Countess. O Lord of earth and heaven!
Is it not she? my daughter, pale and bleeding!
She's cold, stark cold:—can you not speak to me?
Which of you have done this?
Count. 'Twas ease till now;
Fall, fall, thick darkness, hide me from that face!
Aust. Rise, madam, 'tis in vain.—Heaven comfort her!
Countess. Shall I not strive to warm her in my breast?
She is my all; I have nothing left but her.