Amaury (at bier). Upon her face!
Where not oblivion the void of death
Has hid away, or can, the agony
Of her last terror—but it trembles still.
I tell you, no. Grief was enough, but now
Through it has risen mystery that chokes
As a miasma from Iscariot's tomb.
And till this pall of doubt be rent away
No earth shall fall and quicken with her dust!
But I will search her face ... till it reveals.
Camarin. He raves.
Amaury. Iscariot! yes!
Yolanda. Again, peace, peace!
Amaury. That you may palter!
Yolanda (gently). That she may not grieve.
(Goes again to bier.)
For—if 'tis near—her soul with this is wrung.
Near! would it were to hear me and impart
Its yearning and regret to us who live,
Its dim unhappiness and hollow want.
Yes, mother, were you now about us, vain,
Invisible and without any voice
To tell us of you!
Were you and now could hear through what of cold
Or silence wrap you, oh, so humanly
And seeming but a veil—
Then would you hear me say—(suddenly aghast)
Ah, God!
Amaury. Yolanda!
(She starts back from the bier.)