A fearful claim indeed!
Aust. To-morrow's sun
Will see him at these gates; but trust my faith,
No violence shall reach you. The rash count
(Lost to himself) by force detains me here.
Vain is his force:—our holy sanctuary,
Whate'er betides, shall give your virtue shelter;
And peace, and piety, alone, approach you.
Countess. Oh, that the friendly bosom of the earth
Would close on me for ever!