El. 'Tis not the dead; 'tis Theobald himself,
Alive and well, who standeth by thy side.
Or. (looking wildly round.)
Let him begone! The place is horrible!
Baneful to flesh and blood.The dreadful blast!
Their hounds now yell below i'the centre gulph;
They may not rise again till solemn bells
Have given the stroke that severs night from morn.
El. O rave not thus! Dost thou not know us, Orra?
Or. (hastily.) Aye, well enough I know ye.
Urst. Ha! think ye that she does?
El. It is a terrible smile of recognition,
If such it be.
Hart. Nay, do not thus your restless eye-balls move,
But look upon us steadily, sweet Orra.
Or. Away! your faces waver to and fro;
I'll know you better in your winding-sheets,
When the moon shines upon ye.
Theo. Give o'er, my friends; you see it is in vain;
Her mind within itself holds a dark world
Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms!
Contend with her no more.
