Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought,
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze,
Keen lightning to a look.
Vit. Leave me in peace!
Is't not enough that I should have a sense
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark,
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words,
Old man, should gall me too?—Must all conspire
Against me?—Oh! thou beautiful spirit! wont
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love,
Where art thou vanish'd?—Was it not the thought
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task,
And wilt thou now forsake me?—I must seek
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance,
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths;
—Here I but meet despair! [Exit Vittoria.
Ans. (to Constance.) Despair not thou,
My daughter!—he that purifies the heart
With grief, will lend it strength.
Con. (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did she not say
That some one was to die?
Ans. I tell thee not
Thy pangs are vain—for nature will have way.
Earth must have tears; yet in a heart like thine,
Faith may not yield its place.
Con. Have I not heard
Some fearful tale?—Who said, that there should rest
Blood on my soul?—What blood?—I never bore
