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—Ximena!—speak to me!—Oh! yet a tone From that sweet voice, that I may gather in One more remembrance of its lovely sound, Ere the deep silence fall!—What! is all hush'd? —No, no!—it cannot be!—How should we bear The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven Left not such beings with us?— But is this Her wonted look?—too sad a quiet lies On its dim fearful beauty!—Speak, Ximena! Speak!—my heart dies within me!—She is gone, With all her blessed smiles!—My child! my child! Where art thou?—Where is that which answer'd me, From thy soft-shining eyes?—Hush! doth she move? —One light lock seem'd to tremble on her brow, As a pulse throbb'd beneath;—'twas but the voice Of my despair that stirr'd it!—She is gone! [She throws herself on the body. enters, alone, and wounded.

I must not now be scorn'd!—No, not a look, A whisper of reproach!—Behold my woe! —Thou canst not scorn me now!

Hast thou heard all?