)
_Helen_. Can I? (_She turns to the window_.) What can it mean? His own
beautiful steed! How fiercely he prances beneath that unskilful rein.
Where's your master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here? A
letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette.
_Jan_. And will you?
_Helen_. They are treacherous I know. This will do.--(_Taking a basket
from the toilette_.) Give me that cord. (_She lets down the basket from
the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it_.)
_Helen_. (_Looking at the superscription_.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is
it ink and paper that I want now? (_Breaking it open_.) Ah, there's no
forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his!
_Jan_. How can she stand to look at that little lock of hair
now?--smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. But there's bad
news there. How the color fades out, and the light in her eye dies away.
What can it be?
_Helen_. (_Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily_.)
This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, _I cannot go with them_! How could
he ask it of me? _This is_ cruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them--I cannot go with
them.
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