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 God's mercy! Sir, you men know not this, that in a woman the heart has its modesty no less than the body. Well, yes,—since you insist upon knowing, since you pretend not to understand,—it is true that each day I postpone Fabiani's execution until the morrow, because each morning strength fails me at the thought that the bell of the Tower will soon strike the signal for that man's death; because I feel my senses leaving me at the thought that the axe is being sharpened for that man; because I feel that I am dying when I think that the nails are being driven in that man's coffin; because I am a woman, because I am weak, because I am mad, because I love that man, God help me!—Have you enough? Are you content? Do you understand? Oh! I shall find a way some day to revenge myself upon you for all that you force me to say, I promise you!

Renard.'Tis high time, nathless, to have done with Fabiani. You are to marry my royal master the Prince of Spain, Madame.

The Queen.If the Prince of Spain is not content, let him say as much, and we will espouse another. We shall not lack suitors. The son of the King of the Romans, the Prince of Piedmont, the Infant of Portugal, Cardinal Pole, the King of Denmark, and Lord Courtenay, are as honourable gentlemen as he.

Renard.Lord Courtenay! Lord Courtenay!

The Queen.An English baron, Master Renard, is the equal of a Spanish prince. Moreover, Lord Courtenay is descended from the Emperors of the East. And then—be angry if you please!

Renard.Fabiani has gained the hatred of every person in London who hath a heart.

The Queen.Save myself.