Súmph.
Melfort. My God, it was behind me!
That sobers me!—Ho there, who shrieks?—
It is too near. What, am I drunk?
Am I sick? Do I reel?—The acid cry
Ran like a curdle through the blood.
Soft, soft, I must enquire here more.
A murder!—There, I am afraid
And wither where I stand; unarm’d—
But yet I’ll venture further. So!