[She tries to stand and totters. Ebremar supports her, and
she stands pointing down as if into a visionary valley.]
Yonder he treads
The path o'er-muffled with the leaves—dead leaves,
Like happy thoughts grown sad in evil days.
He fades among the mists; how fast they come,
And pour upon the world! Ah! well a day!
Poor love and sorrow with their arms thrown round
Each other's necks, and whispering as they go,
Still wander through the world. He's gone, he's gone.
I'm weary—weary, and 'tis very cold.
I'll draw my cloak around me; it is cold.
I never knew a night so bitter cold.
[Dies.]
Ebremar. Mosada! Oh, Mosada!
[Enter Monks and Inquisitors.]
First Inquisitor. My lord, you called.
Ebremar. Not I. This maid is dead.
First Monk. From poison, for you cannot trust these Moors.
You're pale, my lord.
First Inquisitor. [aside] His lips are quivering.
The flame that shone within his eyes but now
Has flickered and gone out.
Ebremar.I am not well.
'Twill pass. I'll see the other prisoners now,
And importune their souls to penitence,
So they escape from hell. But pardon me.
Your hood is threadbare—see that it be changed
Before we take our seats above the crowd.