Wildly she was looking before her, and tearing the bridal flowers she wore to shreds, and breaking into bits the lace about her dress.
“She—she wears the white veil! He looks on her, he smiles, and whispers that she is his bride. And I, whom now am I? Elvira is his bride—am not I? Elvira? why is he not here?”
Then wanderingly she placed her trembling right hand upon her head. “No, no,” she cried, and dropped the hand to her side.
“Elvira—dear daughter—speak to me.”
“No—no—NO—I am not Elvira.”
“And—and thy eyes are fixed and staring.”
“The judgment is heavy,” said the Captain, implacable. “Thus heaven punishes perfidy. She is mad.”
And yet the captain stood calmly as the general fell despairingly at his feet.
“But thou wilt return—mine Arthur—thou wilt return. I will faithfully wait for thee—wait—wait! And thou wilt come, Arthur. I will weep, I will weep for thee.”