Come, come and see how thy one sin has grown
To widest hell! Thy Glaia dead ... even cold ...
And Margaret ... not dead ... but would she were!
[Bends over her]
Yea, I could love thee then. My Margaret,
Couldst do this thing? Thy hand was ever tender,
And oft thou coveredst even guilt with mercy.
... She could not do it.... Ay, she could ... she could.
For her ancestral steps are marked with blood,
And but to-night her eye flashed with a look