Mor. God help you!
Mait. Dead! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's one that, never having seen them, talks of death. Oh God! is it thus we meet at last? At last these arms are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her, but her eye answers me not. Dead!—for me? Murdered!—mine own hand hath done it.
Mor. Why do you start thus?
Mait. Hush!—hush! There!—again—that slow heavy throb—again! again!
Mor. Good God! she breathes! This is life indeed.
Mait. (Solemnly.) Ay, thank God. This moment's sweetness is enough.
Mor. How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs! Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen!
Mait. I have heard it again!—from the buried years of love and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tis she. This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her head is on my bosom. Death cannot rob me of this sweetness now.
(Talking without.)
A Lady. This way—I hear their voices. Down this pathway—here they are.