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THE SILVER CHALICE.

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 -"

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"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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