Con. Ione, thy voice hath been a holy spell to win me to my duty. Thy love shall keep me pure and faithful, till we meet above. Farewell! Ione. Farewell!--and oh, remember how I have loved thee; and may the memory of all I have borne for thee win thy pardon for any wrong I may have done thee. The princess will repay the grief the slave hath caused thy noble heart. Remember Ione, and be true. [_Exit._ Con. Gone, gone, now lost to me forever! Remember thee! Ah, how can I ever banish thy dear image from this heart that now hath grown so desolate? I will be true. None shall ever know how hard a struggle hath been mine, that I might still be worthy thee. Yes, Irene, I will strive to love thee, and may the gods give me strength; but Ione, Ione, how can I give thee up! [_Picks up a flower_ Ione _has dropped, and puts it in his bosom and goes sadly out._] CURTAIN. SCENE THIRTEENTH. [The Queen's _pavilion. A dark curtain hangs before an alcove. Enter_ Constantine.] Con. The hour hath come when I shall gaze upon the form of her who hath cast so dark a shadow o'er my life. Beautiful and young, and blessed with all that makes her worthy to be loved, and yet I fear I have not taught my wilful heart the tenderness I ought. I fear to draw aside the veil that hides her from me, for I cannot banish the sweet image that forever floats before mine eyes. Ione's soft gaze is on me, and the lips are whispering, "I love thee!" But I have promised to be true,--no thoughts of her must lead me now astray. My fate is here [_approaches the curtain_]. Let me gaze upon it, and think gently of the wife so soon to be mine own. Why do I fear? Courage, my heart! [_He draws aside the curtain, and_ Ione, _veiled, appears as a statue upon its pedestal._] Another veil to raise! How hard the simple deed hath grown. One last sweet thought of thee, Ione, and then I will no longer falter. [_He turns away and bows his head._] Ione. Constantine! [_He starts, and gazes in wonder as the statue, casting aside the veil, comes down and kneels._] Here at thy feet kneels thy hated bride,--the "proud, cold princess," asking thee to pardon all the sorrow she hath given thee. Ah, smile upon me, and forget Ione, who as a slave hath won thy love, but as the princess will repay it,--forgive, and love me still! Con. Thou, thou Irene,--she whom I so feared to look upon? Ah, no!--thou art Ione, the gentle slave. Say am I dreaming? Why art thou here to make another parting the harder to be borne? Fling by thy crown and be Ione again.