_Mor_. Why do you start thus?
_Mait_. Hush!--hush! There!--again--that slow heavy throb--again! again!
_Mor_. Good God! she breathes! This is life indeed.
_Mait_. (_Solemnly_.) Ay, thank God. This moment's sweetness is enough.
_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.
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