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Rh Whate'er her sins—to him a guardian saint,

And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint;

Yet changed since last within that cell she came,

More pale her cheek—more tremulous her frame:

On him she cast her dark and hurried eye,

Which spoke before her accents—"thou must die!—

"Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource,

"The last—the worst—if torture were not worse."

"Lady! I look to none—my lips proclaim

"What last proclaim'd they—Conrad still the same:

"Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare,

"And change the sentence I deserve to bear?

"Well have I earn'd—nor here alone—the meed

"Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed."

"Why should I seek? because—Oh! didst thou not

"Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot?

"Why should I seek?—hath misery made thee blind

"To the fond workings of a woman's mind!

"And must I say? albeit my heart rebel

"With all that woman feels but should not tell—