, and have
hoped each day that he would come