Amaury. You lie to say it.
Camarin. Then will, still—if there
Is need.
Amaury. Because you love her?
Yolanda. Peace, peace, peace.
Amaury. A hollow word for what had never being.
Yolanda. Look on her face and see.
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!