MONTALBA. Rouse up thy mighty heart. PROCIDA. Aye, thou say'st right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind.-Well, what's the task? -There is a man to be condemn'd, you say? Is he then guilty? ALL. Thus we deem of him With one accord. PROCIDA. And hath he nought to plead? RAIMOND. Nought but a soul unstain'd. PROCIDA. Why, that is little. Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them, And conscience may be sear'd.-But, for this sentence ! -Was 't not the penalty imposed on man, E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die? -It was thus making guilt a sacrifice Unto eternal justice; and we but Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls To th' elements from amongst us.-Be it so! heart Such be his doom!-I have said. Aye, now my (GUIDO leaving the Tribunal, throws himself on the neck of RAIMOND.) GUIDO. Oh! Raimond, Raimond! If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say Thou dost forgive me. RAIMOND. Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven! (RAIMOND is led out.) PROCIDA. Whose voice was that? Where is he?-gone?—now I may breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away. END OF ACT THE FOURTH. [Exeunt omnes. ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I-A Prison, dimly lighted. RAIMOND sleeping. PROCIDA enters. PROCIDA (gazing upon him earnestly). Can he then sleep?-Th' o'ershadowing night hath wrapt Earth, at her stated hours-the stars have set Their burning watch; and all things hold their course Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep Sat on mine eyelids since-but this avails not! -And thus he slumbers!" Why this mien doth seem As if its soul were but one lofty thought Of an immortal destiny!"-his brow Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens RAIMOND (starting up). My father!-Wherefore here? I am prepared to die, yet would I not Fall by thy hand. PROCIDA. "Twas not for this I came. RAIMOND. Then wherefore?—and upon thy lofty brow Why burns the troubled flush? PROCIDA. Perchance 'tis shame. Yes! it may well be shame!—for I have striven Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared RAIMOND. What! thou! the austere, The inflexible Procida! hast thou done this, Deeming me guilty still? PROCIDA. Upbraid me not! It is even so. There have been nobler deeds By Roman fathers done,-but I am weak. |