CHARLES (_taking her hand_): Well--come.
(_As in a trance._) There"s much to do. We will think of the dead.
Perchance "twill keep them near us: speak to them, And they may answer while we wait, may float Dim words on moonbeams to us. O for one That shall sound of forgiveness and of rest!
(_More wildly._) O I have started on the mountain"s brow A tremor that has loosed the avalanche; And penitence too late--too late--too late-- Was powerless as flowers along its path!
(_He sinks back into his chair and stares hopelessly before him._)
CURTAIN.