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According with the fancy's wild conceptions!
So are the brains of sick and frenzied men
Stored with unreal and strange imaginations.

(After a short pause.) Am I become a maniac? Oh! have words,

To which the firm conviction of my mind

So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power
To fix this misery on me? This is madness!

Enter Sophera behind.

Is't thee, Sophera?

SOPHERA.

Yes, 'tis only me.

COUNTESS.

Is every decent office of respect

Done to the corse?

SOPHERA.

Yes, nought has been omitted.

COUNTESS.

'Tis well; but what detains the good confessor?

I wish'd to see him.

SOPHERA.

He stay'd but till his wretched penitent

Had breath'd his last, and quickly left the castle.

COUNTESS.

He is in haste, methinks; 'tis somewhat strange.

Why look'st thou on me with that fearful eye?