Mortadello

OR, THE ANGEL OF VENICE 17 MAGDALENA. Oh ! you have killed me ! MONICA. [Coming out of shelter.] Ay ! detested harlot ! MAGDALENA. Thou ? MONICA. I think you will not lie with Mortadello now ! ORLANDO What, Monica the saint ! MONICA. Oh, you may see my soul ! Blood has washed off the paint ! You were my gain and goal ! Kiss me while she still bleeds ! I am yours, your slave, your toy, The furrow of tropic seeds, black bliss of Afric joy— ORLANDO. Frightful and frantic dream ! Portentous, mon- strous omen ! I sail upon a stream of blood of slaughtered foeman ! We shall go far, go far, follow the one red star— MONICA. Look how the scarlet scar writhes ! ORLANDO. How divine you are ! Kiss me again ! What feasts of passion to expend ! MAGDALENA. My curse ! ORLANDO. My kiss ! MAGDALENA. Black beasts ! MONICA. My kiss ! ORLANDO. It is the end. See, mistress, let me lift this victim to the moon ! [He takes up the corpse of MAGDALENA, and raises it above his head. MONICA. A corpse my wedding-gift ! ORLANDO. A groan my wedding tune ! There she goes, silver-swift, one plunge to the lagoon ! MONICA. Kiss me ! ORLANDO. Ay, kiss, but haste ; there are bloodhounds abroad ;