Who from his battles had return'd to breathe
Once more, without a corslet, and to meet
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles,
Blent with his dreams of home?—Of that dark tale
The rest is known to vengeance!—Art thou here,
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair,
Childless Montalba?
Mon. (advancing.) He is at thy side.
Call on that desolate father, in the hour
When his revenge is nigh.
Pro. Thou, too, come forth,
From thine own halls an exile!—Dost thou make
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still,
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls,
Wave their proud blazonry?
1 Sici. Even so. I stood
Last night before my own ancestral towers
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat
On my bare head—what reck'd it?—There was joy
Within, and revelry; the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs,
I 'th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd
Who heard their melodies!—but there are thoughts
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows
Known to the mountain-echoes.—Procida!
Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh.
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day,
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower
D
