In fetters? You? By holy Heaven, though giants forged these on I'd strip them off! [_Breaks her fetters_] _Mar._ O, let me wear them, sir! My bond of blessedness--for I am blest In dying for your sin! _Kent._ That word again? My sin? _Mar._ Forgive me, Hubert. 'Twas no sin. Indeed, 'twas none. For you were not yourself. 'Twas madness. Heaven must forgive it thee. _Kent._ God help thee, Margaret! Wouldst say I did it? _Mar._ Not you, but heavy, secret woe that bred A demon in your blood to strike poor Glaia,-- And too-dear love of me which vainly hoped To give me peace where never peace could be. O, look not so! At God's own throne 'twill be Forgiven thee, for surely thou wert tried As Heaven tries its own. _Kent._ Art mad at last? Thy crime confessed to all the world, and yet Denied to me, the only heart that knows? [_She gazes at him, bewildered_] Poor soul, her madness has been slow enough. Come, bruised darling, with thy blood-stained hands! Thou 'rt mine, my only love! [_Embracing her. She moves from him_] _Mar._ 'Tis you that speak Wild words. My blood-stained hands? They're free of blood As the pure angel's who writes golden down The saintliest deeds of men! _Kent._ Whate'er thy words, Thine eyes are true, and there's no madness in them. But, Margaret, I found thee by her side---- _Mar._ 'Twas there I swooned---- _Kent._ The dagger in thy hand---- _Mar._ Yes, in my hand, but, Hubert--hear me, Hubert! I saw you come from Glaia's curtained bed, Slow and despairing, murmuring "She sleeps," As though you said she slept to wake no more. I entered, saw her pale, drew back the coverlet-- There ran the stream that drained her beauty's rose-- There lay your dagger--yours. And then I thought By dying there to save your life and name, But fainted, O, too soon---- _Kent._ My heart, my heart! O, had I done such deed would I have left My dagger to confess it? Glaia called-- Not so--I dreamed she called--and going there, Found her in deepest sleep--or thought I found Her so--and touched her not lest she should stir And know her woes again. _Mar._ It was not you? _Kent._ That question makes your tongue a dagger's point, And yet my doubt of you was deeper wrong, Measuring all the difference between Man's grosser soul and woman's altar-lit. O, Margaret, some serpent heart planned well To do this deed and leave the guilt with me. _Mar._ Who--who, my Hubert? Nay, it matters not, Since 'twas not you--not you! In two small words My heaven is built again!