-Is this man guilty?-Look on him, Montalba ! MONTALBA. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look? PROCIDA. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes are filleted, Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself -But no! I will not breathe a traitor's name Speak! thou art arraign'd of treason. RAIMOND. I arraign You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you PROCIDA. Montalba, speak! There's something chokes my voice-but fear me not. MONTALBA. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear! Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason? RAIMOND. I will plead That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Of my free spirit's whiteness; for e'en now A mother and the babe, whose little life Was from her bosom drawn !-Immortal deeds For bards to hymn! GUIDO (aside). I look upon his mien, And waver.—Can it be?-My boyish heart From his proud glance? PROCIDA. Oh, thou dissembler !-thou, So skill'd to clothe with virtue's generous flush That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Whose was this treachery? (Shows him papers.) Who hath promised here, (Belike to appease the manès of the dead,) At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates, And welcome in the foe?-Who hath done this, But thou, a tyrant's friend? RAIMOND. Who hath done this? Father!-if I may call thee by that name- PROCIDA (to Montalba). Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, And his eye quails not!-Is this innocence? MONTALBA. No! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of crime. -Thou bear'st a gallant mien !-But where is she -Where hast thou borne her?-speak! RAIMOND. That Heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Is with her; she is safe. PROCIDA. And by that word Thy doom is seal'd.-Oh God! that I had died (CONSTANCE enters, and rushes to RAIMOND.) CONSTANCE. Oh! art thou found? -But yet, to find thee thus !-Chains, chains for thee! To be your victim now. RAIMOND. Death has no pang More keen than this.-Oh! wherefore art thou here? I could have died so calmly, deeming thee Saved, and at peace. |