BRANGÆNA.
The draught—for whom?
ISOLDA. Him who betrayed!
BRANGÆNA. Tristan?
ISOLDA. Truce he'll drink with me.
BRANGÆNA (throwing herself at ISOLDA'S feet). O horror!
Pity thy handmaid!
ISOLDA. Pity thou me,
false-hearted maid!
Mindest thou not
my mother's arts?
Think you that she
who'd mastered those
would have sent thee o'er the sea
without assistance for me?
A salve for sickness
doth she offer
and antidotes
for deadly drugs:
for deepest grief
and woe supreme
gave she the draught of death.
Let Death now give her thanks!
BRANGÆNA (scarcely able to control herself). O deepest
grief!
ISOLDA. Now, wilt thou obey?
BRANGÆNA. O woe supreme!
ISOLDA. Wilt thou be true?