[The word overwhelms her anew.
Am I not needy, fain of it, and can
Endurance ever dure!
What have I left ...
Of joy to ripple in me or of light
To sway me to forgetting—I to whom
Dawn was enchanted incense once, and day,
The least of earth, an ides of heaven bliss.
What to me left! to me!
Who shepherded each happy flock of waves
Running with silvery foaming there to shore,
Who numbered the little leaves with laughing names
Out of my love,
And quickened the winds with quicker winds of hope,
That now are spent ... as summer waters,
Leaving my breast a torrent's barren bed.
Pity and pity! ever pity! No.
[Enter Hassan.
A nun to pity I will be no more.
But you, cruel Venetian.... Ah, ah,
Mother of God! is there no gentleness
In thee to move her and dissolve away
This jeopardy congealing over us?
[A pause.
Vittia. You see, none.
Yolanda. Ah, for sceptre and for might
Then to compel you.
Vittia. Still, there is none.
Yolanda. None....
[Sinks to a seat in despair.