Gon. I do! why dwells there not
Power in a glance to speak it? They must die!
They—must their names be told?—our sons must die,
Unless I yield the city!
Xim. Oh, look up!
My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.
Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not theirs!
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope?
—And there is hope! I will not be subdued—