Some fearful tale?—Who said that there should rest
Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore
Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes:
Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!—High heaven!
It bursts upon me now! And he must die!
For my sake—e’en for mine!
Ans. Her words were strange,
And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought;
—Perchance this may not be.
Con. It must not be.