The treasure of the earth lies here.--Now doth mine
arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen, mine own _true_ love;
'tis sweet, even thus.
_Mor_. This letter,--see--from those loosened folds it just now dropped.
This might throw some light, perchance--
_Mait_. Let it be. There's light enough. I want no more. Water,--more
water,--do you see?
_Mor_. Maitland,--this is vain. Mark this dark spot upon her girdle--
_Mait_. Hush, hush,--there, cover it thus--'tis nothing, Loosen this
bonnet--so--'twas a firm hand that tied that knot; so--she can breathe
now.
_Mor_. How like life, those soft curls burst from their loosened
pressure! But mark you--there is no other motion, I am sorry to distress
you,--but--Maitland--this lady is dead.
_Mait. Dead_! Lying hell-hound! _Dead_! Say that again.
_Mor_. God help you!
_Mait. Dead_! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's one that, never having
seen them, talks of death. Oh God! is it thus we meet at last? At last
these arms are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her, but her
eye answers me not. Dead!--for me? Murdered!--mine own hand hath done
it.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159