From thy dear head, the still impending wrath,
For one black deed, that threatens all thy race.
[Exit Countess.
Adel. For thee my prayers shall rise, not for myself,
And every kindred saint will bend to hear me.
But, O my fluttering breast!—'Tis Theodore!
How sad, and earnestly, he views that paper!
It turns him pale. Beshrew the envious paper!
Why should it steal the colour from that cheek,
Which danger ne'er could blanch? He sees me not.