Part 2 / Act 2 — Scene III.—A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a sword.—Moonlight.

Mon. And know you not my story? Pro. In the lands Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. I would fain hear it now. Mon. Hark! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth, Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles, But all of joy! And there were bounding steps, And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck When his plumed helm is doff’d.—Hence, feeble thoughts! —I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine! Raim. And were they realised? Mon. Youth! ask me not, But listen! I drew near my own fair home— There was no light along its walls, no sound Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e’en now! I call’d—my struggling voice Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names. They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength, And wildly rush’d within.—And they were there. Raim. And was all well? Mon. Ay, well!—for death is well: And they were all at rest! I see them yet, Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d To stay the assassin’s arm! Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven! Who had done this? Mon. Who! Pro. Canst thou question, who? Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us? Raim. Man of woe! What words hath pity for despair like thine? Mon. Pity!—fond youth!—My soul disdains the grief Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies To ask a vain companionship of tears, And so to be relieved! Pro. For woes like these There is no sympathy but vengeance. Mon. None! Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round! We are in th’ awful presence of the dead; Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood Weighs down the murderer’s soul. They sleep!—but I Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword, Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, As on an altar; and the eternal stars, And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, No more to wield it save in one great cause— The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour Of that atonement comes! [He takes the sword from the tomb. Raim. My spirit burns! And my full heart almost to bursting swells. —Oh, for the day of battle! Pro. Raimond, they Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, —But not in battle. Raim. How, my father? Pro. No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson. But the appointed hour Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, Noble Montalba? Mon. Leave me for a time, That I may calm my soul by intercourse With the still dead, before I mix with men And with their passions. I have nursed for years, In silence and in solitude, the flame Which doth consume me; and it is not used Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida! I would be tranquil—or appear so—ere I join your brave confederates. Through my heart There struck a pang—but it will soon have pass’d. Pro. Remember!—in the cavern by the cross. Now follow me, my son. [Exeunt Procida and Raimond. Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) Said he, “My son?” Now, why should this man’s life Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, And I be desolate? How strange a sound Was that—“my son!” I had a boy, who might Have worn as free a soul upon his brow As doth this youth. Why should the thought of him Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour By fathers with their children, and I must Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now A gloomy consolation to behold All men bereft as I am! But away, Vain thoughts!—One task is left for blighted hearts, And it shall be fulfill’d. Exit Montalba.