ACT THE FOURTH.
Scene I.—A Street in Palermo.
Procida enters.
Procida. How strange and deep a stillness loads the air,
As with the power of midnight!—Ay, where death
Hath pass'd, there should be silence,—But this hush
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things,
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky,
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds
Brooding in sullen masses, o'er my spirit
Weighs like an omen!—Wherefore should this be?
Is not our task achieved, the mighty work
Of our deliverance?—Yes; I should be joyous:
But this our feeble nature, with its quick
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down
Th' ascending soul.—And I have fearful bodings
That treachery lurks amongst us.—Raimond! Raimond!
Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be!
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