ORAN.
Hold! hold! young man, talk not of vengeance here;
This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words—
If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.
[A silence—continuing the passes.
O Mabel! Mabel! hear me where thou art!
Come to the lonely heart that yearns for thee,—
Come to the eyes that seek thee through salt tears!
Patience, Sirs, now methinks the sense returns;
A smile steals o'er her lips, and roseate hues
Make morning on her downy cheek again:
Back … back—my anguish shall unwind the charm!
[A silence.
FATHER.
Sir, I acquit you—pity you—perceive
You loved her, and have err'd against yourself;
But cease these struggles that but mock us now,
They nought avail—my child is dead!…
ORAN.
Mabel! Mabel!