(Alcestis bends over her daughter with a strange look; she takes the child’s hair in her hands on each side lifting it, and begins plaiting it together.)
Oh, look, look, look!
Alcestis.—
And thou, also, must die
Some day, fair child, and in the grave must lie.
Hark, what I tell thee: do not rise again!
Quiet is that dwelling, and therein is no pain.
Nurse.—
What hast thou said? Is not this world more bright
Than that dim realm where man can see no light,