_Hil._ Oh, wretched man! I pardon thee--thou dost not, canst not know How deep a wound thine idle words have riven! Oh, heart! my broken heart! (_Sinks on to ground by dial._) My Mousta, shame upon thee for this jest-- This heartless jest--this scurril mockery! When thou wast sick to death I tended thee, Through weary days, and weary, weary nights, And bathed thy fevered brow, and prayed with thee, And soothed thy pain with such poor minstrelsy As I am mistress of--I sang to thee, And brought thee pleasant books to help thee speed The lagging hours of thy recovery. Has my heart seemed to thee so stony hard That it could bear this deadly blow unbruised? Oh, Mousta, shame upon thee for this jest! _Mous._ Jest, Lady Hilda? Nay, I did not jest! Why, look at me! _Hil._ (_gazing at him_). Oh, Mousta! Can it be That thou hast dared--No, no, impossible,---- It is too terrible! _Mous._ Ay, I _have_ dared! I studied necromancy--and I learnt To weave a mighty engine for myself-- A web that gives invisibility. (_Producing veil._) Shrouded in this, I woo’d thee yesternight! Oh, I _can_ woo--At least, I’ve shown thee that! A voice rang music in thine ears--’twas mine! Words thrilled thee to the core--_I_ spake those words! Love filled thy very soul--’twas _I_ that woo’d! My very self, stripped of the hideous mask In which my soul stands shrouded from the world. I’ll woo like that all day! But shut thine eyes, Or turn thine head away, and I shall make As fair a husband as the best of them! _Hil._ Oh, horrible! Go--get thee hence, away-- Take money--what thou wilt--but get thee hence! Oh, madman! madman! _Mous._ Why, what could I do? Should I have reasoned with myself, and said, “Mousta, when thou wast sick and like to die, The Lady Hilda came to thy bedside, And sat, and nursed thee day by day--’twas nothing! When writhing at thy very worst, her tears Fell on thy face like rain,--a woman’s trick! When baffled Death was tugging at thy throat, Her gentle prayers rose to the gate of Heaven, Mingled with the insensate blasphemies Of thy delirium--account it naught! Go to thy labour--get thy spade and dig, And when a foolish sob of gratitude Rises unbidden to thy choking throat” (They sometimes will--one can’t be sure of them), “Swear a big oath and whistle it away, Lest it take root and blossom into love!” Was _this_ my duty, think ye? No, no, no, My body’s twisted, lady, not my heart.