“Have I not said--‘Vengeance shall be mine’--in thy tent, where thou didst cut my flesh with cords. _Vengeance_ IS _mine_. Thou look’st towards the window. Gazing through it--I say--_Vengeance is mine_. He is dead--thou sayest he is dead. Hear!--thou knowest me to be the gipsey who robbed thy father of thy younger brother. Ah well, I am indeed she--and that brother,--rejoice in the act,--and that brother--look again through the window--mark that body. THOU HAST SLAIN THY BROTHER. Shrink--shrink!--VENGEANCE IS MINE. Hadst thou but have let him wake me that he might say farewell, I should have pitied thee and saved him--but thou didst steal him from me while I slept. Dead!--he will carry thy murderous name with him. Have I not said, ‘VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE?’” And then her troubles were over, and the last she saw on earth was the bleeding body of him she called, and whom she loved, as a son. While he, the triumphant count, stood there alone. Alone. With remembrance. With remorse. ERNANI. (VERDI.) PART I.--THE BANDIT. Who are these houseless men, lying about amongst jagged rocks, laughing gaily, card-playing and drinking--the setting sun lighting up the place with a red glare, and bathing their brown faces crimson? The sun writes the truth upon their faces; they are men of blood--lawless, houseless plunderers; singing, laughing, card-playing--waiting for the night, and for their captain, that they may begin their work. They keep a sharp look-out about them though, and at last, start to their feet with a great noise, as a young handsome man comes suddenly in. He seems to have nothing in common with these men, for he is elegantly dressed, and looks every inch a cavalier. His face is not ferocious; and yet--yes, they have saluted him as captain, and he waves his hat in courteous reply. Not a thief by birth! O no! this man really is John of Arragon, the son and heir of the Duke of Segovia and Cordova, killed to please the will of King Carlos of Castille. The son narrowly escaped the same fate, but fortune favored him. He reached the Sierras, which, like all mountains, offered the fugitive safe shelter. Hundreds upon hundreds flocked to his standard, and John of Arragon changed his name to “Ernani.” But he dwelt not so far away from his old life, as not to be able to see the Moorish castle of Don Ruy Gomez di Silva. Nor was it for the sake of Don Ruy he kept the castle ever in view. The don had a ward, Elvira, who had held out a hand to save Ernani when the blood-king was tracking him; and for this generous act she had gained his love, giving, however, her own in exchange. The face of the chief is sad. Would that his men could bear his grief for him, and they would willingly stand between him and death. “Thank you, brothers--thank you,” replied the chief, as he leapt down amongst them; “but my woe is so deep that even your cheering voices cannot drive it away.” “The chief, then, is in love--”