Pro. Ay! and give time and warning to the foe
To gather all his might!—It is too late.
There is a work to be this eve begun,
When rings the vesper-bell; and, long before
To-morrow's sun hath reach'd i' th' noonday heaven
His throne of burning glory, every sound
Of the Provençal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke—(you are pale, my son)—
Shall be for ever silenced.
Rai. What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy
In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babe?
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air
Pour'd by the timid maid?—Must all alike
Be still'd in death; and wouldst thou tell my heart
There is no crime in this?
Pro. Since thou dost feel
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power
Are means that might avert it.
Rai. Speak! Oh speak!
Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name
Shouldst thou betray us!
Rai. Father! I can bear—
Ay, proudly woo—the keenest questioning
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems
To claim a part of heaven's dread royalty,
—The power that searches thought!
Pro. (after a pause)Thou hast a brow
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