_Marco._ (_Rising from sofa, and looking after him with deep emotion._) O Raphael, Raphael! my heart is not quite marble; no, no, not quite! (_Falls back on sofa, covers her face with her handkerchief, and weeps._)
_Marco._ (_With a smile, holding out her hand._) Thank you for returning; thank you for not taking my follies in earnest: this goodness endears you to me more than ever. (_RAPHAEL stands fixed, looking at her with a cold, immovable countenance._) You love me still? (_Trying to draw him to her._) Yes, yes: I see you do; and you will pardon me! (_She is about to put her arm round his neck: he looks sternly at her, and repels her by extending his arms with an action of disdain._) Oh! do not look at me thus: you frighten me--
_Raph._ (_With terrible calmness._) Give me my portrait. (_Pointing to it on her neck._)
_Raph._ (_Sternly._) Give it me! (_MARCO gives it him._) Don’t be alarmed, it is only the painting I reclaim. (_Taking it from the frame._) I leave you the diamonds. (_Gives back the frame and chain._)
_Raph._ Marco, shall I tell you why for a moment you have love on your lips and in your eyes? ’Tis because you have learned that in recalling me you could break another heart: the feeling which guided you was not the happiness of Raphael, but the despair of Marie. (_MARCO starts._) Now, adieu. But first give me your wreath.
_Raph._ (_Approaching._) I would have it.
_Marco._ (_Recoiling alarmed._) Are you mad?
_Raph._ (_Wildly._) Take it off, take it off! White roses are the symbols of purity; they make _you_ hideous: they are only for the brows of innocence and truth. (_Tears the crown from her head, and dashes it on the ground._)
SCENE.--_Same as before. Enter FESTUS, C._
_Festus._ It is astonishing how much a little borrowed plumage becomes a bashful man. The ice once broken by the inspiring thoughts and words of the love-sick “Raphael,” I feel now almost equal to the composition and delivery of an energetic and passionate appeal that shall carry the heart of the lady by storm; but then, having once been refused, I dread a second attempt. “A burnt child fears the fire;” and a singed lover trembles before the blazing eyes of the object of his adoration. I have yet a short time before the expiration of my hour of trial, and the character of “Sir Thomas Clifford” from which to borrow courage. (_Enter STELLA, C._)