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ARTINA.

I know it well. Thou thinkest now, belike,

That thou wilt love them still; but ah ! too soon
They'll be as things who do but haunt thy house,
Lacking another home, uncheer'd, uncared for.
And who will heed their wants, will sooth their sorrow,
When their poor mother moulders in the grave,
And her vex'd spirit, in some other form,
Is on its way to gain the dreamless sleep?
Kneel, Samar, kneel! thy father loved thee first,
In our first happy days.—Wilt thou not, boy?
Why dost thou stand so sullen and so still?

SAMAR.

He loves us not.

ARTINA.

Nay, nay, but he will love us.

Down on thy knees! up with thy clasped hands!
Rasinga, O Rasinga! did I think
So to implore thy pity—me and mine
So to implore thy pity, and in vain!
(Sinks on the ground exhausted with agitation.)

RASINGA (raising her gently in his arms).

Dearest Artina! still most dear to me:

Thy passionate affections waste thy strength;
Let me support thee to another chamber,
More fitting for retirement and for rest.
Come also, children—Come, my little playmates!