What devil moved thee ? Who and whence art thou,
That wear st the form of woman, though thou lack’st
The heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent,
What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands
Should quench the living source of thine own life?
MARIA.
Spare me ! oh, spare me ! Nay, my hands are clean.
He was the first, best, noblest among men.
I was his light, his soul, his breath of life.
These I withdrew from him, and made his days
A darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead,
And blood and tears may wash away my guilt.
Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far
One solitary ray, one steadfast spark,
Beyond a million years of purgatory !
My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balm
Of comfortable grace. One word, one word,
Or ere I perish of despair !
MONK.
What word?
The one wherewith thou bad st thy father hope?
What though he be not dead ? Is breathing life?
Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealt
