Mor. You are right. I did not mark that break—yes—there she lies. Said I right, Maitland?
Mait. Helen Grey!—
Mor. Maitland! Heavens!—what a world of anguish that tone reveals!—Why do you stand gazing on that lovely sleeper thus?
Mait. Bring water. There's a cup at yonder spring. Here has been treachery! Devils and fiends have been working here against me. We must unclasp this mantle. The treasure of the earth lies here.—Now doth mine arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen, mine own true love; 'tis sweet, even thus.
Mor. This letter,—see—from those loosened folds it just now dropped. This might throw some light, perchance—
Mait. Let it be. There's light enough. I want no more. Water,—more water,—do you see?
Mor. Maitland,—this is vain. Mark this dark spot upon her girdle—
Mait. Hush, hush,—there, cover it thus—'tis nothing, Loosen this bonnet—so—'twas a firm hand that tied that knot; so—she can breathe now.
Mor. How like life, those soft curls burst from their loosened pressure! But mark you—there is no other motion, I am sorry to distress you,—but—Maitland—this lady is dead.
Mait. Dead! Lying hell-hound! Dead! Say that again.