DUKE.
We will. You belong to our own race; we may trust you.
GOUROC.
Then prepare for sudden and secret flight.
DIANE.
[_Starting_.]
Flight! Where can we be safer than under our present host's
protection?
GOUROC.
Under mine, Mademoiselle. Kauvar is a man of the people. To him such
words as loyalty, truth and honour are but empty puffs of air.
DIANE.
[_Proudly and passionately_.]
On whose lips is there meaning purer, or prouder, than on Paul
Kauvar's?
DUKE.
[_With haughty surprise_.]
Mademoiselle! When you speak so warmly, you forget the distance that
separates you from one of his rank.
[_Cries in the distance of_ "To the Guillotine!" _with the roll of
muffled drums_.
DIANE.
[_In solemn voice_.]
Nay, father, listen!--Do we need more to remind us of the nearness of
the protected to the protector?
[_The_ DUKE _listens with bowed head_. GOUROC _goes to window_.
DUKE.
[_To_ GOUROC, _as drums draw near_.]
Is it the patrol?
GOUROC.
[_Solemnly_.]
No. Tis the guard of the death-cart, with to-day's load for the
guillotine.
DIANE.
[_Hiding her face_.]
This constant agitation is torture.
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