Part 2 / Act 4 — Scene I.—A Street in Palermo.

Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads the air, As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things, Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds, Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit, Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be? Is not our task achieved—the mighty work Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous: But this our feeble nature, with its quick Instinctive superstitions, will drag down Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings That treachery lurks amongst us.—Raimond! Raimond! Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb! It cannot be! Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians enter. Pro. Welcome! we meet in joy! Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare, After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil, To weave us chains again? Ye have done well. Mon. We have done well. There needs no choral song, No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth Our stern exploits. The silence of our foes Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest, Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task Is still but half achieved, since with his bands De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts And deeds to startle earth, are yet required To make the mighty sacrifice complete.— Where is thy son? Pro. I know not. Once last night He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down A sword just raised to smite me, and restored My own, which in that deadly strife had been Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him To my exulting bosom, he drew back, And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile, Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask? Mon. It matters not. We have deep things to speak of. Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils? Pro. I know some voice in secret must have warn’d De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er So soon been marshall’d, and in close array Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught That may develop this? Mon. The guards we set To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn, One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore (Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him— The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge! Pro. Where is this messenger? Mon. Where should he be?— They slew him in their wrath. Pro. Unwisely done! Give me the scrolls. [He reads. Now, if there be such things As may to death add sharpness, yet delay The pang which gives release; if there be power In execration, to call down the fires Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d Upon the traitor’s head!—Scorn make his name Her mark for ever! Mon. In our passionate blindness, We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil Oft on ourselves. Pro. Whate’er fate hath of ruin Fall on his house! What! to resign again That freedom for whose sake our souls have now Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it With an immortal infamy, whose brand Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile? Alberti?—In his eye is that which ever Shrinks from encountering mine!—But no! his race Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame That high descent! Urbino?—Conti?—No! They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more! —I cannot utter it! Now shall I read Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot From man’s high mien its native royalty, And seal his noble forehead with the impress Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts, Montalba! Guido!—Who should this man be? Mon. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge Against his country’s chiefs?—He that did this, May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe. Pro. And who is he? Mon. Nay, ask thy son. Pro. My son! What should he know of such a recreant heart? Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend! Gui. I would not wear The brand of such a name! Pro. How? what means this? A flash of light breaks in upon my soul! Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, And been flung from them. Silence!—Speak not yet! I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst With a strong heart. [A pause. Now, what have I to hear? Your tidings? Gui. Briefly, ’twas your son did thus! He hath disgraced your name. Pro. 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! Gui. ’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. Mon. 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! Gui. 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. Mon. 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? Pro. 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! Mon. (apart.) You shall be childless too! Pro. 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. Mon. What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien? Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have no sons To tarnish their bright name? Mon. I am not used To bear with mockery. Pro. 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!—Ay, 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? Mon. This is all idle. There are deeds to do: Arouse thee, Procida! Pro. Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice! She can strike, And yet be passionless—and thus will I. 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. Is not this well? Mon. ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height— (Aside.) And then be desolate like me! My woes Will at the thought grow light. Pro. What now remains To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp To grace a day like this. Ay, 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. Mon. Now this is well! —I hate this Procida; for he hath won In all our councils that ascendency 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— He strikes; my vengeance hath a deeper fount: But there’s dark joy in this!—And fate hath barr’d My soul from every other. [Exit Montalba.