ng with thee, 40
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will
Share that--all things except new separation;
It is too much to have survived the first.
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas!
Why do I ask? Thy paleness----

_Jac. Fos._ 'Tis the joy
Of seeing thee again so soon, and so
Without expectancy, has sent the blood
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine,
For thou art pale too, my Marina!

_Mar._ 'Tis 50
The gloom of this eternal cell, which never
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin[bl]
To darkness more than light, by lending to
The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke,
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes--
No, not thine eyes--they sparkle--how they sparkle!

_Jac. Fos._ And thine!--but I am blinded by the torch.

_Mar._ As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here?

_Jac. Fos._ Nothing at first; but use and time had taught me 60
Familiarity with what was darkness;
And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as
Glide through the crevices made by the winds
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full Sun,
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers
Save those of Venice; but a moment ere
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing.

_Mar._ What?

_Jac. Fos._ My name: look, 'tis there--recorded next
The name of him who here preceded me,--
If dungeon dates say true.

_Mar._ And what of him? 70

_Jac. Fos._ These walls are silent of men's ends; they only
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead,
Or those who soon must be so.--_What of him?_
Thou askest.--What of me? may soon be asked,
With the like answer--doubt and dreadful surmise--
Unless thou tell'st my tale.

_Mar._ _I speak_ of thee!

_Jac. Fos._ And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me:
The tyranny of silence is not lasting,
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 80
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's!
I do not _doubt_ my memory, but my life;
And neither do I fear.

_Mar._ Thy lif