I am a woman, stung by injuries.
Narbonne was once my husband—my protector;
He was—what was he not?—He is my tyrant;
The unnatural tyrant of a heart, that lov'd him.
With cool, deliberate baseness, he forsakes me;
With scorn as steadfast shall my soul repay it.
Aust. You know the imminent danger threatens him,
From Godfrey's fearful claim?
Countess. Too well I know it;