ALBERTI. Mistrust me not, my lord! That stern and jealous Procida hath kept I knew not how to warn thee, though for this Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st my faith DE COUCI. How may we now Avert the gathering storm?-The viceroy holds His bridal feast, and all is revelry. -'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart, Which kept me from these nuptials. ALBERTI. Thou thyself Mayst yet escape, and, haply of thy bands Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream Before him with the tidings, in his pride DE COUCI. He must not die unwarn'd, Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, ALBERTI. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. DE COUCI. [Exit ALBERTI The grovelling slave !—And yet he spoke too true! Will scorn the warning voice.-The day wanes fast, Unarm'd and unprepared, my soldiers revel, [Exit DE COUCI. SCENE V.-A Banqueting Hall. PROVENÇAL NOBLES assembled. FIRST NOBLE. Joy be to this fair meeting!-Who hath seen The viceroy's bride? SECOND NOBLE. I saw her, as she pass'd The gazing throngs assembled in the city. THIRD NOBLE. "Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp'd still the name Of the boy, Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords? SECOND NOBLE. In sooth It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provençals, and assume With what a bitter and unnatural effort FIRST NOBLE. Is this Vittoria fair? SECOND NOBLE. Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty FIRST NOBLE. Hush! they come. Enter ERIBERT, VITTORIA, CONSTANCE, and others. ERIBERT. Welcome, my noble friends!-there must not lower Behold my bride! NOBLES. Receive our homage, lady! When memory's pictures fade, 'tis kindly done To brighten their dimm'd hues! FIRST NOBLE (apart). Mark'd you her glance? SECOND NOBLE (apart). What eloquent scorn was there! yet he, th' elate Of heart, perceives it not. ERIBERT. Now to the feast! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day. CONSTANCE. Forgive me, brother! The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it. |