GUIDO.

Briefly, 'twas your son did thus ;

He hath disgraced your name.

PROCIDA.

My son did thus!

Are thy words oracles, that I should search Their hidden meaning out?-What did my son? I have forgot the tale.-Repeat it, quick!

GUIDO.

"Twill burst upon thee all too soon.

While we

Were busy at the dark and solemn rites
Of retribution; while we bathed the earth
In red libations, which will consecrate
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step
Through the long march of ages; 'twas his task
To shield from danger a Provençal maid,
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung
Our hearts to madness.

MONTALBA.

What! should she be spared

To keep that name from perishing on earth?

-I cross'd them in their path, and raised my sword To smite her in her champion's arms.-We fought

The boy disarm'd me !—And I live to tell
My shame, and wreak my vengeance!

GUIDO.

Who but he

Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt
These scrolls reveal?-Hath not the traitor still
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence,
To win us from our purpose?-All things seem
Leagued to unmask him.

MONTALBA.

Know you not there came,

E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci,
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings

Of all our purposed deeds?-And have we not
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves

The sister of that tyrant:

?

PROCIDA.

There was one

Who mourn'd for being childless!-Let him now Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join

The revelry!

You shall be childless too!

MONTALBA (apart).

PROCIDA.

Was 't you, Montalba?-Now rejoice! I say.
There is no name so near you that its stains
Should call the fever'd and indignant blood
To your dark cheek!-But I will dash to earth
The weight that presses on my heart, and then
Be glad as thou art.

MONTALBA.

What means this, my lord?

Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ?

PROCIDA.

Why, should not all be glad who have no sons

To tarnish their bright name?

MONTALBA.

I am not used

To bear with mockery.

PROCIDA.

Friend! By yon high heaven,

I mock thee not!-'tis a proud fate, to live
Alone and unallied.-Why, what's alone?
A word whose sense is-free!-Aye, free from all
The venom'd stings implanted in the heart
By those it loves.-Oh! I could laugh to think

O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls,

When the word comes-" A son is born!"—A son! -They should say thus-" He that shall knit your brow To furrows, not of years; and bid your eye

Quail its proud glance; to tell the earth its shame,—

Is born, and so, rejoice! "—Then might we feast,
And know the cause :-Were it not excellent?

MONTALBA.

This is all idle. There are deeds to do;

Arouse thee, Procida!

PROCIDA.

Why, am I not

Calm as immortal justice ?-She can strike, yet be passionless-and thus will I.

And

I know thy meaning.-Deeds to do!-'tis well.
They shall be done ere thought on.-Go ye forth;
There is a youth who calls himself my son,
His name is Raimond-in his eye is light
That shows like truth-but be not ye deceived!
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see

The strength which girds our nature.-Will not this

Be glorious, brave Montalba ?-Linger not,

Ye tardy messengers! for there are things

Which ask the speed of storms.

[Exeunt GUIDO and others.

MONTALBA.

Is not this well?

'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height,

And then-be desolate like me!-my woes

Will at the thought grow light.

(Aside.)

PROCIDA.

What now remains

To be prepared?—There should be solemn pomp
To grace a day like this.-Aye, breaking hearts
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs

From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be

Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not
Explore what lies beneath.

[Exit PROCIDA.

MONTALBA.

Now this is well!

-I hate this Procida; for he hath won

In all our councils that ascendancy

And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have been
Mine by a thousand claims.-Had he the strength

Of wrongs like mine?-No! for that name-his country