Rai. Oh, father! what proud hopes
This hour hath blighted!—yet, whate'er betide
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven's bright face.—and this is mine,
And shall be still.— [Exit Raimond.
Pro. He's gone!—Why, let it be!
I trust our Sicily hath many a son
Valiant as mine.—Associates!—'tis decreed
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name
The hour, the scene, the signal.
Mon. It should be
In the full city, when some festival
Hath gathered throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts
To brief security. Hark! is there not
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze?
We are betray'd.—Who art thou?
Vittoria enters.
Pro. One alone
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil
That shades thy noble brow.
(She raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back with respect.)
Sici. Th' affianced bride
Of our lost King!
Pro. And more, Montalba; know
Within this form there dwells a soul as high,
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved,
Or patriots on the scaffold.
Vittoria. Valiant men!
I come to ask your aid. Ye see me, one
