“How doth the lady?” asked Benedick, approaching the spot where Beatrice was eagerly trying to recall her cousin to consciousness.
“Dead, I think,” cried Beatrice in despair. “Help, uncle! Hero—why, Hero! Uncle! Signor Benedick! Friar!”
“Death is the fairest cover for her shame that can be wished for,” said the heart-broken father.
“How now, Cousin Hero!” said Beatrice, as the young girl slowly opened her dazed eyes.
“Have comfort, lady,” said the Friar tenderly.
“Do you look up?” said Leonato.
“Yes; wherefore should she not?” said the Friar.
In his terrible grief, not questioning the truth of the story, Leonato declared that death was the happiest thing that could happen to Hero after such dishonour, and that if her spirit had strength enough to survive such shame, he could almost be tempted to kill her with his own hands.
“Sir, sir, be patient!” pleaded Benedick. “For my part, I am so attired in wonder I do not know what to say.”
“Upon my soul, my cousin is belied!” exclaimed Beatrice.