My sense, confused, rests on no single grief;
For that were ease to this eternal pulse,
Which, throbbing here, says, blacker fates must follow;
Enter Count and Austin, meeting.
Count. Welcome, thrice welcome! By our holy mother,
My house seems hallow'd, when thou enter'st it.
Tranquillity and peace dwell ever round thee;
That robe of innocent white is thy soul's emblem,
Made visible in unstain'd purity.
Once more thy hand.