TRESHAM. He bade me tell you...

MILDRED. What I do forbid Your utterance of! So much that you may tell And will not--how you murdered him... but, no! You'll tell me that he loved me, never more Than bleeding out his life there: must I say "Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you.

TRESHAM. You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes: Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doom I wait in doubt, despondency and fear.

MILDRED. Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True! You loose my soul of all its cares at once. Death makes me sure of him for ever! You Tell me his last words? He shall tell me them, And take my answer--not in words, but reading Himself the heart I had to read him late, Which death...

TRESHAM. Death? You are dying too? Well said Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die: But she was sure of it.

MILDRED. Tell Guendolen I loved her, and tell Austin...

TRESHAM. Him you loved: And me?

MILDRED. Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope And love of me--whom you loved too, and yet Suffered to sit here waiting his approach While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech --Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath And respite me!--you let him try to give The story of our love and ignorance, And the brief madness and the long despair-- You let him plead all this, because your code Of honour bids you hear before you strike: But at the end, as he looked up for life Into your eyes--you struck him down!