She was in a horrible pass.

Wife of a dead man and his killer! Why, what should she do?
She dared not go on playing wife to the champion of heaven, and yet she dared not leave him lest she should be snatched into the arms of his assassin.

On which horn should she impale her poor heart?
She tried to wring prayers out of it, she tried to moisten her aching eyes with the dew of tears.

Slowly, by agony of effort, she approached her bosom to the steel.

One night Richard came to her, and she drove herself to speak.