ROSAMUND.
God bless him for it.
BECKET.
Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury,
Nor make me traitor to my holy office.
Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle,
'The King is sick and almost unto death.'
How could I excommunicate him then?
ROSAMUND.
And wilt thou excommunicate him now?
BECKET.
Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it.
And were it longer--well--I should not do it.
ROSAMUND.
Thanks in this life, and in the life to come.
BECKET.
Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste;
Let this be thy last trespass. But one question--
How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey?
No fever, cough, croup, sickness?
ROSAMUND.
No, but saved
From all that by our solitude. The plagues
That smite the city spare the solitudes.
BECKET.
God save him from all sickness of the soul!
Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns,
May that save thee! Doth he remember me?
ROSAMUND.
I warrant him.
BECKET.
He is marvellously like thee.
ROSAMUND.
Liker the King.
BECKET.
No, daughter.
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