_Ph._ Ay. _Mar._ May I ask thee, then, to bear this letter To Constance? I’d not trust it willingly Where it might wander. _Ph._ ’Twill pass from my hands To hers. _Mar._ Pray tell her, for my health I go 1260 To Monreale, or would have come myself. _Ph._ I’ll tell her so. I pray the change restore thee,— And soon. Indeed thou look’st not well. Farewell. _Mar._ Farewell. (_Aside._) Look I then ill? I never felt So light and keen in spirit. [_Exit._ _Ph._ (_solus_). This fits in, too. She is sent to Monreale, Lest she should make discovery. ’Tis thus I join the threads. Palicio climbed the wall, Came hither thro’ the garden: here he stayed And bound his wound. So far the track. There has been At least no care to hide it; and now he lies 1271 In the room across the courtyard: wherefore else Drawn curtains, and the lamp, which yesterday Burnt, as I saw, in the afternoon? All credit To the king’s commissioner. Yet must I dissemble, And not appear in the matter. ’Tis incredible Of Manuel. What will he allege? He is gone To the palace now: thither must I, and face him. [_Exit._ SCENE · 2 _On the hills above Monreale. Brigands fantastically dressed and armed are seated about on the rocks, with drinking-cups and remains of feast. PALICIO, in a black suit, his right arm in a sling. Much talking and singing, or the scene may open with the following song_— _SONG._ _I would not change the hills that I range For a house in the city street:_ 1280 _Nor the price on my head for a tax on my bread. Liberty, lads, is sweet._ (_Palicio getting up on a rock waves them to silence._) _SQUARCIALUPU._ Long live Lord Palicio! _All._ Huzzah! Huzzah! _PALICIO._ Thank you, my men. Now silence; I must tell you The feast is o’er, our meeting at an end. We have laid our plans: but their success depends On zealous preparation. Ye must to work. _A brigand._ We have another song yet, captain. _Pal._ See ye the sun is on this side of the city. _Brigands._ The song, the song! 1290 _Pal._ What is this song ye call for? _A brigand._ May’t please your honour, If Squarcia sing we’ll be content. _Sq._ I know What they would have. _Pal._ Sing then: and cut it short. _Sq._ Nay, that lies with the chorus. Who hath the lute? _SONG._