OR, THE ANGEL OF VENICE 
61 
 
MONICA. 
 
Once—kiss your wife ! 
The guard comes. 
 
Enter a Soldier, covered with blood, his right arm hanging use-
less by his side.  He staggers and gasps. 
 
SOLDIER. 
Pardon me !  All’s lost. 
MONICA. 
 
Nay, say nothing yet ! 
Be of good courage.  God’s a host they have not met ! 
ORLANDO.  What is it ? 
SOLDIER. 
 The damned hunchback ’tis so bloodily 
That bears it.  The two gates are his.  We can but die. 
ORLANDO.  Is he run mad ?  A convent ! 
SOLDIER. 
 
Mad !  he’s mad with lust 
And blood.  Yet by his side he had the Archbishop. 
ORLANDO. 
 
Trust 
His wit to find a trick for that ! 
SOLDIER. 
So now we fight 
In the very court. 
ORLANDO. 
I’ll hurl me at his throat to-night ! 
Come, sir, your sword in your left hand !  Strike one last blow ! 
SOLDIER.  I am your servant to command. 
ORLANDO.  [To MONICA.] 
Now pray ! 
MONICA. 
 
O no ! 
I will compel the Christ to hear !  My fierce demands 
Shall strike again the Roman’s spear in those pale hands ! 
Go, and God guard you ! 
ORLANDO. 
 
Never fear !  our storm-star stands. 
[ORLANDO, with drawn sword, and the soldier rush 
out.  MONICA kneels again at the prie-Dieu, with 
outstretched hands, the nails clenched tightly into