_Ad._ I love him, yes, I love him, though he's changed From that he was. Some gloomy cloud involves That face one day so fair, and 'neath the feet, Now grown deformed, the flowers wither away. I know not if I sleep or if I wake, If what I see be a vision or a dream. But all is dreadful, and I cannot tell The falsehood from the truth; for if I reason, I fear to sin. I fly the happy bed Where I became a mother, but return In midnight's horror, where my husband lies Wrapt in a sleep so deep it frightens me, And question with my trembling hand his heart, The fountain of his life, if it still beat. Then a cold kiss I give him, then embrace him With shuddering joy, and then I fly again,-- For I do fear his love,--and to the place Where sleep my little ones I hurl myself, And wake them with my moans, and drag them forth Before an old miraculous shrine of her, The Queen of Heaven, to whom I've consecrated, With never-ceasing vigils, burning lamps. There naked, stretched upon the hard earth, weep My pretty babes, and each of them repeats The name of Mary whom I call upon; And I would swear that she looks down and weeps. Then I cry out, “Have pity on my children! Thou wast a mother, and the good obtain Forgiveness for the guilty.” Adrian has little trouble to draw from the distracted woman the fact that her husband is a heretic--that heretic, indeed, in whose castle Arnaldo is concealed. On his promise that he will save her husband, she tells him the name of the castle. He summons Frederick, who claims Ostasio as his vassal, and declares that he shall die, and his children shall be carried to Germany. Adrian, after coldly asking the Emperor to spare him, feigns himself helpless, and Adelasia too late awakens to a knowledge of his perfidy. She falls at his feet: I clasp thy knees once more, and I do hope Thou hast not cheated me!... Ah, now I see Thy wicked arts! Because thou knewest well My husband was a vassal of the empire, That pardon which it was not thine to give Thou didst pretend to promise me. O priest, Is this thy pity? Sorrow gives me back My wandering reason, and I waken on The brink of an abyss; and from this wretch The mask that did so hide his face drops down And shows it in its naked hideousness Unto the light of truth.