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 ;