_Mor_. How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs! Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen! _Mait_. I have heard it again!--from the buried years of love and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tis _she_. This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her head is on my bosom. Death cannot rob me of this sweetness now. (_Talking without_.) _A Lady_. This way--I hear their voices. Down this pathway--here they are. (_Lady Ackland and Andre enter the Glen_.) _Lady A_. I knew it could not be. They told us she was murdered, Maitland. (_Starting back_.) Ah--ah--God help thee, Maitland! _Mait_. Listen, listen. She was speaking but now. There--again! _Lady A_. And this is she! Can the wilderness blossom thus? And did God unfold such loveliness--for a waste so cruel? _Helen_. (_In a low murmur_.) We are almost there. If we could but pass this glen. Oh God! will they stop here? Go on,--go on. Was not that a white tent I saw? Go on. They will not. 'Tis nothing,--do not weep. _Mait_. Look at me, Helen.--Open these eyes. One more look--one more. _Andre_. She hears your bidding. _Mait_. Oh God! Do you see those eyes--those dim, bewildered eyes?--it is quenched--quenched. Let her lean on you. _Lady A_. Gently--gently, she does not see us yet. _Helen_. Oh Mother, I am ill and weary. Here's this dream again! Blue sky? and pine-tree boughs? Am I here indeed? Yes, I remember now,--we stood upon that cliff--I am dying. Is there no one here? Whose tears are these? _Lady A_. Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me. _Helen_. My mother, oh my mother, come to me. Come, Annie, come, come! Strangers all! _Mor_. Her eye is on him. Hush! _Andre_. See in an instant how the light comes flashing up from those dim depths again. _That_ is the eye that I saw yesterday. _Lady A_. That slowly settling smile,--deeper and deeper--saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing lovely? _Helen_. Is it--is it--Everard Maitland--is it _thee_? The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of life doth he stand there now? Doth he? _'Tis he!_ _Mait_. Helen! _Helen_. 'Tis he! That tone's spell builds around me its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to meet its fearfulness. _Mait_. Helen,--dost thou love me _yet_? _Helen_. Doubter, am I dying here? _Mait_. 'Tis her own most rich and blessed smile, even as of old in mirth it shone upon me. Your murderer, you count me then?