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Her form—her motion—yea, that mantled arm, Press'd closely to her breast, as she was wont When chilly winds assail'd.—The face—O, woe is me! It was not then so pale.

Be gone: be gone.

Blest vision, I have seen thee! Fare thee well! (Exit in haste.)

What sound is that of steps that hasten from us? Is Morton on the watch?

Fear nothing; faithful Morton is at hand: The steps thou heard'st were friendly.

My brother! meet we thus,—disguised, by stealth? Is this like peace? How is my noble father? Hath any ill befallen?