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From the wild fancies of a dying man,
Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it.

(After another pause.) Would in this better faith my mind had strength

To hold itself unshaken! Doubt is misery.

I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness.
O! if his kindling eye with generous ire
Repel the charge;—if his blest voice deny it,
Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth,
I'll not believe it.

Enter Sophera.

What brings thee here again? Did I not charge thee

To go to bed?

SOPHERA.

And so I did intend.

But in my chamber, half prepared for rest,
Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet
To lay some baubles by, I found within———

COUNTESS.

What hast thou found?

SOPHERA.

Have I not heard you say, that shortly after

Your marriage with the Count, from your apartment,
A picture of your brother, clad in mail,