_Kent._ Margaret, Go to the maiden lying yon and look Once more upon her vestal face, then ask If she know aught of guilt. [_Margaret looks silently toward the curtains_] _Mar._ [_In subdued tone_] She's there? _Kent._ Poor child! I thought you'd be her gentle, elder sister, And help me still her woeful flutterings. [_Turns away_] Where's now the proud, sure strength that made discount Of Heaven's arm? O, reed-propped vanities, Swelling usurpful till ye seem our life, Ye must come down that we may find ourselves And God. _Mar._ O, take me back! I did not know This spirit dwelt in me. One of my race, A woman, long ago, stabbed through a heart That played her false, yet she was gentle too, And died for what her hand had done. May be The unquiet dead come back to live in us. O, it was she stirred this strange passion in me. Twas not myself. Speak to me, Hubert! Say 'Twas not myself. _Kent._ [_Embracing her_] Sole angel of my love! _Mar._ You'll take me back? Let Time begin his count One minute past, and leave the last one out. O, say a word will sponge it from the day, Or all my future must turn back its face And live with gazing on that minute's point. _Kent._ It was not you, my heart. But say it were, Should I pull down my heaven because a bird Makes flying blot against it? 'Tis the doubts That darkly flitting show love's constant sky Forever radiant. _Mar._ O me! O me! And this is shame! _Kent._ Nay, sweet! Weep, if you must, But let thy tears be rain upon the soul Making a fair new season. _Mar._ Let me die! _Kent._ So overwrought? Thou who hast been my strength? _Mar._ If I were dead then you---- _Kent._ Should be as thou! 'Tis not thy death but Glaia's that would be The sad solution of these woes. _Mar._ Not her, So fair ... and dear to us. Kent. [_Kissing her_] My gentle love! ... 'Twere best she died, who now must drink the cup That makes death sweet in coming. I myself Almost could guide the knife unto her heart And cut off ruder visitors. _Mar._ O, veil The thought. Its nakedness has chilled my soul. _Kent._ Ay, she is God's, not mine. Leave her to him. And now, my life, you, too, must go to rest. _Mar._ You'll not to bed? _Kent._ The king may send for me. He will not sleep, for in his face was woe Will quiet not to slumber.