Lady A. Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me.
Helen. My mother, oh my mother, come to me. Come, Annie, come, come! Strangers all!
Mor. Her eye is on him. Hush!
Andre. See in an instant how the light comes flashing up from those dim depths again. That is the eye that I saw yesterday.
Lady A. That slowly settling smile,—deeper and deeper—saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing lovely?
Helen. Is it—is it—Everard Maitland—is it thee? The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of life doth he stand there now? Doth he? 'Tis he!
Mait. Helen!
Helen. 'Tis he! That tone's spell builds around me its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to meet its fearfulness.
Mait. Helen,—dost thou love me yet?
Helen. Doubter, am I dying here?