Now thou knowest. This love
Is no good lord—no gentle god—no soft
Saviour. Thou knowest perchance thy bride’s name—hers
Whose body and soul were one but now with thine?
ALMACHILDES.
How should not I? What darkling light is this
That burns and broods and lightens in thine eyes,
Queen?
ROSAMUND.
Hildegard it was not.
ALMACHILDES.
Art not thou—
Or am not I—sun-smitten through the brain
By this mad might of midsummer? Who was it
That slept or slept not with me while the night
Was more than noon and more than heaven? What name
Was hers who made me godlike?
ROSAMUND.
Rosamund.
ALMACHILDES.