Cora. Oh, she was always an affectionate mother!—All the happiness of my life was buried in her grave.
High-Priestess. You have doubtless a sacred reverence for her memory?
Cora. Can that be made a question!—Alas how many are the tears which I have shed for her in secret.
High-Priestess. If such your affection, you surely would not convict her of a falsehood, as she rests in her grave. Must I be compelled to think that it was only the blindness of maternal love which could ascribe to you this gentle and complying disposition?—or will you convince me that she was right in her judgment?
Cora. She was right!
High-Priestess. Then prove it to me. The mother’s friend has an undoubted claim upon the daughter’s confidence.
Cora. Ah me!—
High-Priestess. The last words that were uttered by her pallid lips, still vibrate in my ears. “My child” she said, “is young and inexperienced, should she ever want maternal counsel, be it received from you!”—She spoke,—with her cold hands pressed mine, and expired. (Cora betrays symptoms of irresolution, and appears combating with herself. The High-Priestess continues after a pause) And your aged and reverend father, when he gave you into my hands, kissed you and said, “Take her, she is a good girl, and will not occasion you any trouble.”—Afterwards, when he was about to return home, when he gave you his last blessing, while a tear trembled on his grey eye-lashes, what were his parting words—“Cora, honour her as a mother.”
Cora. (Falling at her feet) I love!
High-Priestess. (Starting with horror) You love?