Eliz. [Throwing down the book.] The black print seems all red—­I cannot read!

[Points to the inner room.]

Mine eyes burn so—­And they are happy there
Together—­’twas my work—­and now I wish
That seas convuls’d by tempests were between them;
And an eternal veil of blackness girded
The one from the other—­each in separate light,
But still apart! apart!  O horror, why
Doth their communion cast such hopeless gloom
Upon me, more than all a father’s guilt,
A sovereign’s woe?—­O daughter of a traitor! 
Traitoress!  Thou lovest him thy friend doth love,
And—­he loves her! ay, that is it, he loves her.

[Laughs hysterically.]

I am a wedded wife.  There is no stain
Of guilty wish.  I ne’er thought to be his: 
No! no!  False wretch, thou dost this moment.  Hold,
’Tis past! 
Oh! would that I were far remov’d,
Not seeing, hearing, knowing all their lore,
Not feeling their young blest affection jar
Through every fibre—­thus! 
This is the day
The king’s fate is decided—­If he die
Arthur will hate us, hate my father, me,
The regicide’s pale daughter—­thus to think
Of the king’s life! that was my only prayer
Before; and now it fades on my cold lips,
And startles me to hear it! [MUSIC is heard within.]
O my heart! 
It seems as though a thousand daggers’ points
Would not suffice to stab it, so it might
Feel some release—­ [Falls on her knees.]
My God! forsake me not!

As the music ends, enter the LADY CROMWELL; she approaches her daughter, and, bending over her, lifts her up.

Lady Crom. What is it, child?—­I have now heard from Fairfax: 
He saith it will not be—­Thy father is
But stern unto the last—­
He’ll pray to God
And God will aid him—­

Eliz. But His judgments, mother! 
Are awful.  Did not Christ condemn the mind
That is polluted with a guilty thought,
As if ’twere done?

Lady Crom. This weary thought of hers
About the king hath turn’d her brain. 
Dear daughter,
Rouse thee, he will not die!

Enter a Messenger, others of the family, the LADY FAIRFAX in deep mourning.

Lady Fairf. The king is sentenced.  Death! [Bell tolls.]

ELIZABETH, raising herself, falls back into her Mother’s arms with a sudden scream.  They carry her back.

Enter ARTHUR and FLORENCE.

Arth. Then, madam, let us part—­’tis better.

Flor. Yes, I think so, sir.

Arth. I cannot brook this treatment—­

Flor. I do not wish you—­

Arth. Heartless!

Flor. Certainly,
A heart is troublesome; it oft makes fools
Of those that own it—­
I should hate a man
Made me ridiculous.