General [after a pause].
Admit her. [Seward goes out.] Oh, for the art, the precious art,
To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows!
[Honora rushes in, and throws herself wildly on her knees before him; he endeavours to raise her.
Honora.
Nay, nay, here is my place, or here, or lower,
Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms away!
Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to thee.—
I am his wife—'tis I have ruin'd him—
Oh, save him! Give him to me! Let us cross
The mighty seas, far, far—ne'er to offend again.—
[The General turns away, and hides his eyes with his hand.
Enter Seward and an Officer.
General.
Seward, support her—my heart is torn in twain.
[Honora as if exhausted, suffers herself to be raised, and leans on Seward.