Gwin. Happiness—alas, no; my very dreams are but a counterpart of my waking horrors.—Last night, harassed, I threw me down to rest—a leaden slumber fell upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that thou and I had at the altar sworn a lasting faith.
Lucy. Did you so? Ambrose, did you so?—Oh! ’tis a happy presage: the dream was sent from heaven to bid you not despair.
Gwin. It was, indeed, a warning dream: hear the end. We were at the altar’s foot, girt round by happy friends, and thou smilest—oh, my heart beat quickly with transporting joy, as with one hand clasping thine, I strove to place the ring upon thy finger—it fell—and ringing on the holy floor, shivered like glass into a thousand atoms—astonished, I gazed a moment on the glittering fragments,—but when I raised my head, thou wert not to be found—the place had changed—the bridal train had vanished, and in its stead, I saw surrounding thousands, who, with upturned eyes, gazed like spectres on me—I looked for the priest, and in his place stood glaring at me with a savage joy, the executioner—I strove to burst away—my arms were bound—I cast my eyes imploringly to heaven—and there above me was the beam—the fatal beam—I felt my spirit strangling in my throat, ’twas but a moment—all was dark.
Lucy. Oh! heavens.
Gwin. Such was the forerunner of the coming horror—so will ten thousand glut their eyes upon my misery—and then the hangman—
[Lucy, who during the former and present speech of Gwinett, has been growing gradually insensible; here shrieks out, and rushes to him.
Lucy. Oh! speak it not—think it not—my heart is broken. (falls into his arms.)
Gwin. Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in my miseries to torture this sweet sufferer.
Lucy. (recovering.) There is then no hope—no, think not to deceive me, the terrible certainty frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades beneath the gloom! I shall not long survive you—a short time to waste myself in tears upon your grave.
Gwin. (aside.) My grave!—oh madness! even this last solace is deprived me—she’ll never weep o’er me—never pluck the weeds from off my tomb—but if she’d seek the corse of Gwinett—there! hung round with rattling chains, and shaking in the wind, a loathsome spectacle to all men—there she must, shuddering, say her fitful prayer.—Oh! I’m phrenzied, mad,—Lucy thus distracted, locked in each others arms, we’ll seek for death. (they embrace.)