Helena: And is the world
Not space enough but he must needs come here!
If it were——?
Antonio: Hæmon?—'Twere perhaps not ill.
Helena: I know not! Broodings smoulder from his moods
Feverous bitter.
Antonio: Kindness then shall quench them.
But now, away. Forget this dread and be you
By day my lark, by night my nightingale,
Not a sad bird of boding!
Helena: With the day
All will be well.
Antonio: Remember then you are
Only a little slept from your life's shore
Out on the infinite of love, whose air
Is awe and mystery.
Helena: I go, my lord.
Think of me oft!
Antonio (taking her in his arms): My Helena!
(She goes with Paula. He steps aside and watches the approaching forms.)
'Tis Hæmon!
My father!