Surgeon.
Art ill,
Madam?—
The Lady (rising).
Thanks, sir. But sorrow cannot kill.
Would that it could! Nay, I sit by his side—
Thus. Now tell all—all—all.
Surgeon.
You cannot hide
The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek;
Let me get—
The Lady.
Nothing. Nothing can avail,
Good sir; my very heart’s blood has turned pale.
Struck by God’s lightning, do you talk to me
Of faintness? Only tell your tale—speak, speak;
You saw him die?
Surgeon.