_Lilia_.
My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;

[_Putting her arms round him_.]

I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!

_Julian_.
I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses' feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground.

[_Sighing_.]

My wounds are not of such.

[LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a
kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.]

No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!