With the strong passion of repentant love,
Wring forth a voice to pardon me!
Rai. You weep!
Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave!
You know not how he died!
Aym, Not of his wound?
Rai. His wound!—it is the silent spirit’s wound,
We cannot reach to heal! One burning thought
Prey'd on his heart.
Aym. Not—not—he had not heard—
He bless'd me, Rainier?
Rai. Have you flung away
Your birthright? Yes! he bless’d you!—but he died
—He whose name stood for Victory's—he believed
The ancient honour from his gray head fall'n,
And died—he died of shame!
Aym, What feverish dream—
Rai. (vehemently.) Was it not lost, the warrior’s latest field,
The noble city held for Palestine
Taken—the Cross laid low? I came too late
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight,
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence
Wounded, upon his shield——
Aym. And I was here!
Rai. He cast one look back on his burning towers,
Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields
To the earth—and hid his face! I knew, I knew
His heart was broken! Such a death for him!
—The wasting—the sick loathing of the sun—
Let the foe's charger trample out my life,
Let me not die of shame! But we will have—
Aym. (grasping his hand eagerly.) Yes! vengeance!
Rai. Vengeance! By the dying once,
And once before the dead, and yet once more
Alone with heaven's bright stars, I took that vow
For both his sons! Think of it, when the night
Is dark around you, and in festive halls
Keep your soul hush'd, and think of it!
A low Chant of female voices, heard from behind
the scenes.
Fall'n is the flower of Islam's race!
Break ye the lance he bore,
And loose his war-steed from its place:
He is no more—
Weep for him mother, sister, bride!
He died, with all his fame—
Aym, (Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speaking
to his attendant, who enters.)
Came it not thence? Rudolf, what sounds are these?
