Ard. What done? A miracle!
Who now can harm my love?
Ban. Your promises!
Your oaths!
Ard. I'd keep them, sir—ay, every one,
If grief would let me live to be your wife.
But I am weary, and my heavy stars
Have left their skies to hang upon me here.
My veins are empty, all their strength is out.
Does 't take so much to lift this little blade
And let it fall again?
[Biondel takes the dagger from her]
Think you I need
So poor a thing? Nay, God has struck for me,
As I for Him. I go with Vairdelan. [Kneels by body]
Look on this brow, if shame will let ye look.
An angel shaped it. Ye've unfashioned here
The work of Heaven. Sweet lips, no roses left?
Your hand, my lord, and now the sinless star. [Dies]
[Curtain]