Or out _and_ die.
And what hast thou to do with this Fitzurse?

ROSAMUND.
Nothing. He sued my hand. I shook at him.
He found me once alone. Nay--nay--I cannot
Tell you: my father drove him and his friends,
De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle.
I was but fourteen and an April then.
I heard him swear revenge.

BECKET.
Why will you court it
By self-exposure? flutter out at night?
Make it so hard to save a moth from the fire?

ROSAMUND.
I have saved many of 'em. You catch 'em, so,
Softly, and fling them out to the free air.
They burn themselves _within_-door.

BECKET.
Our good John
Must speed you to your bower at once. The child
Is there already.

ROSAMUND.
Yes--the child--the child--
O rare, a whole long day of open field.