The last act opens in an apartment in the castle.  Melisande is stretched unconscious upon a bed.  Golaud, Arkel, and the physician stand in a corner of the room.  Some days earlier Melisande and her husband had been found stretched out senseless before the castle gate, Golaud having still in his side the sword with which he had sought to kill himself.  Melisande had been wounded,—­“a tiny little wound that would not kill a pigeon;” yet her life is despaired of; and on her death-bed she has been delivered of a child—­“a puny little girl such as a beggar might be ashamed to own—­a little waxen thing that came before its time, that can be kept alive only by being wrapped in wool.”  The room is very silent.  “It seems to me that we keep too still in her room,” says Arkel; “it is not a good sign; look how she sleeps—­how slowly.—­It is as if her soul were forever chilled.”  Golaud laments that he has killed her without cause.  “They had kissed like little children—­and I—­I did it in spite of myself!” Melisande wakes.  She wishes to have the window open, that she may see the sunset.  She has never felt better, she says, in answer to Arkel’s questioning.  She asks if she is alone in the room.  Her husband is present, answers Arkel.  “If you are afraid, he will go away.  He is very unhappy.”  “Golaud is here?” she says; “why does he not come to me?” Golaud staggers to the bed.  He begs the others to withdraw for a moment, as he must speak with her alone.  When they have left him, his torturing suspicions, suspicions that will not down, find voice.  He entreats her to tell him the truth.  “The truth must be spoken to one about to die.”  Did she love Pelleas? he asks in agony.  “Why, yes, I loved him—­where is he?” The answer maddens him.  “Do you not understand?  Will you not understand?  It seems to me—­it seems to me—­well, then, it is this:  I ask you if you loved him with a guilty love?  Were you—­were you both guilty?” “No, no; we were not guilty,” she replies; “why do you ask me that?” Arkel and the physician appear at the door.  “You may come in,” says Golaud despairingly; “it is useless, I shall never know!  I shall die here like a blind man!” “You will kill her,” warns Arkel.  “Is it you, grandfather?” questions Melisande; “is it true that winter is already coming?—­it is cold, and there are no more leaves.”  “Are you cold?  Shall I close the windows?” asks Golaud.  “No, no, not till the sun has sunk into the sea—­it sets slowly.”  Arkel asks her if she wishes to see her child.  “What child?” she inquires.  Arkel tells her that she is a mother.  The child is brought, and put into her arms.  Melisande can scarcely lift her arms to take her.  “She does not laugh, she is little,” says Melisande; “she, too, will weep—­I pity her.”  Gradually the room has filled with the women-servants of the castle, who range themselves in silence along the walls and wait.  “She is going to sleep,” observes Arkel; “her eyes are full of tears.  It is her soul, now, that weeps.  Why does she