Part 2 / Act 1 — Scene II.—The House of Carmagnola.

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet My father comes not! Ant. Ah! thou hast not learn’d, By sad experience, with how slow a pace Joys ever come; expected long, and oft Deceiving expectation! while the steps Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh. But night is past, the long and lingering hours Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, And he is with us. E’en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours. Perhaps for years our own. Mat. O mother! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense, Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale, Each idle murmur of the people’s voice, We should not longer tremble, that no more This thought should haunt our souls—E’en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning—dies! Ant. Oh! fearful thought—but vain and distant now! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes? Mat. A day to be remember’d! Ant. By his side Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng, Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d, Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d—“We are his.” Mat. Moments of joy! Ant. What have we done, my child, To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name—a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow. Mat. They are past e’en now. Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!—it swells—’tis hush’d! The gates unclose. O mother! I behold A warrior clad in mail—he comes, ’tis he! Ant. Whom should it be if not himself?—my husband! (She comes forward.)

Ant. Gonzaga!—Where is he we look’d for? Where? Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught With prophecies of woe! Gon. Alas! too true The omens they reveal! Mat. Of woe to whom? Gon. Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness Fallen to my lot? Ant. Thou wouldst be pitiful, And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God! Where is my husband? Gon. Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief—— Mat. Is he return’d unto the field? Gon. Alas! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner! Ant. He is a prisoner!—and for what? Gon. He is accused of treason. Mat. Treason! He A traitor!—Oh! my father! Ant. Haste! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, what shall be his sentence? Gon. From my lips It shall not be reveal’d. Ant. Oh! he is slain! Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d. Ant. He lives! Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act. For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. He was thy friend—ah! haste, then, be our guide; Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child! Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d The fearful sentence, they remember’d not He was a father and a husband too. But when their eyes behold the agony One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt: They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight Of mortal woe is terrible to man! Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d To vindicate his deeds, or to recall His triumphs won for them. It is for us To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, And we will pray. Gon. Oh, heaven! that I could leave Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear, No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still, The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God Of mourners will be with you. Mat. Is there not One hope? Ant. Alas! my child!