Cha. One bliss is man's
The perfect angels know not. In the arms,
Warm, rhythmic, round his battling soul, to feel
Spur of his noblest blood, and know his dreams
Are mated,—find in lightest winds that stir
Love's tremulous hair, the brave wing of his hope
That needs go farthest,—and when seasons fail,
And weary spirit turns from waste to waste,
Know lips that he may touch and touching kiss
The fallow world to harvest. Thus, and thus!
[Hudibrand, forgotten by the lovers, has fought through another moment of agony, and advances, taking hold of Hernda]
Hud. Are you my daughter?
Her. I am, but I've known hours
When shame, a cleansing fire, searched through my blood
For any drop that owned you father.
Hud. In!
Go in! [To Chartrien] And you—I'll rid the earth of you,
And take its thanks! [Staggers with a return of pain]
Her. [Her arms about him] O, father, let us help!
What is it, father?
Hud. Nothing. Keep away!
Away!
[Throws her off. Enter, lower right, an officer attended]
Off. Your majesty, there's sure report
LeVal makes ready to oppose his guns
To our weak garrison.
Hud. [Ironic] The spectre's near?