_La. Alb._ O, happy I, when he my king Bent over me and said, "Sweet, she is ours!" _Hen._ My sister! _La. Alb._ What dost say? Thy sister? Ha! Base monk, I tell thee that her blood was royal As Henry's own! Ay, nobler! Who shall say My spirit leapt not o'er pale Isabel's? [_Retreats to couch by which is a small table. Puts box on table and lays her head upon it, weeping_] _Hen._ Then Glaia was my sister. Did you hear? _Fr._ I heard what I well knew before By my heart's guess, but had no proof of it. _La. Alb._ [_Starting up_] Hear, father! You've heard nothing yet. Last night I killed her. Do you hear? I killed her. _Hen._ O! _La. Alb._ You hear? Ay, for you gasp and mutter prayers. I thought to go and watch her while she slept, And walked a devil with me who held close A dagger--Hubert's--that's my brother, monk. Still, still, ye swirling fiends that in my brain Keep your hot dance! Be still!... She lay asleep, Pain in her heart and beauty on her brow; Her curls--her father's curls--around her face. One fell upon my wrist--and see, a burn, As though its gold were fire. She turned to me, And murmured as her father did in sleep; Then, in my hand the knife arose, and fell, And as my brain rocked sick I heard him say, My lover, bending o'er me, "She is ours." [_Pauses_] _Hen._ And then? _La. Alb._ What next I know not, but I think Some cunning led me to conceal the deed And make escape. I left the dagger there. 'Twas Hubert's. You had best be quick, or harm Will come to him. The world is such a fool! But wait--O, wait till I am dead! I am A coward born, and life has bred me such. Hark! Albemarle is coming! Lock the door! [_Runs to the table and takes up the box_] Look--in this box--my lover's letters--see! I have the key. I'll give it to the devil, And Albemarle may look for it in hell. O, I am dying! Hide them for me, priest. My letters from my king. I'll burn them all. Nay, nay, sweet, pretty words, lie down with me. Together we'll grow cold. Ye'd fire enough, God wot! [_Lies on couch_] Glaia is dead. Be quiet now. Hast heard I was her mother? There's a secret-- No--no--I must not speak it--but 'twill out By doomsgate, so they say. You are a priest; Canst tell how far 'tis from the grave to hell? You think they'll let me lie a little first And see how 'tis to sleep? 'Tis a long walk, I'll lie quite still, and give no trouble--none. [_Dies_] _Hen._ Help! Something to revive her. _Fr._ It were vain. Earth has not such restorative. _Hen._ Not dead? _Fr._ The heavenly amaranth alone can dew Her brow with life.