O’er which thou may’st weep proudly!
[He sinks back.
To thy breast
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart
Hath touch’d my veins.
Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond?
Alas! thine eye grows dim—its wandering glance
Is full of dreams.
Raim. Haste, haste, and tell my father
I was no traitor!