And I confess to Father Anselmo
To-morrow—how can I ever tell him all?...
One last glance at the mirror. O, I'm sure
That they'll adore me at the ball to-night."
Before the fire she stands admiringly.
O God! a spark has leapt into her gown.
Fire, fire!—O run!—Lost thus when mad with hope?
What, die? and she so fair? The hideous flames
Rage greedily about her arms and breast,
Envelop her, and leaping ever higher,