Aymer de Chatillon, Moraima.
Mor. (bending over a couch on which her brother is sleeping.)
He sleeps so calmly now; the soft wind here
Brings in such lulling sounds! Nay, think you not
This slumber will restore him? See you not
His cheek’s faint glow?
Aym. (turning away.) It was my sword which gave
The wound he dies from!
Mor. Dies from! say not so!
The brother of my childhood and my youth,