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Owning the child, thy son, of bastard birth; And this made sure, Lochtarish bade me say Thy life shall yet be spared.

Off, off, vile agent of a wretch so devilish! Now do I see from whence my ruin comes: I and my infant foil his wicked hopes. O harmless babe! will heaven abandon thee! It will not!—No; it will not! (Assuming firmness and dignity.) Depart and leave me. In my rising breast I feel returning strength. Heaven aids my weakness: I'll meet its awful will. (Waving them off with her hand.)

Well, in its keeping rest thee: fare thee well, Helen the Campbell.

Be thy suff'rings short! (Aside to the other.) Come, quickly let us go, nor look behind. Fell is the service we are put upon: