HAEMON: Then shall he rest--lie easy down and rest In treachery?
CHARLES: He----?
HAEMON: Yes.
CHARLES: You mean----?
HAEMON: Yes!--yes!
CHARLES: Antonio?
HAEMON: Is it not open?
CHARLES (_confusedly_): No:
Glooms start around me, glooms that seethe and cling.
HAEMON: This maid who called, did she come idly here?
You stir? you rouse?
CHARLES: A coldness runs in me.
HAEMON: And have not I come strangely on the hour!
CHARLES: It 'gins to burn!
HAEMON: Not entered a strange way?
CHARLES: You pause and ever pause upon my patience.
'Twill heave unbearably!
HAEMON: Then hear me, hear!--
Senseless against a bank I found a boy,
Hurled by some ruthless hoof. Near him this key
And writing----
CHARLES: Tell it!
HAEMON: That avows, mid lines
Clandestine of purport, Antonio
And Helena, under these shades at twelve----
CHARLES: You bring on me a furious desolation.
But Fulvia, ah, she----
HAEMON: Not there is trust!
She is aware and aids in his deceit.
This writing says it of her.
CHARLES: Fulvia? No!
No, no!--Though she had sudden whispers for him!
A lie--Yet fast belief fixes its fangs
On me and will not loose me--for against
My hope she set a coldness and a doubt!
O woman woven through all fibres of me!
(_Starting up._) But he----!
HAEMON: Ah then, it runs in you, the rush
And pang that answer mine?