Ostyn.Feet!—raindrops sure; rain on the russet bracken.
Theodora.What spirits are those yonder that smite their brows
With horror?
Ostyn.Spirits?
Theodora. Ostyn.Spirits?Where he lieth dead.
Ostyn.Ah, trees on th’ other shore of this most wild
And desolate mere. Mark you the coming storm
Has not yet reacht us quite; but there he rages.
The shrieking trees grow ashen in their fear,
Like spirits—yes. But now enough of this.