University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A PRISON.
MAJONE, SICARDI.
SICARDI.
Most fortunate prevention! had Verino
Once gained admittance to the troubled King,
His grief, his age, and proofs of service past,
Might have destroyed our hopes, and cancelled all
The King's suspicions on the guilt of Raymond!

MAJONE.
It might Sicardi; had not my precaution
Rendered such interview impossible.
O had you seen the proud old man repulsed
Grief, disappointment, anger, and despair
Convulsed his shattered frame.—Homeward at length
His servants bore him, overwhelm'd with rage,
And wanting power to threaten, or complain:
Soon as reviving nature gives him strength,
Hither I know he'll hasten to his son,

SICARDI.
Would you then meet him here?

MAJONE.
He shall not find me;
I came to place—but be it now thy care!
Find me some trusty soldier, who may watch
The son and father when they next shall meet,
And bring me instant tidings of their purpose.

SICARDI.
I fly, my Lord, to execute your wish.

MAJONE.
Stay, my Sicardi! I would have a letter
Despatched to Raymond from a friend unknown,
To heighten still their fear, and further urge them
To deeds of desperation—

SICARDI.
I, my Lord,
Live but to aid your great designs.

MAJONE.
My friend,
Prepare to reap, with me, the golden fruit!
Yet is our plan imperfect, till our arts
Can lead the King, by glaring marks of guilt,
To order Raymond to immediate death.

SICARDI.
And sudden it must be; suspicion else
May fire the troops, who worship as their idols
Verino, and his son.

MAJONE.
Thou sayst, Sicardi
Raymond oft quitted the expiring prince—

SICARDI.
Yes, my dear Lord, unable to support
That scene of agony, and pressed, I think,
To leave the chamber, by the calm Uberto,
Who wished not such a witness of the scene.

MAJONE.
The priest did wisely—

SICARDI.
Yet perchance, my Lord,
Raymond was present at the latest pang;
For oft he would return, and oft retire
Unable to assist the shrieking youth,
Before whose final moment, my quick zeal
Had brought me to your lordship.

MAJONE.
'Tis no matter;
His frequent absence from the dying boy
Will answer my design:—Canst thou not forge
A scroll, short, incoherent, and confused?
Broken by pain, and dictated in death?
Such from the Prince?—but haste, my good Sicardi,
Dispose our sentinel, and meet thy friend
Where more securely we may join our counsels;
And, like the unseen spirits of destruction,
From thickest clouds send forth our secret shafts,
Strike our blind foes, and triumph in their fall.