She'll waken soon, and that—that must not be!
I could not kill her if she looked at me.
I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did—
I trust she prayed before she fell asleep!
Beatrice [springing up].
So, you are come—your dagger in your hand?
Your lips compressed and blanchèd, and your hair
Tumbled wildly all about your eyes,
Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me!
And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.