I am all imagination and sick scares;
And that dead face returns, ever returns—
Elaine’s face, smiling cold upon her bier.
She burnt her very heart out. Yet her face
Had peace on it, and joy! Dead! Did she love
Better than I?
(She looks out again.)
It has not moved. It must be fear’s invention.
(She throws herself before the Virgin’s image.)
Mother of God, Mother.... She is dead;