[During this Pearson has slowly withdrawn.]

Crom. This is not well;
As the Lord liveth, those poor lips, my child,
Speak foolishness.  Who taught thee to rebuke
Thy father?  Know, he stands ’twixt thee and God,
Not thou between the living God and him.

Eliz. What was that agony that tore thee now?—­ Why didst thou swoon and talk of murder, kings, Of hell and sulphur and the mocking fiends?

Crom. Must thou now learn that when my soul is dark
With sorrow, agitation, melancholy,
I am possess’d with black delirious fits?—­
’Twas so ere thou wert born, ere I was call’d
Unto a burden heavier, than man
Unsuffering may bear; but, daughter, listen! 
I am not guilty! if the human mind
May keep account with its own issuings forth
To act and do; if thought deceive us not,
And reason live in man.  I am not guilty, if
The blind chimera of an earth-crown’d king
Be less than God’s truth—­not, if it be well
To love this people; to have drawn the sword
For mercy’s sake alone.  I am not guilty! 
(O God! call back her eyes’ fast fading light,
Lest she die judging me.) I am not guilty! 
Except in loving thee too well.  My lips
Shall speak no more at the eternal judgment
Than this—­

Eliz. ’Tis truth!  It cannot be but truth, All things seem different, yet just now I thought To see more clearly, whilst I dar’d to judge him—­ How happy am I now—­forgive me, oh!  My father!

Crom. It has been, that I have shrunk
From noble consciousness of the good work,
For love of thee—­seeing thee pine and faint,
Deeming thy parent guilty of much blood,
And great deeds for the small base thought of self. 
Thus, like the patriarch, I have cried aloud
Unto the Lord, rebelling thus against
His holy will.  This is my darkest error.

Eliz. Now, let me comfort him and die in peace.  O father, ’tis another love that bends This blighted form to earth.

Crom. Ha!  What is this?  Thy husband!

Eliz. Fear not, I am pure in thought
And deed—­yet I was married early,
Ere I had lov’d.  I could not choose but love,
When I saw one—­No matter—­I am pure;
But death is welcome.  Do not frown on me: 
I ne’er had told thee, but for comfort’s sake,
Lest thou shouldst think that thou hadst slain thy daughter.

Crom. Can this be true? 
And she is dying thus! 
Would I had known it sooner; ere, alas! 
It was too late.  Come, tell me everything.

[He kneels down beside her.]