ISOLDA. Him who betrayed!

BRANGÆNA. Tristan?

ISOLDA. Truce he'll drink with me.

BRANGÆNA (_throwing herself at_ ISOLDA'S _feet_). O horror!
Pity thy handmaid!

ISOLDA. Pity thou me,
false-hearted maid!
Mindest thou not
my mother's arts?
Think you that she
who'd mastered those
would have sent thee o'er the sea
without assistance for me?
A salve for sickness
doth she offer
and antidotes
for deadly drugs:
for deepest grief
and woe supreme
gave she the draught of death.
Let Death now give her thanks!

BRANGÆNA (_scarcely able to control herself_). O deepest
grief!