You have loved yourself, Andre, else I
should weary you.
_Andre_. Not a bit the more do I understand you though. You talk most
lover-like; that's very clear, yet I must say I never saw the part worse
played. Why, here's your ladye-love, this self-same idol of whom you
rave, at this moment perchance, breathing within these woods,--years
too--two mortal years it must be, since you have seen her face; and
yet--you stand here yet, with folded arms;--a goodly lover, on my word!
_Mait_. Softly, Sir! you grace me with a title to which I can lay no
claim. Lover I _was_, may be. I am no lover now, not I--not I; you are
right; I would not walk to that knoll's edge to see the lady, Sir.
_Andre_. Well, I must wait your leisure, I see.
_Mait_. And yet, the last time that we stood together here, her arm lay
on mine, my promised wife. A few days more, and by _my_ name, all that
loveliness had gone. There needed only that to make that tie holy in all
eyes, the holiest which the universe held for us; but needed there that,
or any thing to make it such in ours. Why, love lay in her eye, that
evening, like religion, solemn and calm.
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