By some other hand than mine!
Agnes.
Did I weep? Behold, a stain!
Oh, my treasure! Jewell’d prize,
Bath’d in floods from aching eyes,
Lit with fires of tortured Will,
Holy Crowning-vesture, worn
By a child to Death’s font borne,
Oh, what riches have I still!
A sharp knock at the outer door; Agnes turns with a cry, and at the same moment sees Brand. The door is burst open, and a Woman, raggedly dressed, enters hastily, with a child in her arms.