No angel! And the face you think so fair,
'Tis but the dismal frame-work of these rocks
That makes it seem so; and the world I come from--
Alas, alas, too many faces there
Are but fair vizors to black hearts below,
Or only serve to bring the wearer woe!
But to yourself--If haply the redress
That I am here upon may help to yours.
I heard you tax the heavens with ordering,
And men for executing, what, alas!
I now behold. But why, and who they are
Who do, and you who suffer--

SEG. (pointing upwards).
Ask of them,
Whom, as to-night, I have so often ask'd,
And ask'd in vain.

ROS.
But surely, surely--

SEG.
Hark!
The trumpet of the watch to shut us in.
Oh, should they find you!--Quick! Behind the rocks!
To-morrow--if to-morrow--

ROS. (flinging her sword toward him).
Take my sword!