_Doge._ Bear him hence, Before the secret college. _Car._ Hear me yet One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death I well perceive; but with that death ye doom Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers, Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats The banner of the Lion, in its pride Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know _I_ bore it thus to empire. _Here_, ’tis true, No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond The limits of your sway, in other scenes, Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d, Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds And your reward will live in chronicles For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect Your annals, and the future! Ye will need A warrior soon, and who will then be yours? Forget not, though your captive now I stand, I was not born your subject. No! my birth Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem The honour of each citizen its own. Think ye this outrage will be there unheard? There is some treachery here. Our common foes Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know I have been faithful still. There yet is time. _Doge._ The time is past. When thou didst meditate Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy Those destined to chastise it; then the hour Of foresight should have been. _Car._ O mean in soul! And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet Its summons with far other mien than such As I shall bear to ignominious death. Scene II.--_The House of Carmagnola._ Antonietta, Matilda. _Mat._ The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet My father comes not! _Ant._ Ah! thou hast not learn’d, By sad experience, with how slow a pace Joys ever come; expected long, and oft Deceiving expectation! while the steps Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh. But night is past, the long and lingering hours Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, And he is with us. E’en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours. Perhaps for years our own. _Mat._ O mother! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense, Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale, Each idle murmur of the people’s voice, We should not longer tremble, that no more This thought should haunt our souls--E’en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning--dies!