MONTALBA.
Rouse up thy mighty heart.

PROCIDA.

Aye, thou say'st right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind.—Well, what's the task ?

-There is a man to be condemn’d, you say ? Is he then guilty ?

ALL.

Thus we deem of him

With one accord.

PROCIDA.

And bath he nought to plead ?

RAIMOND.

Nought but a soul unstain'd.

PROCIDA.

Why, that is little.
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them,
And conscience may be sear'd.—But, for this sentence !

Was 't not the penalty imposed on man,
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die?
- It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice
Unto eternal justice; and we but
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls
To th' elements from amongst us.-Be it so !

Such be his doom ! I have said. Aye, now my heart
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press
Its gaspings down.-Off! let me breathe in freedom!
-Mountains are on my breast !

(He sinks back.)

MONTALBA.

Guards, bear the prisoner

Back to his dungeon.

RAIMOND.

Father! oh, look up;

Thou art my father still !

(Guido leaving the Tribunal, throws himself on the neck

of RAIMOND.)

GUIDO.

Oh! Raimond, Raimond ! If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say Thou dost forgive me.

RAIMOND.

Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven!

(Raimond is led out.)

PROCIDA.

Whose voice was that?

Where is he?-gone ?—now I may breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away.

[Exeunt omnes.

END OF ACT THE FOURTH.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.-A Prison, dimly lighted.

Raimond sleeping

PROCIDA enters.

PROCIDA (gazing upon him earnestly). Can he then sleep?—Th' o’ershadowing night hath wrapt Earth, at her stated hours—the stars have set Their burning watch ; and all things hold their course Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sleep Sat on mine eyelids since--but this avails not! -And thus he slumbers !—“Why this mien doth seem As if its soul were but one lofty thought Of an immortal destiny !"-his brow Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens Are imaged silently.--Wake, Raimond, wake! Thy rest is deep.

RAIMOND (starting up).

My father !-Wherefore here?

I am prepared to die, yet would I not
Fall by thy hand.

PROCIDA.

'Twas not for this I came.

RAIMOND.

Then wherefore ?-and upon thy lofty brow
Why burns the troubled flush?

PROCIDA.

Perchance 'tis shame. Yes! it may well be shame !-for I have striven With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpower’d. -Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. Arise, and follow me; but let thy step Fall without sound on earth : I have prepared The means for thy escape.

RAIMOND.

What! thou ! the austere, The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, Deeming me guilty still ?

PROCIDA.

Upbraid me not! It is even so.

There have been nobler deeds By Roman fathers done,-but I am weak.