’Now you think that I am overwhelmed; that I shall have a restless night, and lie, after all my crying’s over, with my hair spread out on my pillow, on either side my face, like green moss of a withered waterfall:  you think you will bestow a little serpent of a gift from my stolen treasures to comfort me.  You will comfort me with a lock of Camillo’s hair, that I may have it on my breast to-night, and dream, and wail, and writhe, and curse the air I breathe, and clasp the abominable emptiness like a thousand Camillos.  Speak!’

The dagger is seen gleaming up Michiella’s wrist; she steps on in a bony triangle, faced for mischief:  a savage Hunnish woman, with the hair of a Goddess—­the figure of a cat taking to its forepaws.  Close upon Camilla she towers in her whole height, and crying thrice, swift as the assassin trebles his blow, ‘Speak,’ to Camilla, who is fronting her mildly, she raises her arm, and the stilet flashes into Camilla’s bosom.

        ‘Die then, and outrage me no more.’

Camilla staggers to her husband.  Camillo receives her falling.  Michiella, seized by Leonardo, presents a stiffened shape of vengeance with fierce white eyes and dagger aloft.  There are many shouts, and there is silence.

          Camilla, supported by Camillo. 
       ’If this is death, it is not hard to bear. 
        Your handkerchief drinks up my blood so fast
        It seems to love it.  Threads of my own hair
        Are woven in it.  ’Tis the one I cast
        That midnight from my window, when you stood
        Alone, and heaven seemed to love you so! 
        I did not think to wet it with my blood
        When next I tossed it to my love below.’

          Camillo(cherishing her). 
       ’Camilla, pity! say you will not die. 
        Your voice is like a soul lost in the sky.’

          Camilla.

       ’I know not if my soul has flown; I know
        My body is a weight I cannot raise: 
        My voice between them issues, and
        I go Upon a journey of uncounted days. 
        Forgetfulness is like a closing sea;
        But you are very bright above me still. 
        My life I give as it was given to me
        I enter on a darkness wide and chill.’

          Camillo. 
       ’O noble heart! a million fires consume
        The hateful hand that sends you to your doom.’

          Camilla. 
       ’There is an end to joy:  there is no end
        To striving; therefore ever let us strive
        In purity that shall the toil befriend,
        And keep our poor mortality alive. 
        I hang upon the boundaries like light
        Along the hills when downward goes the day
        I feel the silent creeping up of night. 
        For you, my husband, lies a flaming way.’

          Camillo. 
       ’I lose your eyes:  I lose your voice:  ’tis faint. 
        Ah, Christ! see the fallen eyelids of a saint.’