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Leo. Rise, noble Osterloo! dost thou not know the voice that calls thee?

Ben. He moves not; he is in a swoon. Leo. He is ghastly pale: yet it surely can be but a swoon. Chafe his hands, good Benedict, while I bathe his temples. (After trying to restore him.) Oh, no, no! no change takes place. What thinkest thou of it? Is there any life here?

Ben. In truth I know not: this seems to me the fixed ghastly visage of compleat death.

Leo. Oh, no, no! he will be restored. No stroke has fallen upon him: it cannot be death. Ha! is not that something? did not his lips move?

Ben. No, Lady; you but deceive yourself; they moved not: they are closed for ever.

Leo. (wringing her hands.) Oh it is so! it is so!—after all thy struggles and exertions of despair, this is thy miserable end!—Alas, alas! thou who didst bear thy crest so proudly in many a well fought field; this is thy miserable end!

Ambass. (examining the body more closely.) I think in very truth he is dead.

1st Gentleman of his Train. Yes; the face