Amaury. That you may palter!
Yolanda (gently). That she may not grieve.
[Goes again to bier.
For—if her soul is near—it now 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.
Yolanda!
Renier. Girl, what rends you?