Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 3.pdf/109

Rh

I cannot do it: on this spot I'll hold me In awful stillness. The icy scalp of fear is on my head; The life stirs in my hair; it is a sense That tells the nearing of unearthly steps, Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish.

No semblance, but real agony of fear. Orra, oh, Orra! know'st thou not my voice? Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald? Open thine eyes and look upon my face: (Unmasking.) I am no fearful waker from the grave. Dost thou not feel? 'Tis the warm touch of life. Look up, and fear will vanish.—Words are vain! What a pale countenance of ghastly strength By horrour chang'd! O ideot that I was. To hazard this!—The villain hath deceiv'd me: My letter she has ne'er received. O fool! That I should trust to this! (Beating his head distractedly.)