“So soon!”
“Aye—so soon! I come to turn thy myrtles to cypresses.”
“Think—oh think! I have drunk from the cup of bitterness all my life—have tasted no happiness till now. Tarry a little—be merciful—tarry a little.”
“‘Take thou this horn—when from it sounds a blast
’Twill tell Ernani that his days are past’”
“Again—mercy!”
“I am a Spaniard.”
Then came flitting through the shade the white figure of the doubting bride. As she came near the spot where she had left Ernani she saw the grandee, and needed no words to be assured that her foreboding was no weak fear.
“See, she comes—thy bride—to see thee fall. Forward, fair lady—forward, fair widow!”
“Don Ruy—art implacable?”
“As death—’Twill tell Ernani that his days are past.’”