Mait. Is it you? What was it we were saying yesterday?—we should have noted it. This were a picture worth your pencilling now. Those silken vestments,—that long, golden hair,—this youthful shape,—there's that same haughty grace about it, that the smile of these thought-lit eyes would disown with every glance. Then that letter,—and the Lady Ackland here,—Weeping?—This is most strange. I know you all,—but,—as I live I can't remember how this chanced. How comes it that we all stand here? Pearls?—and white silk?—a bridal?—Ha ha ha! (Laughing wildly.)
Lady A. Take me away. This is too terrible! lean stay here no longer. Take me away, Andre.
[Exeunt Andre and Lady A.
(An Officer enters.)
The Officer. We are ordered to withdraw our detachment, Captain Maitland. The rebels are just below, some two thousand strong, and in no mood to be encountered.
Mor. He does not hear you. We must leave that murdered lady here, and 'tis vain to think of parting them. Come.
[Exeunt Mortimer and Officer.
Mait. They are gone at last. They are all gone. I am alone with my dead bride. I must needs smile—I could not weep when those haughty and prying eyes were upon me, but now—I am alone with my dead bride.—Helen, they are all gone,—we are alone. How still she lies,—smiling too,—on that same bank. She will speak, surely she will. How lightly those soft lashes lie, as if a word would lift them.—Helen!—I will be calm and patient as a child. This lovely smile is deepening, it will melt to words again.—Hark! that spring,—that same curious murmur! We have checked our sweetest words to hear it, we have stood here listening to it, till we fancied, in its talk-like tones, wild histories, beautiful and sad, the secrets of the woods.—Oh God!—and have such memories no power here now? In mine ear alone doth the spring murmur now. Death! what is't?—Awake! awake,—by the love that is stronger than death,—awake!—
I thought that scene would shift. It had a heavy, dream-like mistiness. This is reality again. These are the pine trees that I dreamed of. See! how beautiful! With the sharp outline and the vivid hue such as our childhood's unworn sense yields, they are waving now. Look, Andre, there she sits, the young and radiant stranger,—there, in the golden sunset she is sitting still, braiding those flowers,—see, how the rich life flashes in her eye, and yet, just now I dreamed that she was dead, and—and—Oh my God!
(A voice without.)