Believing that at near a hundred yards
So small a being would be safe enough,
But, strange to tell, I hit her. Here she is;
She moves—poor little lady! Ah, she’s dead!
Gal. Oh, horrible! oh, miserable man!
What have you done?—(Takes Fawn into her arms)—
Why, you have murdered her!
Poor little thing! I know not what thou art;
Thy form is strange to me; but thou hadst life,
And he has robbed thee of it! (Gives it back to Leuc.)