At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates,
And welcome in the foe?—Who hath done this,
But thou, a tyrant's friend?
Rai. Who hath done this?
Father!—if I may call thee by that name—
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles
Were masks that hid their daggers.—There, perchance,
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me,
I know but this—there needs no deep research
To prove the truth—that murderers may be traitors
Ev'n to each other.
Pro. (to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue,
And his eye quails not;—Is this innocence?
Mon. No! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of crime.
—Thou bear'st a gallant mien!—But where is she
Whom thou hast barter'd fame and life to save,
The fair Provençal maid?—What! know'st thou not
That this alone were guilt, to death allied?
Was't not our law that he who spared a foe,
(And is she not of that detested race?)
Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe?
—Where hast thou borne her?—speak!
Rai. That heaven, whose eye
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance,
Is with her; she is safe.
Pro. And by that word
Thy doom is seal'd.—Oh God! that I had died
