O, Europe! Europe! Peter, wilt thou see
That this place is kept sacred. Yon rose tree
Kept watered, and yon twin-mound holy,
Till thou dost die?
Pet. I will.
Hild. She was my daughter, Peter, and like her mother,
And the poor babe it looked so sweet in death,
Mine age went to it. O, Damiani,
These women and children twine about our hearts.
Pet. Wilt you go within?