beat of fevered pulse, by the consuming flame of inward illumination!
Ernest. It is the fever of your blood and the delirium of bodily weakness that feed the delusion. Listen to me, sir
D. Julian. To hear how well you can lie?
Ernest. [Pointing to Teodora.] She is innocent.
D. Julian. But I do not believe you.
Ernest. Sir, by my father's memory
D. Julian. Don't insult his name and memory.
Ernest. By my mother's last kiss
D. Julian. That kiss has long since been wiped from your brow.
Ernest. What then do you want, father? I will swear by anything you wish. Oh, my father!
D. Julian. No oaths, or protests, or deceitful words.
Ernest. Then what? Only tell me.
Teodora. Yes, what, Julian?
D. Julian. Deeds.
Ernest. What does he wish, Teodora? What does he ask of us?
Teodora. I don't know. Oh, what are we to do, Ernest?
D. Julian. [Watching them in feverish distrust.] Ah, you would even deceive me to my face! You are plotting together, wretched traitors! I see it.
Ernest. It is fever that misleads you—not the testimony of your eyes.
D. Julian. Fever, yes. And since fever is fire, it has
90
