Queen. Now, God be praised, it was by Posa's hand
He was made prisoner.
Princess of Eboli. And say you that
So calmly, queen? So coldly? Righteous Heaven!
You think not—Oh! you know not——
Queen. Wherefore he's
A prisoner? For some error, I suppose,
Which to the headlong character of youth
Was natural.
Princess of Eboli. Oh no—no! I know better!
O queen! An infamous, a devilish deed!
For him there is no safety more! He dies!
Queen. He dies?
Princess of Eboli. And I—I am his murderess!
Queen. He dies? Insane—consider you.
Princess of Eboli. And wherefore,
Wherefore dies he? Oh, could I but have known
That it would come to this!
Queen. (taking her hand.) Princess, your senses
Have quite forsaken you. Collect your spirits,
Compose yourself—that without looks of horror
That so affright me, you may tell me all.
What know you? What has happened?
Princess of Eboli. Oh, not thus,
Not with such heavenly condescension—not
So graciously—my mistress! Flames of hell
Rage in this conscious breast. I am not worthy
To raise my look profane up to that summit
Of purity and glory. Crush, oh, crush
The wretch who at your feet lies bowed by shame,
Repentance—self-abhorrence!