“O, fear not,” she continued, “fear not that I should entertain hope! Yet tell me, have you found him? To have him once more in my arms, to see him, however changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be heaped above him as a tomb, yet I must find him⁠—then cover us with the city’s weight, with a mountain piled above⁠—I care not, so that one grave hold Raymond and his Perdita.” Then weeping, she clung to me: “Take me to him,” she cried, “unkind Lionel, why do you keep me here? Of myself I cannot find him⁠—but you know where he lies⁠—lead me thither.”