Scene III.—A Chapel, with a Monument, on which is laid a Sword.—Moonlight.
Procida.Raimond.Montalba.
Montalba. And know you not my story?
Procida. In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were number'd with our country's; but their tale
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
Mon. Hark! while you spoke,
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze,
Which ev'n like death came o'er me:—'twas a night
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon,
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves,
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth,
Clothed with a phantom-life; when, after years
Of battle and captivity, I spurr'd
My good steed homewards.—Oh! what lovely dreams
Rose on my spirit!—There were tears and smiles,
But all of joy!—And there were bounding steps,
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck,
When his plumed helm is doff'd.—Hence, feeble thoughts!
—I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!
Raimond. And were they realiz'd?
Mon. Youth! Ask me not,
