University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—A Street in Palermo.
Procida enters.
Procida.
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.

Montalba.
We have done well. There need 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 deeper 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 develope 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 unsheath'd, last night
His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd it's 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!

Guido.
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?

Guido.
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!

Guido.
'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
Thro' 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!

Guido.
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 ascendancy
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.