Antonio: Weary with vigil does it swell and sink,
Moaning the dead.
Helena: Ah, no! There are no dead
To-night in all the world. Could God see them
Lie cold and wondrous still, while we are rich
In warmth and throb!
Antonio: Yet, hear. The funeral tread
Of the old sea sighs in each strain, and breaks.
Helena: As I were drowned and heard it over me,
It cometh—cometh!
(Her head droops back on his arm. A pause.)
Antonio (touching her face): Cold! cold!—your lips—your brow!
And you are pale as with a prophecy!
Helena: Oh—oh!
Antonio: Your spirit is not in you but
Afar and suffering!
Helena: A vision sweeps me.
Antonio: Awake from it!