As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul!
Raim. Father! yet hear me!
Pro. No! thou’rt skill’d to make
E’en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus?
[Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment.
If there be aught—if aught—for which thou need’st
Forgiveness—not of me, but that dread Power
From whom no heart is veil’d—delay thou not
Thy prayer,—time hurries on.
Raim. I am prepared.