Writhed in the dust before him. My young heart
Shrank at the sight of blood. The day arrived
That saw the sentence executed: throngs
Of heartless wretches crowded in the streets,
Eager to see a fellow-creature die.
The scaffold waved with black; the dismal bell
Tolled forth a horrid sound. My striken soul[1]
Gave to the mournful drapery a tongue;
And heard in that sepulchral clang, a voice
Proclaiming, Vengeance! Vengeance on the race,
Who tore a father from his children's arms,
And made them orphans.
Helena.
Oh, my poor Giovanni!
Giovanni.
The dark remembrance of that dreadful day
Will never be erased; the air was hot
As burning sulphur. Blinded by my tears,
And all my senses steeped in agony,
Still, still I saw him, weak, and faint, and pale;
