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?
MABIA.
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
