Riche. Dost seek a bribe?
If hunger pinch, or thirst provoke desire,
This purse—
Wid. Perish thy gold! back with thy dross!
Nor dare again insult the misery
That thou and thine have wrought. I called thee murderer!
And such thou art! Will gold redeem the dead?
Bribe the cold grave? Have these poor weeds so changed me,
Has frenzy so deformed what once was fair,
That recollection of me has escaped thee?
Then thus I'll shriek into thy ears—I was
Camouse's wife—was mother of his sons;
Those sleepers in the bloody grave thou gav'st them.
What am I now?—suspected and a wanderer!
Am mad—and worse than all,—I know I'm mad!
Look not on me—thy glance inflames my brain,
And dries the curses on my parched tongue
I long have sought to utter to thy face.
Blasted of Heaven! I will not meet thee more
Till I shall meet thee there. (pointing to heaven.)
[Exit Widow.
Riche. Ho! seize the wretch!
And let fierce tortures—gone!—still do I hear her—
Still I shudder. Is conscience then no tale
To frighten coward hearts, and is there truth
In retribution?
Enter Valancour.
Ha! what has delayed thee?
Val. But now I've left the council.
Riche. The result!
The maid! has she then consented?
Val. She has!
Riche. 'Twas sure she would; and yet I guess not easily.