LUCREZIA.
He is dead, Ippolito!
IPPOLITO.
Read—from your husband.
LUCREZIA.
Tell me ... the parchment rocks.... You see
My hands, my eyes are helpless; but my soul
Is firmer. Tell me....
CRISTOFERO.
He is dead, Madonna!
LUCREZIA.
God told me—and I only hear it now!
Cesare!—and so far, so far....
Oh, tell me,
Save me in nothing: I shall lose all refuge
Of credence if you do not make me sure
As death that he is dead.