And points the deadly chalice!"
Count. Ha! even so!
Countess. Sometimes he'd seize my hands, and grasp them close,
And strain them to his hollow, burning eyes;
Then falter out, "I am, I am a villain!
Mild angel, pray for me;—stir not, my child;
It comes again;—oh, do not leave my side."
At last, quite spent with mortal agonies,
His soul went forth—and Heaven have mercy on him!
Count. Enough! Thy tale has almost iced my blood.