That treachery lurks amongst us.-Raimond! Raimond!
Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be !

MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other Sicilians enter.

PROCIDA.

Welcome! we meet in joy!

Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming
The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare,
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil,

To weave us chains again?-Ye have done well.

MONTALBA.

We have done well. There need no choral song,
No shouting multitudes to blazon forth
Our stern exploits.-The silence of our foes
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task
Is still but half achieved, since, with his bands,
De Couci hath escaped, and, doubtless, leads
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts,
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required,

To make the mighty sacrifice complete.

Where is thy son?

PROCIDA.

I know not.

Once last night

He cross'd my path, and with one stroke beat down

A sword just raised to smite me, and restored

My own, which in that deadly strife had been

Wrench'd from my grasp : but when I would have press'd

him

To my exulting bosom, he drew back,

And with a sad, and yet a scornful, smile,

Full of strange meaning, left me.

Since that hour

I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask?

MONTALBA.

It matters not. We have deeper things to speak of.—

Know'st thou that we have traitors in our councils?

PROCIDA.

I know some voice in secret must have warn'd

De Couci; or his scatter'd bands had ne'er

So soon been marshall'd, and in close array

Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught
That may develope this?

MONTALBA.

The guards we set

To watch the city-gates have seized, this morn,
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step
Betray'd his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore
(Amidst the tumult deeming that his flight
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him,
The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge!

Now, if there be such things.

As may to death add sharpness, yet delay

The pang which gives release; if there be power

In execration, to call down the fires

Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts
But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap'd
Upon the traitor's head!-Scorn make his name
Her mark for ever!

MONTALBA.

In our passionate blindness,

We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil

Oft on ourselves.

PROCIDA.

Whate'er fate hath of ruin.

Fall on his house!-What! to resign again

That freedom for whose sake our souls have now
Engrain'd themselves in blood !-Why, who is he
That hath devised this treachery?-To the scroll
Why fix'd he not his name, so stamping it
With an immortal infamy, whose brand

Might warn men from him?-Who should be so vile ?
Alberti?-In his eye is that which ever

Shrinks from encountering mine!-But no! his race
Is of our noblest-Oh! he could not shame
That high descent!-Urbino ?-Conti?-No!

They are too deeply pledged.-There's one name more !
-I cannot utter it !-Now shall I read

Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot
From man's high mien its native royalty,
And seal his noble forehead with the impress

Of its own vile imaginings !—Speak your thoughts,
Montalba! Guido!-Who should this man be?

MONTALBA.

Why what Sicilian youth unsheath'd, last night,

His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd its edge
Against his country's chiefs ?-He that did this,
May well be deem'd for guiltier treason ripe.

And who is he?

PROCIDA.

MONTALBA.

Nay, ask thy son.

PROCIDA.

My son !

What should he know of such a recreant heart?

Speak, Guido! thou 'rt his friend!

GUIDO.

I would not wear

The brand of such a name!

PROCIDA.

How! what means this?

A flash of light breaks in upon my soul !

Is it to blast me?-Yet the fearful doubt

Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before,

And been flung from them.-Silence !-Speak not yet!

I would be calm, and meet the thunder-burst

With a strong heart.

(A pause.

Now, what have I to hear?

Your tidings?