Forgael. How could I rest
If I refused the messengers and pilots
With all those sights and all that crying out?
Dectora. I am a woman, I die at every breath.
Aibric [to the Sailors]. To the other ship, for there’s no help in words,
And I will follow you and cut the rope
When I have said farewell to this man here,
For neither I nor any living man
Will look upon his face again.
[Sailors go out, leaving one torch perhaps in a torch-holder on the bulwark.