Marg. Life is a hideous riddle unto some,
That it were better they had never solved.
Cath. Margaret, I am your mother. Tell me quick,
Gerbhert, where is Gerbhert? Will he come?
Marg. He will never come. O Mother! O Mother!
Cath. What are your words? Where hath he gone, my Child?
Marg. How can I tell you? ’Tis the church’s will
That he must leave me, I must be no wife,
Or he no husband. The Pope hath sworn it.
Cath. The Pope! The Pope, you say?