Bothwell: You do not want courage?
Mary: Perhaps.
Bothwell: Take it from me.
Mary: It would be none, so. But I do not think my courage is at fault. Your love could not better me; I fear that.
Bothwell: You want my love, burningly you want it.
Mary: I know—yes. But for an enterprise like that love must be durable. Yours would fail—it is not a fault in you, but it would.
Bothwell: Even so, what then has been lost?
Mary: A shadow merely — a hope, a little hope, I do not know of what — but that out of some fortunate moment, somehow it might come.
Bothwell: What?
Mary: The love that should save me.
Bothwell: But time goes. Danger is here now. And I love you, now. Your love, your shadow—where is that?
Mary: I know. But in my heart it is all I have left. Nothing, a poor nothing — but all. If I go with you, it is but one step farther into the darkness, the last. Even the shadow would
