Mon. What! should she be spared
To keep that name from perishing on earth?
—I cross'd them in their path, and raised my sword
To smite her in her champion's arms.—We fought—
The boy disarm'd me!—And I live to tell
My shame, and wreak my vengeance!
Guido. Who but he
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt
These scrolls reveal?—Hath not the traitor still
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence,
To win us from our purpose?—All things seem
Leagued to unmask him.
Mon. Know you not there came,
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci,
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings
Of all our purposed deeds?—And have we not
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves
The sister of that tyrant?
Pro. There was one
Who mourn'd for being childless!—Let him now
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join
The revelry!
Mon. (apart.) You shall be childless too!
Pro. Was 't you, Montalba?—Now rejoice! I say.
There is no name so near you that its stains
Should call the fever'd and indignant blood
To your dark cheek!—But I will dash to earth
The weight that presses on my heart, and then
Be glad as thou art.
