“Ah—yes, she goes to be thy herald. Unrelenting is the poison. If ’twill let me stay near thee but for a little, little while. Ah, place my cold hand against thy trembling lips, thou knowest now my wealth of love for thee. I did mean to save thee at my life’s expense; this was the price. No more, no less.”
“And I fell back from thee—turned from thee. Mine eyes have fallen from my face. Leonora—look up, look up.”
“I am too weak. Keep your hands about me. So let me die! Ah, ’tis well as it is.”
At this moment the count came to the door to claim his bride.
“Good-bye—oh, good-bye!” and she sank exhausted in his arms.
Even this scene did not soften Di Luna. No reverence had he for the poor dead lady—no reverence had he for the maddened lover, straining his eyes upon the dear one’s face. The guards, who waited without, came in, and tore them asunder.
“Mother,” he cried, “mother.”
But she slept on unheedingly. Slept on while they bore her son away to death.
Again, as he was wrenched across the threshold, he cried, “Mother.” And now, she trembled in her sleep.
Again, and again, she trembled. Then with a shudder she awoke. She looked round quickly, and clasped her hands about her breast, as she no longer saw her son. Then her eyes rested on the count. With a bound she was by his side. “Thou hast stolen him—thou hast stolen while I slept.”