TRISTAN. Woman divine!

(_He embraces her with ardor. They remain in a silent embrace_.)

ALL THE MEN (_without_). Hail! Hail!
Hail our monarch!
Hail to Mark, the king!

BRANGÆNA (_who, filled with confusion and horror, has leaned over
the side with averted face, now turns to behold the pair locked in
their close embrace, and rushes to the front, wringing her hands in
despair_). Woe's me! Woe's me!
Endless mis'ry
I have wrought
instead of death!
Dire the deed
of my dull fond heart:
it cries aloud to heav'n!

(_They start from their embrace_.)

TRISTAN (_bewildered_). What troubled dream
of Tristan's honor?

ISOLDA. What troubled dream
Of Isolda's shame?

TRISTAN. Have I then lost thee?