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Here rest thee, warrior.

Rest, ay, death is rest, And such will soon be mine—But, thanks to thee, I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian! These lips are all unused to soothing words, Or I should bless the valour which hath won For my last hour, the proud free solitude Wherewith my soul would gird itself.—Thy name?

'Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba. Gaze—read it thus! (He lifts the visor of his helmet.

Raimond di Procida!

Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate, But fare thee well! Heaven's peace be with thy soul! I must away—One glorious effort more And this proud field is won! [Exit Raimond.

Am I thus humbled? How my heart sinks within me! But 'tis death (And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued My towering nature thus!—Yet is he welcome! That youth—'twas in his pride he rescued me! I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail To melt me into womanish feebleness.