He raised her up: their eyes met: on him swept
A mad suspicion: for his daughter's death,
Like a forgotten voice stirring thro' a dream,
Rang in his ears: "Woman, what hast thou done?"
"Alas, my lord, I know not; but my dream -"
"Your dream? Nay, mine! I dreamt of Berta dead, -
The wine was spilt like blood and she was dead!
Thou art my wife; and thou . . . hast slain my child!"
"My love for thee betray'd me - or my fears;
And for my love -"
"I must condemn thee. Go.
O Isador, as true as God's high sun
I deem'd thee . . . Speak not to me, lest my wrath
Take hands and strike thee down. Berta is dead.
Her life lay in the hollow of thy hand, -
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