Go on your knees; the crown still holds you down.
[GORMFLAITH stumbles forward on her knees and lays the crown on the bed,
then crouches motionlessly against the bedside.]
Goneril (taking the crown and putting it on the dead Queen's head):
Mother and Queen, to you this holiest circlet
Returns, by you renews its purpose and pride;
Though it is sullied with a menial warmth,
Your august coldness shall rehallow it,
And when the young lewd blood that lent it heat
Is also cooler we can well forget.
[She steps to GORMFLAITH.]
Rise. Come, for here there is no more to do,
And let us seek your chamber, if you will,
There to confer in greater privacy;
For we have now interment to prepare.
[She leads GORMFLAITH to the door near the bed.]
You must walk first, you are still the Queen elect.
[When GORMFLAITH has passed before her GONERIL unsheathes her hunting
knife.]
Gormflaith (turning in the doorway):
What will you do?
Goneril (thrusting her forward with the haft of the knife):
On. On. On. Go in.
[She follows GORMFLAITH out. After a moment's interval two elderly
women, one a little younger than the other, enter by the same door: they
wear black hoods and shapeless black gowns with large sleeves that flap
like the wings of ungainly birds: between them they carry a heavy
cauldron of hot water.
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