Earth’s chain each hour grows weaker.
Gon. (still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou’rt laid
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child!
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside
A sainted warrior’s tomb! Oh, fitting place
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul
Back unto him that gave it! And thy cheek
Yet smiles in its bright paleness!
Elm. Hadst thou seen
The look with which she pass’d!