A PEASANT.
We were under the tree where the path turns
When she grew pale as death and fainted away,
And while we bore her hither, cloudy gusts
Blackened the world and shook us on our feet:
Draw the great bolt, for no man has beheld
So black, bitter, blinding, and sudden a storm.
[One who is near the door draws the bolt.
OONA.
Hush, hush, she has awakened from her swoon.