Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/74

We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil
Oft on ourselves.

Pro. Whate'er fate hath of ruin
Fall on his house!—What! to resign again
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now
Engrain'd themselves in blood!—Why, who is he
That hath devised this treachery?—To the scroll
Why fix'd he not his name, so stamping it
With an immortal infamy, whose brand
Might warn men from him?—Who should be so vile?
Alberti?—In his eye is that which ever
Shrinks from encountering mine!—But no! his race
Is of our noblest—Oh! he could not shame
That high descent!—Urbino?—Conti?—No!
They are too deeply pledged.—There's one name more!
—I cannot utter it!—Now shall I read
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot
From man's high mien its native royalty,
And seal his noble forehead with the impress
Of its own vile imaginings!—Speak your thoughts,
Montalba! Guido!—Who should this man be?

Mon. Why what Sicilian youth unsheath'd, last night
His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd it's edge
Against his country's chiefs?—He that did this,
May well be deem'd for guiltier treason ripe.

Pro. And who is he?

Mon. Nay, ask thy son.

Pro. My son!