Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/74



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

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?

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.

And who is he?

Nay, ask thy son.

My son!