A demon in your blood to strike poor Glaia,—
And too-dear love of me which vainly hoped
To give me peace where never peace could be.
O, look not so! At God's own throne 'twill be
Forgiven thee, for surely thou wert tried
As Heaven tries its own.
Kent. Art mad at last?
Thy crime confessed to all the world, and yet
Denied to me, the only heart that knows? [She gazes at him, bewildered]
Poor soul, her madness has been slow enough.