I am mad, I am jealous! That 's the truth. Don't be offended. For some time past it has seemed to me that I have seen young gentlemen prowling about here. Do you know, Jane, that I am thirty-four years old? What a misfortune for a wretched, awkward, ill-clad workingman like myself, who is no longer young, who is not comely, to love a beautiful, fascinating child of seventeen, who attracts fine young noblemen, begilt and bedizened, as a light attracts moths! Oh! I am suffering sorely! I never insult you in my thoughts, you so sincere, so pure, whose brow no lips save mine have ever touched! It simply seems to me that sometimes you take too much pleasure in watching the Queen's retinue and riding parties pass, and in seeing all those fine coats of satin and velvet beneath which there are so few hearts and so few souls! Forgive me!—Great Heaven! why is it that so many young gentlemen come to this place? Why am I not young, handsome, nobly born and rich? Gilbert the carver—that is all. And they are Lord Chandos, and Lord Gerard Fitz-Gerard, and the Earl of Arundel, and the Duke of Norfolk! Oh! how I hate them! I pass my life carving for them hilts for swords whose blades I would like to run through their bodies.
Jane.Gilbert!
Gilbert.Forgive me, Jane. Love makes a man very wicked, does it not?
Jane.No, very good. You are good, Gilbert.
Gilbert.Oh! how I love you! More and more every day. I would like to die for you. Love me, or love me not—you are free. I am mad. Forgive all that I have said. It is late. I must leave you. Good-night. My God! how hard it is to leave you!—Go inside. Haven't you the key?
